Here hangs First Pride . It’s a riot of color—sequins and leather and a thousand rainbows. The crowd is a blur of motion. In the center, a boy with glitter on his nose is laughing so hard he’s crying. That’s me. For the first time, I am not the “gay friend” or the “disappointment” or the “sinner.” I am just a boy, laughing in the sun, surrounded by thousands of people who also used to be alone in a crowded room.
Further in, the room opens up. This is the Joy Wing . gallery gay blog
Now, I think of it as a gallery.
Walking into my own gallery for the first time was terrifying. Because for thirty years, someone else had been curating the show. My parents hung the family portraits. My teachers installed the dioramas of “normal” futures. The church mounted a giant, gilded painting of a man burning in a lake of fire, labeled Consequences . Here hangs First Pride
Coming out wasn’t a single event. It was the slow, agonizing decision to unlock the gallery doors, kick down the closet, and start hanging my own work on the walls. In the center, a boy with glitter on