In recent weeks I’ve noticed several men watching my hands as I speak. I realize, with some satisfaction, I am speaking more expressively than before. The ropes I put on myself in childhood have loosened further; the ropes that tied up my gayness to keep me safe, and that no longer serve me. As my hands catch up and learn to speak with passion to match my storytelling, their newfound freedom catches the attention of wandering eyes.

I watch RuPaul’s Drag Race this morning. Two drag queens dance on stage before the judges in a lip-sync battle. In perfect synchronization with the music, one queen masterfully falls to the stage in a spectacular ‘death drop.’ I’m in awe. I watch the fall again and again, enamored by the queen’s moves. One last watch — and something loosens and I start crying.

I close my eyes and I’m transported back to a childhood in which the most dangerous qualities for a boy were fluidity, gracefulness, and expressiveness. With my eyes still closed, I watch as childhood memories flash through my mind. I pay close attention to the sensations arising throughout my chest and stomach. I continue to cry deeply.

“Ah,” I discover, “This is why I watch so much Drag Race” — watching queens be free on stage is a way to tease myself with freedom. But watching their freedom does not release my own.

I keep my eyes closed and continue working.