My hair was somewhat tousled, and I had to make sure my jeans and shirt were a perfect fit. I put on some perfume which I knew would evaporate as soon as I stepped into the club. I waited outside for my friends, and once I met up with them, we talked about how wasted we were going to be before the night ended.
We drank a couple of shots before going in. Liquid courage. And also because the alcohol that was sold in the club was too expensive.
After having our ID’s checked, we walk through the double doors to a dark, somewhat lit room throbbing with loud, ear-pounding music, and cramped with people jumping to the beat of the music. The room was very warm, and within minutes I felt a bead of sweat trace itself down down my neck. I smirk at the crowd, knowing that in a moment the many-headed creature will swallow me in and transform me into just another one of its heads bopping in unison to one song.
The process of “coming out” as LGBT is an extremely personal act, but of course, in many countries around the world, including the United States, it is a political one as well.
My life would honestly be much easier if I just shut up about my sexuality. If I just stop talking about how much I liked girls, or grew my hair out to an “acceptable” length for a girl, or just stopped. And to be honest, I exhibit enough heteronormative traits to pass myself off as a straight woman (if I grew my hair out of course). But whenever I think about just making my life easier and pass myself off as someone straight, I remember myself in middle school, a scrawny 12-year-old girl with braces and headgear.
I remember being bullied for being that “lesbo” or “gay”. I have had the words “fag” been thrown at me. I have had food thrown in my direction at the cafeteria, and I’ve been thrown against the wall while walking down the hallway. I remember feeling completely and utterly alone, not daring to tell my best friend or my parents what was going on at school. Because, in my mind, being that “lesbo” meant not having any friends or people who care about you. I remember wanting to die before I let anybody find out that I wanted to spend my life with another girl instead of a guy.
As I remember my experiences before I came out, I try to be as visible as I possibly can because I know from personal experience that I would have vastly appreciated (as someone who didn’t even realize I was gay) to see someone like me own her sexuality and live life that was not in denial. I would have loved to see someone live without fear of judgement from others.
So a bit of advice for the young LGBT people out there, whether you have realized your own truth yet or not: your sexuality does not own you, nor does it define you. I’m 22 now, and I’ve been where you are right now. I remember being scared and calling my best friend in the middle of the night and telling her that I was gay while crying and (literally) shaking with fear of how she would react. The LGBT community is blessed with some of the most creative minds in the world, but we are also bankers, athletes, lawyers, doctors, scientist, farmers, and much more. LGBT people are everywhere, and we can be anyone.
So, at the end of the day, remember this: you can be anyone you want to be. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise based off of nothing but this one trait.
I’ll put this out there: I’m not good with kids. If you leave me around with a kid for more than half an hour, that is a minor inconvenience to me. If you leave two kids or more with me, then you either hate your kids or you hate me.
I remember sitting in the car with you, and you were talking about my future, and how you wanted me to be this way, not that. What you meant by these phrases, you never fully explained, but I remember you putting your point across by flipping your hand back and forth. And that flip-flop of your hand spoke louder than words to me, because in that one clumsy gesture with the flick of your wrist, you summarized to me what it meant to be gay.
And I remember feeling awful for both of us, and how difficult it must have been for you to even broach this subject considering the fact that you couldn’t even say the word out loud. So instead of saying it, you flipped your hand over and over again, knowing that I would know what you were talking about, because I knew where you were going with this conversation, and because I knew your daughter.
Maybe you couldn’t say the word out loud because saying them would make it true. And I know that to this day, you want so much for the opposite to be true. Maybe you regret ever bringing the topic up in the first place, like ignoring the problem would have kept the issue away.
I also remember not knowing what to say, or whether or not I should lie to you, someone that I’ve never lied to before.
So I decided to say nothing. As you were talking, I wanted to hold your hand and say to you that your daughter would turn out to be more than just okay, she is a caring, decent, thoughtful human who is in the process of possibly becoming a fine adult, and that this, the word that you couldn’t even make yourself say, it doesn’t matter because it shouldn’t matter. In the grand scheme of things, it is a defining attribute but is also the least important attribute your daughter has been blessed with.
And I also wanted to say that I know you are worried about her because she lives in a society where there are people who would think of her as abnormal and weird, for something that she has no control over and that differentiates her from the majority of the population. And that worry you have only comes from your love, but that it doesn’t change the fact that your daughter would rather have you support her because, at the end of it all, it is only when she accepts herself for who she is, and when the people she loves accepts her, will she be truly happy with her life.
And I wanted to say that you did not make a mistake with parenting, that you did not do something “wrong” to make your daughter feel “that way” about girls, and that she is simply who she is.
But instead, I remained silent. Because, to this day, you would rather believe a lie than to hear the truth about your own child. Your only child.
And so we continue to live our lives, my thoughts a blur, you in your seat worrying what you did wrong to make your daughter go “wrong”. Yes, the world can be a terrifying place to live in, but it is even more so when the people who claim to love you the most are the first to reject you for the person you are.
First step. The two of you meet and it’s amazing. There’s lots of conversations and laughing with each other and it seems like there’s no end. She’ll spend all night with you and the two of you talk until the sun rises. You two talk until there’s no talk left. You two talk until both of you are struggling to keep your eyes open. And after that you two talk some more.
Second step. She’ll leave in the morning and you realize how much you miss her. You’ll pick her shirt up from your bed and breathe deeply. It smells like her perfume mixed with the lotion she likes so much along with her natural smell. Your foot begins to tap as you count the hours, minutes, seconds until you get to see her again.
Third step. You sit throughout dinner staring at her. You stare at her as her eyes light up when she tells you the story of how her sorority sister did something silly on pledge week. You watch her lips move and curl as she talks, only thinking about how it would feel to kiss her again. She stops talking and you panic for a second. Did she ask you a question that you didn’t hear? You were too busy daydreaming about her lips again. In an effort to cover up your mistake, you nod and say something like, “Yeah, that sounded like it was fun.” She nods with a smile and continues with her story. Phew. You’ve dodged a bullet to daydream another day.
Fourth step. You’re hanging out with friends and you tune out of the conversation. In your mind, you’re playing a game with yourself as you try to remember what she looks like. You will close your eyes and remember the patterns you traced on her skin, her face when she’s still sleeping, the stray strand of hair on her face. You’ll think about how her arms would feel when you’re tired and she cuddles you. Your friends get up and you guys move along to the next destination. You’re so hopeless. At this point you’re not even pretending to pay attention to what’s going on. You stalk her Instagram. You scroll all the way back to see what she looked like three years ago. You accidentally double tap and see the heart symbol appear over a selfie she took in her dorm room. You don’t hit unlike.
Fifth step. You come home from work. You go into the bathroom and stare at her towel and toothbrush. You make your bed and wait for her to come home from work. She takes longer than usual today. You go back to the restroom and pick up her shirt. Her scent is mostly gone but it sort of lingers in your nose. You hear her knocking on your door. You run across the living room to see her. You open the door and pretend to be tired. She asks, Did you miss me. Eh, a little. This entire time you are staring at her and the way her lips move as she talks, and that blouse that you know will smell like her for the rest of the day.