Tradition by Hannah Grieco
Editorial intern Ruby Simoneau on today’s bonus flash: Hannah Grieco’s “Tradition” feels both raw and relatable, a reminder of how queer acceptance is often met with familial pressure to be conventional in other aspects of life. Grieco carries this weight effortlessly throughout the piece, softened with moments of relief, comfort, and pleasant unexpectedness.
Tradition
I met Jody on J-date. I didn’t plan on dating a Jewish girl, but my mom insisted I owed her at least this. AT LEAST THIS, she said, and sent me an article on Huffington Post about lesbians and J-date and holding on to tradition.
“Don’t start on not having kids,” she pleaded. “Gays have kids all the time.”
“Yes, mom,” I said and downloaded the app.
Jody’s androgynous face was the first one I clicked on.
I’m a social worker for the city. I love to rock climb and watch documentaries. I’m looking for a femme with long hair. Healthy, pretty, and lets me lead.
I messaged her immediately.
I’m not the person for you, I said. But my mom’s begging me to fuck a Jewish girl. Any interest?
I sent her a topless photo, my shaved head and boxers clearly visible.
We fucked that night and I fell in love with her as we watched a documentary afterwards, as I sobbed into her chest, her tight sports bra drenched from my tears, as that baby hippo got eaten, absolutely mauled, by its own father.
“You’re not what I expected,” Jody whispered, holding me close.
“I’m not femme at all,” I said, my snot running down onto her rough skin. And she laughed and used the pillow case to wipe it off.
“You’re femme as fuck,” she said and turned the volume up, the hippo mother’s bellows in my ears as Jody pushed me down, her entire hand inside me, and I came hard, still crying, like I was grieving some huge, encompassing loss. Why can’t I come without crying, I wanted to know, but oh—her mouth on me, her breath on my skin.
I arched up, thinking about my senior year of high school when my grandmother died, when I let Ben eat me out against the back wall of the temple as the limousines lined up around the corner. When he worked at me for twenty minutes, and I pictured girl after girl and still couldn’t feel a thing. Until my mom yelled for me and I shoved him away, pulled down my skirt and ran back to the front to join my family.
“Sorry,” I’d said as he wiped his mouth, his sad eyes making me wish I’d just faked it.
“Sorry,” I said to Jody and she laughed and pulled my arms around her, the hippo mother’s moans quieting to grunts as she gave up and swam away.
Hannah Grieco is a writer in Arlington, Virginia. Find her online at www.hgrieco.com and on Twitter @writesloud.
