Every year, on the first day of June, fate and biology join hands to punch me in the stomach. Not only is June 1 the start of Pride Month — a 30-day celebration and reveration of all things queer — but it’s also my birthday. And no matter how much I prepare for the confluence of these two events, there will inevitably be some part of myself, throughout the day, that feels like I’m doing it wrong. I’m not being gay enough to honor my forefathers, foremothers and forepeople. I’m not turning another year older by holding a raucous celebration with 50 of my loved ones. I’m not honoring myself.
No one makes these demands of me, and yet, I feel burdened by them anyway — by the opaque feeling of obligation on a day my birthright says I should have none. The older I get, the less persistent these emotions are. But when they hit, and they always do, it’s a psychic whallop. For a brief moment in time, I’m questioning everything tangentially related to my dual identities (gay guy and June-born person), which can be an exhausting emotional shift when you spend 11 out of 12 months of the year blissfully ignorant of what others in your community might perceive as shortcomings.
