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While I find Christmas to be a period of grief and sadness, I love seeing how happy my girlfriend is when decorating my apartment with the kitsch trinkets we bought together. Similarly, on Valentine’s Day, I hold space for both the grief and the joy of my various relationships. And the fact that every food out there is now cinnamon flavoured covers the neutral part of the spectrum.
I find holding space for this spectrum of experiences to be relevant, whether on a holiday that focuses on family and domestic love like Christmas, or romantic love like Valentine’s Day.
In the weeks leading up to these holidays, they become inescapable. They are everywhere, from giant billboards lining the way to school to casual small talk with strangers at a bus stop, and even in the plans friends excitedly share leading up to the big day.
My reality is a little different because I choose not to discuss my romantic life with my immediate family, out of fear of rejection. This hidden part of my identity adds extra stress, especially this time of year.
I do not see myself nor my couple represented in whatever movie is coming out the weekend of Valentine’s Day, which makes me less inclined to pay attention to it. And on the rare occasion that movie studios try to cater to my reality, it often falls short.
I do not want a token character to be sold to me. My interest cannot be bought by corporations under the disguise of inclusivity.
This year, I made my girlfriend a mini scrapbook filled with pictures of us and references to inside jokes we have. The time spent on it was almost … healing?
There was a renewed gratitude in looking back on milestones we reached alongside each other. And this deep appreciation for queer love could never be sold to me.
I have never particularly been interested in Valentine’s Day as a holiday. I have always loved Halloween, so every other holiday was, by comparison, kind of boring to me. On Halloween, there is no pressure to visit relatives, people dress up however they want (with some taking this opportunity to express their gender unconventionally), and of course, there’s free candy.
But interestingly enough, I started to grow fond of Valentine’s Day about two years ago, when I started living a queer life. I see it through the queer friendships I nurture, the queer art I put up on my bedroom walls, and the music from queer artists I listen to.
I may not be included in what is considered the default cookie-cutter for Valentine’s Day, and it may be more challenging when I encounter homophobia. But surrounding myself with queer love specifically simply redefines my very own definition and understanding, and therefore my experience, of Valentine’s Day.
Valentine’s Day outside of cis-heteronormativity
As Valentine’s Day approaches, I realize how differently I navigate it as a queer individual, especially during a time of increasing political and social tensions. Navigating holidays as a queer person means doing so in an unconventional way, in a spectrum varying from positive and negative experiences, with all the neutral in-between.While I find Christmas to be a period of grief and sadness, I love seeing how happy my girlfriend is when decorating my apartment with the kitsch trinkets we bought together. Similarly, on Valentine’s Day, I hold space for both the grief and the joy of my various relationships. And the fact that every food out there is now cinnamon flavoured covers the neutral part of the spectrum.
I find holding space for this spectrum of experiences to be relevant, whether on a holiday that focuses on family and domestic love like Christmas, or romantic love like Valentine’s Day.
In the weeks leading up to these holidays, they become inescapable. They are everywhere, from giant billboards lining the way to school to casual small talk with strangers at a bus stop, and even in the plans friends excitedly share leading up to the big day.
My reality is a little different because I choose not to discuss my romantic life with my immediate family, out of fear of rejection. This hidden part of my identity adds extra stress, especially this time of year.
I do not see myself nor my couple represented in whatever movie is coming out the weekend of Valentine’s Day, which makes me less inclined to pay attention to it. And on the rare occasion that movie studios try to cater to my reality, it often falls short.
I do not want a token character to be sold to me. My interest cannot be bought by corporations under the disguise of inclusivity.
This year, I made my girlfriend a mini scrapbook filled with pictures of us and references to inside jokes we have. The time spent on it was almost … healing?
There was a renewed gratitude in looking back on milestones we reached alongside each other. And this deep appreciation for queer love could never be sold to me.
I have never particularly been interested in Valentine’s Day as a holiday. I have always loved Halloween, so every other holiday was, by comparison, kind of boring to me. On Halloween, there is no pressure to visit relatives, people dress up however they want (with some taking this opportunity to express their gender unconventionally), and of course, there’s free candy.
But interestingly enough, I started to grow fond of Valentine’s Day about two years ago, when I started living a queer life. I see it through the queer friendships I nurture, the queer art I put up on my bedroom walls, and the music from queer artists I listen to.
I may not be included in what is considered the default cookie-cutter for Valentine’s Day, and it may be more challenging when I encounter homophobia. But surrounding myself with queer love specifically simply redefines my very own definition and understanding, and therefore my experience, of Valentine’s Day.
