“Well, at least you don’t have to worry about that here,” I said, smiling widely and hoping to change the subject. “I’m gay and no one in Huntington has ever bothered me. I even read an article the other day that while we lead in opioids, obesity, racism, and depression, we are also the most LGBT friendly place in the state.” I smiled at her and nodded in what I hoped was an encouraging manner but ended up feeling more like a desperate urging. Towards what, I wasn’t quite sure.
Lennox sat up suddenly, her hand pulling away from mine. It was her turn to shake her head, equally desperately, but somehow not as reassuring. “I’m not gay,” she said. “That’s the whole point.”
She scooted away from me then and for half a second it crossed my mind to tell her that it wasn’t catching, she didn’t need to run away from me like she was going to breathe it in. There was something in her desperation that told me not to, to tread lightly, because there was more there than what she was saying. It was like she was trying to convince herself.
“Okay,” I said with a shrug of one shoulder. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” I asked before closing my eyes to try to block out my own stupidity. Here we were, sharing this story of what was probably one of the low points of Lennox’s life and I was brushing it off as not a big deal. I opened my eyes and looked at her, halfway hoping she would reassure me that whatever misunderstanding had passed between us wouldn’t implode the friendship we were creating.
“It matters,” she said, and for maybe the first time she made eye contact with me when she turned serious. She kept my gaze as she continued: “It wouldn’t matter to you and I’m guessing from your reaction it wouldn’t matter to your parents, but it matters to me and it matters to mine. I don’t care that you’re gay, but for me, it matters. I don’t want to be gay. I won’t be.”
It hit me then and all the misunderstanding was gone: she was spooked. She was fighting who she was, and she was doing it because of an experience she had back home that had been bad enough that she wouldn’t risk ever facing it again. Here I was, out and proud, living my truth, complaining to her that everything about me had been accepted while she was telling me that she had made a choice to hide who she was because of these boys from her old school.
“Lennox . . . you get to decide what makes you comfortable, but you are who you are. It’s not a choice.”
Just as suddenly as the steely eyed girl had appeared, she disappeared and when Lennox responded, she was back to her gazing-at-the-ceiling self. Time seemed to go on as I waited for her response, but it eventually came: “It is for me.”
When I got home that night, my mom was sitting in the kitchen, perched one of the stools that lined our kitchen island. I loved the way she sat; even in chairs, she almost always sat criss-cross applesauce. There was something so innocent about it and that was a big metaphor for who my mom was as a person; you could always count on her to find joy in the silliest, most trivial things.
“Whatcha doing?” I asked as I hefted my purse onto the counter.
Mom looked at it as if it were a hefty bag full of rotten fruit instead of a perfectly nice rose gold, satin tote. She lifted it from the counter and as I rolled my eyes, she placed it gently on the floor before wiping the counter down with one of the millions of Clorox wipes she kept all over the house. Germs. She thought my purse was germy.
“I’m just thinking about making some dinner,” she responded. “I didn’t really think the whole meal thing through, so I’m kind of thinking takeout, but we’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
We really had; honestly, we probably could have just eaten leftovers from any one of the Chinese food cartons that had taken residence in the back of our fridge, but Mom never wrote dates on them and I never remembered to clean out the fridge, which was one of my only three chores. As the fridge got fuller towards the end of the week. The containers kind of bled together and it became a gamble of “Is this one deliciously reheatable or growing mold?”
“Can I ask you a question?” I looked up at her as I leaned over the counter, hair splaying across the tile in a way I knew would drive her a bit batty. I guess she saw something in my eyes that made her decide not to address the matter because she let it go.
“You just did,” she replied with a half-smile and I returned the half-hearted grin. “Go ahead, hon. You can ask me anything.”
I paused, not quite sure what I wanted to ask, only that there was something questioning deep inside me. Lennox’s story didn’t relate to me somehow; it wasn’t the harassment part I couldn’t relate to. It was the choice part. Could she really believe that it was a choice to be gay, something you could just turn off like it wasn’t part of you?
I remember when I knew for sure that I was a lesbian; it was the minute I learned what the word meant. That’s how natural it had been for me: no decision to make. I was nine years old and my mom and I were watching The Ellen DeGeneres Show and Mom off-handedly mentioned her wife, Portia. My lexicon didn’t really include a woman who had a wife so I asked how that could happen. She explained that when two women were in love, they were lesbians and as soon as she explained that word, I just knew.
“Oh,” I said with a sharp nod. Mom later said my mouth was set in a straight line and it was the most matter of fact she’d ever heard me. “I’m a lesbian, too.”
She told that story a few times over the years: when my grandparents first found out I was gay and told her that I wasn’t old enough to know things like that about myself, when she met my first girlfriend and was teasing me with childhood memories, when her best friend asked how I knew. Her version never included her reaction to my revelation, probably because it hadn’t really mattered. She gave me a hug, told me that was good or something else vague, and we both kept watching television. The story itself, this retelling of something that was supposed to be so huge, was pretty unsubstantial. The part I always returned to was the part about my confidence, how absolutely certain I had been that I was gay. Every time she talked about my set mouth and assertive nod, I was so proud of the way I’d been able to just say it without the fear and shame involved in coming out. It had, to me, been a given. Now I wasn’t so sure . . . was that something to be proud of? Without risk, could it really be considered bravery? If, instead of my childhood I had had Lennox’s, would I be able to be so certain?
“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. I let my body bend even more, resting my whole face against the cool, smooth counter. “My new friend Lennox? She thinks she can just choose not to be gay because she doesn’t want to deal with bullies and stuff. I feel . . . I’m not sure I believe her, and I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. I guess just, do you think it’s a choice?”
It wasn’t the first time I’d asked her that; even without bullying and harassment, I hadn’t grown up in a bubble. I knew how common that belief was, that we sinning gays could just turn off who we were any time we wanted. It never really occurred to me that people my age believed that, somehow. I thought it was all older people from the rural parts of the state, people who hadn’t had conversations with gay people and had the opportunity to hear how wrong they really were. Lennox shook me.