Poem: An Ode To My Gay Son

When they define queer as “odd” and “strange”
Come to me and I shall educate you
Queer is normal.
Queer is beautiful.
Queer is fine.

No, your binky is not blue just because you are a boy.
Your innocent delight is your choice,
Whether seized by firing away plastic machine guns or brushing the hair of your old rag doll.
I promise I will not impose percept on you with a toy.

I have built you a home without closets,
Where things are kept in neatly labelled boxes.
Because that is precisely the use of labels and boxes;
Containing and categorizing
Inanimate tangibles,
Not breathing human spirits.

Speaking of learning and education
And understanding life through a prism;
Hold the prism and pour on it the glow of the Sun
And treat your eyes to the wonder of a rainbow split,
When the light penetrating is one.
Believe that all life converges into that one illimitable omniscient light.
So don’t ever be afraid to pick your rainbow colours with pride.
Do not base your vocabulary on age old dictionaries
You know they dislike your progressive tongue and mind.
When they define queer as “odd” and “strange”
Come to me and I shall educate you
Queer is normal.
Queer is beautiful.
Queer is fine.

My paper frail body frame boy,
You walk the corridors of your school
And I know there will be a guy lurking in the dark corner with mockery and judgment
Just because he discovered the photograph of your male celebrity crush
falling out of your notebook.
But my dear paper frail body frame child,
Don’t be crushed under the weight of his laughter and spite.
Fold instead.
Fold over and pleat but never crimp.
Carry your scars like paper creases.
Because that’s how you make origami!
Son,
Fight your way gracefully so
Till he tries to tear your edges apart.
Then, perhaps it’s time to take out the boxing gloves I got you on your birthday
Out of that neatly labelled box.

You will have your share, but not everybody is to be dealt with doubt and caution.
For some you save poetry and roses.
And when the worthy comes your way,
Confide in the man rather than pen and paper
Do not wish for fading and erasure
Of your emotions.
I want your love to be sung out loud
And I pray love be found.
Because your kisses are privilege of the good man
Who builds you a garden in return of your roses
He’ll tend to the 377 thorns so that you are only left with blossoms
And you shall no longer fear to draw out life’s all nectar.

Your preferences are not for society’s scrutiny.
After all, you make your bed and lie in it
With whom? Is your private business
Unapologetically hold hands in parks, nevertheless
Because your sexuality will not be your family’s best kept secret.

About the guest author

Harshala

Half human, half potato. A hard core Bambaiya chick I hate clubbing and love to have awkward conversations. I aspire to write about issues that make my conservative neighbours frown.