I was probably introduced to the concept of homosexuality before I could even spell my last name. I grew up with friends who had same-sex parents and also grew up reading picture books about two-dad families. My parents taught me through their words and actions that love is love. My mom also made sure I complemented my real-life exposure to the LGBTQ+ world by putting on an episode of Will & Grace every night.
All in all, I’ve come to understand that being gay is totally cool and okay. Somehow it only occurred to me later in life that I could possibly be gay myself.
Even after the topic of boys entered my social circle in middle school and I felt unable to relate to my friends’ talk of who they are how– liked the question “Could I be gay?” never came up. I just assumed that one day I too would start having crushes on boys. But lo and behold, that never really happened.
It wasn’t until my mid-twenties that I began to wonder if the Jakes and Blakes of this world were really for me. During the dreaded year of 2020, isolated and away from previous pressures or conversations with the opposite sex, I realized that I wasn’t actually interested in men at all.
As I began to reflect on my past involvements, I could see that whenever I made an effort to pursue something romantic with a member of the opposite sex, I was actually seeking male validation — and, to an extent, approval from my friends and family. Of course, even my very liberal upbringing couldn’t protect me from internalized homophobia.
My pandemic introspection led me to realize that I always thought that marrying a man was one of those adult things that I’d have to tick off at some point, akin to “getting a job” and “paying your taxes.” And since I’ve always prided myself on living in a very LGBTQ+ friendly environment, I’d disregarded the impact the media I’d consumed my entire life had on me. Every teenage magazine I’d read assumed I was desperate to find my tall, dark, handsome girl masculine soulmate. The “Will and Grace” episodes couldn’t make up for the fact that every movie I’ve ever seen ended with a woman finding a mediocre washboard abs guy to “complete” her.
As I began to understand my oddness, concern set in. Even as I began to accept that there might not be a happy ending for me with a man, I couldn’t help but wonder if the people around me would judge me — even though I knew my family and friends did Loudly supported LGBTQ+ rights.
I feared “coming out” talks. I expected a lot of intrusive questions because that’s how it always went on TV. I figured there would be difficult family conversations (“What about grandkids?” I imagined my aunts and uncles), logistical questions from friends (I even planned how I’d handle, “Wait, is scissors real ?) , and even “Can you explain what a pronoun is” questions from colleagues.
But in reality, the coming out was disappointing at best. My dad’s response was somewhere between “I can’t wait to meet your partner.” and “Yes, water is wet. Anyway, did you see the article about the bagels in LA? Terrible!” – in other words, he was supportive but certainly not surprised or overwhelmed. My friends and co-workers didn’t care either and mostly just said cool, cool, cool and quickly moved on. No drama, no nothing.
To me, that somewhat apathetic response felt almost reassuring. When it became clear that the people closest to me weren’t the ones judging me, I could accept that I was (hi) judging myself. Realizing this was the first step in moving beyond my own internalized homophobia and beginning to be honest with myself and the world about who I really am and what I really want.
“I want to impulsively reveal my sexuality to every single person I meet within the first five minutes of meeting them.”
The relief I felt in shedding a burden I didn’t even know I was carrying was indescribable. And I think that experience is why, to this day, I want to impulsively reveal my sexuality to every single person I meet within the first five minutes of meeting them.
When I first started coming out, I figured that eventually being gay would just become another part of my identity, no different from being someone who loves the gym or likes tuna salad. But as it turns out the years of oppression sent me into a kind of gay pendulum swing in the opposite direction where I now only want people to know about me.
When I train, I tell my trainer in detail how I met Charli XCX in a gay bar. At the grocery store, I tell the cashier all about how much my girlfriend love the artisanal sodas I buy. And when I’m at work, I spontaneously call out: “All right lesbian . . .” when asked how my weekend was. It seems like I’m absolutely obsessed with being a lesbian.
That’s partly because lesbians are really hot and cool and I’m proud to be one. But accepting my queerness also included recognizing how afraid I was to question my own expectations and the stories I’d told myself about what success and adulthood was like. Even though I’ve had the immense privilege of being surrounded by people I knew would accept me, I still had to work hard to make myself accepted.
But as it turns out, being yourself and feeling really good about it is addictive. So much so that now, just a few years after coming out, I can’t stand the thought of people thinking I’m straight.
Telling the world I’m a big ol’ homosexual is my way of twisting my own narrative. I was once afraid of even being asked if I enjoyed dating men. Well, being gay is my favorite thing about myself. And honestly, I want to celebrate that all day, every day. If one of the ways I do that is by throwing up my weirdness with words like “U-Haul” and “Carabiner” and “Iced Oat Milk Latte” with breadcrumbs within five minutes of meeting a new person — so be it it be like that
Image source: Emma Turetsky