Coming back home to Alabama has been…interesting. Honestly, a huge part of me missed the South. Crazy, right? Why the hell would an Afro-Latino queer man (?) miss that? I always tell my friends that – aside from the menagerie of bigots, life-threatening storms, and endless mosquitoes – there’s this sort of hidden beauty in the South. Most of the people are nice, the nature is gorgeous and it’s SIGNIFICANTLY quieter than New York. I thought it would give me a much-needed break from the hustle and bustle of college life in the city. However, the summer after my freshman year of college only served to remind me of
one thing about the South: I am an alien here.
Growing up in small town Southern Alabama, I was only ever taught how different I was from every other person around me. I went to an all-black elementary school as a kid. It was not advertised as that, but due to school district zoning in the city all the black kids “ended up” at one of three schools on the southside. We were the “bad kids.” We were the “dumb kids.” Gotta
love public school. Despite that, I have a lot of fond memories of my first elementary school. I had a few solid friends. I got above average grades. I still did get teased from time to time for different things like being light skinned or hanging out with girls, but I never read too deeply into it. It was the gay jokes that really did me in. I didn’t even know what gay was, but I knew everyone around me hated it. Even worse, they already made up in their minds that I was gay. I still insisted I was straight though, and I played the role well enough to make it to fourth grade alive. I played soccer and basketball, pretty well if I do say so myself, and I focused on my grades.
In fifth grade, I got the opportunity to go to a magnet school. If you don’t know what that is, it is supposed to be a school for “intellectually advanced” kids. Think honors classes except it’s the entire school. I was so excited when I got the letter. I literally felt like I got chosen to go to Hogwarts. The school was in a nice neighborhood, they had better lunches, and they actually had a playground that wasn’t broken. However, my dreams were crushed rather quickly. When I got there, I found out I was one of seven kids of color in the entire school. All the other kids were white, listened to Luke Bryan, and went to Europe for the summer. I didn’t even know kids were allowed to fly to Europe at that point. Now, I had to learn how to be straight, but also how to be white. I wouldn’t have survived otherwise. Everyone looked at us with hawk eyes, waiting for the moment we slip up. We had to be their version of excellent or we were nothing. I never let my grade drop below an 80. I never spoke out of turn.
Things were somewhat easier in middle school. We got to a point where the kids I went to my first and second elementary schools with merged into one. It was like two parallel universes crashed into one another. I had a group of people who knew me one way and another who knew me a completely different way. Both expected that of me, but neither were true. Then, I just gave up trying. I just existed. Everyone already seemed to know everything about me, so I let them think it.
I managed to float by with all the southern belles who wanted their “gbf” arm candy, but by highschool I was on my own. My girl friends started focusing on their richer boyfriends, and slowly stopped talking to me. No guys would talk to me unless it was to ask me out or call me a slur - sometimes both. Some people even thought I was a drug dealer at one point. Back then, I would’ve thought I was in hell. My brain ran wild with unrealistic expectations and questions. Why was I so different? Would I fit in anywhere? Does fitting in exist?
Still, I made it through high school with the support of a few close friends and the studio I worked for as a choreographer. Through love and artistic expression, I built an armor for myself and persevered my way to college sixteen hours away in New York City.
I felt so blessed as soon as I stepped foot in New York. All around me, I saw people just living their lives so unafraid of what everyone else around them is thinking. They celebrated their differences. I finally connected with other Puerto Ricans outside of my own family. I saw gay people who were out, loud, and proud. It was beautiful. It was everything I had ever wanted for my life. Sure, I was tired, and I definitely missed my family more than anything, but I finally felt like I was in a place I could call home and not be ashamed of it.
But still, I felt completely different than every single person around me. I thought differently. I dressed differently. I talked differently. I cared about different things. I was the most free I had ever been, but I still compared myself to everyone else. I was too feminine. I was too masculine. I was too black. I wasn’t black enough. I was 16 hours away from home, and I had no idea who the hell I was.
When I lost my grandmother at the end of freshman year, my entire world shattered. I shut out everyone and everything. Every mask crumbled and I lashed out, unapologetically. I lashed out at my father and his queerphobic and sexist comments. I lashed out at the racist hillbillies at work. I was a mess. I was vulnerable and feeling attacked on all fronts, even when I wasn’t. But in my darkest hour, I was given a spark of hope.
I wasn’t always a spiritual person. On my dad's side, I had the bible beaten into my blood every Sunday morning and Wednesday night. I used to be completely turned away from the idea of any higher power or any sort of life after death. Why worship the God that I’m told hates me yet created me at the same time? But, I felt something otherworldly one night. I could barely sleep that night after a confrontation I had at the gas station. I felt hopeless. I felt alone. Not just in my city, but existentially as a whole. I told myself that I was doomed to be eternally alone in the universe, and that somehow, someway, it was my fault.
That night, I truly believe my grandmother visited me in my dream. I don’t remember the conversation exactly, but I vividly remember her telling me, “It’s all gonna be alright, Jaybird.” I woke up the next morning with a renewed sense of purpose within me. I scrolled through videos from freshman year and reminded myself of the whole world that’s outside of middle-of-nowhere Alabama. I reminded myself of all the work that I have done to get to the place I am now. This town may be small with even smaller minded people, but the Earth is so much bigger than that. I’m not an alien. I am human, and I will never be alone. I live my life with the strength given to me from those before me. I live my life with love to those like and unlike me. I have a life for a reason, and it is my right to live it as I choose. That night, I stopped clouding my mind with the lessons that a place like Dothan, Alabama teaches people like me. No more masks. No more hiding. I am who I am, and anyone who doesn’t like it can kiss my ass.
To anyone reading this that feels like they are alone in the universe, know that you never are. We all share this big, beautiful world, and it is indeed a big world. A world where no two living creatures will ever be the exact same, no matter what anyone may think. From the smallest ants to the biggest whale, life breeds diversity and difference. There is a one in four hundred-trillion chance of something being born. There isn’t life anywhere else in the universe for lightyears. We aren’t just different, we are special.
Written by Jai LePrince