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It was unlike any courtship, any conversation I had ever had."I like him," my 9-year-old said that night when I tucked her into bed.
He even has an assistant to weed through the letters, answering most with a cursory "Thanks for your interest and support" note. And though it said nothing particularly charming or saucy or brilliant, he felt he needed to respond. The old-fashioned way, with letters chaste enough to show your grandmother. Nor did we write about our similar careers or engage in eager romantic self-promotion. Something the whole of my history would have insisted mattered, and yet, did not. He told me, in his typically open, candid style, that he had not been born a man. There was something about him, intelligence, warmth, confidence, but also, something else. That night I went to see Slumdog Millionaire with my mother. Then there was my mother, who, upon hearing that my online beau and I were officially an item, blurted out, "Does it even work? Men who resent anyone crashing the boys' club without an invitation, daring to take power where none was given. I found myself staring, leaning in like he was an insect on the sidewalk. He did look like Dev Patel, but I was so consumed, everything I saw looked like him. Some are astonishingly bold, like my good friend who requested I draw her a picture of what my boyfriend's privates looked like."This is the first time I've ever stopped wondering where I'm supposed to be," my fiancé says as we climb a slight hill, all of us hand in hand. "I need every inch I can get," he says, a wink in his voice. I am drunk with optimism, skipping through leaves, looking for unicorns in the clouds. And I realize then that this man has done something I never thought possible.
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It is to be so consumed with the truth of who you are that you are willing to risk everything to inhabit it.