When I was having dinner at my friend Gretchen’s house the other day, she showed me an old photo album from her childhood, pointed to a girl with a perfect auburn shag, and said, “I’m pretty sure I had a crush on her.”
If only we had the vernacular in our upbringings to name the feelings we had for our same-sex friends as what they were: Crushes. Young love. Something gay.
I thought of my own faded, sepia-toned photos sitting in bins in my basement, full to bursting with images capturing plays I was in and girls I was crushing on. And though those plays I performed in from the time I was a starry-eyed third-grader starting my very first musical theater class gave my childhood a context that went blissfully beyond my difficult home life, it was the girls I loved—make that the teachers I obsessed over—that allowed my inner-life to be full of hope and made-up stories about being loved back. And with those stories came a young lust that I wouldn’t name for many years.
Regardless of what I call it now, back in those fluorescent 80s and grungey early 90s when I came of age with the backdrop of fast-paced Stephen Sondheim musicals and barely-hanging-on VHS tapes featuring recordings of all the Bette Midler TV appearances my TV Guide said she’d be making that week, I can assure you that the last thing I thought I was feeling at the time was … turned on.
I grew up in a time when you’re straight unless proven otherwise, and even when I tried to prove otherwise when I was 19 and clunking my way through the brand-new internet—complete with online forums where queers (not that I called myself queer just yet) could easily find each other—it was still assumed that I was straight.
That first sexual experience I had with a woman (thanks, AOL!)—the aspiring Broadway actress from Queens who met me at that over-priced veggie burger place in Chelsea—was, according to some in my life, a symptom of me being confused. And since I was basically still a kid and highly impressionable, I held out the possibility that maybe they were right. So I quietly tried on “bisexual” for size but went back to my long-time boyfriend after one of our many “let’s take some space” periods (and my fleeting romance with the AOL woman) was over.
Straight unless proven otherwise, and sometimes not even then.
There’s something comical to me when I think about those days now: I was bisexual and vegetarian; half-measures all-around. Afraid to actually live my whole truth because it would be too hard, too limiting, too painful and inconvenient for my perplexed family.
Life is that thing that happens when we’re not paying attention, and what I didn’t realize then was that I was already writing my story. Even if I could go back to that young-twenties version of me and give her full permission to say no to men (even when they were persistent and in positions of power), sleep with women (even if it meant I’d need to quickly rip off that bandaid that covered my internalized-homophobia), and see my supple body as sensual (even if that went against everything my childhood bullies had said about me), that long-haired, stubborn young woman would definitely not have listened.
I realize now, in retrospect, that I had to face those hard life truths in the time they unfolded naturally: after too many unsafe rendevous with strange men and too many instances where I swallowed those feelings I had for beautiful women.
The women shopping beside me at the corner bodega, who reached up on those tall shelves for their Cheerios, and I could see the sweet, soft flesh on the underside of their arm. The women who checked me in at those cattle call auditions I forced myself to go to—they were stern and strong and curt and smart. The bespectacled women on the subway with their noses in their novels. The kind women sitting at the barista tables at the slam poetry cafe where, embarrassingly, I took to the mic more than once to whine about how I couldn’t find myself no matter how hard I looked. The wide-rimmed hat women at the farmers’ market buying just-right apples. The women with briefcases and practical shoes who got off the train at Wall Street, always in a hurry. The sexy-as-fuck women at the gay bars I went to with friends, though I never made eye contact with anyone because I was afraid they’d understand something about me that even I didn’t know … except, I knew.
But I needed to push it all away until I was old enough and brave enough and who-the-fuck-cares-anymore enough to stand up to those voices that had been dictating my story since before I was even born.
And then when I did—after an older butch took a chance on me despite my not-charming hesitation and proclaimed in no uncertain terms that she was pretty sure I was a lesbian—it all fell into place with a quiet thud. Though just barely, I finally had enough gumption to set aside my fears of abandonment (by my mother, by my friends, by societal expectations, by my cat) long enough to come out again, this time as a lesbian. And—at long last—I donned the rainbow attire to prove it.
I was in my late twenties, living in NYC’s Washington Heights neighborhood and going through an unfortunate phase of cutting oversized plaid pants into shorts, wearing them intentionally tattered, and pairing them with 80s-style off-the-shoulder satin tops (I swear). Though my style was most certainly a phase (thank goodness), my desire to be with women—and, alas, only women—was there to stay.
And speaking of authenticity, I had been vegan for a few years by then; my feminist ways could just no longer support the exploitation of the reproductive capacities of egg-laying hens and dairy cows. I could hardly believe that I was suddenly a vegan lesbian. It sounded horrifying on some level—like I could never be funny again!—yet on another level, it was so very obvious the whole time that that was me.
Where had I been hiding? Behind my thick black hair and smeared mascara? Behind my Sondheim tunes that blasted through my headphones on the subway while I cried into my sunglasses that I wore even underground?
I was working in AIDS-awareness theater and just starting the confusing process of getting serious about my writing when I placed my first story in print. It was about the overlaps between the LGBTQ and animal rights movements. Rooted in the idea that the mindset of the oppressor (not necessarily the oppression itself) is the same—“insert-the-blank is here for my use”—I expanded my understanding of social justice and realized that the fight for liberation is one that’s bigger than any one movement. As an AIDS-awareness activist, it no longer made sense for me to fight for a marginalized community while continuing to consume another marginalized group. Animal exploitation is the ultimate perversion of motherhood, and I wanted no part.
The common liberation theme here, once we achieve it, would look something like this: Nobody’s body is here for our use. What someone else does with their body is their business, not ours. Their bodies and lives are not ours to consume or commodify. We should each be able to live our truths and be safe in doing so.
With Pride month upon us, I celebrate who I am in a way that twenty-five years ago, I was unable to do. I hope that children today come of age with a different cultural framework than I had so that they can more easily find and express their truths and tell their stories proudly and unapologetically.
If you are reading this and are an ally to the LGBTQ community, I hope you will foster safe spaces for those who are struggling. And if you are reading this and are a human (as opposed to all of my dog super-fans!), I hope you’ll draw a connection between your species privilege and all the power that comes with it, and step up what you are doing for the animals.
These issues are all connected in ways we can and cannot see. But they are both rooted in a radical reframing of who and what is (and isn’t) ours for the taking.
Happy Pride.
xo,
jazz
Something I’m Jazzed About
My wife Moore has come up with a super-cool idea that we should each Adopt Our Local LGBTQ Center. That means that this Pride month and beyond, we should look up the LGBTQ Center closest to us, get on their mailing list, and send them a donation of any amount (even if it’s five bucks). Many LGBTQ Centers are struggling financially, and it tends to be the bigger ones that get the bigger attention. And if you happen to be anywhere near Newark, NJ, or if you’re just looking for a Center to support, I hope you consider supporting the Newark LGBTQ Center. I am lucky enough to be on the board and I can personally vouch for this group’s dedication to the cause.