When I was five years old, I would go to my brothers’ baseball games with them. I didn’t particularly like the games, so I would often gather with other younger siblings and play with them. There was a cemetery right next to one field, and I would play there with a boy, Mike, whom I grew very fond of and who also happened to be the only black boy at the game. His older brother played baseball, and he and I would play together during games.
One day while we were running through the cemetery, Mike pushed me and I fell into a headstone. It threw me off a bit, but I wasn’t really hurt in any physical way. But what came out of my mouth would hurt this boy in a very deep, emotional way. I casually called him a “nigger.” He looked like I had slapped him across the face, and I stood there confused in his wake as he began to cry and took off running toward his parents. I wasn’t quite sure what had happened, but I had a feeling that I was in big trouble. I walked slowly back toward the field, and as I looked up from my feet, my eyes met a commotion as his father approached my father. The look on my dad’s face as he saw me approach confirmed my feeling that I was in trouble. I glanced over at Mike, who was being comforted by his mother. She had a pained, proud look on her face as she comforted her son. My father grabbed me by the arm and walked me over to Mike and made me apologize to him and his family. I did as I was told, and as the apology fell out of my mouth, so did the tears from my eyes. My father scolded me, saying in a loud voice, “You are grounded, young lady.”
I was incredibly puzzled—confused that a word I heard flow freely around the confines of my own home from my own parents was so different in the light of day around others. I had heard my parents say this word a bazillion times in our home when referring to black people. I never knew what it meant or that it would cause the pain on a face the way it did on Mike’s when he looked up at me. I didn’t understand how my father could be so visibly angry at me for something he taught me. I kept it all inside and accepted my consequences.
My father ranted the whole way home about how embarrassed he was, but never really mentioned that what I said was wrong. He and my mother were upset about how it made them look and what people thought. Turns out I wasn’t grounded or anything when we got home, which left me more baffled. I didn’t understand if the word was wrong or if directing it at a person was wrong. I didn’t ask, because I never really questioned anything my parents told me when I was young.
Years later, while sitting in Dr. Richards’s sociology class learning about oppression and racism, the memory of that incident flooded my mind and hit me in the stomach like a ton of bricks. That was the day I learned what true hypocrisy was, and at that tender age I couldn’t tell you what that word was, but I felt it in every fiber of my being. I felt dirty with it. I sat in class feeling the shame of it all, and the guilt that began to creep into my soul that day made me stiff. I wasn’t a hateful person, this I knew; I was raised to believe certain things were one way, and that was all I knew. I was now learning they weren’t that way at all. It was overwhelming and invigorating at the same time. There is incredible truth in the saying “ignorance is bliss,” for you cannot be upset about something you know nothing of. You cannot change something until you own it to be true, until you acknowledge that it actually exists—much like I couldn’t change my addiction until I was ready to admit it was a problem. Denial is a very real concept.
I felt like I was uncovering truths that affected my life in a deep, meaningful way, and when I would go home to visit with my parents, I felt the need to pour out my revelations onto their kitchen table for them to examine. My father was incredibly critical of this, and the more I learned about the welfare of our nation and our social system and its flaws and discrimination, the degradation of people and the injustices that were occurring and had occurred all around the world, the more my father came to resent my education. We began arguing about politics in a fierce way. I would come home armed with this information and carry a youthful resentment toward him for not sharing this with me when I was young. I would take aim and fire my rhetoric in his direction and await his response, and no matter what he came back with, I had my racket ready to bounce my opinion back at him.
We would go back and forth for hours like this, one insult flung after another, a parental struggle of wits and values flung out over the dinner table night after night, with my unwilling stepmother playing referee. The conversations would always end with my father calling me a communist and throwing me out of the country for daring to be so un-American by challenging his views. I felt that I was more American than I had ever been in my life. I felt that finally I was engaging in a process that I had never realized even existed. I held a responsibility for the education I was receiving in the palm of my hand with dignity and purpose.
It was as though I had a new job, and now that I knew that life was one way and not the way I was taught, I was making it my goal in life to create change. To influence others, to expound on the injustices, I leaned upon every ear that would listen. To say I was dogmatic is an understatement! But having walked through so much of life totally ignorant to all that surrounded me, I felt it was my duty to make up for lost time. I had been shielded and had shielded myself for too long, encapsulated by my own ignorance. I had been like a small child, believing I was the only one in the world with needs and desires. I had been childishly selfish in my isolation from the day-to-day struggles of anyone other than myself. Recovery helped me realize how big the world was and that, as much as I thought it did, it did not revolve around me.
36
COMING OUT IN SOBS
I DECIDED IT WAS TIME TO COME OUT TO MY PARENTS once and for all. I was beginning to understand the oppression of gay people in our culture, and I knew that I could no longer be a part of it. By not coming out to everyone in my life, I was an active part of the problem. I chose to do this during Easter break, since I was home visiting my parents at the time. Most people, organizations, and counselors will tell you to avoid holidays for such revelations, but I was in college and it wasn’t like I had a ton of opportunities to tell them. I had felt so deceptive, like I was living a big lie, and with my recovering principles governing my new life, it just didn’t jibe with how I wanted to live my life. Honesty was now the cornerstone of my existence. How could I look them in the eyes when I knew I was hiding such a huge part of who I was? My phone calls to them began to get more strained, because I couldn’t really tell them what I was doing at school. I couldn’t talk to them about the fact that I had fallen head over heels and had my heart broken. It felt dishonest and shady, and that wasn’t who I was anymore.
In doing my step work, I had already made my amends with them. It was a very powerful moment for us, even though my parents’ attempts to be codependent kept getting us off track. They knew the steps, so they knew at some point it was coming, and on the day I went to them to make my amends for all the things I had done, they did everything they could to make it okay. They couldn’t stand to see me emotional, so they tried to interrupt about a dozen times by saying, “We know, Jennifer, and it’s okay.” But I pushed on and continued to get everything out that I needed to say. After all, amends aren’t so much for the other person as they are for us. It is a major part of my emotional healing in recovery that I own up to all the shit I did in the past, and that means apologizing for hurting people. It makes sense, really—how can you move forward into a clean and healthy life if you have wreckage from your past hanging over your head? I embraced my amends because I didn’t want to fear bumping into someone from my past whom I might have harmed in some way and having to avoid them or just having that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Recovery was all about keeping my side of the street clean, and that meant taking out a whole lot of old and stinky trash.
So here I was, about to take another huge step in my recovery, and this one wasn’t covered in any of the literature that I’d read.
I was scared because I had heard horror stories of those who had gone home and come out to their
parents, only to find themselves disowned and homeless or pulled out of college altogether and placed immediately into therapy. I figured since I was already in therapy, that was not too likely to happen, but I was still concerned about how my parents would react. They had never done anything but love me unconditionally throughout the years, and even in those moments that my father was throwing me out of the country for my new beliefs, he still hugged me and told me he loved me before bed.
I borrowed a friend’s car and drove home for the weekend. During the entire drive home I practiced my speech in the rearview mirror, going over and over what I would say and how I would say it. I had butterflies in my stomach and had to stop multiple times on the road because I was sick to my stomach. I had told my sponsor what I was doing that weekend, and she was on call for me just in case I needed her. I called her multiple times on my drive down, going over every possible scenario that could occur. What if they disowned me? What if they hated me? What if they made me leave? I poured all of my fears into the receiver of my cell phone, and Magi eased each one as I threw it at her. She assured me that no matter what, my parents would love me, and that no matter what their initial reaction might be, I would be okay. She was wonderful, and I was so incredibly grateful to have her on the other end of the phone.
I sat my stepmother and father down at the kitchen table. I pulled up all the strength I could find, opened my mouth to tell them, and— nothing came out but a burst of sobs. I slobbered all over the table as emotions washed over me and spilled onto my very concerned and confused parents. My father’s eyes immediately became red and sullen as he looked right at me and asked me what was wrong. I could tell he was bracing himself for the worst news possible. After all, nothing would surprise this man after what he had been through with me. I didn’t want to prolong his pain by not responding, so I took in what felt like all the air in the room, and when it reached my throat, I exhaled it back into the room with the words “I’m gay.” And I sat there, deflated and waiting… .
My parents’ postures straightened up as they quickly exchanged glances of what seemed to be relief. My father let out a deep belly laugh and said, “Oh, thank God. I thought you were pregnant.” With that, I joined him in his laughter as I eyed my mother, who laughed with us, but I noticed it was forced and there was a cloudiness of unease behind her eyes that came through her smile. They didn’t have any questions. They just went back about their business in the kitchen to prepare for dinner, and I retreated to my bedroom. It was all surreal, and I was thrilled that they weren’t horrified or sad, even though I knew my stepmother’s eyes exposed something that I would have to deal with some other time. But on that day, I just wanted to relish the knowledge that I was finally free, living my life with 100 percent honesty, and that was enough.
I went back to college feeling totally unencumbered and ready to explore everything I could about myself and the world. That was really the beauty of college—all the self-examination and exploration was invigorating. Every day was an adventure. More and more, I began to strip away all the things that I had thought made up my personality; the girly clothes, the heavy makeup were gone. The sense of self I was gathering was strengthening almost every day. It no longer seemed important or vital for me to hide my face under makeup. I grew to love my face, and when I would walk out of my house fresh-faced with not a bit of makeup on, I felt free and beautiful. I still had long hair, which at the time I was dyeing a deep red. I had dyed my hair a million times in my life; just like I changed my clothes and makeup, my hair always followed suit. But it had started to itch as of late and didn’t feel right anymore. I couldn’t even have told you what my natural hair color was if you paid me, because I had been covering it up for years.
One day, while at the mall with some of my new sorority sisters, I decided to cut it off. Almost all my friends now, who were of course gay or bisexual, had super-short hair. It was “the look.” I decided I was ready to free myself from my long hair and join them. I sat in the chair as the woman looked at my beautifully long and thick hair and asked me skeptically if I was sure. I nodded yes, and she cut my hair to about three inches in length. I walked out of the mall feeling incredibly light but a little uncertain of my new hair. That night I went to a party with all my sorority sisters, and I knew Raye was going to be there. It had been months since we’d been together. I was nervous about what she would think of my new hair. As I walked into the party, all eyes were on me and everyone kept gushing the way people do when a person makes a drastic change in their appearance. Raye wasn’t there yet, and my self-confidence built as people kept telling me how cool my hair looked and how they were astonished at what I’d done. Then Raye walked in, hand in hand with some new woman she was dating. Apparently she had broken up with the woman she left me for and was already on to some other heavy-set, older woman. I couldn’t believe she was with someone else, and just like that, my self-confidence took a header. I couldn’t stand being in the same room with her as she laughed and hung on this woman. I couldn’t breathe, and I excused myself to go to the bathroom upstairs. While I sat on the toilet lid attempting to gather myself, Shannon, whose house I was in, came in to comfort me. She was a great friend and always ready with a totally inappropriate joke to cheer me up, and it started to work. I was feeling a little bit better and stood up to fix my face, and I saw myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess because I wasn’t quite sure how to style my new short ’do—my hair was so thick that it just kind of looked like an afro. My eye caught sight of a hair clipper sitting on the edge of the bathroom sink. Shannon had super-short hair and apparently must have trimmed her own. I looked up at her and said, “Cut it all off.”
She just looked at me like I was nuts, and with a half-assed smile, blew me off, saying, “Girl, you’re crazy.” I looked at her with all the seriousness I could manage and said, “I’m serious; it looks terrible and doesn’t feel right. Cut it off.” She grew serious and looked me right in the eye and said, “Are you sure?” “Yes,” I said. Without another word I sat on the toilet lid, and she began shearing off the three inches that was left of my hair. While we were doing this, another one of my friends came in and shouted, “Holy shit, Storm, what are you doing?” Shannon and I laughed, and my other friend grabbed a pair of scissors and helped her cut my hair. Before I knew it I was surrounded by a bunch of my sorority sisters, who began taking turns cutting my hair off. We were all laughing hysterically, and at one point Raye came up to see what all the commotion was about. She looked at me, but I couldn’t meet her gaze, and her mouth dropped when she saw what was going on. “Jen, what are you doing?” she asked in amazement. Without looking at her, I just shrugged and said coldly, “I needed a change.” Everyone in the room was quiet. They all knew about Raye and me and how hurt I was. Raye walked out of the bathroom, and we resumed our hair-cutting party. After every last strand had fallen to the floor, I just sat there staring at it all under and around my feet. I asked everyone to leave, and I stood up, closed the door, and turned to see in the mirror what I had just done. I saw myself, but totally different. For the first time—I saw me. I was bare, no makeup, no hair, standing there in a white T-shirt. I ran my hand over my newly bald head and just smiled. My head was actually a pretty decent shape. Deep down, I felt something rise in my soul—it was confidence. My deep blue eyes stared back at me from the mirror, and for the first time in my life I really recognized the woman looking back. There was nothing left to hide beneath, no hair to let fall over my eyes to shield me from what I didn’t want to see, no makeup to plaster over an expression I didn’t want the world to see. Just me. My skin and my flesh laid bare. I was gorgeous, and I felt it. I was free. I had never felt so light in all of my life. I was truly a clean slate. I walked out of that bathroom with such a newfound assurance that I didn’t even notice Raye as I left the party. I was a new woman.
37
TOKEN DYKE
BY THE SPRING OF 2000, EVERYTHING WAS FALLING into place in my life. I was doing
well in college, had a great sponsor, and had a wonderful group of new friends whom I loved spending time with. I was still making several meetings a week, including the one I had started on campus, and since I had completed my Twelve Steps, I sought out a way to carry my message to those who were sick and suffering with addiction. I knew I had a powerful message of hope to share as a young person, and was ready to start taking that message outside the rooms of recovery. I contacted the local drug and alcohol office in State College to see if there was any way I could be of assistance. They hooked me up with the drug- and alcohol-awareness classes that many first- and second-time offenders were mandated to take. I began going to those classes on a monthly basis and sharing my story with them. It was an incredible way to give back, and I found immense gratification in explaining to people where I came from and how I got to be where I was now. I also began sponsoring some young women in the program, another wonderful opportunity for me to give back. It also helped keep me and my recovery in check at all times. I found sponsorship to be not only a great way to guide other people through the process, but a wonderful way for me to continue my own focus on recovery while working the steps again with them.
I was heavily involved on campus in every organization I could find that had a queer element. I was also a teaching assistant in my sociology class on race and ethnic relations. Twice a week, I would run a small group where we dissected the issues of race, sexuality, ethnicity, and religion. It forced us to stretch the reality that each of us came to college with. Some people who had never in their lives seen a gay person or black person were finding themselves intermixed in a multicultural environment and it caused great tension, confusion, fear, and ignorance. My professor, Dr. Sam Richards, taught the course, and his wife, Dr. Laurie Mulvey, mentored all the teaching assistants and helped usher us through this complex journey in the hope of creating acceptance and understanding of one another through these breakout sessions in our sociology class. I was honored to have been chosen as one of their teaching assistants. It was an honor bestowed upon a large handful of students each semester who both Sam and Laurie felt not only embodied some of the multiculturalism they sought to teach, but in whom they had seen something deeper. I was beyond flattered when they asked me. I was clearly the token dyke, and I was totally comfortable with that acknowledgment. It had truly become my primary identity.
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