"Do you like seeing all the flags?” Mom asks the question casually, as if it hasn’t taken her 20 minutes to think of a way to continue last night’s conversation. She is hesitant, uncertain, unsteady on her feet — like Bambi, first learning to walk. “What do you mean?” I ask. I know what she means. I’m stalling. There are 5 minutes left of our morning walk (6 if we hit the red light on the corner of King and Queen) and I’m trying to whittle it down to 2, maybe 3 minutes. Anything less than 5, really. “You know, like ...,” she pauses, searching for the right words. “Does it make you feel safe?” Safe. That’s all anyone really wants, isn’t it? To feel safe being themselves. It’s June and the flags are everywhere: waving from porches, pressed up against windows, plastered on walls, and painted on pavement. For one month, it’s harder to find a house in our neighborhood that isn’t flaunting a rainbow than one that is. It’s supposed to make us — people like me, who just came out as queer and trans, or those who have yet to — feel safe. I shrug, “I guess.” “You guess?” Mom doesn’t want me to guess, she wants me to know. She needs to be certain that I will be OK.
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