When I was 13 years old, I asked my mother if I could move in with my aunt.
As I got older, I started to see her not just as a mother but as a woman. I understood why she made the decisions she made and my resentment quickly turned into respect. In some ways, it was as if I was meeting her for the very first time.
Eventually, I moved back in. I was finally back where I belonged and I was grateful.
But, I had a secret.
A secret that weighed on me then and gets heavier every day: I feel for women in the ways I’ve been expected to feel for men.
You may roll your eyes at that but for a lot of people, myself included, coming out isn’t as simple as just deciding to live your truth.
There are consequences. Consequences I am not ready to face. I think that’s okay.
I’m Jamaican. I was born to an Indo-Jamaican mother, who was raised by Hindu parents and later claimed Jesus Christ as her Lord and Savior. Jamaica has a long way to go when it comes to wholeheartedly accepting members of the LGBTQ community. For one, it could take steps toward repealing anti-gay legislation.
The tradition of deep-rooted hatred toward the LGBTQ community masked as morals guided by religion are vestiges of British colonization. And as a result, some members of community continue to face harassment, discrimination and the risk of being disowned by families.
My family clings to similar beliefs. They make no effort to hide the intense hatred behind their words when discussing anything related to LGBTQ individuals. I’m almost sure the older cousin who pulls me to her chest and holds me tightly every time she sees me also just disowned her own daughter for being a lesbian. I suppose the only difference between me and her daughter is that my femme appearance makes my sexual orientation easier to overlook and easier to hide.
During movies where character development takes a female lead down the path of sapphic exploration, my mother says, “She’s so pretty! Why would she date a woman?”
Another time, she implied a young, gay pastor was murdered because God knew he wasn’t “living right.”
It made me really angry until I realized this ignorance has been passed down from generation to generation and reiterated every Sunday from the pulpit.
How can I expect my mother to understand something about me that I’m still unable to voice? I’ve dropped hints and we’ve even joked about “girlfriends.” There are days I think she knows, but then she’ll suggest I get to know some guy so she can have grandchildren.
Not coming out gives my mother the bliss of ignorance. It gives me the guarantee of my mother’s love and the continued growth of our relationship.
That isn’t something I’m ready to put at risk. This is my choice.
The Internet has made it seem so easy to “embrace your truth” and “live your most authentic life” without recognizing the cost involved for some people. What if my version of living an authentic life means not sharing parts of myself I’m simply not ready to?
If you felt a tinge of jealousy over the countless coming out stories that flooded your social media timeline this month, it’s okay.
You’ll get there or maybe it’s your choice not to. Either way, do what’s best for you.
