Being Gay

img_1995-1I’ve never really hated myself for being gay

The times when I have hated myself

were for my narcissism, my self-absorbtion

(hello WordPress),

my self-destructiveness,

my angry outbursts at people who I love.

 

Is that a sign of societal progress?

That I can have a complex, three-dimensional, and in some key ways

flawed personality,

and hate on parts of that

rather than fixate on the fact I’m gay?

 

Lol…. the ‘fact I’m gay’. That’s a phrase that could probably be

unpacked another time.

 

 

 

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Pyongyang Night, Final Part

Matt and Lou awoke in their hotel bed a few hours later from thin slumbers, and muttered enough words to each other to plan their day. They decided that it was too late to make a trip to the demilitarized zone, so they would go for breakfast at Kim’s Diner, then go and see the bronze statues of the three former dictators in Mansundae Park.

At Kim’s they sat not talking to one another over pancakes, coffee and unobtrusive jazz music. Lou felt the silence press him to reveal that he knew Matt had snuck out the night before.

“So did you go to that Comrades place last night then?” he asked.

Lou saw a wince of pained embarrassment flash across Matt’s face, as if he had been hoping that Lou would show mercy and not call him out on what he had done.

“I’m sorry,” replied Matt, weakly. It seemed easier somehow, to let Lou believe that something might have happened.

Lou was surprised to feel a sense of relief. Even though Matt had effectively admitted to him to having cheated, he himself was still alive and breathing: his world was no nearer to its end just because their relationship almost was. He stared out the window at men pushing crates of vegetables to the restaurants along the Drive, in preparation of the various meals that would be made that day.

*

They moved slowly up the escalator inside the cool, long tunnel. As the street in front of the station came into view, the first thing that caught Matt’s readjusting eyes was a hoarding for Beyoncé’s latest album Mama B, which featured the singer and her young daughter pictured in black and white, staring moodily out at the passers by.

They walked silently along the newly laid pavements in the direction of the statues. The park seemed to be full of life: tourists walking about in swarms, lead by guides with flags featuring indiscernible company logos; locals sat around, picnicking, smoking and staring at the foreigners as they passed. Looking over all of this were the statues of the three Kims: Il-sung, who had been proclaimed to be North Korea’s eternal spiritual leader upon his death in 1994, and his son Jong-Il and grandson Jong-un, who had successively kept the family business of despotism alive in physical form, until the Magnolia Revolution had put an end to it.

“I guess it isn’t surprising that the statues weren’t pulled down,” Matt said, noticing the forced casualness in his tone. “I suppose even at the time they thought it would be a good tourist magnet. I wonder what the real-life Jong-un thinks about it now that he’s banged up in Seoul?”

Lou didn’t respond.

“God he must have an awful time in prison down there, imagine the way the other inmates -“

Lou stopped walking abruptly, and turned to face Matt.

“Why did you do it?” he demanded.

Matt looked into Lou’s face, searching for the words with which to respond. He found nothing.

“I don’t know,” he said, quietly.

“For the last time,” demanded Lou. “Do you want to end this?”

Matt didn’t answer. He felt as if he had been placed at a fork in the road, and was unable to commit to either path.

“Just get it over with and end it,” said Lou. “If that’s what you want.”

Lou turned his back and kept walking, his eyes fixed resolutely ahead. Matt stood still and watched him from behind, as he moved further away from him towards the mammoth bronze statues. The statues meanwhile stared out beatifically at the horizon, as they would do forever, facing all the world, and all the unknown in it.