Phew. I want to thread about this because I might write something on it later. For some time I’ve been mulling over writing letters to my nephews, especially B., the kid I looked after the summer I was home when dad was in hospital.

One thing I’ve been trying to get it why does it feel like I’m withholding my love from them? I’m scared of what adults do to children. All the love we can give, all the harm we have enabled.

But, the part that confounds me: I’m scared of loving them and being close to them because I’m still ashamed of being gay. I’m scared of inviting eyes if they would walk around with me. Scared of seeing them being ashamed, scared of seeing them seeing me ashamed.

I know what it’s like to grow up queer and ashamed, not knowing what being queer is but knowing that I’m ‘different.’ I know how shame can render you helpless, how you can’t save yourself and can’t bear the idea of your loved ones witnessing your crumbling.

I want to withhold love, deny myself these enriching experiences, b/c I don’t want my nephews to see the real me. I’m scared of them not knowing what to say when people say your uncle is gay—& gay being the better slur. I’m terrified, for resistance doesn’t exist in my lexicon.

I’ve missed all their births besides one. But a part of me is glad that I had missed them because there’s no connection, no bond, no memories on which we can cleave.

I’ll try to write this out someday.

And this is why homophobia is violent. I think about how much better, how free, how whole I could have been if I lived less afraid. I think about how wholesome my relationships with my nephews could have been.