I remember the first time I asked my mom what “gay” meant.
Technically, that wasn’t exactly how I worded my question. I was lying next to her in bed like most eight year olds do when they try to find excuses to extend bedtime. It was something that I had thought about before, and made the executive decision that my mom would have the best answer.
I turned onto my back and faced the ceiling while she continued to watch Will & Grace.
“Mom? Why aren’t Tina and Gina married?”
She let out a little sigh. It’s the same sigh I had heard when I asked questions like why Uncle Pat couldn’t find a job, or what a tampon was, or what happens when we die.
But I knew my mom wouldn’t lie to me. In fact, I honestly can’t think of a time when she has (besides the whole Santa thing) and it’s something I value. So she gave it to me straight (no pun intended).
“Well, they’re lesbians,” she said while lowering the volume on the television, “which means they’re gay.”
I knew I had heard those words before, but I needed to know more. I asked her what that meant.
“Okay well, you know how your dad and I love each other? And we got married and lived together? Tina and Gina are the same way. They love each other like we do. They can’t get married, but they love each other and live together. That’s what being a lesbian means and there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s okay to be gay.”
So there it was. She finished her explanation and waited for what was about to happen next. I was silent for a moment, processed the information, and just gave a shrug.
“Okay.” I said while turning back towards the screen.
I could tell she was a little surprised by my reaction. Typical Sarah would ask more questions. I would want every detail. I would need to know why and how and when. But I remember my thought process that night. What she said made sense. I knew what love looked like, and just accepted the fact that Tina and Gina were together. It was simple logic to me.
And how could it not be? Eight year old me thought it was the coolest situation ever. They got to live together in a big house with a pool. They ran a dog-sitting business from their home. They were always baking and letting my sister and me come over to eat whatever they made. I begged my mom every day to let me go over to their house to run around in their yard, baked good in hand, while a pack of various sized dogs chased after me. That was love to me. I could feel the love in that home.
So I decided that my mom was right. They were lesbians. They loved each other. It was okay.
I felt like I had gained some high-level adult world knowledge, and I felt so elite. I thought every adult knew what a lesbian was and that every one just accepted it. I was finally in the loop with everyone else.
Obviously, I was wrong.
Not even a couple weeks later, a classmate called me gay.
I don’t remember why, but she meant it as an insult.
I laughed at her. I thought, “Oh wow, she doesn’t know what that means and thinks it’s a bad thing. No one must have told her.”
So I told her that nothing was wrong with being gay.
They look on her face was of pure disgust. Everyone in the room turned and gasped. I thought I was going to get some high fives and some confirmation about my response.
“What?! Yes there is. It’s disgusting. You’re definitely gay. You’re a lesbian.”
Everyone in the class nodded in agreement.
The chorus of “Sarah is a lesbian” began to become louder from everyone’s mouth.
I couldn’t find words. I replayed what my mother had said over and over in my head. I thought of Tina and Gina and how I spent my summer nights sleeping over at their house with chlorine in my hair and a dog in my lap. None of these things was disgusting to me. I knew love wasn’t disgusting. I was outraged.
I slammed my little fist on my desk and stood up in my chair.
“You know what? I AM a lesbian! And there’s nothing wrong with it! So fight me if you want!”
Everyone just slowly stopped talking and moved back to their seats.
When the teacher came back, someone immediately raised their hand to tattle on the new little lesbian sitting in the front row.
I had to take a note home to my mom that night. She never told me what my teacher said. She just read it, gave me a hug, and told me she loved me.
Fourteen years later, I realize not much has changed. I still believe in asking my mom for wisdom. I still believe in standing up for what you know to be true, especially to the school bully. I still believe that baking cookies and dog sitting with your significant other sounds like the dream life. And I still believe in love, no matter what it looks like.
