I'm From Driftwood

by Kelly D.

My name is Kelly and I am in my teens. I’ve been told many times during my awkward confessions to friends and relatives that I am too young to be sure of my sexuality. I know some of you are probably thinking it as you read this. But I have known, since I kissed my best friend Madeleine in first grade, that girls were the only thing that I wanted.

It was two years ago when I was completely, totally sure. I wasn’t exactly out yet, but I didn’t try to hide it. I was sure my parents were fine with it, and would accept me perfectly when I did decide to come out to them. The hardest part was coming to terms with exactly what I was missing out on. I would never have a traditional wedding, maybe not even ever give birth. My preference could influence the jobs I’d hold, the friends I’d have, where I’d live. The life I’ve always expected to have didn’t add up anymore. I’ve never met a gay female couple, never understood how they could function in the real world. It was hard to believe, even though my body told me otherwise, that I wasn’t just a deluded teenager.

Three weeks ago, I went to church with my parents. I usually avoided going, because being in such a holy place made me feel like a walking, breathing sin. Nowhere did I seem more inferior and unnatural.

I sat in the folding chair (we had just moved to a new building) two rows behind a friend of my mothers. I was particularly aware of this because in a church our size where I so rarely attended, I was familiar with almost no one. She sang in the choir, was an active member in the church, and was a loving, sweet woman whose son was friends with my older brother. About halfway through the service, a woman I hadn’t seen before crept in the doors and sat down next to her. They seemed close, exchanging a hug and a whispered hello, so I assumed they were friends. Then my mind froze. The woman had put her arm around the newcomer’s waist, reached down, and grabbed her ass. They exchanged a blissful smile and I thought my eyes would pop out of my sockets. This woman… this member of the congregation, mother, and avid prayer, was like me.

Right there, in the middle of the crowd, I began to cry. For the first time I didn’t feel alone. I felt like whatever God was out there saw me, knew me, and loved me the way I was. It was the revelation I needed. I realized, then, that I wasn’t missing out on anything.

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by Stephanie

In high school, two girls can get away with anything short of making out without raising suspicions. Holding hands, constantly touching, none of those things made an impression until I told people the truth years later and they said: “Oh, well that makes sense now.”

We were best friends for five years before that tornado weekend when I said, “I’ve often wondered if I love you,” and she said, “I know I do.” Her boyfriend off at college was forgotten in that instant when my hands sank into her hair and I bit her lips because kissing wasn’t enough to express the force inside of me.  For months we climbed inside of each other, safe from repercussions because my father’s prejudice meant he never even suspected.

South Beach is probably one of the most gay-friendly areas in the country.  I had always grown up seeing men walk by holding hands. We always had gay neighbors. At the same time, I had always heard my father’s sneer when he spoke of them. I knew that while there might be nothing wrong with being gay, my father didn’t like it. Her parents were from Africa, and she knew that if they found out she’d be kicked out of the house. My situation wasn’t so dire – I just didn’t want him to ever look at me that way.

There was a Starbucks on Lincoln Road that we went to several times a week after school to study. There, away from anyone I knew but surrounded by tolerant strangers, I felt free. There, one day, my heart pounding to break my chest, I kissed her in full view of anyone who cared to look.  There, we held hands for hours reviewing calculus.  We could be ourselves, we could be honest, when the only eyes judging us were baristas and tourists.

It’s years later now, and this bisexual is in a relationship with a man.  We’ll probably get married soon.  I never told my parents, though I have told all my friends.  Sometimes it seems like the most important thing about me, and my pulse races as I mention my high school girlfriend casually to a coworker.  Sometimes I wonder if it was all a fever dream.  Sometimes i think back on that 17-year-old kid and marvel at her bravery.  Sometimes I think I am still being a coward.