I recall the exact moment I plucked polyamorous off someone else lips and tasted it as my own. They were my misspelled name tags, close enough to be identifiable, but not an accurate depiction of who I was. I wore these insincere labels with curiosity. For years I skipped around with the younger siblings of polyamory trying to find a description for the type of relationship I saw myself flourish in. Polyamorous is arriving late to the coming out lunch table because only recently have I invited it. When a lined notebook paper stained with D-Y-K-E fell out of my locker I promptly googled the word and thought to myself “yep, I am.” What would the middle school version of “ poly” have looked like scrawled across crumpled scrap paper. Unlike queer, which had already cracked the surface of internet exposure and peer gossip to introduce itself into my life, no one bothered to drop me the poly memo. As with the other non-mainstream identities I hold, without a definition or tangible model for my young conglomerate of relationship energy that could not fit into the cardboard box of monogamy I was left with no compass to navigate my relationship orientation. The birth of my poly identity probably dates back approximately to the same timeframe that I began to identify as queer. The fact that I am coming out to her as polyamorous last on this list of “parent-shockers” is not a coincidence. The abridged version looks a bit like this: We know the routine well, I disclose, she remarks, we pretend like nothing happened. By now, we are both old hats at the ever awkward coming out conversation.
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“You’re Poly-what?” My mother stares at me with concerned eyes across a bowl of mediocre quick service food at our usual lunch meet up space- unsure how to make sense of the latest evolution in my laundry list of radical identities.
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