The Closet Was Clean. I Was Never In It.

The Soap Opera journal / Blog
This is a creation by Solano Drumond

Also listen to our podcast about this post:
  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3HF73k-hjFs

The closet was clean, full of good memories, and I had never been in it. 

I was cleaning out the closet—you know, the kind of task that starts with a damp cloth and ends up revealing an entire autobiography.

    Between some forgotten t-shirts and a box of faded memories, I found everything: textures, scents, feelings... but shame? None. Guilt? I never lived here. And then it hit me: I'd never been in the closet.

    This whole idea of ​​"coming out" always seemed... strange to me. As if, before I could exist in the world, I had to have lived trapped in some hidden, dusty space, awaiting approval.

    But I've always been who I am. I've never asked permission to exist—much less to love.

 While cleaning, I opened the drawers containing my most intimate clothes. And what did I see? My intimidation. Not hidden. Just stored. Carefully. With dignity. Because that's what intimidation is: privacy I offer myself. Not secrecy imposed by others.

    I never saw my straight brothers come out to anyone. No emotional speeches. No family gatherings to declare their sex lives. They simply lived. They brought their partners home. They slept next to them under my parents' roof. And no one ever questioned whether they were still worthy of love.

    And me? I never felt the need to ask anyone if they "still loved me." I loved myself. I respected myself. I dressed how I wanted. I slept with whoever I wanted. With dignity. And sometimes, a rainbow suspender thrown over a chair—just for a touch of style.

    This need some gay men have—to hear from their mother or father that "we still love you"—bothers me. It may seem sweet, but it comes with implications:

That there was a real risk they wouldn't. And honestly? That risk shouldn't even exist. It's worse when it does. When your family changes after your "revelation." When what comes out isn't you—it's their prejudice. Their silent judgment. Their armed shame. That's when the dirt comes out—and it's not yours. In my closet, there were memories.

There was elegance. There was a 1970 Singer sewing machine that still works better than most modern people I know. There were polished shoes. Antique perfumes. And self-esteem, neatly folded next to the bed linens.

The closet—physical or symbolic—has never been a prison for me. It's simply where I keep things that help me be who I am. And for that, it deserves respect. Just like I do.

Cleaning phrase of the day:

- The closet isn't made for people. It's for ironed clothes, clean souls, and well-made choices.

  💋 A kiss from Sô...

…to Gabrielle Garnier in Paris, who certainly sews her life with silk and a glass of wine — *merci, chérie.

And another — radiant and full of rhythm — for Adelaide Silva , samba queen of my beloved **Beija-Flor de Nilópolis.

She knows how to parade through life with dignity, sequins, and no apologies.