Column: On not feeling queer enough
In one of my earliest memories, my socks are slick on the floor of my parents’ bathroom. Intentionally leaving the lights off, I take a plastic bin off the back of the toilet and gently place it on the floor. Between my pauses to hear if anyone’s coming, my fingers home in on a bottle of pale purple nail polish. I tuck it in my pocket and slip away into the hall to my bedroom.