My mother asks me what happened when I was nineteen, to make me realize I was different.
Nothing, I say. Nothing except that I was nineteen.
My mother says, I am sorry you suffered.
I tell her I only suffered her suffering. My life is a joy I wish I could have shared with her sooner. I am glad I didn’t.
She says, read what the scholars have written.
I tell her I am my own scholar. I am my own book. I am the only revelation worth speaking of. Do not ask what signs were in the sky when I was born. The only omens she must read are the ones I oracle on my own behalf. If I blaspheme so be it. Even Shaitaan’s defiance was devotion. He did what he was made to do. To be a contrary thing. A queer thing.