I guess you could say I’m from a pretty religious family. Not a family of Bible-thumping street corner ministers, but more of the ‘go to church on Easter, Christmas, and communion Sundays’ type.
I grew up in the church; I knew the lingo, could quote the verses, and sported a diamond crucifix around my neck everywhere I went. I went to a Christian preschool, VBS, Sunday school, and high school outreach— the whole nine yards. After graduation, I knew it was my destiny to go to a Christian university, get my Bible degree, and become a Christian psychologist.
I went to one of the best Bible colleges in the Midwest for a little over a year, and it was home to me. I made some of the most amazing friends. I was wildly popular, and was on the Dean’s list. I thought I had it made. I thought I was happy. My friends loved me, my family was so proud, and I had no shortage of golden boys swooning over me. On the track I was on, I was sure greatness was guaranteed. Of course, like everyone else, I had a skeleton in the closet. I kept it to myself, denying its existence. But the problem arose when someone opened the closet and exposed me.
Three weeks into my sophomore year, I found myself sitting in the Dean of Women’s office signing the dotted line that changed my life forever. The golden carbon paper with the president’s seal read, ‘Student engaged in homosexual acts, behavior, and promotion of a homosexual lifestyle. Student accepts disciplinary action of immediate dismissal from the University.’ I scribbled my name at the bottom and was escorted off campus.
I will never forget sitting in my mother’s bathroom a week after the dismissal. She was on a step ladder, painting the window frame, when she looked back at me with welled up eyes and said, ‘Didn’t we teach you better? Don’t you know girls aren’t supposed to kiss girls?’ I had to force myself into saying, ‘I’m not gay! I know, mom, I’m not gay.’ They should have seen the signs. My hatred of dresses and skirts, my inability to hold a relationship and indifference toward male suitors, my childhood infatuation with Angelina Jolie, my insisting to sleep in the same bed with friends at sleepovers, the cheek-kissing pictures with my best friends, and even getting caught with lesbian porn. They only saw what they wanted to see, and I didn’t want to believe it either.
After living at home for 4 months, I moved to New York City, enrolled at a new school, and started over. Compared to the homey community of a Midwest Baptist college, NYC was my rude awakening. Cussing, shoving, honking, hurrying— crowded, uncaring, cold. I felt like an outcast to say the least. Popularity was a thing of the past, as my old ‘friends’ had blocked me out of their phone contacts and had added me to their prayer lists instead. They told me that no self-respecting Christian would condone homosexuality by keeping ties with a lesbian.
I thought I would never have a home again until I met her, a beautiful brunette, born and raised in the City. Her smile was contagious, and her eyes were deep and inviting. I was captivated. But she was straight, always raving about getting together with her ex-boyfriend, and I was still scarred from the dismissal. I told myself I could never be with a woman— I had to be straight. But every time I saw her my longing grew stronger, and she took a liking to me also.
Today, I have been with my Princess for 6 months. I am out to my entire family, who loves and accepts my girlfriend and me as part of the family. We are moving in together next semester, and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. She is my best friend, my role model, my savior, the love of my life, and my purpose. I never thought I could be accepted for who I am, and quite frankly, there are some people who don’t accept me at all. But cliche as it is, the old saying is true. Be who you are; those who mind don’t matter and those who matter won’t mind.
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