This weekend, I am going to the house where I grew up for the last time before our family sells it. I have been surprised at the depth of my feelings of loss. I wonder how much my experience of growing up queer there intensifies the transition.
The house is a brick colonial in Rust Belt suburbia, on a street canopied by maple trees. A great place to be a kid, wearing whirligig maple keys on the end of your nose. Not such a great place to be, shall we say, a righteous babe.
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