Names have been changed.
I grew up in Brooklyn with my mom, my auntie, my uncle, and my grandpa. Once when I was very young, two men kissing came on TV, and my grandpa began cursing at the screen. He then shut the TV off, and no one talked for the next few minutes.
Another time, Grandpa and Uncle called a relative of ours back in Jamaica a “batty man.” Since “batty” means penis, I figured that meant any naked man. So when my baby cousin got out of the shower naked, I called him a “batty man.” Everyone started yelling at me, “Don’t say that!” and “Don’t wish that on the child!”
I was confused but I understood that the word was a terrible insult. I never heard slurs against lesbians, but still I grew to understand that homosexuality in general was very bad.
In the 5th grade, I had a classmate Jayle, who other girls chased around, who had a strange effect on me. She was what I’d now call a “stud.” I argued and bickered with Jayle and called her ugly, but deep down inside I knew that she was free and I wasn’t. She could be herself. I was also jealous because my friend liked her and spent our friend time with Jayle.
I found myself drawn to images of boys with boys when I was 11. I saw a link to bl (boy love) in a youtube video about an angel who fell in love with a mortal dude. I searched bl on my phone and found a manga site that had comics about boys kissing boys. There was something sweet and intimate about how the characters were with each other.
I wanted to read all of the stories, and before I knew it I was under the sheets giggling as my phone shined in my face. Every time they’d kiss I’d put the phone down as if it was forbidden content. Only to pick it back up and wonder if I’d ever find love like that. My face would become hot and before I knew it I was kicking my feet under the sheets. I felt giddy.
One day my mom asked for my phone before I could close the tabs. She scrolled and found the gay manga I had been planning to read. She grabbed my arm, pulled me in her room and pushed me into her closet. Through the cracked door, she spit the words “disgusting” and “f*ggot.” She was pregnant at the time and told me I was forbidden to bring such “f*ggotry” into her house and contaminate her new child.
I didn’t have a sexuality at the time—I was just looking at what interested me—but I figured out that day that if I were queer, I would have to hide it from my family.
Better still, I would just be straight, and that’s what I tried to do.
Trying to Convince Myself
In middle school I crushed on this boy with a high-top fade and then found out that another friend of mine liked him too. I remember crying that night, because I had confusing feelings for my friend. I decided it was jealousy over a stupid boy, yet the feeling around her was similar to how I felt around him. My heartbeat got faster; I’d talk less; and it hurt when she talked about having a crush on anyone else.
A lot of kids were queer or queer-friendly in my middle school, but there was still stigma. Queer kids were considered a joke. Once in 8th grade, I was sitting too close to my friend in class. Two girls (who themselves seemed gay) called both of us gay, then cackled. I could tell it was an insult, that I was being bullied.
“Mind your business!” I snapped back.
My friend said, “Ignore them.” Yet I couldn’t ignore this nagging feeling that their teasing had some validity. Not just that I might be attracted to girls, but that being queer was a bad thing.
Soon the rumor that I was gay was circulating through the school. If I approached a girl we would get shipped together. So I’d distance myself from these girls until eventually I had only two close girl friends, both of whom had boyfriends.
Even then the rumors didn’t stop. Combined with the homophobia at home, this bullying made being gay seem like a terrible fate.
In high school I became friends with two people immediately, one of whom was an openly queer Asian girl (“any pronouns”). Rowan got my sense of humor. She looked like a stereotypical weird art kid, the kid my mom would never approve of me being. I looked up to her for being openly gay.
My other new friend, Benina, was straight, with pin straight hair. She usually wore leggings and a sweater. In 9th grade one day, a girl said in class, “I hate gay people. They shouldn’t exist, that’s not what God wanted.”
Benina said, “Yeah I agree with her.” I gave Benina a disgusted look, and she backtracked: “It’s because of my religion.” I didn’t want to lose one of my only friends, so I stayed quiet and wondered why this hatred was so normalized.
I pushed down all the feelings I’d had about same-sex relationships since I was 11. I’d never had a girlfriend or kissed a girl, so I wasn’t gay.
I tried to convince myself that I got so upset only out of empathy for an oppressed group. I pushed down all the feelings I’d had about same-sex relationships since I was 11. I’d never had a girlfriend or kissed a girl, so I wasn’t gay.
But attractions to girls had popped up since Jayle in the 5th grade, and in the 10th grade, I had to admit I was crushing on Aurora, a girl in my class with black hair and perfectly brown eyes. I’d get nervous around her and that made me be louder, goofier, and even more extra.
I’d go way out of my way to “accidentally” take the same train as we became friends, but when we were together, I could barely look at her. I actually texted her when I was sitting next to her. Weirdly, the intense frustration was pleasurable for me.
Even though I wasn’t telling anyone else, including Aurora, I was finally just admitting to myself that I am bisexual. And so I could enjoy a crush. Before this, if I had a crush on a girl, I’d tell myself that she must be homophobic, and I’d shut my feelings down that way.
“What if I Was?”
My crush on Aurora finally got me to push back against my mom’s homophobia. The next time my mom went on one of her rants against queer people, I paced the floor. When she said, “They’re unnatural and disgusting,” I muttered “What if I was…”
I stopped pacing and looked down, darting my eyes up to glimpse her expression. My mind raced, “What if my grandparents heard? They’d kill me or kick me out.”
“Well are you?”
I swallowed and quickly backtracked. “No, but what if I was…” She acted like she didn’t hear me and changed the subject.
The next day she picked up where we’d left off yesterday. “If you are, then fine, just don’t bring it around me.”
That filled me with relief, but I just said, “I’m not.”
Then she added, “You’re my child after all.” When she said this it felt warm, like my heart could rest ever so slightly. It wasn’t acceptance—and I knew it would be better not to fully come out to her—but I no longer had to be scared of her somehow figuring it out.
I cried that night, as I realized the only person stopping me from being free was me.
A few weeks after that, I decided to test out that freedom. In advisory, a class with 16 kids, including Aurora, we were discussing the wlw (women loving women) hashtag. I declared, “I’m bisexual.”
Aurora didn’t say anything, but she looked at me. I felt too shy to hold her glance, but the moment of eye contact helped. Plus saying that out loud in a roomful of people, including several friends, felt brave.
After that, it became easier to talk to people about my sexuality. There was no “right” sexuality, just a right feeling. A feeling of happiness, and freedom. My conversations with my friends got more real, and I finally got to talk about my crush.
Lipstick Kisses
Three months later, I gave Aurora a card covered in lipstick kisses and my true feelings for her. I spilled out that “I love your smile, your hair, and even your stupid quips and games.”
She didn’t respond to my card. We already had a longstanding plan to see Superman at the theater. It was awkward and surreal that I couldn’t say anything to her about the card yet. Somehow inside the movie theater, I got the nerve to place my hand on hers, slowly grazing her knuckle with my thumb.
I kept talking to her during the movie while my heart raced, babbling and wondering if she was interested in me. After the movie, we walked to the train in silence. She handed me an envelope. I was bursting but I just waved goodbye and ran.
Once I got on my train, I opened the envelope and saw that she’d written five pages, starting, “I never understood how someone could be so obsessed over someone until I met you and now I finally get it.” My world became bright.
Before I made it past the second sentence, she texted me “Don’t read until you get home.” I put the card in my bag. When I got home I lit candles and read the rest. At the very end was a barcode that sent me to a spotify playlist called “some songs that remind me of you.” I felt like I might die from happiness.
Aurora and I are still happy together, though no longer in the same school. Her family moved pretty far away, so we only see each other in person once a week at a college program. We text for hours every day, though, and we recently had a seven-hour phone call.
Six months after we started going out, a few days before Valentine’s Day, I was catching up with an old friend on the phone in my bedroom. As I told them about Aurora’s card, my door swung open. My mom stomped her foot and roared, “Are you gay?” in a hoarse and harsh voice.
“No no, um, we were talking about a card my guy friend got from his girlfriend.”
She looked skeptical, rightfully, but then walked out. This confirmed that my mom and I are still in our strange compromise. She doesn’t want to know, and I don’t want to tell her. So we don’t talk about Aurora.
I don’t know when or if that will change. Thankfully, I can be my full self with most of my close friends. And I can go to Aurora’s house where we can put our arms around each other and not be judged.
After all those years of second-guessing myself, it’s a relief to know that my mom is wrong, and that I’m right to be who I really am.