In the sweltering Nashville summer, I’m wandering through the farmer’s market with my parents. In my mind, a Fall Out Boy Song is playing as my eyes skim the tables full of handcrafted goods. I notice a jewelry stand. Then, I see a leather bracelet, held together by black yarn, with a rainbow pattern embroidered across it. Toward the middle are stripes of pink, purple, and blue. A silver medallion with the word ‘Aries’ engraved into it perches in the center of the bracelet. I decide I must have it, so I hand the seller the amount needed. When my parents ask what I bought, I tell them I bought a bracelet. I don’t think they knew how much the rainbow meant to me back then, and I don’t think they understand now. But I do. 

In seventh grade, I was a hot mess in a pink dress. Middle school was hard enough, and trying to figure out who you’re attracted to only worsens the struggle. I would wear my bracelet all the time: for solace, for comfort, for hope. When the boys in my homeroom made cruel jokes about how something was “so gay”, I’d defiantly fiddle with the strings on my wrist. As an act of power. As an act of rebellion. As a way of saying, ‘I don’t care about your opinions of people like me, I will love myself anyway.’

Deep down, I did care. My deepest wish was for acceptance and belonging, which could be hard to find as a queer person. Back then, all of my friends identified as straight and cisgender. Many of them didn’t know what it meant to be gay, bi, lesbian, or trans. I was the only person in the universe that was different—a feeling that I was used to, but this time, it felt more like an abyss. A gaping chasm that could not be filled. A loneliness that would last forever. 

Always wanting to fix the loneliness, my bracelet sometimes served as my queer friend. Sometimes, just seeing the rainbow pattern around my wrist cheered me up. It provided hope that I am not the only queer person in the universe, and that maybe, just maybe, I would have some queer friends. 

In ninth grade, I transferred from private to public school, which meant I was in the vicinity of other LGBTQ+ people. Now, my rainbow bracelet was a secret signal. If someone caught a glance, they’d know I was one of them. In my mind, this was a guaranteed way to find queer friends. The embroidered rainbow was my way of coming out, without coming out, because coming out is complicated and messy. Whenever you threaten to pour your heart out to someone and tell them exactly who you are, you risk rejection and ostracization. You risk burning bridges. 

All of my subtle efforts to accept myself and find friends within my community came crashing down on March 13, 2020. The pandemic was terrible for a lot of reasons, mainly because I began to hate myself more than usual. At ungodly hours of the night, I’d find myself sprawled across my bed, googling articles on how to get rid of internalized homophobia (an insidious, pesky thought loop which causes members of the LGBTQ community to hate themselves and each other), is it really okay to be queer, why don’t I have queer friends, am I queer enough. Before leaving the house, perhaps to go to the grocery store or to church, I’d stare at the rainbow bracelet, hanging on a blue thumbtack pinned to my bulletin board. I would leave it there too afraid to be seen wearing it. After all, what would people think?

Despite the struggles of the pandemic, I became braver about my sexuality. However, this and the endless internalized homophobia happened simultaneously—which is weird, I know. Even though I’d often leave my bracelet hanging on the bulletin board, there were also days where I wore it proudly. Throughout the stay-at-home order, I’d started to come out to more of my friends and hint at my queerness more openly. On my Instagram stories, I would post gay memes and circulate infographics about the LGBTQ community. With these pieces, people could put together the puzzle. 

Fashion, especially as it relates to my queerness, has always been a muddled topic for me, but my bracelet helped me navigate that. At the end of August, my parents would take me to the outlets or to Christiana Mall to pick out clothes for the coming school year. I thought I had an idea of what I wanted, but I did not. The slim fitting Forever 21 t-shirts and mom jeans looked good on those girls, but it felt weird on me. Sometimes I’d cry when I returned home, disappointed that my closet still didn’t look like a pinterest board. That I didn’t look like the queer people I saw online. Even when I thought my clothes were boring, wearing the bracelet always added a pop of color and flair to an outfit. It soothed the frustration and allowed me to experience comfort in my skin. While my Alex and Ani bangles and Claire’s earrings ended up in a storage box after a few wears, the embroidered bracelet stayed in the rotation. 

But more than an accessory, a stand-in-friend, or a secret message, the strings on my wrist were a symbol of pride. When internalized homophobia and queer loneliness were suffocating, my rainbow bracelet was the CPR that brought me back. It was a way of saying, “I’m queer, and that’s mighty cool of me.” 

Lauren Purnell is a queer, Haitian-American high school student from Maryland. They primarily write young adult fiction featuring LGBTQ+ characters. Lauren also dabbles in poetry and creative nonfiction. Their work has been featured in the Kelly Writers House Summer Workshop for Young Writers 2022 Anthology. When they aren’t writing, Lauren enjoys a good crossword puzzle. You can find them on Twitter at @bluespringlifee.