“I’m a lesbian,” I say, hands fidgeting with the hem of my obnoxiously patterned button down.
“Oh. Okay,” they say. Then, “how long have you known?”
“Let me tell you a story,” I begin. “In seventh grade, I came out as gay. Well, not exactly— I had some roundabout, ten-word-long identity I used as a way to avoid calling myself a lesbian. I told my friends, then the rest of my classmates. My parents, too, eventually, because I got a girlfriend and needed them to drive me to the store to get her a one-month anniversary gift. The end.”
Well, not exactly. Let me try again.
“In fourth grade, I decided that I liked a boy named Stuart. I needed to have a crush on a boy, because Kaitlin liked Dominic and Amy liked Steven and I liked fitting in. So I picked Stuart and decided that I liked him.
I became obsessed with him, obsessed with the idea of liking him, obsessed with obsessing over some mediocre boy. I told anybody who would listen: ‘Do you have a crush? I do. I bet you can’t guess who it is? Come on, guess. It’s Stuart. I have a crush, on a boy, because I’m just like you!’
In seventh grade, I came out as gay.
The end.”
But that’s still not quite right.
Because then I went to a new high school where I knew literally two other people, and I had to come out all over again. This time, though, I gathered up the courage to say “lesbian,” armed with a short haircut and jeans from the men’s section of Old Navy.
They nod, not making eye contact. A long pause, then, “why did you tell me?”
“Because,” I want to say, “I don’t know if there’s any other gay people here, and I want to let them know that they have solidarity in this group of people. Because whenever other people come out, my heart soars at the reminder that I’m not alone. Plus, I’ll probably vomit if someone asks me if I have a boyfriend, and I just want to get ahead of the curve on that one.”
I don’t say that.
I say, “I just wanted you to know.”
Which is true— I do want them to know! I want people to know, and I share my story because when I was younger, nobody ever shared theirs with me. I was the first kid at my middle school to come out. I never knew any women with short hair who didn’t compensate with makeup, or who wore pants that weren’t femininely tailored. I had to figure out what I was going through by myself, being stared at in public restrooms and braving my mother’s anger when I shaved my head.
I go on my school’s video announcements for International Coming Out Day, because there might be a freshman wondering who she is allowed to be, who has never met a butch lesbian before.
Telling our stories is essential to being gay. Our experiences can be incredibly isolating— talking about crushes and relationships always brings up a fear of rejection or resentment, and many of us don’t start dating until much later than our straight peers.
So we create our own communities, through online forums and high school GSA’s and “dressing gay” so we can find one another, wherever we may be. We share our stories because all of us have to search for this community, and putting ourselves out there makes it easier for those who don’t quite know where to look.
My story begins in fourth grade, and again in seventh grade, and again and again and again every time I come out. My story has a billion branching variations, and it changes every time I tell it.
My story centers around one truth, one that has taken me a lifetime to figure out.
I’m a lesbian.