Timy Love Stories in Appalachia: A Gay Kid in Appalachia
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| A man holding another man by the waist in front of balloons that say “Happy Birthday Ethan.” Celebrating my boyfriend Ethan’s birthday. He’s on the right. |
Warts and All
He sent me a photo of the front porch. On the left: a perfect, vibrant Halloween pumpkin. On the right: a far different specimen. Dented, noticeably lopsided, covered in warts. “No one else was going to buy that pumpkin,” he told me. “I wanted to give it a chance.” After nine years, we decided to part ways. No one is angry; no one did anything wrong. We are supposed to want the ideal. To strive for perfection in career, life, and love. But he reminded me that even the imperfect can have a place on our porch, in our hearts. —
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| Corinne Goulde |
A photograph of a porch with two pumpkins, one smooth and one bumpy.
The picture he sent me.
‘Each Motion With Meaning’
Sheikh Ebrahim, a Palestinian imam, taught my sister and me how to read the Quran. I didn’t understand Arabic, so the scripture initially sounded like noise. Even so, I sensed my teacher’s dignity in the way he studied with us for hours, hands folded and still. And how he glided through the movements of prayer, imbuing each motion with meaning. And how, years later, he appeared at the mosque on the day of my grandmother’s burial and hugged my father close. Today, I think of Sheikh Ebrahim while reflecting on the children in Gaza, living through a war with dignity and grace. — Daanish Jamal
When I was 9, I went with my dad to pick up my sister from her high school dance. I remember walking in and seeing all of the towering teenagers. I watched as they danced with their dates: Each boy spinning the girl, just like a movie. I remember the sadness striking me. I was a queer kid in Appalachia. I knew better than to think I’d ever get to experience the magic of a first slow dance. I’m 24 now, still in Appalachia, and my boyfriend spins me around the living room every time he gets the chance. — Zac Thabet
Breaking Our Rules
“No one who drives a sports car!” I proclaimed. First date: Bruce picks me up in a Triumph Spitfire. Other irreconcilables: I, a war-protesting Seattle Quaker; he, a Navy submariner from Bremerton. Me, only homemade bread with freshly ground flour; him, Wonder Bread in the freezer. Both: Amnesty International volunteers. That got him Date 2. Date 3: Mount St. Helens explodes. Flying through Seattle in that spitfire, Bruce answers a question with the perfect balance of honesty, kindness, and intelligence. I burst out in tears and proclaimed, “Oh, my. You are The One!” And he’s been The One for 44 years. —
Marcia Willsie
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