Being Queer in the South
I grew up in a town where it’s not uncommon to get stuck behind a tractor on your way into town. A town where, on a daily basis, I run into several people I know, whether they’re acquaintances, relatives, or friends. I grew up on a gravel road that, thirty years after I was born, has never been paved.
I grew up in church. I grew up in a household where the word “gay” was never said, unless it was with scorn. I grew up where you voted Republican, if you voted at all.
I grew up passing as many things. As straight. As middle-class, sometimes. As neuro-normal. As Christian, which I haven’t been in longer than I can say. I grew up seeing this happen, and realizing, it was safer this way. It was safer to hide, to pretend my first girlfriend was just my best friend. To hide my crushes. To tell myself the reason I didn’t date many guys was because I was a late bloomer.
I grew up by pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I got so good at pretending that I almost lost who I actually was.
___
I still pass as straight, to strangers. I’ve never figured out what it is that’s bred into us here, why the reaction I get most often to coming out is, “That’s such a surprise. I never would have thought you were gay.” Is it the way I talk? Is it how friendly I am? Is it that we grow up having purity ideals drilled into us as soon as we can understand what’s being said?
Online, I’m out. To my friends, I’m proudly out. To them, I’m the version of myself I’ve always longed to be. With them, I’m free. To my family, I’m out (even though we don’t talk about it).
At work, I’m very quietly out. There are allies, and there are those of us who are queer, hesitantly befriending one another, slowly sharing our stories in stolen breaks and low-pitched conversations, pressing our secrets into the spaces between us.
Passing isn’t something I actively try to do or something I want to do. I’m constantly surprised that anyone assumes someone else is straight or able-bodied or any number of things.
Passing is a double-edged sword. A privilege AND a curse. It’s necessary, here, and in other places. It’s something I’ve used as a shield in dangerous situations. It’s something not everyone has to use. I’m lucky. Not everyone is.
I wish no one had ever to worry about passing. About coming out. But we do.
It’s 2015. Marriage Equality passed. Maybe you’re thinking, “Why wouldn’t you proudly declare your orientation to anyone who will listen? It’s safe now!”
No.
It isn’t.
Not everywhere.
“Marriage Equality passed!” You say. “We don’t need books about coming out for teens.”
Yes, we do.
___
It’s a friend at work I’ve spent hours talking about Supernatural and various geek-y pursuits with proclaiming something is “so gay,” in a tone clearly meant to be an insult. I’ve been considering coming out to him soon.
It’s a co-worker telling me she’s accepting, then following it up with, “It’s not our place to judge someone else’s choices.”
It’s a co-worker a few tables away in the lounge rattling his newspaper and exclaiming that, “Those queers are ruining everything.” I sit in silence, shaking. It’s the first — but not last — time I feel afraid at work.
It’s a regularly abrasive customer going off on an unprovoked rant about how, “The faggots are to blame,” while I ring him out. I stand there near tears, sick at my stomach. Later, I beg to never have to wait on him again, and am told there’s nothing anyone can do.
It’s my extended family, where we gather for holidays and everyone asks me careful questions about my work, what my plans are for the holidays, and how my “California vacation” was, never mentioning the fact I went to see Katie, my girlfriend. They’ve never asked if they’ll get to meet her.
It’s a friend I’ve respected for years posting a meme about his “Straight Pride” on Facebook, how it’s “Natural, it’s worked for thousands of years, and you can make babies!”
It’s a gathering of old and new friends, laughter flowing, when someone asks how my “friend” is doing. I quietly correct them. “Girlfriend,” I say, my voice soft under the conversations around us.
It’s my father, at a family event, vocalizing his hopes that, “Molli will marry a nice guy one of these days.”
He has never said Katie’s name.
I don’t live in fear. I’m planning to move to California soon, where hopefully, I’ll get to be the best version of myself all the time. In the meantime, I decide when it’s safe to come out. I don’t live in fear.
But fear is still a part of my life, as a queer Southerner.
To my family, my bisexuality doesn’t exist. They think I’m a lesbian, or that I’m “confused about your sexuality.” They think it’s because I had a bad relationship in the past, so it’s a guy’s fault I’m this way. They use words like “f**” around me as if I can’t hear them — or worse, I can, and it doesn’t matter to them.
But my bisexuality matters. So do yours. And anyone’s. Whether you’ve been with your same gender or the opposite. Or both. Or neither. Whether you’ve been in one relationship or ten. Whether you have a preference for one gender over the other.
We ALL matter. We are ALL valid.
I grew up in church. I grew up in a household where the word “gay” was never said, unless it was with scorn. I grew up where you voted Republican, if you voted at all.
I grew up passing as many things. As straight. As middle-class, sometimes. As neuro-normal. As Christian, which I haven’t been in longer than I can say. I grew up seeing this happen, and realizing, it was safer this way. It was safer to hide, to pretend my first girlfriend was just my best friend. To hide my crushes. To tell myself the reason I didn’t date many guys was because I was a late bloomer.
I grew up by pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I got so good at pretending that I almost lost who I actually was.
___
I still pass as straight, to strangers. I’ve never figured out what it is that’s bred into us here, why the reaction I get most often to coming out is, “That’s such a surprise. I never would have thought you were gay.” Is it the way I talk? Is it how friendly I am? Is it that we grow up having purity ideals drilled into us as soon as we can understand what’s being said?
Online, I’m out. To my friends, I’m proudly out. To them, I’m the version of myself I’ve always longed to be. With them, I’m free. To my family, I’m out (even though we don’t talk about it).
At work, I’m very quietly out. There are allies, and there are those of us who are queer, hesitantly befriending one another, slowly sharing our stories in stolen breaks and low-pitched conversations, pressing our secrets into the spaces between us.
Passing isn’t something I actively try to do or something I want to do. I’m constantly surprised that anyone assumes someone else is straight or able-bodied or any number of things.
Passing is a double-edged sword. A privilege AND a curse. It’s necessary, here, and in other places. It’s something I’ve used as a shield in dangerous situations. It’s something not everyone has to use. I’m lucky. Not everyone is.
I wish no one had ever to worry about passing. About coming out. But we do.
It’s 2015. Marriage Equality passed. Maybe you’re thinking, “Why wouldn’t you proudly declare your orientation to anyone who will listen? It’s safe now!”
No.
It isn’t.
Not everywhere.
“Marriage Equality passed!” You say. “We don’t need books about coming out for teens.”
Yes, we do.
___
It’s a friend at work I’ve spent hours talking about Supernatural and various geek-y pursuits with proclaiming something is “so gay,” in a tone clearly meant to be an insult. I’ve been considering coming out to him soon.
It’s a co-worker telling me she’s accepting, then following it up with, “It’s not our place to judge someone else’s choices.”
It’s a co-worker a few tables away in the lounge rattling his newspaper and exclaiming that, “Those queers are ruining everything.” I sit in silence, shaking. It’s the first — but not last — time I feel afraid at work.
It’s a regularly abrasive customer going off on an unprovoked rant about how, “The faggots are to blame,” while I ring him out. I stand there near tears, sick at my stomach. Later, I beg to never have to wait on him again, and am told there’s nothing anyone can do.
It’s my extended family, where we gather for holidays and everyone asks me careful questions about my work, what my plans are for the holidays, and how my “California vacation” was, never mentioning the fact I went to see Katie, my girlfriend. They’ve never asked if they’ll get to meet her.
It’s a friend I’ve respected for years posting a meme about his “Straight Pride” on Facebook, how it’s “Natural, it’s worked for thousands of years, and you can make babies!”
It’s a gathering of old and new friends, laughter flowing, when someone asks how my “friend” is doing. I quietly correct them. “Girlfriend,” I say, my voice soft under the conversations around us.
It’s my father, at a family event, vocalizing his hopes that, “Molli will marry a nice guy one of these days.”
He has never said Katie’s name.
I don’t live in fear. I’m planning to move to California soon, where hopefully, I’ll get to be the best version of myself all the time. In the meantime, I decide when it’s safe to come out. I don’t live in fear.
But fear is still a part of my life, as a queer Southerner.
To my family, my bisexuality doesn’t exist. They think I’m a lesbian, or that I’m “confused about your sexuality.” They think it’s because I had a bad relationship in the past, so it’s a guy’s fault I’m this way. They use words like “f**” around me as if I can’t hear them — or worse, I can, and it doesn’t matter to them.
But my bisexuality matters. So do yours. And anyone’s. Whether you’ve been with your same gender or the opposite. Or both. Or neither. Whether you’ve been in one relationship or ten. Whether you have a preference for one gender over the other.
We ALL matter. We are ALL valid.
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