Page 105 of Ambiguous
“So you’re gay, then.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t identify as gay. I don’t know what I identify as, nor do I feel like adopting a term because it will make someone else feel better. I can’t call myself something that doesn’t feel right to me. That’s no judgment on anyone else,” I add. “I think those terms are great for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which is building community. They’re just not for me.”
The last thing I’d want to do is alienate my boyfriend, who I’m proud of. Sam’s got me to open up to the idea of labels and to the benefits of defining my sexuality in some way because it could help other people.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to call myself something that isn’t me. Nor do I want to invite the world into our relationship yet. I’m already vulnerable enough in the lyrics of the songs. I don’t need to have them speculate more about me. Or, at least, I don’t need to confirm it and give them more to talk about.
“The label would like to identify this album as an ‘own voices’ production, but we can’t do that without your approval.”
I close my eyes. “Own voices projects matter very much, but again, don’t force me into claiming a banner that’s inaccurate. There are so many artists who authentically want to express their own voices. Please, please, please sign them. I get enough attention.”
“So how do we describe you?”
“Just Jules. The content is the only thing that matters. Not my sexuality.”
He huffs. “It’s not as marketable to not have a label. We’re asking these questions for your benefit.”
“Are you sure about that?” I ask. “Because it doesn’t seem that way.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Finally, he sighs. “Look. With each album, you’ve evolved. We’d like to see you evolve to owning up to a LGBTQIA+ label.” He lets out a not-humorous laugh. “It’s hard enough to figure out what genre to place your work in.”
“It’s not up to me to categorize it. That’s your job.”
For the first time since I turned in this album, I question it. All this time, I’ve thought it was one of my best. One where the emotions came through. One where I bared my fears and vulnerabilities.
But apparently it’s not enough if it doesn’t fit neatly into a box to tick.
“The album is what it is,” I say. “It’s good. Release it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hill. The album is still in review. I’ll report to marketing that we will need to come at this from a different angle.”
If that isn’t a mood killer, I don’t know what is.
He hangs up, and my first thought is that I want to call Sam and tell him what he said, but I’m pretty sure that would fall squarely in the area of conflicts of interest.
If Lighthouse doesn’t accept the album, are we back where we started? With a potential lawsuit?
Fuck, I thought we’d got past this.
All I know is that I need Sam. And I think I’m willing to take the next step to show that I’m not ashamed of what we are to each other, even as I reject other people’s need to slap an identity on me.
I call him. When he answers, I say, “It feels like my life is out of control right now.”
“With what?”
“The album. I’m still waiting for approval.”
He’s silent for a moment, and it reminds me of that long pause in my conversation with Robin. Which isn’t ideal. “I’m sorry it’s taking so long,” he says. “I wish I could—”
“There’s nothing you can do about it,” I say. “I know. I’m just venting. I need a distraction. What do you think about going out on a date?”
“Generally, I’m in favor.”
“Very clever. I mean, with me. Do you want to go on a date with me?” I pace, rubbing the back of my neck.
“In public?”
I pause, and my voice gets quiet. “Yes. Will you be okay with that? Your privacy’s going to go out the window.”
