Never Have I Ever

All I could think about was acceptance while driving home from Friendsgiving weekend in Massachusetts. In the passenger seat next to me, Isobel dozed with her head pressed up against the glass. She'd made a make-shift pillow with my sweatshirt, so I'd put on a podcast.

Through the speakers, I'd listened as Megan Falley talked about her relationship with famed poet, Andrea Gibson, who died of ovarian cancer in July. Andrea's work pumped acceptance through the LGBTQ community. They spoke about mental health, social justice, and mortality in ways that felt approachable. I honestly don't know what made me put on that podcast... I just saw Andrea's name and clicked.

I'm so glad I did.

Listening made me think of the same thing as when I first came across their work in college: the time I'd had my heart broken in middle school while on a field trip.

Our school's band had gone to compete in a state-wide festival. I think we messed up pretty badly, but that's not the part that sticks with me. On our way home, I'd been sitting toward the back of the bus with a small group of friends. As kids do, we were playing a game called Never Have I Ever. Everyone holds up 10 fingers, someone says something they've never done, and those who actually have done it put a finger down. The first to zero loses.

One of the other players was, by all accounts, really cool. He and I were friends. We played on the same basketball team and went to the same summer camp together. We even car-pooled and swapped music playlists. So when he said "never have I ever questioned my sexuality", and looked right at me, I froze.

He didn't say it with curiosity. This was a smugly delivered statement—a devastating blow to anyone who'd dare put a finger down. Suddenly, I became very aware of the others. They'd shrugged nonchalantly while I'd been doing some hurried social math. I worried about lying, but I worried more about telling the truth. Because I had questioned my sexuality. Quite a bit, actually. It was dark outside during the bus ride, but still I wondered if anyone had seen my hesitation before I visibly kept my fingers up.

Today, precipitation splattered the windshield, alternating between rain and a snowy wintry-mix, while Isobel and I made our way home from a weekend spent with a group of my old college friends. If I'm being honest, I'm still learning how to be comfortable around them again since getting sober four years ago. The first time I got drunk was when I was 12, not long after that game of Never Have I Ever. These days, social math looks like deciding whether or not to draw attention to the fact that we only ever swap drinking stories now. So when Megan read the words to Hold Down The Fort, I turned up the windshield wipers, to account for my now blurry vision. Andrea'd written it for Meg. The first time she'd heard it was in the final three days of Andrea's life, after missing the chance to say the kinds of things neither had been ready to face.

I looked over at Isobel, still sleeping, while water droplets tapped the glass next to her head. She's never seen me drunk, but she's always always there to hold my fingers and talk about future hopes, dreams, and schemes.

Never have I ever felt acceptance like that.

Until now.