by Logen Cure
I will never forget the first day of class
Spring 2006, my sophomore year at A&M,
your soft voice explaining our queer literature syllabus—
we’d start with ancient texts and move forward—
and marveling at the idea that we are, indeed, ancient.
Proposition 2 defining marriage as heteros-only in the Texas constitution
passed a couple months before—November 2005.
I’ve never asked you exactly how hard it was
convincing the English department to offer a queer lit course during the Bush years,
but I can tell you my life was radically changed
when you gave me the gift of my own context.
I’d cut off my hair the semester before—
around the time of that disgusting Proposition—
and my parents treated me like a stranger every day I was home for the holidays.
I’d loved literature all my life, fascinated by the echo of voices through time
(who isn’t referencing Shakespeare, just a little?)
without anyone mentioning any voices are queer like mine (including Shakespeare’s).
You taught me that while the fight for our lives drags on,
we have always been here fighting for each other.
Thank you—
for your soft voice delivering difficult truths,
for your shaved head and badass tattoos,
for your black leather vests,
for telling me my essays were good and meaning it,
for giving a damn about my poetry,
for showing me the kind of professor I strive to be myself.
Every time a queer student thanks me
for making them feel seen,
I think of you.
I thought you should know.
Sincerely,
Logen