[Vol. 20] This Room is Not His Room
Writing from the room I came out in.
Welcome back to That’s Gay, a candidly queer newsletter for a candidly queer world (cheers to that 😉 🥂), written by me, Till Kaeslin.
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Happy Thursday everyone :)
Unlike virtually every other volume of this newsletter in existence thus far, this one’s not coming to you from my apartment in Harlem. I’m moving out!
Yes, yes, it’s true, I’m moving out and moving on. Alllll the way … downtown 😂 (Did you really think I would leave Manhattan after I so obnoxiously wrote the city a love letter?)
Instead of sending this newsletter out from my little Facebook marketplace-adopted desk as per usual, this time I’m writing from my interim location – my family’s house in Connecticut (with my two dogs snoozing around me).
Being home home – you know, your forever home that’s not on a one year lease – can be a weird experience if you’re queer.
Luckily enough for me, that weirdness has nothing to do with my family, but more to do with the memories this place still has splattered all over it. Like …
I’m writing from the very same couch I once sat crying at, telling my mom I was gay for the first time.
For the next three days, I’ll be falling asleep in the same bedroom that I came out to my best friend over Skype in – the first person I ever came out to. I can still remember holding my breath and waiting for his reaction through his shitty webcam (he thought I was kidding).
My bedroom in particular is a place loaded with memories.
Not only did I come out for the first time in there, but I also spent so much time not being out in there. All told, I probably spent hours pacing the floor, watching YouTube videos from gay creators to piece together my identity, and, unfortunately, crying over something I would never be able to change.
A little while ago, over thanksgiving of last year when I found myself in my old bedroom for the week and suddenly swimming in these memories, I decided to write a poem about it (something I never do). It was first published in Prism & Pen, an LGBTQ+ focused publication on Medium.
I’m repurposing the poem here now because it just feels right.
I’m in a period of change right now, and anytime things are changing all around you, I think it’s important to reflect on how you yourself have changed and how far you’ve come.
I couldn’t feel farther away from that 17-year-old, closeted kid nervously pacing the length of his bedroom floor, and yet he’ll always be part of me. That’s what this poem is all about.
His room was a place for late-night tears,
for pacing back and forth with worry,
for screaming into his pillow,
for wishing and wanting
for things to change.
His room is the same room I sit in today,
and yet it can’t be.
Because this room is just a room —
not a place for late-night tears,
for screaming into my pillow,
for wishing and wanting
for things to change.
This room is four walls, a floor, and a ceiling.
It is for sleeping, drinking coffee, and writing.
It is for calling friends, watching TV, and reading articles.
This room is for living.
“Am I gay?” — those three words no longer bounce around and echo,
no longer make me cry, scream, wish, and want,
no longer have a hold on me,
no longer have a place in this room.
I count three windows, four walls, two closets, and one door.
Same as before, nothing’s changed.
But somehow everything’s changed.
This room is not his room.
And yet he is still me and I will always be,
crying and screaming and wishing and wanting.
Only now I do so as a queer person,
over writer’s block and a newsletter deadline.
*This piece was originally published in Prism & Pen on Medium.
Today’s discussion Q:
Do you think physical spaces can ever be entirely separated from the emotions that they once held? Yea, we’re going metaphysical with this one.
I have my answer. Let me know yours in the comments below! As always, I’ll be reading/responding to all.
And that was That’s Gay, Volume 20. See you in Volume 21, folks!
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Such a good question to pose. I don't think we can ever completely separate from the emotions certain locations once held, assuming those emotions were associated with the space for a significant period of time.
With time and practice, I believe as humans we can get better at distancing the emotions (if they're negative), but that they always reside in us somewhere, even if subconsciously. It's like how certain smells or tastes can trigger us to think of a person or place when we least expect them to. (Not to be that person who references Proust and "Remembrance of Things Past," but insert his madeleine moment here). Environment has the same power to invoke feelings of the past and allow distant memories to resurface. We forever remember events and the places they took place in. At least that's my though on the matter!