Sapphic Voices Young Adult

Windows To The Past

This is me looking out the third floor window at the street below, wondering if I’ll still feel this sad when I grow up, will I be this lonely? Come Undone by Duran Duran plays on the radio as I feel the loneliness of being a closeted teenager, although I don’t even know I am. I just know that I don’t want to hang out with my friends because I don’t like boys and for some reason I don’t think they like me. I’m weird, I’m quiet, I’m shy, but mostly I’m just sad and numb. Numb because my father calls me stupid and doesn’t like that all I want to do with my life is become an artist. He thinks it doesn’t pay well. He tells me on a regular basis. I’m numb because my mother as been in and out of mental institutions since I was in third grade. I’m numb because I can’t count the number of times I’ve saved her life because she tried to overdose on pills. The last time with the double barrel shot gun was scary as hell.

I didn’t realize how crazy it was at the time, I was too busy surviving. Music saved my life that I know. I never talked about it with high school friends, my insane home life. I sucked it up and secluded myself. My posters of Madonna kept me company, if that wasn’t a clue to my lesbianism, I don’t know what else was? There was that article in Time Magazine about Ellen coming out of the closet.

I knew, after I read that article. What do you do with that knowledge knowing that you attend a school where there are no out people and your parents are Roman Catholic? I don’t like boys, and I feel tingly when I look at Madonna, that’s what I know. I’m looking at my poster, the Who’s That Girl poster given to me by my cousin. It’s dated 1987, but all I see is Madonna’s breasts. I want to rest my head on them and inhale the scent of something I haven’t scented yet. I know I’d like it.

This is a young lesbian awakening to her sexuality in her junior year. I think the picture of Madonna on the Cherish tablature is a little weird. The expression on her face and the angle of her eyes makes them feel like they follow me. I’m shy and awkward in my teenage gayness. A beautiful woman makes me feel funny. Yet I know it’s not real. I know it’s in my head, yet I can’t help but look and as I listen to The Who’s Pictures of Lily I begin to understand.

I spent countless hours closed up in my black room with the black-paint hand prints on the otherwise white ceiling. The echo of Jarred asking “Are you Gay?” plays in my mind. How did he know when I didn’t? What the fuck? Who the hell is he anyway? I protested against that bullshit, not knowing at the time why, but knowing I had to. I played Madonna and voiced my opinion about prejudice and ignorance, and I won! I got an apology. If only it consoled me.

Two years later I knew the big secret. I figured something out. Who can I tell? I never could keep a secret for that long. I told. I told my advisor, I told my best friend. They didn’t hate me. Wow!

I followed that girl around, not knowing why. I had crushes, but only one I really knew was a lesbian crush. My English teacher had the same effect as Madonna. The tingling sensation, the heat that flushed my cheeks, the sheer joy at being in her presence, those are the giddy feelings of young, innocent attraction. Then there was that math teacher with the dark curly hair. The scent of rose petals intoxicated me as she walked by. There was Beth’s smile and Maya’s laugh. There was Johanna’s who always hugged me to say hello. This is me, pre-college, pre-out of the closet.

It is strange to be aware and not know what to do about it. I knew I wasn’t the same. It’s lonely being different. Pink Floyd and Sarah McLachlan filled that gap. Possession rang in my ears and she was kind of attractive. I remember that and Tori Amos too. Their music voiced my feelings and balanced them. I wrote my poetry, listened to music, and was internally Goth. College would bring new opportunities, but for the moment I was waiting for my chance to bloom.

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