To Be a Lesbian

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It is nightfall and a dozen people are sitting in front of the Magic Cottage, drinks all around on a makeshift table decorated with a red and yellow flowered tablecloth from the ‘50’s and several small vases of all-colored zinnias. JB’s first annual yard-art party is winding down and in a now quiet evening we are all winding down too, along with Jess and Mike and some of their mutual friends, including Jess’ best friend J.

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I can’t remember the prompt, but at one point Jess smiles at J, who is pleasantly impaired from a full day of summertime wine.

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“If I were a lesbian, J,” Jess says, “I would want it to be you.”
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J blushes, smiles back. It is a tender moment between friends.

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My son-in-law, who is also loose from the wheel barrel of beer and ice nearby, chuckles in mock dismay.

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“Hey!” he says. “Cut that out!”

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I cherish this memory. It is starkly different from the junior high school days when I would find our birthday and anniversary cards face down on the mantel, Jess afraid that her friends would see them and figure out that her Mother was a lesbian.

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JB and I have been together 25 years. We were officially ‘married’ four years ago, when the state of Massachusetts enacted an historic law recognizing gay marriage. I didn’t think the freedom to marry would affect me as deeply as it did. Something monumental shifted that morning for both of us, at the Post Office Café in Provincetown, when we exchanged vows and walked the beach later, our hands clasped together, securely, swinging freely in the wind.

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When I first fell in love with a woman—a brilliant African American woman who was both aloof and tender, I was barely 30 and building a business and being gay was not an attribute. I did not acknowledge our relationship until it fell apart, after three years, and it fell apart in large part because I was unable to publicly acknowledge the love we had for one another.

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I was married to my ex-husband for twelve years before that. Together we are the proud beneficiaries of the most wonderful daughter. Our marriage cracked before my interest in women became clear and even today I can’t say I have no interest in men, because sometimes I do. I don’t know if everyone who knows me would agree, but most often people I meet do not know I am a lesbian until I tell them, a fact among many I now share freely if asked or when there is a reason.

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Four years ago I met a woman, initially through blogging, and she and I loved one another from the beginning. Our relationship was intimate and intense, spanning two and a half years and hours upon hours of daily phone calls, emails, letters, colors, words. We had occasional actual time together, mostly at my insistence. She met my family, my friends, I met hers, we laughed, we argued, we shared, we struggled. Even so, I believed that we would love one another throughout our lives, that we would and could land that love softly, without injury to ourselves, to our partners, to the people we loved.

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We ended badly—one of us callous and one of us pathetic. I’ve been told about and have read her proclamations and descriptions of our relationship as dysfunctional, me as a bully and a stalker, the time we were together as 'toxic ooze'. I knew it was best not to acknowledge, not to respond. It was enough that I was writing about my own personal wounds and confused emotions. But I couldn’t bring myself to speak badly of her, to push back or correct the facts.

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I’ve recently become aware that part of my silence has been because I’ve wanted to protect her privacy. That began to change when I was shown an email she had written about me, referring to me by name, with great disdain, outlining a tale so far from my experience, my memory, my truth, that I began to realize that the vilification of what was real and who I am might have spread further and more harmfully than I thought possible.

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So now, there is a part of the record I now wish to set straight. It is this:

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We loved one another. It was mutual. It was reciprocal. It was consensual. There was a reality, and no relabeling or recrafting will change that. There was confusion and recklessness, but really, honestly, in my heart, it was nobody’s fault.

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Being gay or lesbian is not easy. Even today. There are social, cultural, religious norms and expectations that can still encourage shades on the windows and denials in dark corners. It is not easy to change the beliefs of an upbringing. But shame is not my issue, fortunately, and even through this JB and I have been protected by our enduring love for one another and by the diversity and range of people who generally share our values and views on equal rights. But every so often something occurs that startles me, wakes me up from a comfortable life that I now take for granted.

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Recently I’ve had occasion to wonder if my being a lesbian ever creates discomfort among any of my blog friends, specifically around comments I may leave them, about how I may express myself, or about what may have been said about me. It’s not in my constitution to hold back affection and love, and until now I haven’t given a second thought to expressing either to so many special people I care deeply about.
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Now there is another record I wish to set straight. It is this:
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Being a lesbian does not mean I have a physical/sexual/sensual interest in my friends. I don’t. The relationship I’ve described above never did start with just friendship. And except for a night of intoxicated impulsivity a hundred years ago, I have never crossed a line from friend to more-than-friend. I have no interest in that what so ever. So please, if anything I do or say makes you uncomfortable, I have been oblivious to that fact and truthfully, and I want to know.

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There was a time in my earlier life when I was embarrassed to be a lesbian. I felt awkward, sometimes even.‘less than.’ I don’t wish to feel that way again and if I can help it, I won’t let that happen to me. I don’t want to worry about a comment or email written about me or that I share with someone I care about because I’m afraid my intention may be misinterpreted. I hate the horrible effects and aftermath of shame to a woman I trusted and loved, who I believe trusted and loved me too, and while I wish I could shrug it off and move on, the truth is I’m sorry that anyone who loved me had and has to ever feel that way. I'm sorry when someone cannot allow themselves to be who they are.

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I’m sorry for that, but I will no longer let myself and what was true be misrepresented. I won't be so quiet any more. If challenges and corrections of the truth are needed, I will provide them. As of now, that is my decision and that is my honor.

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Thank you for taking the time.

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love

kj