One Thousand Words of Pride

Coming Out to the Metro Station

It's my first time wearing nail polish in public, and the day went better than I thought. It's still been pretty harsh at times. But I get by. My colleagues at work were already very supportive when I came out to them, and today my new choice of apparel didn't bother them at all. It's one advantage of working in tech, I guess. When everyone's a bit of a misfit, some deviations here and there are usually taken pretty lightly.

Sitting on the train on my way home, I'm turned towards the window where I see nothing but the concrete walls of the tunnel zipping past me. The reflection shows a young man, clean-shaven in his mid-twenties, tired from a long day and maybe still a little nervous. Even to me, the sparkly blue nails are an immediate eye catcher.

I'm staring out there so I don't risk meeting anyone's eyes. There might be people around me right now thinking something's clearly wrong with me. Some were on the platform, waiting for the train with me, anyway. Some others also seemed to support me, even though they didn't openly say it. Most people plain ignored me, just like any other day.

We pull up to a station called Waterfront East, and the train skids to a halt at the platform. I fold my hands in my lap and look at the ceiling. There's a little poster showing some modern art piece. It's mostly just lines and shapes on a white background. I won't pretend I get it.

Whoever was sitting opposite from me must have gotten up and left. An old man moved in to replace them. He immediately scoffs at me as I reach up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I consider retracting my hand, but I tell myself I shouldn't have to be afraid.

The train zooms into the next tunnel, and I can feel his eyes on me. While everybody around seems to be occupied with their phones or newspapers, I just had to catch the one person who wasn't having any of it. And today of all days. I take a deep breath to gather my courage. Then I look up to meet his gaze, and he doesn't immediately look away. And when he does, it's not without at least mumbling something under his breath. Hoping that was the last of it, I look back out the window and try ignoring him.

"The men in my generation weren't this soft," he adds after a moment. "Of course, we still had actual work to do when we were young. Not like those queenies do today."

He didn't exactly say it out loud. With the train's constant rattling, I doubt anyone but me even heard him at all. My face turns sour as I do, and there's no doubt he noticed.

"I'm probably not even allowed to say that anymore," he grumbles, adding fire to the flame.

Biting my cheek, I push my hands under my thighs until I sit on them and no-one can see what this is all about. I wait to see if he's going to say anything more. Then it's my turn.

"You're allowed to say whatever you want. It's a free country," I tell him, only to be met with irritation. "And everyone else is allowed not to like it."

He looks away.

"I don't have to listen to this."

It's for the best. Keeping my voice steady during those three sentences was hard enough.

We sit in silence for two more stations, and the train stops at Zorya Quay. With one last derisive glance, he gets up and leaves. I breathe a sigh of relief, but I still keep my hands hidden. It's five more stops for me. Maybe, I think, nobody else will see my nails. Once I'm home, I'll just remove the polish and go back to business as usual.

Someone else sits down opposite from me now, and it's a mother with her young daughter. The kid is maybe preschool age, but I wouldn't know for sure. She glances in my direction once or twice, maybe. As the train resumes moving, my nose starts to itch. I curse myself. Why now? Still, I keep sitting on my hands like before, hoping the itch will maybe just go away if I wait it out. But it doesn't. It just keeps getting worse.

I try ignoring it a while longer, but it's no use. Hoping nobody will notice, I reach up with one hand to scratch my nose, eager to go back into hiding immediately afterwards.

"Mommy, look!" the little girl says, and I immediately feel singled out. I freeze, as I notice she's looking at me. Her mother immediately shushes her.

"Don't point at strangers on the train!" she says. With a glance at me, she quickly apologizes.

"But they're so pretty," the girl says. "I didn't know boys can paint their nails, too!"

The mother looks mortified. But I only smile and take my other hand out from under my thigh, tucking away that same strand of hair. Why it keeps coming loose, I have no idea.

"It's no trouble," I tell the mother. "If it makes people happy."

She nods, and quickly looks away. The little girl I can tell, is entirely mesmerized by my nails, and I lay my hands in my lap so she can see them in all their glory. I don't say anything when the train pulls into my station and I get up to exit, but I call tell her eyes are still following me.

There aren't many people on the platform or outside, and they all ignore me. It's no surprise, seeing how I'm not really in the city center here and the rush hour has also passed. I barely make it out of the station before my phone rings. I pick it up to see it's my boyfriend.

"Hey, you," I greet him. "No, I can talk. Just got off the train, is all."

"Right," his voice crackles through the static. "How'd it go today?"

I take a moment to look at my other hand.

"It went...pretty well," I say. "Wasn't all bad."