There Were Signs
Jazmine Becerra Green
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There Were Signs
I.
I went out to dinner
with a guy once. Just
dinner and check, no
other plans. He drove
me toward my single
apartment, ticking off
things we could do to
postpone goodnight. I
told him the Home
Depot on Sunset was
open late. I imagined
pulling paint chips in
Red Willow, Carpe
Diem, or Bolero.
Stacking squares of
cardstock one on top
of the other into our
open palms. I wanted
to tap my fingers over
displays, silver studs,
grip a driver, handle a
thing of power and
metal. He looked
confused, this small
man with doll hands.
Why would we go
there? For fun, I said.
II.
Wouldn’t that be fun?
I stepped up to the
plate and arranged a
bachelorette party for
a friend. A straight
friend. It was my first
time. Fun and not
obnoxious was the
goal. So we dined and
strolled to a bar
—Jumbo’s Clown
Room. Leading a
stumbling parade of
eight straight women
and one gay man to a
punk burlesque bar.
Where the dancers
call the shots. Where
femme is king. Where
reverence reigns. I got
nervous. It was my
first time. No one
wants to, really wants
to see glistening man
bodies and pelvic
thrusts, right? Not me,
anyway. Maybe the
one gay guy. But he
wasn’t planning this
party. I was. It was
my first time. Male
strippers are gaudy
unless you’re at a gay
club. Then they are
fun… Right? Right?
It was my first time.
III.
According to family
lore, one day, when I
was three years old, I
noticed my grandma’s
bosom and asked,
“What are those?” My
mother had a small
chest when I was a
kid. Grandma, not so
much. Maybe my
toddler brain noticed
Grandma had some
thing my mom did
not. “Well… these are
my breasts,” she
answered. To which I
replied, “Move ‘em
for me.” And she did.
My dear grandmother
obliged to satisfy my
curiosity. I have no
recollection of this.
IV .
I watched The L
Word like a weekly
service and texted my
one queer friend after
each episode. We
rehashed the drama.
She called me Jenny.
Closeted writer. Blunt
cut bangs. Big eyes.
Sweet, unsuspecting
boyfriend. I wanted to
order coffee at The
Planet. Preen. Park
my laptop in a corner
and tap out fictional
tales. Wait for a dyke
to coax me out. Call
me out. Then Jenny
went off the deep end.
The story got too
weird. You’re not
Jenny anymore, my
friend said. I don’t
write fiction anymore.
But I still watch The
L Word. Over and
over again, like a
lullaby humming me
back into my body.
You were always gay.
You were always gay.
__________
Jazmine Becerra Green is a Pushcart Prize-nominated queer, Chicanx writer and poet. Her work has been published in The Boston Globe, Bust, and Hypertext among others. She writes a Substack newsletter called Living Room, where she publishes essays on coming out later in life with children. Jazmine is working on a hybrid memoir and lives in Los Angeles with her partner and wildlings. You can find more of her work at www.jazminebecerragreen.com or jazminebecerragreen.substack.com. Pronouns: she/her.
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