At the end of April, you wrote me this:
“Please get a hair cut and take that nail polish off, I gave birth to a boy six pounds five ounces on November 27, 1987 and it was the most glorious day of our life. We love you and went thru a lot to educate you and try our very best, best, best to love you and cherish and supported you in all of your accomplishments. We are extremely proud of you but we cannot accept this thing that you are going thru now. Please dont let Yeyo see you with painted nails and long hair, hes 86 years old let him remember the way you were when you left to Canada.”
Six months later, it still hurts. It would still hurt even if you hadn’t brought it up every few weeks since then. It would still hurt even if you didn’t invoke the specter of saddening Yeyo most of those times. It would still hurt even if you hadn’t shouted at me about how I should just go ahead and start wearing dresses and makeup, if I was going to do absurd things like grow my hair or paint my nails. It would have hurt even if I thought you were keeping this knowledge away from Dad out of trying to protect me, instead of out of shame. And it still hurts.