Funnel Clouds
The first time I had a crush on a girl, I didn’t recognize it for what it was. I didn’t recognize it the second or third time either. In the small Texas town where I grew up, I didn’t know about things like crushes on girls. Instead, I knew where to hide when the tornado sirens went off, and how to tell the difference between Hereford cattle and Angus. I knew about the Lord’s prayer, the asthmatic smell of the wheat harvest, and how to make bierocks from scratch.
Because I was watching for hail on the horizon, I failed to notice the blaring siren of her lips; I failed to heed the flash-flood warning of my tears. I simply thought, “This is how people feel about one another, in general.” After that, it was my best friend’s sister, the one with the impossible green-gray-blue-hazel eyes. Then I cheered a little too loudly for my teammate on the track team, the long-legged hurdler whose muscles rolled like thunderclouds.
When I made out with my college roommate, I should’ve gotten a clue. And yet, I settled into a conventional life because it was the one known to me. It wasn’t that I thought it was bador sinful or shameful to be queer. I merely thought I wasn’t. Only after my hair started to turn gray and my body started to grow plump did I finally let that funnel cloud descend and blow the whole damn town away.
