“Is it?” I responded, raising my eyebrows as if I had no idea what she was talking about. She jiggled the remote but didn’t change channels, and so we sat for half an hour more of Lister’s conquests, punctuated by occasional interjections from across the room about the queerness of it all. It was, of course, extremely queer, but my grandmother’s use of the term remained in the realm of an insult (even if an uncomprehending one), rather than a political affirmation of sexual dissidence. I said nothing to her about my growing awareness of my own queerness. Nor the fact that my straight, monogamous relationship of almost five years was beginning to come apart at the seams — in part because of those heretofore unexpressed desires. I had barely come out to myself, and I was certainly not ready to broach the topic with my 86-year-old grandmother.
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