An incomplete journey of identity and self-acceptance
Trigger Warning: Homophobia;
internalized homophobia
W
hen I was 12 years old, my
mother told me to unbutton
my collar because I looked
like a lesbian. She assured me only a
moment later, after I had undone two
of the buttons, that it wasn’t bad to be a
lesbian — I just shouldn’t misrepresent
who I was. Years later, she would call
me a “d*ke,” but I would laugh it off
and pretend it didn’t haunt me all the
way into adulthood.
When I was 16 years old, my
grandmother asked my mother if I
was a lesbian because I had never
had a long-term relationship with a
boy. My mother assured her I was
no such thing; I was just focusing on
my grades. I didn’t have time for a
relationship – I was trying to get into
a good college, and that required most
of my attention.
Growing up, words like “gay” and
“lesbian” were never intrinsically
linked with being “sinful” or “amoral”
despite my Christian upbringing and
eight-year attendance to a Christian
school. But those words were treated
as something you shouldn’t say,
something you should never assume
about someone. They were treated
as the ultimate marring of character,
but never a sin. That is to say, I was
never told I was going to Hell nor
that I would be disowned, but it was
still thought of as an unfortunate
affliction. It was still something to feel
shame over, not take pride in.
I truly believed that I hadn’t grown
up in a homophobic environment
because I knew my family wouldn’t
kick me out for being different — and
don’t get me wrong, I’m incredibly
privileged in that way. I am incredibly
privileged to know that my parents
would still accept me no matter who
I loved. But, that being said, I’ve still
spent the last several years of my life
trying to come to terms with who I
am and trying to unlearn the harmful
words that my family used around me
during my adolescence.
I was 15 years old when I first
started questioning my sexuality. My
best friend of 10 years had just come
out, and he’d explained to me some
of the experiences he’d had. I found
myself relating more than I thought
I would. The way he described his
feelings towards girls was exactly the
same feeling I’d had toward boys my
whole life: this utter lack of desire to
have any sort of romantic or sexual
relationship with them. But I had
also convinced myself that I felt the
same way towards women. I hadn’t
even thought about the possibility
of being attracted to women — I
also don’t remember seeing a wlw
(woman-loving-woman) couple on
television, in the books I was reading
or in my real life until late into my
teenage years. And any same-sex
relationship I had seen was treated as
something different. Something other.
Something I knew I needed to avoid
for myself.
The outcome of the 2015 Obergefell
vs. Hodges Supreme Court case,
legalizing
same-sex
marriage
nationwide, sent a barrage of mixed
emotions through me. At the time, I
was still deeply rooted in my family’s
religion and hadn’t yet come to
understand any of my own views – I
was simply parroting theirs. I knew
my parents weren’t thrilled about the
outcome, but they also didn’t think
it was going to cause “America’s
moral downfall,” or any of the other
things I’d heard many Christians
in my own church say. However, I
also believed that the court case was
never supposed to be something
that affected me personally – it was
something others were allowed to
take pride in.
So, for the entirety of high school,
I distanced myself from any possible
bi-curious tendencies. I used the
label asexual – a person who doesn’t
experience
sexual
attraction
to
anyone, regardless of gender. I knew
this wasn’t quite true, but it was a good
enough fit for the time.
* * *
I
still have so much pride associated
with the label asexual, despite no
longer identifying with it as closely
as I once did. It was my first connection
to the LGBTQ+ community and to
the word “queer.” It was my first
experience with separating different
types of attraction and understanding
the complexities of human love.
We are not told that there is more
than one way to love someone — that
there are more than two ways to love
someone. Sexuality is not as clean and
simple as some people think it is.
At some point in my life, my mother
told me that she didn’t understand
bisexuality. You either liked men or
you liked women, she believed. I knew
then that I would never try to explain
asexuality to my family. They didn’t
need to know about it, I reasoned —
only my partner and I would need to
know about it.
However, it was still pivotal to my
understanding of my identity.
Thursday, May 13, 2021
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com STATEMENT
BY MACKENZIE HUBBARD, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
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