Sixteen in Queens and in Love With Lord Alfred Douglas | Literary Hub

When I was a teenager, Oscar Wilde brought me back in queer time. I borrowed his barely canonical books and found a politics of dandyish self-making that had nothing to do with the gyms, pre-code Hollywood divas, or subway urinals my few gay friends told me about. I removed myself from millennial New York. I created a closet like no other.

It was easy to imagine myself as Oscar Wilde because I lived in a crumbling outer-borough house and my parents were artists and he was from Ireland and his mother Speranza was a poet who collected folk tales. The awkwardness of these facts, together with my large head, English names, darkening hair, and bookishly pale skin implied to my adolescent mind a certain correspondence.
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