When I’m sitting here, with Joey and Steph, I don’t feel like an outsider anymore. Sometimes I catch myself thinking I am either losing my faith in humanity or I’m losing my faith in myself. But when we’re together, the triumvirate, I feel like an entire army just us three.

When I visit my father, a couple of months after telling him that I am not only interested in persons of the opposite gender but also those of the same, a palpable difference can be felt in the air. This awkward unspoken weirdness permeates the room as my phantoms of the past gather with the muses of my present.

They call it a broken home, but that’s a misnomer. It’s one home that turns into two and sometimes feel like none. Maybe for that reason, they’re right. A broken home. A home splintered just like the psyches of those once part of a whole home, never to be whole again.

Your parents always choose to see you as they desire. Sometimes it’s negative, sometimes it’s idealistic, but it’s always tied up in their expectations for you and whatever image they’ve fixated on when you were about nine years old. And so, conversations with my father resumed all the while with him talking to someone who was never actually there. I choose to find some remnants of solace in this place which is not my used-to-be home, a place saturated with memories that now hurt like pinches on my stomach, but instead with this blank, stark, bachelor-padesque townhouse that is home number two. It’s a fresh chapter, except for the stale judgement.

As much as I’ve come to accept my family’s disapproval of the life I lead — it’s the only sincere livelihood I can imagine for myself any longer. I have not resigned myself to the idea that they will never see me differently. I cannot allow myself to believe that. My hope spawns itself from the place I have learned to call my home. It’s not a physical space. It’s a coven of the spirit with non-blood siblings. Members of this home will soon migrate to bigger cities where we can thrive — no longer heathens — to distinct places where our idiocyncracies and “obscure” lifestyles will not be considered the behavior of outcasts, but instead a welcomed part of progressive communities.

For the time being, we cling tightly to each other and try to make ourselves feel okay. We stack ourselves like books inside cafe windows. When Joey, Steph, and I join each other in these places, we are not peering through glass, envious of others with more simplistic joy. Instead we are peering into each others’ faces, reveling in the strength and wisdom we have acquired. We know the sum of ourselves equals something more substantial than the opinions of others.

---

Misfits

The excerpt above is fiction; I found it in a notebook of mine from 2006. I would have been about 19 years old. Clinging to the last teenage year I would ever know. Though these paragraphs are not about me, (my parents are still married and they are mostly allies) the character is all sorts of parts of me. A queer girl who didn’t understand her queerness. A misfit on the outside of the weird club. A nerd who still thinks nerds are cooler than socialites.

Some children just feel different, and many of them grow up to be adults that still feel different. I was one of those children, and I am now an adult that asks herself daily Who wants to be mainstream? I tell the kids I teach at school that we’re all weird, and that’s a good thing. I like weird. I can’t tell you if the loneliness and feelings of being strange come from society’ s imposed ideas of norms or if those outsider feelings come from inside you.

My personal weirdness is not rooted in my sexual identity. I read Shakespeare for fun as a ten year old. I wrote poetry and made up plays that I acted out with stuffed animal puppets. I turned family roadtrips into whole ‘nother lives in my head, pretending I was touring with the band. I am sure this imaginative existence made me seem ditzy; maybe it does to this day.

I had some crowds to hang with — always my Girl Scouts gang, then the jazz band kids in middle school, and later concert/marching band crew in high school. I was close with a handful of runners for the couple of years I ran track, hung out with theatre kids during play season, and had a separate small group of close friends from the church I attended back in the day.

But I also had groups and individuals to avoid. I remember one kid that sat behind me in English used to call me Medusa in a whisper only I could hear because of my curly hair. I remember one day in that same class, a teacher publicly ridiculed me for not having my textbook. She thought her joke was funny because I was a good student that was usually prepared, caught unprepared. The whole class laughed. I remember being called thunder thighs on the bus, which I rode home from school until I had a car my senior year, though the comment was made in elementary school. I remember in 7th or 8th grade a guy asked me out on a date, a la She’s All That without the glow up. If you haven’t seen that movie (it’s a classic and you should) his invite was a joke to see if I would say yes, and then he and his friends could make fun of me. The same tool wrote please die in my yearbook two years in a row. I have the evidence. I was both well-liked and constantly ridiculed. I am still unsure if people like me or are making fun of me.

We are supposed to let go of these things. It’s a daily practice for me. It’s pretty hard to let go of the things that shaped you who you are — the things that make you stronger — the things that give you subconscious trauma.

There are countless coming out stories that are harder than mine. And they all matter. Each one. I don’t want anyone to misunderstand me and think I’m complaining. I am not a victim, nor do I think I have had it harder than others. (Had to bring this up because apparently the fake Christians think all queer people think of themselves as victims. Well, stop harassing people and making it so.) I am just a person sharing my stories, hoping someone else will identify and feel less alone having read my writing.

Girls Rock Camp. Look it up. This was a beautiful experience for me; sisterhood is powerful. In 2013, ’14, and ’15, I was honored to work alongside women in Columbia, SC in the seminal years of GRC for our area. There are chapters in cities all over, so click that link if you have a young person that identifies as a girl or trans youth. It’s inclusive, it’s empowering, and it’s creative as hell. Getting to the point, it was there that I was fortunate to be part of a conversation with some middle schoolers (a sentence I would have never uttered when I was in middle school) that were talking about their orientation together in a safe space (camp!). One of them said that they were pansexual and then explained to one of the girls they were speaking with what that meant. A pansexual is a person who, in my memory of her words, isn’t concerned with gender, just hearts.” This is the moment I truly understood my sexuality. I was 27 years old, y’all. TWENTY-SEVEN.

Bullies

Rewind a few years back to about 2005. I was in undergrad at the University of South Carolina in that same sweltering oppressive city heat. I lived in Preston Residence Hall, known as the dorm of the fruits, nuts, and flakes. I used to joke about which I was, but now I’m not ashamed to say maybe I’m all three. I was friends with a few gay guys at first, frequenting the gay bars (shout out to the clubs PT’s and PT’s Cabaret which I doubt are still there) to dance all night. I was likely considered a “fag hag” for a while, until I came out as bisexual, which was the only thing I knew then to call myself. I use the term “came out” loosely. I told my family and friends, in situations when it seemed on topic. Most of my friends barely reacted, as if it all made sense to them or perhaps because we were all trying to figure ourselves out. Could be either. A few people thought it was a phase, and I just kept on being me.

Protesters would often gather outside Preston preaching their version of what they interpret the bible to mean. There were rumors it was a professor doing a psychological experiment, but whether man of God or man of science, it pissed a lot of people right off. There would be girls making out next to the bible beaters. My favorite was this one kid from my dorm who just stood silently next to the preacher man with a sign that said He is everything that is wrong with the world.

At some point, I left Preston and got an apartment close to campus. 3F. That was the place people knew they could just drop in and chill. We had an art night monthly, like a full on salon in my space with music and poetry and stories and wine. At that point I went to the student center and attended a few LGBTQ+ Alliance meetings. These groups, especially PFLAG and this organization I just learned about last Saturday – Youth OUTright – are invaluable and important safe spaces, places that educate and show support for marginalized people.

I want to caution the individuals to guard their words while they participate in these groups. Even queers and queer allies can make others feel excluded. It was at a few LGBTQ+ meetings that I learned the bisexual is potentially disliked by all. After being dismissed a few times in different ways, I scooted on out of those meetings and lone wolfed episodes of The L Word. (Damn it, Shane!)

One of my best friends at this time was also exploring her sexuality. She was also bisexual; I say was because I am not sure if she found a better word for herself too. We did drag shows together for a while. Alex and Miles, based off the British band The Last Shadow Puppets. I am giving you all these details to show my dork colors. Being a drag king was a riot, a true experience. I have always felt like a girl, but sort of a tom boy, at times androgenous girl, so it was nice to explore pseudo masculinity. We even rented tuxes this one time. Getting in costume and on stage reminded me of my theatre days. It is pure fun, like karaoke with more prep; nothing evil about it. Repression is evil. Repression can turn people evil.

At some point, I had an experience with a girl and didn’t like it. This was not my first experience with a girl, this was a friend I had been introduced to by a close friend, and I didn’t like her. She was a bit older than me and gave me the creeps when we got a bit intimate. A few days later she showed up to 3F unannounced and tried to push her way inside my apartment, but my introverted ass didn’t want company and really didn’t want a “you up?” text without the text.

Sometimes the bullies become your own friends. Or fake friends. Like the ones that graffiti “move transAtlantic you fake lesbian” on the side of your ex-favorite dive bar bathroom.

Now that I’m an adult cis female in a monogamous hetero relationship, I am sure people understand my sexuality even less. But I hear the peanut gallery. Whether it’s about Christianity or queerness. I am still often unsure if I should consider myself queer or a queer ally.

I am still unsure if I can consider myself a Christian or just a spiritual person.

Flash forward again. Now it’s the year 2022. Imagine it. Scary. We’re at Pride in Hendersonville, NC, a town that pales in comparison to Asheville and her progressiveness. Pride Festival was organized by the brave and dedicated people at Hendersonville Pride, including one of my best friends, Kim.

So I’m standing next to this “good ole boy” (how did they even get that nickname?) who is talking about sin and judgement through a megaphone, who is assuming everyone is a sodomite. He’s actually the reason my four-year-old son has heard the word. I’m also standing next to some high school kids I just met, and I want to stay near them, but I have to follow my little guy, because I’m #momlife now instead of #protestuntilweareallfree. These kids told me they drove up from Simpsonville to come to Hendersonville Pride. They are making jokes to lighten the mood, talking about how the preacher man sounds like one of the adults from Peanuts, you know: wah wah waaahhh waaaaahhh waahhh. I immediately feel all the love for these kids. I tell them I grew up in Greer. We have this knowing between us of the unaccepting nature of South Carolina. The way it feels to live there and wanna shake people. The way my blood boils and my hands are shaking now.

I start chanting: “God is love. Love is love.” I know my face is red. It’s unavoidable. I know myself, and I know that even though I can get up and speak on stage, my whole chest, neck, and face is still going to break out in a damn rash to show everyone that I am not the extrovert I am playing at. One of the quieter counterprotesters asks me why I’m so mad. It’s their way. To provoke.

So I turn and I tell him: “I’m mad because I know people that have killed themselves because of opinions from people like you. I’m mad because you’re raising a whole new slew of bullies. I’m mad because you have nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon than come here and harrass us. And most of all, I’m angry because you are using Christ against us. And Jesus preached a gospel thats highest commandment is “love your neighbor as yourself.” Then I thanked my Holy Spirit for the power to say those words in front of those young eyes.

See, it’s not Jesus I have beef with, or the individual people living their lives in their faith. It’s the Christian groups, it’s the evangelizing. When your faith is imposed on others so that no other belief is tolerated. These are problems. When your faith involves reiterating years of abuse and scars and treating other humans like less than yourselves with a god that preaches loving others above yourself, well then, you have the message twisted.

If you have HBO, check out When We Were Bullies. It’s the shortest documentary ever, but it stuck with me for a long time. In it, Jay Rosenblatt explores group think. He talks about how kids pick up on weakness, how they are tuned in to vulnerability. You see, we’ve created a society that embellishes this childish conceit. Exclusion is a huge part of our culture, as United States citizens. The irony is a country founded on the self-evident truth that all are created equal in reality rarely treats people with any sort of equality.

If you have come here to help me, you’re wasting your time. But if you have come here because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.

Lilla Watson

PRIDE

It’s important to note that the word pride has approximately ten different definitions. It’s not a great word in the English language, to be frank. It becomes conflated when used in different contexts and challenged with assumptions. Here’s Merriam:
Pride
noun \ ˈprīd  \ Definition of pride (Entry 1 of 2)
1: the quality or state of being proud: such as
a: inordinate self-esteem : CONCEIT
b: a reasonable or justifiable self-respect
c: delight or elation arising from some act, possession, or relationship
2: proud or disdainful behavior or treatment : DISDAIN
3a: ostentatious display
b: highest pitch : PRIME
4: a source of pride : the best in a group or class
5: a company of lions
6: a showy or impressive group, a pride of dancers
pride verb
prided; priding Definition of pride (Entry 2 of 2)
transitive verb
: to indulge (oneself) in pride —now usually used in the phrase pride oneself on to describe taking pride in some ability, quality, etc. She was a girl who prided herself on her carefully blasé and supercilious attitude towards life. — P. G. Wodehouse

Pride means one thing to the LGBTQ+ community. Self respect. Esteem. It means something else when you’re talking biblical seven deadly sins pride. Disdain. Conceited. Describing lions? There’s another definition for that. Same word though.

These preachermen were taking the name of the festival, Pride, and weaponizing it against the crowd. God condemns the prideful, and when you die, He’ll judge you. I know scripture, and that book says the meek shall inherit the earth, straight outta Jesus’s mouth. These people might call their festival Pride, but these are the people that need this event to help their esteem. To have one safe space. Safe-ish. Like camp. Or a festival that happens once a year.

Apparently the counterprotesters believe that queers and queer allies are sexualizing children by allowing children to attend Pride and having events like a drag show. Let me explain some things. Sexualizing children is telling them what colors they can wear because of their gender. Sexualizing children is telling them girls wear certain clothes and makeup and aren’t assertive and look pretty. Sexualizing children is telling them boys should be strong (physically) and emotionless and always assertive, macho, and tough. Sexualizing could look like pageants and baseball games and high school proms and cheerleading and football. It doesn’t have to but it could…

I’ll tell you what sexualizing is not. Sexualizing is not a drag show. Some drag shows, sure. This one… nope. Just some extraordinary gorgeous queens singing about love, acceptance, being original, and certainly being born different.

Liberation

Today (Friday, June 24 is the day I am wrapping up this essay) was not just a kick in the ovaries for every woman on the planet, but it was a devastating blow at liberty. Thank you, U.S. Supreme Court. The world is reverting to the dark ages, and my final message in this installment of Underdog Underground is FOR THE SAKE OF WHATEVER YOU BELIEVE IN: YOU ARE NOT FREE UNTIL WE ARE ALL FREE.

I know Lilla Watson was talking about race, but she also wasn’t. It’s simple equality, guys. All means all. If we’re created equal, act like it. Like that T-shirt says that makes me giggle when it’s marketed to me on Instagram: “It’s not pie. More for me doesn’t mean less for you.”