A Letter from Your Clandestinely Queer Daughter

[Editor's note: Please welcome our third newest blogger in as many days, Sara!]

Dear Mom and Dad,

You’ll never see this letter, but I make no promises I can’t necessarily keep. It doesn’t really matter; you would hear none of it. You’d refuse to see me, acknowledge me, let alone keep our precarious bond intact. It’d be shredded pieces of paper from a daughter that’s no longer a daughter to you, blood be damned. You’ll wash your hands clean of it, praying to God—you’d be furious with Him, albeit your loyalties made your bed, so lie in it, prayers and all—to give you the strength to go through this. You’ll smile, bear the burden of having raised some heretic that contradicts every inch of your stern belief system, occupy yourself with another daughter—she’s perfect, she won’t stray. She won’t break your heart in two, watch it go asunder, know it was of her own devices and still went through with it anyway.

If I were to open my hand, guide you through the many rooms occupying my thoughts, through each intricate, deeply concealed secret, my offer wouldn’t be extended for too long. You’d immediately shut the door before ever crossing over the threshold, and flee.

This is a story that may never reach you—you, the tragic heroes, and I, the villain who ripped the world apart.

Now it’s high time I’ve gotten some things off my chest. Because you won’t see this—assuming I’ll always remain the same meek, reserved child of ’95 frozen in time on the hordes of pictures stashed in some corner in your closet (oh, the imagery makes me swoon)—I am without reticence. I’m sad that reassures me more than when you held my hand on my first day of kindergarten, or when you held me close when I was wrecked of tears and unbidden cynicism, nineteen and angry and exasperated.

Mom. Dad. I love you. I also happen to not be straight.

I know, you’re wondering where you went wrong with your parenting. Actually, your parenting skills were incomparable, look how far I’ve come, how much I’ve accomplished? This isn’t you, not exactly. What is you, though, is what you’ll do with my confession.

So, I’m queer, if you haven’t noticed. I thought I was dropping some neon bright, anti-heterosexual sentiments the last time I was home; my adamant demands for the shortest haircut possible and my aversions on the topic of boys were definite givens. I’m attracted to both men and women, but I never equate physical attractiveness to sexual attraction; they’re two mutually exclusive things in my head, no argument there. Which is why for the longest time I thought I was asexual, since, y’know, I have intimacy issues—probably because I was touched inappropriately/coerced to perform sexual favors on my “friend” when I was seven-eight years old. Half of the time I identify as asexual, with convoluted explanations as to why I am and why I am not “strictly” asexual. But I’m absolutely positive I am not straight, sorry.

I am not, however, “out and proud”.

Remember that night, Mom, back in my first year? It was after the awkward ride back home when my older sister blurted out that many of my friends at Duke were G-A-Y. For a moment there I really thought the car swerved dangerously close to a conveniently placed ditch by the side of the road. Your knuckles were stark white against the backdrop of the steering wheel. The rest of the car ride continued in silence.

The next night remains seared into memory, leaves me sick to my stomach each time I replay the words that will forever and forever cause me to doubt the strength of a mother’s love for her daughter.

“If you ever,” you said, alarmingly calm, like the eye of a storm. I faintly recall that you gripped my hand and I heard bones creak under your fingers. “If you ever said you were a lesbian, Sara, I’ll disown you. I will disown you.” In the same breath, she asked me to join her in prayer.

My cheeks were burning. She placed my head against her shoulder, muttering a string of biblical verses against my forehead, rocking me back and forth: I was her little girl again, the one who hadn’t rough-housed with boys, the one who hadn’t walked straight to the menswear during back-to-school shopping, some ideal daughter I loathed with every fiber of my being. For the longest time that night she never relinquished my hand.

I remember my mother gesticulating in a booth of a diner, frustration lurking behind every word, as she relayed to my two sisters, my older sister’s husband, and me the rumors that claimed I was a butch, a lesbian, a dyke, a freak. My older sister glanced at me, as if she were searching for answers I didn’t have. Closing my eyes, legs trembling under the table, I took a shuddering breath as I burst into tears, hiding my face into my shaking hands. I couldn’t bear looking at my mother then, couldn’t bear explaining it to them. So I lied through my teeth, I’ve only liked boys, while in the deepest crevices of my heart, there lingered feelings for a friend who’s just recently passed away last month (September 9, 2011).

I love my mother, but…how can you be the best possible you for someone when your own mother — unbeknownst to her — denies a piece of you so fragile, so empowering, very much an integral part that makes you you?

Dad, I’ve neglected you for awhile. I don’t know you well enough to predict the consequences if I were to send this to you. I can’t say we’ve talked much about love, or about life, or about our lives as father and daughter. This does not invalidate our quiet bond. How could I, when we’re so similar? Sometimes, just leaning on you, my silent, impenetrable wall, offers me the greatest comfort and warmth. We easily slip into contentment. I can hear the ocean waves lapping against the white sands of Hawaii, long hair blowing in the wind, my heart full because I got the chance to sit there with my daddy, no care in the world, except for the worry bubbling in the pit of my stomach.

What would he say if he knew? What would he do? If you can’t even tell me you had a heart attack, how would you expect me to tell you I’ve had boyfriends, but I thought about girls, too, the ones who’ve rendered boys as mere candles next to her brilliance?

I want to tell my parents that I haven’t fallen in love yet—I’ve come close, but they all end up the same: I love the idea of a person I’ve fabricated and imposed on them, not the reality that sets fire to bridges between these infatuations, or they leave me first. (R.I.P, D.W.) Rarely with my family have we been on the same footing, which is becoming more and more evident in my third year at Duke. Lying is second nature now, something I never fathomed as a possibility. I was taught that lying was an ugly sin against your family. I was also taught that home was my sanctuary, my shelter, the center of a child’s universe. Sometimes home…isn’t safe. And that is terrifying.

I want to tell you, when it (eventually) happens, I’m head over heels for a person; they just happen to not be a man, and you won’t mind. When you meet her, I want to lean over and whisper, unabashedly and with no hint of irony, “She could be the girl of my dreams,” and you’ll grin and say, “She deserves you.” During holidays, when our fragmented family comes together under one household, the room lit up by your wonderful smiles and big, gracious hearts, I want my boyfriend—I want my girlfriend to receive the love I know you’re capable of giving. You’ll glance my way, say, “Welcome home, love, you’re always welcomed, never forget that.”

Unfortunately, I can’t have these things, not unless I tell you, and even then it’s not guaranteed. Not unless I unlock those secretive rooms floating in my head for you and you accept everything in stride could we be okay. You’ll say, “Thank you for sharing this with us. You won’t ever have to hide again.”

I will always love you, no matter what, you’ve once, twice, countless times, said.

I love you. I love you I love you I love you. Please, let it be true. (It won’t be.)

Sincerely,
the girl behind closed doors

The Pinhook (Is Why I Leave Campus)

Last weekend I went somewhere worth gushing over. I’m talking about the Pinhook.

I was wary of going to the Pinhook because I heard it was very “homonormative.” As a femme, I equate homonormativity with the erasure of my identity. But the Pinhook is not solely homonormative. Yes, there were girls in jorts. Girls in ties and plaid button ups. Girls with alternative lifestyle haircuts and an array of v-neck shirts. But, there were also girls in tutus and dresses. Larger girls and smaller girls. Girls wearing lipstick while rocking doorknocker earrings. It was like everyone I had seen on sites like Fuck Yeah Femmes, Fuck Yeah Dykes and Genderfork was at one big party. (Everyone I had seen on OK Cupid was literally there too.) And they were dancing! Not sullenly standing against the wall or trying to wade through a blockade of gay men to find each other. No need to ask “Are you straight?” For once, I felt it.

I know this gushing might make we sound naïve or inexperienced. I’ve only been to gay clubs in San Antonio, The Triangle and New York. (I'm aware that the Pinhook is not specifically a gay club.) Even gay clubs that aren’t entirely populated by men present an obstacle to queer gals. For example, most of the women who go to Vespa are straight. When I’m feeling entrepreneurial I approach everyone I fancy. This can get tedious. My $10 cover goes towards seeing more homo PDA than I would at a Duke Selective Living Group party. It goes towards catching up with members of the Duke and UNC gaystream. Do I expect to meet other queer femmes? Not really.

The Pinhook felt like an alternate universe, a dream, a drug-infused terrarium. It was a flurry of bodies writhing to danceable music. Piercings, tattoos, glitter, binders, soft skin, tube tops, gym shorts. I was slightly buzzed but felt too drunk to walk straight or talk cohesively. To outsiders (read: Duke students) this group might have seemed impermeable. Fun to look at, not to join. Through some inspired dancing and the queerfemmeness I radiated I became part of the potent organism that lived on the dance floor. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t feeling bold. Women pulled me to them.

Now that I’ve exhausted the pros, I’ll head to the cons. The Pinhook crowd was quite white- not as white as a Portland potluck, but close. The non-white contingent was represented mostly by light-skinned ambiguous looking people and cute black guys. I knew that if I came to the Pinhook every weekend I would get bored seeing the same small group of folks over and over. I don’t know if I want to become embroiled in the gossip and drama endemic to small, tightly connected communities.

Gossip and drama. All queer ladies must deal with them eventually. Sure, I’m an upper middle class Duke student, but these are Triangle hipsters, not necessarily denizens of the Bull’s Eye. Even the most sheltered Duke student would feel comfortable walking in this neighborhood at night. Am I really afraid of pot, crafting and social justice? No. In high school this was my scene. Really, I’m afraid that by delving into Durham (not as an observer, as a participant) I’ll shake loose the foundation of the successful social life I’ve finally erected at Duke after three semesters. Hopefully I can strike a balance. Durhamite (not just Durham) friendly in theory and practice. Duke friendly too, even if nothing at Duke will ever be as queer as the Pinhook.

Crucial question: Will the second time be as great as the first? I’ll find out soon.

Adventures in Online Dating

I’ve been doing some “market research” on the free online dating industry. Yes. Market research.

I started with Ok Cupid, so well designed and full of interesting, educated people with witty profiles that it has almost single-handedly sucked the shame out of online dating. I quickly went through all the girls who met my basic criteria. As a result I’ve been on a brunch date at the Nasher and had interesting conversations with more girls I may see soon. I grew curious about the other types of free online dating sites. Would more queer women be on them? OK Cupid is the the crossover success. How much worse could these other sites be?

I checked out Plenty of Fish (literally the market leader,) which was horribly designed but not very sketchy. My inbox on Plenty of Fish is a repository of banal “Hey pretty” and “You’re adorable” messages. On DateHookup, I received my first no-strings-attached sex solicitation from another woman. (This could have boosted my ego, but I hadn’t even uploaded my first profile picture!) Now that I’ve received catcall messages I see it as less of an ego boost than a let down. Like getting a text, only to realize it’s from my Dad (which usually goes something like "Make sure you are using wifi while on campus!!" or "Do you think Texas will beat Bama?") I liked the idea for How About We, a site designed to match people based on their ideal date. Unfortunately no women who live in the Triangle and meet my basic criteria use this site.

I wanted to revisit the Mogenic of my youth (whichwas not just for teenagers,) but it has shut down. The first Google hit for “LGBT social network” was Downelink. What Downelink has in quantity (over 700 women in the Triangle who fit my basic criteria, over 500 of them black) it loses in quality. Sifting through profiles on Downelink is like looking at woman seek woman on Craigslist crossed with Myspace. All eyesore backgrounds and unsolicited music. I discovered people who spelled “younqq” instead of young, who wanted to meet “FUCK THAT A BANGED AZZ GIRL WHO I CAN CALL WIFEY” and self-identified as 15 year old jailbait. One girl replied with “That was the most refreshing msg I have received on here.” As a Duke student, I also found her refreshing. She had traveled throughout the South, meeting with a former slave owner, and had lived in New York City while auditioning for Broadway plays. For good or ill, unstructured wandering is not in the conversational repertoire of the typical Duke student.

I enjoy this research project, but it is not sustainable. Crafting opening messages beyond “Hey what’s up?” requires the type of close reading of a profile normally reserved for applications and cover letters. I don't have the time or interest to tease out personality from people content to say "I go to NCSU." Every time a message exchange abruptly ends I feel like I've expended much more effort than if I had just talked to a girl for 20 minutes at a party.

Results: My outlook has expanded beyond the terrarium known as Duke. I now realize just how many queer women are in the Triangle, some a bus ride away. The opportunity to check out many women at once is something straight people can take for granted but I rarely do in real life. When I start to think I'm the only queer femme, fashion conscious, intellectual, ethnically ambiguous lesbian in the Triangle I think of this quote by Frida Kahlo:

"I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought, there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too.
well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it’s true I’m here, and I’m just as strange as you."

Then I check my new matches on OK Cupid.

[I'm currently undertaking a ridiculous stunt to meet a lot of "my type" women in person. If the stunt is over in two weeks I'll post an article about it.]