This is my Gay Like Me story. It's called 'Fame,' but it really needs a better title... comment if you like. ^.^
Your First Name: Hilde
Your Oasis Name: whateversexual_llama
Your Age: 14
Your Town & City: Wilmington, DE
Your Gender: Female, but I prefer whatever.
Bio Paragraph: I’m insane, my hair changes color about once a month. I’m into theater and writing, I have a great sister and two cats, I’ve been queer all my life, and no, I will not go out with you.
That’s Freddy. A bunch of my friends are sitting on the bleachers as I enter the gym for PE. The teacher obviously didn’t hear his comment, or just doesn’t care, and says to me, “Optional participation today, because it’s Friday.”
I grin. It’s my lucky day. I head over to the bleachers, where all my friends (there are about 7 of them) are gathered on the top seats.
“Come sit next to me, dyke!”
I slide in between Freddy and Kristin. Kristin looks up at Freddy from the note she’s writing. “Are you allowed to call her that?”
Freddy chuckles. Kristin doesn’t know me as well as she knows some of the other kids in our group, so Freddy explains himself. “She calls herself ‘dyke’ all the time. Right?”
I nod and Freddy continues. “She’s my favorite dyke.”
“And you’re my favorite homophobe,” I reply, pulling out my book.
Joni grabs the book from my hand. It’s the usual trashy teen romance that I like to pretend disgusts me. Except, this doesn’t disgust me, because the main character and object of affection are female. Joni, who is straight, blonde, short, cute, and a little absent minded, nods and my other friends make grabs for it. Freddy gets it first, reads the back. “Another dyke book?”
I was getting ready to reply when a girl who I don’t know walks over. “Who’s a dyke?”
My friends all point to me. I roll my eyes, but I’m used to this.
I suddenly remember this girl’s name. Brandi. You can see the gears turning in her head as she says, “So, you’re a dyke.”
I nod. Brandi points to Alice, a bisexual friend of mine, who now has her nose submerged in my book. She got it from Freddy when we were distracted. Sneaky little sucker, Alice is. “So, is she a dyke?”
I shake my head. “No, she’s bisexual.”
“You can ask her if you want.”
Brandi points to Alice and calls, “Hey you, are you a dyke?”
Alice looks up from her book, reluctantly. She’s used to this, too. She has a quiet voice, but she raises it to be heard over the echoey clatter of a game of basketball and the usual circles of gossipy girls. “No, I’m bisexual.” She tucks her nose back into her book.
Brandi nods. “So do you have a girlfriend?”
“Does she go to this school?”
I shake my head.
“Do all of you guys know her?”
My collective friends shake their heads, except for Alice, who’s reading. (She’s met my girlfriend, anyway.)
Brandi is on a roll, so she keeps going. “Is she cute?”
“Of course she’s cute! Heck, even you’d have to look twice at her.”
Now Brandi is thinking again. I can smell the smoke. “Why don’t you go out with her?”
“Because, contrary to popular belief, I am not attracted to every female thing that moves.”
You know that look that a cat gives you when you try to explain why it shouldn’t go outside (as in, there’s a blizzard outside and it’s one in the morning)? That’s the look I get from Brandi.
This is a common misconception that I deal with on a regular basis. Straight girls seem to think that if there are two lesbians in one place, they have no reason whatsoever not to go out. I try to explain myself.
“Do you see that boy down there?” I point to a short, sweaty seventh grader who’s waving his arms and doing something that looks more like the tribal dance that Captain Jack does in “Pirates of the Caribbean II” than a sport.
“He’s a boy,” I continue, “And he likes girls. You are a girl, and you like boys. Why isn’t he your boyfriend?”
Deadpan, she says, “Because I don’t Like him.” You can hear the capital L in ‘Like,’ meaning she means ‘love,’ but is afraid to say it because she’s, well, your average middle school girl.
“And he probably doesn’t Like you,” I reply, making sure to include that capital L. “No offense or anything.”
I gesture towards Alice. “Now, say I’m that boy and Alice is you. It’s pretty much the same thing, right? I love Alice dearly- don’t take that the wrong way- but just because we both are attracted to females doesn’t mean we have to jump each other’s bones, right?”
Brandi nods again, seeming enlightened. She walks away and my friends and I continue talking about what he said that she said that the other girl’s boyfriend did with the girl who the guy’s best friend’s cousin made out with in third grade. The usual.
This kind of stuff happens a lot. I’m the most well-known dyke in school. What can I say? I’m famous.
Seriously, though, I went through some shit to get to where I am now. I’ve been called lezzie, lesbo, dyke, queer, faggot (faggot means a gay guy, but nobody seems to acknowledge that), you name it. I don’t mind. Hey, it’s all true. Why should it hurt me?
When I think about it, I realize that when I was in 7th grade and afraid to come out, if there had been an 8th grader who everyone knew was queer, who didn’t mind getting treated like shit, who was so proud and so out that everyone knew they were queer… I wouldn’t have ever felt ashamed of myself. I wouldn’t have been afraid to be out.
That’s why I put up with shit to get to where I am. Because I know that someone is looking up to me. Somebody isn’t afraid to be who they are. I’m a beacon for someone.
Or maybe I’m just famous school-wide. I can work with that, too.