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I’ve never seen Star Wars. Maybe let’s start there. So when, at Hutchmoot, late on Saturday night, as I was sitting next to Jennifer Trafton-Peterson watching a reader’s theatre Shakespearean adaptation of the beloved science fiction classic, ‘Verily, A New Hope,’ I was bit lost.
When you move and are made to pack up your entire life into cardboard, you begin to discover how much crap you really own: black lace-up Vans with suede flames stitched to the sides, half a dozen old film canisters carefully and insanely filled with pencil ferrules, two copies of the ‘Beauty and the Beast’ soundtrack.
It’s been nearly two years now that I’ve been out of the closet, all the way out, I mean. I was acutely aware of the truth that I was gay as a 9-year-old boy who loved spending his afternoons watching ‘My Little Pony’ and making homemade strawberry cupcakes to bring to school.