In the four years since Prop 8, I have shown all the signs of a sort of election-induced "PTSD." I don't want to hear the rhetoric. I don't want to see the debates. I don't want to follow the polls. I don't even want to watch The Daily Show. It's that bad.

Two miracles were happening: 1) The child inside my uterus, the one who had threatened miscarriage more times than I can count, was finally on the way; and 2) Jamaica's highest office was publicly taking a human-rights stance in support of its LGBT community.

My mother keeps prodding me to come out of the closet. She wants me to accept my rightful place in the world as a gay woman. I am probably the only straight woman in America whose mother keeps a watch for latent homosexual urges.