Coming Out and Stepping Into My Mother’s Garden

“Don’t cry,” he said to me. “You’re American.”

I often heard that, how privileged I was for being American. My classmates didn’t even know they had a social security card, but my mother had framed mine as if it were a family relic. Her religious faith and determination to succeed in the United States left no room for lesbianism, gender identity, sexuality, or any “ism” that could hinder her plan for me.

Once, I imagined what the conversation would be like.

Me: “Hi mom, I’m gay. Like Ellen. You know, the one on TV. That kind of gay.”

Her: “Ellen can be gay. You can’t.”

My mother loved me very much, but as a black undocumented woman who already faced too many obstacles, she didn’t want her daughter to check another box of marginalization. So, I stayed in the closet, inviting a few people in over the years, but never coming out. And when I felt sorry for myself and wanted to cry, she hurried to remind me of all the good things I had.

My mother worked hard, contributed to the land of freedom, and had a plan for my future, like many American children of immigrant parents. Anchor babies (one of my favorite pejorative terms that I have reclaimed) must apply to Ivy League universities and choose a career from a pre-approved list: doctor, lawyer, engineer, teacher, even immigration officer! Anything but a queer writer.

I never had the chance to tell her because it was never part of our plan. But when she had to confess her undocumented status to immigration agents, that plan fell apart. For the first time in our American lives, we experienced the privilege of an interlude. Normally, any tragedy forced us to move faster, to hurry more. A break was something we couldn’t afford. But her deportation stopped us.

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