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

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