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Why Love Her, When You Can Love Him?
My family told me to hide my sexuality. What happened is more complicated than that.
When we kissed, her face was unimaginably soft. She had a lip piercing and slate gray eyes, like some sort of magical creature. She’d slide her hand slowly up my skirt while I taught her to cook, to bake, and to trust. And she showed me what it might feel like to not give a fuck about anything.
There was no official coming out to my friends. Love is love, right? But I needed to call my mom. Her stepbrother died of AIDS. She had always been an ally, but to her, to be queer was to struggle.
“Mom, I’m seeing someone. It’s… a woman.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I asked you when you were a kid. I gave you a chance to tell me. I told you it was fine either way, and you told me you weren’t gay.”
That conversation—I was so young. Already, I had crushes on boys, and on girls. Already, I knew the right answer when she asked.
“No,” I said. “No, I’m not gay.” And I wasn’t. I’m not. It’s much more complicated than that—and much simpler too.
“Your grandpa can never know.”
Promise me you’ll lie to protect him from reality.
