“Will you still love me when you truly know me?”

The question echoes in the back of my head

at every family get together.

A sadness underlying all the happy times.

You have seen hints of my true identity

(the colored nail polish),

heard rumors about me

(“He’s living as a woman.”),

and your reactions have not been kind.

I know that love can be conditional.

I know that some day we may no longer speak.

I hate this,

I fear this,

and I also long for it.

At least I would be free

from your expectations of me,

no longer bound by your false perceptions of me

that I fear you love more than my actual self.

I don’t want you to love who I was

at eight years old.

I want you to love me.

We can be cruel to each other.

I have taken great pains

to keep my feminine name from you.

I don’t want her to become a mean joke.

I try to keep my own sarcasm in check.

When you walk right into a punchline,

it takes willpower for me not to pull the trigger.

We have always used humor as a weapon.

I’m trying to stop.

It’s hard when I have no shield.

I’m tired

of fighting with you.

I’m tired of hiding from you.

I’m tired of feeling angry

and jealous.

I wish to Christ you would stop hugging me

and throwing around “I love you’s”

if you’re not going to let me be myself.

I’m sick of pretending to be a family.

I’m sick of being a son, a brother, an uncle.

Let me be a daughter, a sister, an aunt.

Someday, I will show you who I am.

But you are already showing me who you are.

I told you who I was.

And you refused to listen.

Some day, I will say it again,

louder and clearer.

And I wonder,

Will you still love me?

Will you love me for the first time?