By Jay Stracke
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too
adverb
1. to a higher degree than is desirable, permissible, or possible; excessively.
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For most of my life, the word “too” held great weight. It was the weapon used against me, the chain that held me down, the prison in which I felt trapped, and the sentence I believed I was given for my crimes, for being the person that I am.
I’d hear the hushed whispers from the other boys in my class. My face felt flush and warm. The feelings of embarrassment and shame were pumped from every nervous heartbeat to the small veins hugging my cheeks.
“He’s too girly.”
I’d feel my eyes fighting back tears from the day’s most recent sarcastic quip. Laughter filled the room. Through the chortles and chuckles, I’d hear it.
“You’re too sensitive.”
Breath heavy, eyes misty, and hands trembling with anxiety and fear, even my own voice would become self-chastising, resounding in my mind.
“You’re too emotional.”
“Too” is a powerful word. It can lead others to believe that they must suppress pieces of themselves to feel like they belong, are loved, and safe. It should come as no surprise then that, after discovering I was queer, I actively worked to conceal the parts of myself that could potentially alert others to this aspect of my identity. I worked tirelessly to ensure that I wasn’t too femme, too emotional, or too interested in theatre, art, and TLC’s Say Yes to the Dress.
And for a while, I managed. I was already well-versed in the art of self-suppression that, when it came time to hide my queer identity, I simply added it to the bottom of the to-do list.
Yet this drained me. Having grown up attending religious schools, I was inundated with anti-queer sentiments and messages. There were several days where I felt exhausted and hopeless. Everyone looked the same. Everyone talked the same. Everyone felt the same. Everyone believed the same things. I felt stifled and pressured to adhere. The energy it took to keep my facade going started leaving cracks. I was slowly breaking.
I began to think that remaining in Texas—in the South—would only strengthen the shackles that constrained me; that it would only extend my fractures and tears.
I applied to the University of Oregon hoping that I could achieve a new start, firmly believing that, by being emblazoned with green and gold, I’d finally be free.
But life had other plans. I applied and was accepted to another school: Trinity University in San Antonio, Texas.
As a prospective student, the level of warmth I felt meeting the students at Trinity was inexplicable. It already felt like home. And so just like that, I traded green and gold for maroon.
It wasn’t until one year later, during the beginning of my sophomore year, that I finally had the courage to speak my truth. It was as if the floodgates had opened; the chains shattered. It was as if I was staring into a mirror after spending a lifetime in the dark. I never knew my eyes were green; my hair a dirty brown. Never before did I consider my queerness something to be proud of or something that I could fully live within.
I was meeting myself for the first time.
Since that day, I’ve learned that the South isn’t a prison; it is a place teeming with love, laughter, life, pride, and acceptance. And with my newfound strength, I also realized that what I initially feared was “too much” was, in actuality, a gift. I was not only able to come out, I was able to come into myself.
For the longest time, I thought “too” referred to qualities that are “excessive” or “undesirable,” but looking back on the definition, it can also refer to qualities that go beyond what’s “possible.”
I know now that my “too” isn’t something that is unwanted or not permissible. My “too” represents the best pieces of myself—the pieces that break limits. My sensitivity is empathy, my emotions are power, and my identity is a badge of honor.
I have been given a gift, a gift that lets me wake up and realize that I am more than enough. I am a proud southern queer man, and I exceed what is possible.
