Coming Out Monologues 2008 Script 2r3k1n

THE COMING OUT MONOLOGUES ©Texas A&M University 2008

Introduction- Tara, Britney, Laura Going In by Beth Newell - Melinda Beyond Closed Doors - Josiah Inevitability by Travis Cook - Michael Coming Out for the Bisexual - Laura Less – Michael Another Coming Out Story - Krista Whips, Leather, and Chains…Oh My…I Love It. Don’t You, Mom? by Matt Davis - Dustin Grabsch Pre-Op - Katy I can look at both - Ashley Chris God hates Fags - Chris Southern Baptist Boi by Kylan Coats- Lowell Kane Coming to by Eli - Melissa One Half Gay – Vanessa and Carissa

Introduction C1 Gays C2 Lesbians C3 Bisexuals And transgender people C1 There are tons of things we don’t know about them C2 But just to start off here are some things we DO know about glbt people. Chorus 1 It is important to that the so-called “gay community” or “gay market” is not monolithic… it is more of a confederation of individuals with identities as diverse as the general population. Chorus 2 Gay men’s buying habits have little to do with gay women’s. Transgender and bisexual people may or may not identify as “gay.” Chorus 3 Gay men may live in Chelsea, Fort Lauderdale or West Hollywood, they may be nomadic truckers. C1 They might own a home in the suburbs with a partner and child, they may be in a retirement home or could be struggling in the ghetto. C2 Lesbians may own a vegetarian restaurant in Northampton or they may run a major media company. C3 They might own a home in the suburbs with a partner and child, or they could be working at a discount store. C1 Gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people are Hispanic, African-American, Asian, American-Indian.

C2 Caucasian, Jewish, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Mormon. C3 War veterans, retired, teenagers, Republican, Democrat, rural, suburban, and many, many other layers of identities. C1 Like everyone else, they face issues of race, class, ethnicity, nationality, age, religion, health and wealth. C2 They mirror the general population. C3 Then there’s the questions that do very often get asked, often the result of the myths and stereotypes associated with being different: C1 There’s the age old questions of nature vs nuture C2 How did you know? C3 When did you know? C1 Are you sure? C2 Do your parents know? C3 What did they say? C1 Are you sure? C2 Since when? C3 Do you even know how to be gay?

C2 Are you sure? ALL ARE WE SURE?! YES! C1 One important thing to about the glbt community is…We are everywhere! C2 You may not know it but the person sitting next to you…gay! C3 GLBT people are involved in all kinds of professions and trades C1 There are quite a few celebrities and famous figures who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender…. Just to name a few, there’s: C2 Roman Emperor Hadrian ‘N Sync Member Lance Bass Author Truman Capote C3 Comedienne Margaret Cho Actor James Dean Mary Cheney-Daughter of Vice President Dick Cheney Singer/Songwriter Melissa Etheridge C1 Actress Alexis Arquette NASCAR racer Terri O' Connell Singer Tracy Chapman Actress Amanda Bearse - Marcy from Married with Children C2 Dancer Josephine Baker Musician Janis Joplin Artist Frida Kahlo Tennis player Billie Jean King C3 Master Leonardo da Vinci Football player Dave Kopay Singer Johnny Mathis

Actor Ian McKellen – Magneto in X Men and Gandalf in Lord of the Rings C1 Singer/Songwriter Freddie Mercury from QUEEN Artist Michaelangelo Actor Robert Reed from The Brady Bunch C2 Rosie O’Donnell and wife Kelli Carpenter First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt Actresses Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi Ancient Greek poet Sappho C3 REM Singer Michael Stipe Actor Sir Laurence Olivier Writer Oscar Wilde C1 The Real World’s Pedro Zamora Singer/Songwriter PINK Author Gertrude Stein C2 WNBA Star Sheryl Swoops Musician Elton John Star Trek Actor George Takei C3 Actress Katharine Hepburn Filmmaker Pedro Almodóvar Actress Drew Barrymore C1 Point is gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgender people are all around you. C2 They are daughters and sons C3 Mothers and fathers C1 Brothers and sisters C2

Cousins and Grandparents C3 Uncles, aunts, foster parents, in-laws C1 Adoptive parents, co-workers, friends, and AGGIES.

Going In by Beth Newell - Melinda We always talk about coming out, but we never talk about going in. Coming out is this lifelong process accomplished in huge events and tiny moments. So is going in, only it usually starts earlier. Like when you’re playing house in preschool and all the girls say you have to play the dad, then they giggle. You don’t see anything wrong with being the husband. You kind of like the idea of being married to Suzy Cooper. And having two kids and a dog named Lucy. But when you go to kiss Suzy like the boys always do, you’re told you can’t play house anymore, so you have to go sit in the library corner and pretend to read to hide your tears behind a book. And then your aunt gives you a Ken doll, and you don’t quite know what to do with him, but you know that the aunt think it’s funny that you have 27 Barbies and no Ken. So Ken goes to live on the roof of the dream house and only comes down to mow the lawn. No, he does not need to fix the plumbing on the hot tub, that’s what Buzz Cut Barbie is for. Eventually you ask for another Ken doll from your aunt because Ken 1 seems really lonely all by himself up there on the roof, especially after Buzz Cut stole his pants because they were more comfortable and the button fly was cool. Then you get sent to summer camp, because you’re reading too much and need some sun. As you sit in cabin number 4 reading your book, the girls ask you who your favorite counselor is, and you answer. Debbie of course, the one who drives the big truck. The girls don’t talk to you much the rest of the

week, because you were supposed to say Dean or Mike or Erik from the boys’ camp across the lake. That’s when you decide to stop wearing your hat backwards like Debbie. Suddenly you find yourself in junior high holding a copy of a glossy tween magazine, long before they were called tweens. You see a poster of Hilary Swank from the new Karate Kid movie, but then you tape it to your wall your mother asks why you liked that picture, in a way only mothers can, so you go through the magazine to find the guy with the biggest picture, and decide he needs to go on your wall instead. And so it continues… you learn quickly not to quote Jodie Foster movies or listen to Indigo Girls too loud. You realize that Peppermint Patty is not everyone’s favorite Peanuts character, and that you are probably the only one who knows which season of Xena the rerun is just by looking at Gabrielle’s costume. In high school, you ask Lance, the Dance Team captain, to the Sadie Hawkins dance. And then, to clear up any rumors, you and Preston go into the closet. Literally, for seven minutes. In amongst the coats, the two of you re-button shirts, pound on walls and pant, all the while giggling and not touching each other. That stops the whispers and the looks for a while. No wonder we’re all in therapy. Don’t think that it stops after you get drunk and fall into bed with your roommate in college, or tell your father why he does not need to worry about a boy knocking you up. Even after you bring your girlfriend to the family picnic or

get quoted in the article on pride week in the local paper. When you make sure that rainbow sticker on your car is removable, you’re going in. And when you nod politely and say simply “I don’t think so” as your co-workers list single males they know? Yep, going in. Is going in bad? Maybe it isn’t if you simply list “Ally diversity training” on your resume rather than “President and Secretary of the local chapter of the Lesbian Avengers Literary Society.” But if you let teenagers call each other ‘faggots’ because you are afraid of what other people think, going in is bad. If you ever feel yourself too in, just tell the cashier that no, the chicken soup is not for you, it’s for your partner, who has the flu, or throw in a reference to Rent, not the movie, the musical. Peek out. It’s cheaper than therapy, and you’ve spent a lot of time going in; you’ve got a longer way to come out.

Beyond Closed Doors By: Josiah The fabrication is all I know. I don’t want to be this limited, this confined to the whims of others. My family, my town, stifles my creativity, those progressive ideas that challenge the very foundation of love. To love him. To be loved by him. I wish.... I knew what this meant. All I know is I want it. I see him in the way they want me to see her. His blonde hair. Short. Spiked. His gentle, yet masculine personality. He’s her brother. She likes me; I like him. He likes me. He told me so. We met... we met at school one day for a science project. I hate science, so... I naturally drew to someone who loved it. We talked and saw each other after class to work on it. Mom was shopping. He kissed me. We didn’t really talk about it much after that. I don’t think he knew what it means any more than I do. We just... can’t do it again. After that day, I went over to his house daily. She was there too... I don’t mind. I like his company. His home feels so different from mine... His mother’s an architect, so their place is strong, sturdy, but at the same time starkly innovative. My friends found out, and they started teasing me about her. At first, I didn’t quite understand. When I asked, they said I had to like her. It’s not like I can tell them

otherwise. I’m just.... afraid. My mother... she’s a Sunday school teacher at the local congregation. The church relies on her to spread the gospel, the “good news,” yet.... if they found out about me, they wouldn’t trust her. She’d convert them to be like me... an abomination. Today... he came over again. He said he found something cool, something that explained everything. He said he was gay. That liking guys as a guy wasn’t a bad thing. The door was open, and mom heard... She said he couldn’t come back again. I think... I’m gay too. I think.... I can finally see what’s going on outside my house.

Inevitability by Travis Cook -Michael There’s nothing dramatic about the story of when I came out to my mom. There was no screaming, no bawling, no swearing, no threats, no ultimatums, no Christian counselors and no exorcisms. None of that. After I told my mom I was gay, we sat on our townhome’s balcony for three hours just talking. For nearly that entire warm July evening, my mom and I sat outside having an honest and revealing conversation about my life. Pretty much the ideal outcome, I guess. But that’s not what I most vividly from that day. Instead, I everything prior to our time on the balcony. I that feeling. Do you know what I’m talking about? It’s this raw nervousness so intense you can never forget it. Imagine your stomach is drenched in cold acid and your heart pulses out hot lava, and the two substances swirl and churn in your midsection. For me, it started in the morning. I knew this would be one of the only days I’d have to spend with my mom. I had decided weeks earlier that this was going to be the day I told. My mom asked if I wanted go with her and my step dad to the mall. Just before we left, I sent her an email. The email said I had to tell her something important and that if she had not yet talked with me, she needed to find me and force it out of me. The moment I clicked ‘Send’ was when the feeling hit me hard. The plan was set in motion. There was no turning back. When we got to the mall, I walked steadily about ten feet behind my parents, not because I was nervous to walk with them, but because my body was

stuck in this inebriated slow motion preventing me from functioning at a normal speed. I felt heavy even though my feet felt numb and light. I began regretting putting myself in this situation. I didn’t want to be following my parents around the mall. I was angry at myself for sending that email. I worked out plans in my head to hack in to her email and erase the message. This didn’t have to happen. Why did I agree to go run errands with them? This was not fun. I didn’t want to stand in the women’s section anymore while my mom looked for the correct pair of nylons. I did not want to be there. I wanted to go home, but did not want to be at home. I had an alien was about to burst from my ribcage. Why couldn’t I be left alone? This was inescapable. I did not want to let myself down. If I didn’t do this now, I would be so angry at myself. We made it to the checkout line, and my step-dad ran off to go grab one more thing. My mom looked at me and asked if I was alright. I told her I was. “What’s wrong? Please tell me what’s wrong?” she asked. There was no way I was about to spill my guts around hundreds of other bargain shoppers. I said I would tell her later. She looked me in the eyes. “Will you tell me today?” she asked. I looked back and promised I would. She asked me two more times on the way home what was wrong. I said I’d tell her when we got back to the house. After we parked and carried everything inside, my step-dad disappeared into the master bedroom, and my mom took out a cigarette and her lighter and walked to the balcony door. She turned around and motioned for me to follow. I put my hands in my pockets, walked across the living room and out onto the balcony. I felt like I was five

years old again, and I was being punished. I stalled for as long as possible. Then the last part of me finally broke down, and I told. Did you feel it? Now do you know the feeling I’m talking about. You have to feel it to understand. It’s nausea, anxiety, regret, anxiousness, pain, excitement, depression, and a hundred other emotions all mashed together. For me, the only word that comes remotely close to naming this feeling is “inevitability.” I know that inevitability is not an emotion, but that’s what it feels like to me. But maybe for a lot of us, it’s not even a choice to come out. Maybe it’s a necessary step towards happiness and fulfillment. Maybe that horrible feeling I mentioned is actually the strength building within us, because I have yet to meet anyone who does not consider themselves stronger after coming out to the people they care about most. And maybe it’s that strength that ties us together. Or maybe it’s our strength that is inevitable. I don’t know. I haven’t figured it out yet.

Coming out for the bisexual can be somewhat of a challenge By: Laura Coming Out for the Bisexual Can Be Somewhat of a Challenge If I’m in a relationship with someone of the same gender, then everyone assumes that I’m lesbian. And if I’m in a relationship with someone of the opposite gender, everyone assumes that I’m straight. For as long as I can , I have been attracted to men, but never was in a romantic relationship with a man until I was 27. I the first time I was drawn to the female form was as a young teenager, she was my best friend and I never told her. My mind dismissed it as something strange, an accident to entertain such things. How could a woman ever be attracted to another woman? Silly girl thoughts…. I stopped wanting marriage and children at a rather young age. I was disillusioned by everyone else’s dreams bursting around me. Still, I didn’t feel it necessary to come out as someone attracted to men until I fell in love with my first female lover. She was a good friend. She was gay, but those kind of things never mattered to me. By this time I had long gotten over the strangeness of same sex relationships. C’est la vie, as they say. Anyway, we were good friends. I met her at work and thought she and her friends were nice, so I started hanging out with them sometimes after work, then partying at her house, and sometimes staying over if it got to be too late or I was too drunk to drive home. Then there was the night I was awakened with a kiss. (Well, this is not about my first time, so I’ll just leave it at that.) I was 30 years old when I fell for my first woman. My bubble was burst when she began insisting that I was now lesbian. I thinking; no, I don’t feel like I’m lesbian. I’m still attracted to guys. Why must I choose? Why must I be one or the other? Was I now lesbian? I knew I was no longer straight, I couldn’t deny my attraction to this woman, but I also couldn’t deny I was still attracted to men. I began searching for an alternative to the one or the other. Growing up, I never had heard of such a thing. Sure, I had heard about polygamy and orgies and such, but something as simple as allowing myself to feel comfortable with

loving the one or the other…. I had no concept of such things. I never even heard of such as bisexual, or bisexuality before this time of searching. I forget now how I stumbled upon the whole bisexual scene. I may have read about it on the internet, or perhaps someone mentioned it to me one day, but at some point I thinking; this sounds interesting. I began seeking out other bisexuals in the city of Dallas. A chapter of BiNet had recently started there and I sought them out. I began talking to them about their experiences and realized I had much in common with them. The more I talked to these people and read literature by bisexual authors, mostly Hutchins and Kaahumanu but also George and other less known authors, including a rather interesting web-zine at the time called Anything That Moves , the more I realized that I identified with them more than the one or the other. But allowing myself to be who I was meant I would either be uncomfortable with others’ misunderstanding of who I really was, or I would be forever coming out not only to my straight friends, but also to my gay friends. My straight friends seemed to think I was some sort of deviant… that being bisexual meant that I needed both to be fulfilled… that I was somehow now incapable of monogamy… that I cared more about sex and body parts. They didn’t seem to get that for me bisexuality meant no longer caring about the parts, but allowing myself to love whomever, regardless of the parts. My gay friends seemed to think that I was just kidding myself… that I needed to make up my mind one way or the other… that I wanted to as straight while having my gay lifestyle on the side… at my convenience… Neither seemed to get it. I the day I came out to my doctor. I thought she needed to know. She had been somewhat concerned about my level of stress, with my diabetes and all. She straight away sent me to a therapist. It was the best thing I’ve ever done for myself. With all the changes going on in my life (my emerging bisexuality being only a small part of that), I really needed an outlet for figuring out who I really was, after all. My therapist, bless her heart, accepted me for who I was and only wished to help me understand myself and how to deal with the level of comfort I was achieving with my newly discovered self. My new bisexual friends seemed to understand me best. Although they didn’t all define themselves exactly the same way that I did.

You see, bisexuality can mean different things for different bisexuals. Many people do hold the concept that bisexuality is exclusively all about having both. For some this may be true, but this is merely one possibility. Just as in any other relationship, there is a possibility for polygamy or monogamy; there is this possibility for bisexuals as well. Some may feel they must have both to be fulfilled. For me, though, I acknowledge that there is the possibility for attraction to either. That is what acknowledging my bisexuality has given me; not limiting myself based on the either/or. It’s given me the freedom to love the one I’m attracted to. These days, I don’t really go around trying to justify my orientation. I will, however, attempt to correct others misunderstanding when it is brought to my attention. So, I find myself coming out to you, here tonight. I am in a seven year committed relationship with a lesbian, and I can’t imagine myself ever loving anyone else. She accepts that I love her for who she is. Who she is, excluding and encoming her gender and orientation. I don’t look at her and see first a woman; I look at her and see first the person I love.

Less By: Michael They make me feel less. I don't feel happy, I don't feel sad, and those tiny little blue pills sure don't solve any problems. I shouldn't be taking them. I shouldn't be putting my body through this. Fucking with brain chemistry is a fucking big deal, but none of that matters because the pills keep me from doing the one thing that I really, really want to do. I want to put a period at the end of a sentence. That's all I want to do. Seems inhumane, but that's the way these pills make me feel. They make me feel less. They make it so that I have to talk about myself in inane metaphors so that I can make any sense. Everything is by proxy, nothing is direct. So that “period” at the end of that “sentence”? I'm talking about fucking suicide here. I just wish I could let myself do that. The period is a finality - an end. And the sentence isn't a string of words, it's a death sentence that makes the period at the end completely inevitable. Yet I can't come right out and say that. I can't say: I tried to take my own miserable life and the only part of that that concerns me is the fact that I'm now chemically prohibited from getting up the nerve to do so again. So my “sentence”, right? The one that ends in that poignant period? "I'm gay." Period. Simple as that: two easy words that carry almost absolutely no meaning by themselves because meaning is always derived from context. My context: I'm a suicidally depressed closeted homosexual trying to fit into a world that doesn't want me around. Now, of course, I'm not actually suicidal. Not any more anyway. Now I'm just a closeted

homosexual as two pills a day have taken away every ability to feel happy, sad, excited, angry, perturbed, aroused, or even hopeful. So I guess it did work. I wanted to end my life, and here I am without one, drifting along from hour to hour and wondering why I can't be compelled to give a damn about anyone or anything including myself. Unfortunately to prolong that inane metaphor, these pills are a comma, not a period. They don't stop anything, they just drag out nothingness - that fucking emptiness of existence that comes when you find out that not only does nobody give a damn about you or your life, but that they would rather you be removed from it. That you're so scumsuckingly low, so virulently immoral, so ionately hated by God Himself that your lungs don't deserve the air rapidly pumping into them as you cry your stifled sobs. That's the sentence. That's what it feels like to know, in the grand scheme of things, you're just a typo. A typo in a sentence with a period. The grievous errors in your creation overshadow anything that you could have become or meant and you're condemned to either live life as an abnormal aberration or put a stop to life altogether. Let's hear it for those pills - little milligrams that keep me emotionally comatose and ineffectually existing from day to day - alleviating everything but solving nothing. Doing nothing to fix any part of that that one small fucked up sentence: “I'm gay.” Period.

Another Coming Out Story By: Krista “Coming out” . . . the process is anything but easy. It should be simple enough: the person coming out merely has to indicate (usually verbally, but sometimes nonverbally, with a sign or symbolic gesture) his or her sexual identity. Significantly, “coming out” is something that heterosexual people rarely stop to think about, though they openly affirm their sexual identity in a variety of everyday and ordinary ways: they openly declare their love for someone of the opposite sex, they get married, and they receive legal protections and rights based on their State-sanctioned unions. For most of them, it’s perfectly natural, and they cannot imagine it being any other way. Most people assume that we are heterosexual unless we declare ourselves to be otherwise. But what if someone isn’t heterosexual? If that person wishes to live an open and honest life, then he may feel compelled to articulate a non-heterosexual identity, to make it clear to others and to herself that she is different, that he is not what everyone already assumes him to be. Significantly, “coming out” isn’t something that someone does once, and then it’s done. It is a process of claiming an identity (or perhaps multiple identities throughout one’s life or even at the same moment) again and again, as that person meets new people, feels compelled to remind others of his sexual identity, or even decides that a particular label doesn’t quite “match up” to who she really is. Though coming out can be difficult, it has certainly been a necessary process in my own life and has taught me a lot about myself, those around me, and the world that I live in. For me, coming out has truly been a process. I first came out to myself when I was an undergraduate in college, and it really wasn’t any big, life-altering experience for

me. After talking to a female clerk at a record store, I had this moment where I thought to myself, “I think I kind of like this person.... I mean, really like her.” It all seemed so simple, and it did put some things into focus for me. Though it would be several years before I came out to my family—coming out to family seemed, at the time, much more complicated—the realization that I was sexually attracted to women was pretty uneventful in itself. In some ways, it is surprising that this realization I had about myself didn’t make me anxious. In high school, I’d had several close friends who were gay. Two of them—a female couple—had a pretty rough time of it. Their cars were vandalized, and they were subjected to daily harassment in the hallways of my small-town Oklahoma high school. My parents knew that I had friends who were lesbian and gay, and though I come from a staunchly Southern Baptist family, neither of my parents ever made me feel like something was wrong with me for being friends with gay people. However, my rigidly religious parents also made it very clear to me that homosexuality was wrong. It was easy for them to “love the sinner and hate the sin.” Homosexuality was a sin, and people who were gay could overcome their desires with God’s help. Though I don’t too many sermons against homosexuality per se, I do a few, and the message was loud and clear: homosexuality is a sin. I was never put into the position of reconciling my sexuality with a Southern Baptist religious faith because I had been questioning my relationship to Christianity for some time. By the time I came out to myself, I’d already spent many years questioning the tenets of Christianity and had come to realize that I was not a Christian.

I didn’t come out to my family until I was in graduate school. I told my sister Kim first, and she helped me break the news to my parents and other two sisters. Kim has always been ive of me being who I am and being open about it. There have been some instances in my family history where secrets have hurt people deeply and damaged relationships. Kim and I agree that living a “secret life,” steeped in shame, is no way to live. Initially, my parents were not ive of me being a lesbian. I was prepared for this; in fact, I would have been shocked if their reaction was anything else. As “good” Southern Baptists, their first response was that I should get some counseling from a counselor they would pay for. I knew what this meant, and I was not interested in “conversion therapy.” The one thing I asked my parents not to do was to try to change me. I believed that their asking me to see a Christian therapist was an effort on their part to change me, and I didn’t appreciate it. I closed off the possibility of having any meaningful dialogue with my parents about my sexuality because I believed they were trying to make me “straight.” They both told me that they loved me and always would, but they also made it clear that they may not ever accept me as a gay person. I introduced my long-term partner, Laura, to my family at their invitation. My father had asked me to bring Laura home over Christmas in 2003. This was really a huge step forward. My father had come to realize that not accepting me as a lesbian meant not having access to a huge part of my life, and he decided that he didn’t want to risk losing me entirely. My father ed away quite unexpectedly in 2004, while recovering in the hospital after “routine” surgery. Dealing with my father’s death was extremely difficult;

however, my mother’s inability at that time to deal with my partner being a part of my life continues to be a very sore spot for me. She let me know that Laura wouldn’t be welcome at my father’s funeral or in her home during the funeral. I am happy that my mother has come a long way in the few short years since my father’s funeral. Laura has been included in family gatherings, and she has also met my extended family. We refuse to hide our relationship. If someone in my family can’t deal with it, then it’s their problem. I have seen my family, especially my mother, make significant progress. Though she will never be a strong advocate for LGBT rights, she has taken a stand for me. At gatherings of her family and friends, she is no longer ashamed of me and my partner, and this is huge. I often hear people say that homosexuality must surely be natural or inborn because no one, given the option, would choose to be gay. I disagree. What I find problematic about the assertion that “no one, given a choice, would choose to be gay” is that it automatically privileges heterosexual experience. Yes, if I were straight, I wouldn’t have had to deal with all of the difficulties I’ve discussed here. However, if I was heterosexual, so much of my life experiences and what makes me me wouldn’t exist. I wouldn’t have learned all that I’ve learned from a vantage point of being a sexual minority. I would not appreciate struggles for equality and social justice as I appreciate them now. I wouldn’t have the wonderful relationship with my partner that I have. Being non-heterosexual has given a texture to my life that I wouldn’t have if I were straight. I might experience another texture as a straight person, but it wouldn’t be the same life that I have now. So, if I could choose to be straight or gay, I’d say that I’d choose to be gay: I’d choose the person I’ve become over the person I might have been if things were different.

Whips, Leather, and Chains...Oh My...I LOVE IT. Don’t You, Mom? by Matt Davis -Dustin

Picture this: I'm 19. A scenic drive from my campus to home. We're in the family truck. My mom is driving and I am in the enger seat. I should probably put in a bit of back story. I’m kinky. I figured out I was kinky before I figured out I was only attracted to men. Well….I like bondage, and leather, domination, S&M in all its wonderful forms…the trust and the connections…the power/control transference…the amazing headspace that vanilla sex can’t quite approach. Hell…I dominated a guy before I ever kissed one….I’m THAT into it. It is one of the few identities I will always have. And one of the things I did when I was younger was create an e-mail address that was distinctive in its depiction of my *ahem* tastes. Now for my mom. She was raised a Mormon, but was excommunicated from the church when she got pregnant with my older sister when she was 16. Got the back story? Good. Back to the car ride home. We’re cresting a hill on the way to San Bernardino. My mom says “I don’t want you using that e-mail on my computer anymore. I don’t want Melody seeing it and I don’t want you using it.” I turn and look at her and think a million thoughts at once. ÜI think of my identity as a kinky Dominant. I think of the arguments I’ve had with the Old Guard generation about my being a Dominant without being a submissive first. I think of me mumbling something about that e-mail being my junk-mail address. Then I think of pride, and that pride produces rebellion. And

that rebellion is what makes me respond with: “Why do you think I chose an e-mail like that? I’m INTO it.” Her response: “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” My retort: “Yes I do.” Her follow-up: “Why would you want to do that? You like to get tied up? People are going to take advantage of you and you’ll end up in the dessert in a million pieces.” Now, because of my age and my relative naivette, it’s easy to see why I would be mistaken for a submissive, which, right now, is a huge insult. How dare she label me a submissive! I turn to her and I say: “No, actually it’s the other way around. I’m the one that does the tying up.” Her response: “When could you do this? You’ve never done any of this.” My retaliation: “I did it with C---.” C---- was the first guy I ever dominated. A guy I met from online fresh out of the closet. Not my brightest idea though he did turn out to be a great guy. Not psychopathic at all. Now at this point my mother is fired up. When she has an emotion, she doesn’t have it half-assed. Her outburst: “Well if any children disappear around the neighborhood I’ll know who did it.” Very few times in my life am I truly shocked into silence. And this is one of them. A few minutes later I respond with: “I can’t believe you just said that.” She’s at the point where she’s simmering down, so she remains silent.

Sidenote: Don’t come out to your parents, in any way, when they’re driving on the road. It’s a safety hazard.

I don’t speak to my mother much over the next few weeks. I am livid, constantly reliving the conversation over in my mind. And it doesn’t end there. Over the next few months she makes ignorant jokes about my extra-sexual activities. Until one day I get tired of it. I am fed up. So I sit down next to her and have this long convoluted conversation with her about kink. I liken it to other socially acceptable activities. Think marathon runners or bodybuilders, they do it to feel good and get those endorphins and get a rush right? Well I tie up guys, I spank them, I induce consensual pain with clothespins and paddles and hot wax to get to a very similar headspace. In the end: I cry, she cries, but mostly I cry. The conversation lasts more than two hours. And I am hoarse from talking so much. I give her a lot to think about. And to her great benefit she’s much better about it now, and about me being gay, and that’s why she will always be the most inspirational person in my life. What’s the email that started all this, you ask? It is [email protected]. Send me a message sometime.

Pre-Op By Katrina SCENE: Therapist office. Year: turn of the millennia - 2000

How do I feel about my vagina? Oh, I’m sorry the actual question was how I felt about my penis? Silly me, I keep getting the two mixed up.

Therapist scribbles on yellow notepad: “Ambivalence towards genitals”

Therapist says: “I don’t really think that you are a woman. Perhaps you should some of the local transvestite groups to see if this is the lifestyle you wish to pursue”

Patient is driven home by lover, tears do not stop falling for the next year.

Location: College Station , Texas

Year: Present

The alarm clock buzzes yet again. I hit snooze for the fifth time and snuggle up against my lover, craning my neck back to kiss her forehead and lose myself in her embrace.

Eventually though, the threat of being late for work rouses me from slumber and I make my way to the shower. Water cascades onto my face and breasts. I imagine I am bathing nude in some Amazonian waterfall surrounded by green trees, life, and the twitter of strange birds. Then, I grab the towel, dry off and stand in front of the mirror. I

marvel at how my breasts have developed and how my figure is developing, a sense of pride grows as I examine my breasts for any changes.

My glance falls past my abdomen and the darkness descends. I am a freak, a he-she and in-between thing. I try to cheer myself up thinking of the classically carved statues of Greek Hermaphrodites, strong and toned Androgynes of both strength and gentleness at the same time. The image lifts my spirits for but a second, and the gloom descends again. Why was I born this way? Why am I stuck in between. Why God, why did you do this to me. Why can’t you in all your omnipotence just pay a visit to me during the night and make me complete.

Make it so that I can live the dreams I envy other women of, the white picket fence, the monthly connection to the humus of life – the dirt, the muck, the crap – and the blood. The blood that brings forth life in the form of a child to cradle against my breasts, kiss upon the forehead and raise with my partner who is but a playful kid herself? A child to rock when she is young. To be disappointed in when he is older and thinks he “knows everything”. Finally, to sit quietly with him/her as she/he gains the wisdom that comes only when one has truly lived long enough?

Instead, Mother of Heaven, the path you have lain before me is one of struggle, anxiety, frustration, and little rest.

In regard to making my body right in who I know I am, I have to jump through hurdle after hurdle. Saving up 30 plus thousand dollars for but one operation to only begin to address putting my body right. Then, there are the “permission slips” from

doctors to have that procedure. I actually have to defend something as basic as my identity, I have to prove to some arbitrary third party who and what I am – only to be patted on the head like a small child and be told to grow up. Insurance helps pay for the meds, but whereas this is a real “female problem” for me – my body is not fucking right and no once can see that but me – I am denied assistance to help pay for a lessening of the pain I feel every waking moment.

Then there are my romantic relationships. Apparently I am a non-person with no rights. I cannot fall in love with and marry a man because of some preconceived idea of what kind of chromosomes I might have. Alternatively, I cannot wed the love of my life, the woman that consoles, cradles, and walks with me through the dark corridors of my life because we can’t allow those homosexuals to spread their wicked agenda and be seen as “normal”.

All the while, whispers behind my back break forth. “What kind of sex does he/she have? ” “How can she really be a lesbian when she has a dick?” “I bet you that she is just really a straight man in disguise to get more women” Totally disregarding my reality. Totally refusing to acknowledge that I can hear the hushed whispers and not having the metaphoric balls to look my straight in the eye and ask me “What kind of sex do you have?”

Not only disregarding my reality, my identity, but totally undermining how my partner sees me – how she coaxes me under the covers late at night, how she helps me visualize my pussy, how she enters me, and how she sees what I have as not an abnormality, but as a slightly larger clit with which to make me feel totally enraptured,

enthralled, and to fall into that cool, dark place that lovers take each other to where love plays like a lively jazz band during the depths of depression.

And then, outside of the bedroom, to be treated as a second-class citizen as all women are, with expectations that I be demure and subdued, to not raise my voice, get angry, or speak back. Yet, to be turned upon by my sisters who don’t want to use the same restroom as such a freak. Who are afraid that somehow this creature they met is going to do something to them when they are not looking. Among other lesbians I am the “straight man trying to steal their women and their power”. Among straight women I am the “gay man who cannot accept his sexuality”. And so by everyone but my own community and the family I create I am something “other”.

And yet, Mother of Heaven, all of this gnashing of teeth, all of this crawling among the dank, squirmy, things of the darkness gives me strength. In learning to be a warrior woman, I find my voice. I find the gift of leadership within my own heart. I find the wobbling legs to stand upon so I can blink in the daylight and let my voice be heard.

So thank you. Thank you for the mismatch of parts, thank you for my uniqueness. Thank you for the fire that they cause to boil within my blood. Thank you for making me the transsexual that I am.

I am not “Ambivalent”, nor am I mindlessly pursuing some infatuation with a surgery. I am methodically planning and working towards wholeness. A wholeness that begins within and then moves without to change the very world I live in.

I Can Look at Both By: Ashley I always knew that I liked women too. Yes, too. As in--as well. I like women AND I like men.

In middle school and into high school, I found myself looking at women. secretly wanting women I found myself looking at men also wanting men which was much easier for me to understand but my finding women attractive? That didn't mean I wasn't straight-People can find other people attractive without it having to mean something about who they are

I didn't think I was gay I thought everybody was able to find any gender attractive

I didn't think I was gay I’m attracted to men

And women who are attracted to men—are well—straight.

But, I was finding it hard to believe I was straight Because I was looking at both genders As if there was no difference between man, woman, masculine, feminine I was looking at men and women and I liked it.

In high school my gay experience was my friend Paul but he liked men and it was normal for Paul to like men just men... we didn't talk about women... because it was normal for Paul to not like women yet here I was wanting to talk about both but thinking it was wrong because you’re either gay or straight society made me believe there was no in between

I guess that was part of my confusion-I could talk about men and be straight but talk about women? and be gay? I was confused... Everything was black and white…but I just wanted to be a little grey

Grey is open-minded... able to appreciate all beauty... not gay not straight

I never felt the need to come out because well...I liked men. I dated men And I thought only the girls on the basketball team needed to “come out” But, I wanted to be "dating" women... Not the basketball women But outside of basketball there wasn’t much of that going on in my high school The exploration of my sexuality was never an option because basketball women just weren’t my type.

So, I graduated from high school.... I left for college-its supposed to be liberal there I can explore my sexuality there. There has to be more than just basketball women in college I ended up in the center of conservatism Unbeknownst to me I was in a place where “different” was wrong

During my first year of college

I met a woman who thought I was straight Hell, I still thought I was straight too. But to my surprise And to her surprise I began to explore a side of myself that was aching to begin.

I began to realize that the relationship I was having with this woman Was no different than what I felt from a previous relationship with a man Anatomy, Identity, are merely words I began to realize

It was then that I became comfortable with not being straight It was then that I came out to myself. It was then that I began to realize that even though society tells me to look at one or the other. I can look at both. It is okay for me to want both.

Women and Men.

Chris… God Hates Fags By: Chris

Chris, God hates fags. I grew up in a small town in Colorado, in a very conservative household, as an upstanding member in our local Church. I went to Sunday service, Sunday school and even went through confirmation. I grew older and began to realize that I was a bit different from most of the other boys. I found that rather than be attracted to all the “beautiful” women, I was always looking at their boyfriends. Heck, I didn’t even know what the word “gay” was until I was in middle school (when I looked it up in our family dictionary). You can imagine how difficult it would be to determine if you are gay if you don’t even know what it means. The dictionary really didn’t explain it in I could follow. That’s why my friend Sam thought he would simplify it for me by showing me first-hand what gay sex is. I was assured that I would understand the whole gay thing afterwards. Chris God hates fags. Soon after my experience with Sam I thought that I might really be gay. So I made daily prayers for God to make me straight. Those turned out to be as useful as peeing on a forest fire. Though every once in a while I would hear encouraging words from my mother like “Hey Chris, I just learned three new reasons at church why it’s bad to be gay!” I don’t think she had any idea at the time. Chris, God hates fags.

I began my straightification at the beginning of college. I was going to be straight if it was the last thing I did. I found a pretty girl, that I liked, and could be friends with, and began trying to start a relationship with her. It didn’t seem to be going well at all, but my soul depended on it. Chris, God hates fags. I quickly met one of my “girlfriend’s” gay friends and developed a crush on him. With him, I met more and more gay people and was introduced to many gay ive programs. I found myself ing and even leading some of the groups that I was introduced to. I felt like I belonged and was finally accepting who I was. I began to realize that I wasn’t the only one, and that I wasn’t choosing to be gay. Needless to say my straightification didn’t exactly go the way I had planned. I ended up becoming somewhat of an activist, and eventually decided to tell my sister I was gay. It was great, she told me thank you. “Thank you for sharing with me such a personal part of your life, and I’m sorry you had to be alone for so long”. I felt like perhaps I was not destined for the eternal pits of damnation. That was of course until I came back to school. At school I was informed by a vocal group of young conservatives that “Satin is a flamer” and it’s “Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve”. Chris, God hates fags. Eventually the stress of not telling my parents built up to an extreme. I had to find out if they would really disown me, or if they could at least tolerate my “condition”. The T.V. was on and as the commercials began I started to tell my parents I was gay. You’d think that telling your parents you are gay would be hard enough. But no, telling them you are

gay during a commercial about HIV/ AIDS, that is tough, and is exactly what I ended up doing. My parents were stunned, though through it all, they did exactly what I hadn’t expected. They told me that they will always love me, and that they only want the best for me. Whether they understand my sexuality or not, that will always remain the same. That was all I needed, my last piece of evidence to show me exactly what I had come to know. Chris, God loves you.

Southern Baptist Boi by Kylan Coats -Lowell There’s no way I could call myself anything, but Southern. Technically I was born in Amory, Mississippi, but my family lived in a log cabin in Columbus, Mississippi. I lived there for six years, Louisiana for seven, and Texas for five before finally coming out to Los Angeles for college. I grew up Southern Baptist. For kindergarten, I went to a private Catholic school, only because Immaculate Conception was the best in the area, for which I don’t think Ma-Maw ever forgave my parents. At the age of 14, I looked at gay porn for the first time. I simply typed in the word ‘gay’ on the internet out of curiosity as to what it could possibly mean. I had certainly called enough people it, specifically this one new boy at our school with a lazy eye. Whenever I did, the other kids would stop making fun of me and start on him which made my life a little easier. My father saw the list of internet sites that I looked at during my search for what ‘gay’ meant. He yelled at me and told me that I should never look at that again and that I could have messed up his reputation and name by looking up things like that. I cried and apologized. Over the next four years I learned, like any good gay boy, how to hide my searches for pornography. However, growing up Southern Baptist brought with it numerous calls to repentance and I confessed my struggle with gay pornography several times to my parents. The first time they reacted surprisingly well and I thought that everything would be Okay. Then they sent me to a Christian psychiatrist. After a few months of seeing the woman, and largely due to my

parents’ reminders of how much her services cost them, I told my parents I was fine and they didn’t bother me anymore about it. When I confessed to them again before I left for college, they were less understanding. My father yelled that if I ever looked at it again, he would physically hurt me to the point that I would have to go to the hospital. I would never be allowed to come back to the house or to see my two younger brothers ever again. I was then told to inform my mother of the “agreement” that he and I had. In a way, this made going to school in Los Angeles a little bit easier. In college, I became much less Southern Baptist. This didn’t happen over night and many spiritual events occurred life to bring me to the point where I simply told God, “This doesn’t work.” I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror with so much hate and self-loathing and say that I was living the life God wanted me to. The man that showed me more about love and acceptance than anything I had ever learned in all my years in the church, he was my first boyfriend. Without him, I don’t think that I would have ever found myself where I did on October 16 at the Houston Intercontinental Airport. I had flown back to surprise my younger brother for his 18th birthday. He was surprised. My parents were pleased. I was shining as an older son. My intentions were genuine for the entire trip; I really did fly back on my dime to surprise my brother. And as my parents drove me to the airport to go back to L.A., I made a decision for myself. I had my bags with me as I stood outside my dad’s white H2 Hummer. His

pistol was at home and he didn’t have any weapons concealed in his truck that I knew of. My petite mom was desperately struggling to climb up into the front seat. I had my boarding in my hand for my flight. I managed to get out, “Mom, Dad, I have something to tell you…” and then I started bawling. After about ten minutes, I managed to stammer out, “I’m gay,” and then continued to cry as I braced myself for my parents’ reaction. My mother hugged me. My dad looked at me with a face that will be burned into my memory till I die. My mom said she loved me. My dad said I would always be his son. And then I ran into the airport. I texted my ex-boyfriend and best friend who were both standing by to pick me up from LAX. They told me they couldn’t wait to see me and I would be home in no time. Although my flight was delayed first an hour, and then two, I rested in the knowledge that I had told my parents and had come out of the ordeal relatively unscathed. It wasn’t until after the fourth hour of being delayed, when the flight was cancelled, that I began to pray. I told God that He had a very, very sick sense of humor and I expected a golden chariot if the flight wasn’t leaving. The chariot didn’t arrive and neither did my flight. I had to call my parents and tell them to come pick me up and take me back to the airport the next morning. In my mind I told myself that I would look back at the situation and laugh and I have, but it’s a lot harder to laugh when you are in the situation, knowing that your father has had ample time to retrieve his firearm before getting back into his H2 Hummer. I keep bringing up guns because my family has a history of

shooting at each other. Normally people aren’t actually hit by anything, but shots have been known to go in the general direction of a relative. When my parents did pick me up, the ride home was merciless. My mother called me a coward and a liar. She told me that I would become a pedophile and move to San Francisco and get AIDS. She asked me how I could live with myself knowing that I had committed such a horrible sin. My father was silent. When we finally got home, my mother stormed off to her room. My dad gave me the same look that he had given me in his truck earlier. He told me that I would always be his son and that he would always love me. He said he always knew that I was different and he thought that it was all biological, but that if it was a choice, I had chosen a very tough life. He confessed that he was really confused with everything and just didn’t know what to do. Then he hugged me and cried. I hugged him back and I cried. The next morning he drove me to the airport. We talked more openly then we had ever talked before. He asked me questions about things I had said when I was younger and I responded about the things I could . When we came back to the terminal again, my dad hugged me in his truck. He cried again and I did too. He told me that he loved me, that I would always be his son, and that we would get this worked out. Then I stepped down out of the Hummer, walked into the airport, and flew back to my school in Los Angeles; still a Baptist, still Southern, and still gay.

Coming To by Eli - Melissa This was originally a blog that I posted on my Myspace…

When a fetus develops in the mother’s womb, all babies begin as female. Some doctors believe that when the mother releases the hormone required to change the fetus from female to male, the baby doesn’t always complete the change. This is their basis for how people are born transgender. For me, I feel as if my brain changed, but not my body. For me, there is a difference between sex and gender. Sex is biology, it’s physical; and biologically, I am a female. Gender is in the mind, it’s mental, it’s how one identifies themselves. Mentally I identify as male.

This goes back to as far as I can , except that I never really realized it until I sat down and really thought about it. It started when I was really little, like 3 or 4, wanting to be Batman whenever we played superheroes, or Peter Pan, or a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Then in elementary, I always wanted to play with the guys and be rough and obnoxious. In middle school, I began to have my “tomboy” phase where I was obsessed with wearing guys’ clothes and even wanted to chop all my hair off. I would wear baggy jeans and baggy band shirts. I would tie my hair back into tight braids and wear ball caps. I even had a wallet chain. I only dated girls and was very masculine.

Then in high school, it went even further. I even went by a guy’s name my whole freshman year. I had all of my friends call me “Ray” , a shortened version of my middle name, but the name just didn’t seem right, it didn’t seem to fit. I mistook all of this for being a “butch lesbian”.....except that I’m not a lesbian. I like both, but I prefer being

physical with guys. I seeing groups like Three Days Grace and Shine Down and Sum 41 and the guys who did the X-games and wanting to look like that. To be that. To be macho and sexy and tough.

My senior year, things really began to intensify. I walking to school one day in one of my outfits and I had a purse with me. And it felt like the most awkward thing in the world. And it never had before. I began to clip out pictures of guys in magazines that I wanted to look like. And then, I finally heard a term I had never heard about, but completely intrigued me. It first started with a magazine article in Teen People about two teens who were both transgender. One was a female-to-male, or FTM and the other was a male-to-female or MTF. The article completely fascinated me, so I began to collect articles from magazines and tried to research it, but I didn’t know where to look.

Now I’m here, in college at Texas A&M, and I’ve noticed that living here, it’s a lot harder for me to cross-dress like I did at home. I find it very ironic too, because my dad is a very big conservative. But being here, around thousands of people I don’t know and living with a roommate who I just met when I moved here, I feel like I have to hide it. Like they can’t know that I enjoy wearing ball caps with hoodies. Or that I wear Axe Deodorant because I know girls love the way it smells.I want people to know me for who I am on the inside, that way they won’t care who I am on the outside. I would rather ease people into this instead of just shocking them with it. I feel that if I was completely out in the open, no one would want to associate themselves with me.

So I am in this amazing group called the G.L.B.T.A. Here is where I learned about who and what I am. For a few weeks our group had been focusing on the

transgender issues in today’s society. They had a few speakers come to meetings and talk about what it means to be transgendered. And to hear it from someone who is going through it, made it easier to connect and understand and come to with it. So in case you haven’t already figured out what I’m about to say.... I am a transgendered person.....and this is me coming out. Right now. As my masculine alter ego, if you will, I identify as a bisexual guy who prefers guys, but occasionally dates girls. A guy who is very masculine. My name that I go by is “Eli”, a shortened version of my female first name.

When I had originally posted this on my Myspace blog, it was right after the first meeting with a transgender speaker and I felt liberated. I had to get it out about who I was. I didn’t care if anyone read my blog or not, it was just one of those things that needed to be spoken for sanity’s sake. Only one person responded. My best friend, a girl I’ve known since birth, told me that she didn’t care what I was, she would always love me for who I am on the inside. That made it so much easier to deal with. Now when I refer to myself, a lot of times, I notice that I refer to myself as a guy rather than a girl. Most people don’t even seem to notice, which is nice. I’m slowly coming to with this part of myself.

One Half Gay By: Vanessa & Carissa (Vanessa’s part in Black, Carissa’s in Red) I’m the treasurer for the GLBTA I’m the social coordinator for the GLBTA I’ve worked in the GLBT center on campus since 2006 I was approached by them to quit my job and work for them in 2007. I participate in Guess Who’s Gay s I also do LOTS of Guess Who’s Gay s I volunteer for the Brazos Valley QueSt to unite the queer/straight community I do too, AND I’m their grant coordinator I’ve been an Aggie ALLY since October of 2005 I’m an Aggie ALLY too, since September 2005. Both: Which one of us is gay? One Half Gay I never really knew much about gay “stuff” outside of Speech and Debate. And even then it was all about gay-guy stuff. I’m sure had I known more about lesbians, I could have saved myself the trouble of dating those closeted gay guys in high school, almost causing a car accident, a few freak-outs, not to mention all those snide little in the closet remarks. “No Dad, don’t worry there won’t be any boys in our dorm room, huh twin?” “Yeah, tia, that’s why I’m not dating, because none of the boys at school interest me.”

You know, being the straight twin is harder than it looks. Every single time my sister comes out, so do I. When people find out that, my twin is a lesbian the natural and always unavoidable question follows “So, how about you?” “I’m straight” I’ve replied time and time again. People never really seem to be glad to hear that though, as if it would have been much better for them to have met gay twins and now I’ve gone and ruined it for them

I never really knew who I’d come out to first. I assumed it’d be Carissa, she’s my twin, I tell her EVERYTHING. But somehow, in the very beginning of my coming out process all of my coming outs weren’t really planned or coordinated. That BITCH didn’t even tell me first! She is supposed to tell me everything! What ended up happening was that I decided to semi-come out to my sister while we were driving. It was one of those impulse coming outs, where you don’t really intend to do it but then it sort of just slips and all of a sudden your in mid-sentence thinking, CRAP…WHAT’S A GOOD DECOY AFTER I’VE SAID: “You know I think I might be…” MIGHT BE WHAT? …car sick? Hungry? Tired? Pregnant? Double ted? Losing my sense of smell? In love with your boyfriend? Drunk? We went to wash the car down the street and it was hot and I was tired and in one of those “lets get home in the air conditioning before I die” kinda moods. It was a weekend, I was operating on auto-pilot, my brain was just on power save! Well luckily I didn’t have to think that fast since my story is a bit different. We had just finished doing some very butch work…we were washing the car! I swear this plot could only have been better had we been changing the oil (which coincidentally only my straight sister knows how to do). Anyway, we’re driving back to my house which is less than a mile away and I brilliantly decide that a question was in order. As if a question might through her off my scent and maybe make it more of a general, “Hey, I’m just wondering” type of conversation. Very hypothetical! So as I press on the brake, at the last stop sign before my street…I start: We’re driving along in our little non-air conditioned vehicle, so close to home and all of a sudden out of no where Vanessa asks me: “Hey twin, would you still love me if I was gay?” “No” “Really?” I asked in hopes that she was just kidding “Really, I wouldn’t love you anymore if you were gay.” Then all of a sudden: **CRASH** I wrapped the car around a light pole. Long story short she ended up paralyzed from the neck down, which is really the moral of the story: Be nice to your siblings when they come out to you IN THE CAR!!! I totally wasn’t expecting that question. I didn’t know! I thought it was really just a random stupid question that she was just asking for no real reason. I mean, its not a

normal question! I thought she was just curious how I would feel cuz we had a really good friend who had recently come out to us. (Coincidentally, in my car as well) Well that’s not what happened but serves her right if it had, cuz that’s TOTALLY NOT THE ANSWER I WAS EXPECTING! I don’t even the rest of the ride home, and it really wasn’t anything weird between us after this conversation, still it delayed my actual coming out to her by about 6 months, which oddly enough contained the same opener only slightly modified…and with a lot more umph… “Hey twin, you really wouldn’t still love me if I was gay? That’s fucked!” I still loved her. Like I was going to stop? Come on! As a matter of fact, when my mom began to suspect that my sister might, have…let see…she called it “other things on her mind” she asked me first. I woke up early on Saturday morning and as I helped her make breakfast she just sprang it on me, “Carissa why aren’t you dating? Is it because you have “other things on my mind?” No I don’t have “other things on my mind” I would angrily respond. I can still how the day began, I got out of bed, noticed Carissa was already up, used the restroom and when I was done Carissa quickly ushered me back into my room. She had one of those urgent—I have to tell you something—kind of faces. Then of course she would steer the convo towards my sister, very casually like I wasn’t going to notice the shift or something, “So what about Vanessa?” And of course I panicked….”Uh…No, she just doesn’t like anyone right now” is what would come stumbling out, while I’m really thinking… “okay mom, if you think Vanessa’s a lesbian, SHE IS!!!!!!” She would then tell me not to tell Vanessa that she had asked me because she was going to have this same talk with her later that same day…..So naturally the first thing I said to Vanessa when she woke up was: Fresh from sleep I had no idea what to expect, but I was sure it was some pretty jucymust tell- gossip, I never expected to hear: BOTH “Your mom’s gonna ask you if you’re gay!” But I’m not supposed to tell you so you have to act like you don’t know! I freaked out! I didn’t know what to say! I panicked! What? How? How do you know? Did she tell you? TELL ME!!! Well when the time came, I lied! Lied lied and lied some more! I wasn’t ready to tell her! How dare she ask me? The nerve! When I actually came out to her it was not the greatest of reactions.

When my mom officially found out that Vanessa was indeed gay….she got a bit hysterical and cried and yelled and not only at Vanessa! I got told that I was a bad daughter because how dare I keep this secret from her for so long? Didn’t I think she deserved to know? Who the hell did I think I was? Eventually she came around and is completely fine with it now. She’s even helped me come out to some other of my family. And Carissa has become one of the greatest allies ever. She’s got more gay pride these days than most gays and lesbians I know. My mom’s even started talking about going to PFLAG meetings in El Paso and even though I may not have been completely accepting at first I Vanessa no matter what. I’m proud to be the twin to a gay sister, proud to have a “gay half” and proud that I am able to be an Ally.

FIN.