I didn't have much growing up poor. My parents could barely afford clothes to put on our backs, so we had to make with what we had. Growing up in a black household, it was hard coping with not being myself. From a young age, we were taught to hate homosexuals and being a 'man' was the only exception as the norm. We weren't to be anything more or less. I always found that way of thinking to be shroud and thought that it kept me from being who I really was. A little boy, curious about my sexuality. And the closest I could get to it was my mom's closet, which I sometimes would secretly sneak into and try on all her clothes when she was away at work. I enjoyed how pretty the colors were. Although the clothes were really big as I was only 7 at the time, I let my imagination run like flies, seeing myself in my early 20s down the runway in a sparkly dress, dragging down the carpet as I cat walked out the limousine. I often dreamed of what it would be like to be rich. It felt so suffocating being poor all the time. I only had to pairs of shoes and barely any pants. While my mom often did most of the work, my dad would always beat her up and steal the money to buy himself alcohol. I felt bad for my mom. She worked too hard to be treated such a way. Aside from me, I had two other brothers. They ran away from home 2 years ago. I didn't blame them cause our family was really toxic and manipulative. I was the only one who stayed since I was too young, plus, who would watch over mom? I just couldn't leave her behind.
I remembered when I first realized I was different from other kids.
It was winter, and my mom and mom went Christmas browsing. She always took me no matter where she was going. I was her little prince, she once said. That made me smile. I couldn't forget the beautiful smile on her face when we walked down the 5th Avenue. We swung our hands back and forth, smiling. We never really went inside the stores. We never had enough money, so we would just stare through the window, looking at the special clothes line that would have family mannequins wearing winter collections. I had lots of fun pointing at pretty clothes with my mom. I could never forget that one dress that stood out to me. It was ruby read with cotton gold balls littering the bottom of it. It was so perfect that I squealed, pointing it out to my mom. She shook her head at me, telling me that it was only for girls. I remember telling her how much I liked it, and at one point, she even took me into the store to try it out.
"Just once okay, we won't tell Daddy." She said, holding a finger over her lips.
"Okay.." I whispered in a smile following her gesture. When we got in, we found the dress and we quickly went into the changing room. My mom dressed me into it and smiled.
"You look so pretty," She said.
"Thanks, Mommy," I told her, turning to look at myself in the mirror. I twirled in the dress, smiling ear to ear in glee at how pretty I looked in it. I always knew I was a boy, but I liked pretty things more than what the other boys wore. I felt comfortable in the dresses when I wore them. I felt complete.
That day, I fell in love with that dress, and I couldn't forget how my mom smiled at me. To this day, I remembered it like an overplayed song on the radio. A special little memory just between mom and I.
But time came when my mom stopped going out with me. At first, I thought it was the work making her feel that way, but she just stopped paying attention to me. Our relationship ended just like that. I even made sure she didn't know that I tried on her clothes. I didn't want her to get mad at me, and we promised not to tell daddy, so I had to keep it on the low. So that's how my life started. A poor boy who loved pretty clothes, which made me stand out the most.