“I’m glad you’re here, and I love you.”
You know those people who errybody and their mama knew was gay at a very young age? Or those who knew they were queer AF from a very young age themselves?
A decade ago, Pew Research Center found that “12 is the median age at which lesbian, gay and bisexual adults first felt they might be something other than heterosexual or straight” and “for those who say they now know for sure that they are lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender, that realization came at a median age of 17.” Last year, Gallup found that about one in five Gen Z adults identifies as L.G.B.T.
Yeahhhh, that wasn’t us.
We’re both not and somehow exactly the mascots for #nationalcomingoutday, but that’s just how we roll. So many of us are not here. So many of us didn’t get the chance, the safe space, the safe person.
I love the teary-eyed, knee-knocking, clear-headed bravery. I love that vulnerable honesty that comes in a whisper, an excited giggle, or straight-up showing up with the person you love, no words necessary.
A 70-year-old Jewish woman in a restaurant
A 40-year-old Christian man in a church basement
A 20-something black woman in a classroom
A 40-something white man at a community dinner
A 56-year-old genderqueer pal over the phone
All of them and 11 other friends thought I was safe enough to be the first person they came out to. The five listed above have another thing in common though.
They all said some variation of “Am I not valid since I didn’t figure this out sooner?”
While this line of thinking is phooey, it’s understandable phooey.
It’s relatable hogwash.
Let me assure you (even if I don’t entirely agree with the Westernized concept of coming out. A piece for another day).
There’s no timeline for coming out. There’s no looming due date for your sexuality final. There’s no point where you can’t erase what you wrote the first time and change it.
I’d tell you the same thing I told them after they shared. It’s the first sentence of this piece.
I walked away from the crowded house and listened as the pulse of the music got quieter. I wasn’t leaving. I just needed a minute. Apart from the noise, sweat, and high-pitched refrains of “Oh my God, I missed you!”. I didn’t miss anyone there. Outside, the air was cold and welcoming.
Then I saw her.
Sitting on the sidewalk, legs splayed out and arms behind her. Her face upturned to the sky. When we’d last spoken, I’d known I was a coward. With two left feet and a fearful soul. I’d left her standing at that dance with my heart in her hands.
In the years since, when I’d wake up to rain, my skin would sleepily wait for her fingertips to resume tap-tap-tapping patterns into my palms, my chest, and the side of my neck.
I’d wake up rubbing my arm, touch my lips, and wish every time that I’d grabbed what middling courage I had and kissed her. At least once. Twice, I came close. Left her for three months every year and waited for my heartbeat to stop hammering at the sight of her in the fall. It never did.
And every time I’d wake to phantom kisses, I’d scoff at myself for even wishing it. Can’t go back.
But there she was. Barely twelve steps away. I turned around to walk back toward the house, and she laughed.
“You always were horrible at hide and seek.”
Closed my eyes and steeled myself as I turned to face her again.
“You never played fair.”
“Oh, all’s fair in hide and seek.” she chuckled, looking up at me with the same smirk that ruined my life.
She gestured for me to come over, and as if no time had passed, my feet were moving closer of their own will. She pushed off from the ground as I stopped two steps away.
“You’re about ten years too late, but then, you like to play the long game, don’t you?”
We breathed in the suffocating silence of long-lost friends who should have spent the last decade wrapped around each other. Her face was half-illuminated by the streetlight, and she extended her hand to me. My heart thudded in my chest so loud I swore she’d feel it in my fingers. Read it in my face.
“You owe me a dance, sugar.”
A beat too long passed, and her smirk changed for the first time I’d known her into a faltering smile. That just wouldn’t do. With the familiar nickname, I crossed the gap between us. Grabbed her hand and my courage at the same time.
I pulled her to me, chest to chest, and she started us swaying to a tune only we could hear.
I’m not going to get into the often traumatic, bittersweet, or downright depressing aspects of realizing you’re queer later in life. Multiple people, much more insightful than me, have covered that road.
Let’s talk about the funny bits.
How you slowly start connecting dots. How arousal can feel different in your body depending on the attraction. How you go back over your memories saying ‘huh’.
I remember thinking at 13 years old, ‘Oh, Denise Huxtable is so cool’ or ‘I want to dress like her.’ Now, I can look back and laugh at how repressed 13-year-old Miyah had no earthly idea what ‘it’ was, but she definitely wanted to give it to her. Or how my borderline-obsessive interest in both Shawn and Angela at 16 was not only because I wanted to be their friend.
Running into people who like to pick & choose the aspects of my queerness they like and discard the rest. The queer women who love how openly I crush on women creatives yet ignore that my first major relationship and long-time best friend was a man. The straight men who love that they might get to see me kiss a girl but hate that I have a strap-on and know how to use it. The people from both communities who see me as suspicious, somehow dangerous, for not figuring it out earlier.
How my YouTube searches of ‘girls kiss’ were my first introduction to online porn and how I hid that tidbit for years. How the first time I explored with a friend, it was silly and wonderful, and we couldn’t stop giggling and beaming. How my mom used to ask me if I was gay in a whisper as if it was the dirtiest thing in the world. How she stopped asking when I first got married.
How I crave nonchalance as a response to my queerness. A friend and I were once talking about celebrity childhood crushes, and she tossed out a few guesses: Devon Sawa, a young Will Smith, Jonathan Taylor Thomas. When I absent-mindedly mentioned Lisa Bonet, without missing a beat, she went, “Ooooh, okay, so Brandi and Gabrielle Union too probably?”
How I sent another friend an Instagram reel of a gorgeous black woman then apologized for having a queer reaction, and he sent back the text version of a shrug and an eye roll. Like, of course, you like beautiful women. Duh.
The first drag queen I ever met told me: “Stop staring, honey. I know I look good.”
They did.
After being invited for weeks, in a rare restless mood, I’d agreed to meet up with a friend. Vibrant, funny, with a dash of crazy. You know the kind. She’d danced her way into my heart as quickly as a story I couldn’t wait to read. Just as quickly, I found myself wishing I’d put this particular book back on the shelf.
19-year-old repressed christian me felt completely out of place in that eclectic, joyful environment. There were people……. kissing. Swearing. Loud music. Alcohol. I berated myself for ever once agreeing to come. I was nowhere near fun enough for this place, and I felt certain it showed on my face. My friend brought me Sprite with a lime slice.
“Don’t worry. It’s virgin.”
“The drink? Whaa?”
She clapped me on the shoulder and grinned. The person I’d seen earlier made their way over to us, exchanging cheek kisses, and sized me up in a few seconds. They softly smiled.
“I’m Tor. This your first time?”
“Yeah, I’ve never been here before”
“Baby, I can tell. What do you like to do for fun?”
“Fun?”
“Yes, fun. You’ve heard of it?”
The gentle teasing and pet name put me a little more at ease, and we talked for the entire time I was there. When my friend came to get me to leave, Tor and I hugged and they whispered, “You’re safe here. Don’t worry. Next time, just keep an eye out for me.” They winked, kissed my friend, and left.
It wasn’t until a week later I realized they must have thought I was a baby queer. I laughed. What a strange thought.
Multiple friends have said I have excellent gaydar, and I always want to laugh. I don’t. I just easily recognize the combination of love and lust, attraction and affection (as long as it’s not directed at me.)
Three months after turning 17, I got called into my university dorm director’s office where three different staff people lectured me, prayed over me, and guilt-tripped me for hours because I was “better than this” while a stack of printouts of my computer history of erotica from the past 6 months sat on the counter.
It took me a few years to get over the guilt and shame, but I laugh at this memory too now. You gave a sheltered teenager a laptop and privacy, and were so surprised when I immediately searched for masturbation material? (C’mon. That’s on you, boo-boo.)
I got sent to an accountability group for pornography. Accountability groups are fun tools in religion for shaming teenagers and adults alike for their #sinfulness.
This particular group was led by two lovely girls who were best friends. I met them once and instantly thought, “Oh honey. Ya’ll love each other.” 4 years after graduation, I went to their wedding. Today, they’re thriving as teachers and have three children.
I’m indebted to many in my queer community. The lovely photographer who patiently explained gender vs. sex to my naive, unaware self in a junky dive bar and gave me the language to explain a part of myself.
The drag queen who took me wig shopping with no shame.
The woman who explained top drop to me and understood why I need to feed you after I fuck you.
The friends who give me all the non-sexual physical intimacy I crave.
The non-binary, asexual blogger who shared their story and was the first person I shared my fumbling doubts with and was encouraged.
The poets who spoke of love and secrecy for safety and the joy of authenticity.
The friend who helped me research painful stats on queer youth and cried on the couch with me.
You can’t pay that stuff back. You can only pay it forward. Pass it on.
I’m glad you’re here, and I love you.
