The Choice to Be A Lesbian

I expected that I would have a husband starting from a young age—one of my earliest memories is playing a wedding cake game on my iPad with my friend, who we’d decided was to be my future husband. My grandparents, who are largely responsible for much of my upbringing, God bless them, are an eclectic mix of Irish Catholic, Mexican Evangelical, or Brooklyn Jews, yet all three sets hone a similar message: I will find a husband, he will make me happy, and most importantly, I should stay a virgin until I am married! I’ve always wanted many things for myself, but a husband, that was always the foremost goal. In my fantasies, both as a child and a teenager, he remained faceless, voiceless, and nothing more than a man standing at the altar in a tuxedo. My family stands around me and smiles, and I wear a white dress that I’d never pick for myself. It’s all I could imagine. 

I realized I was a lesbian for the first time when I was fourteen. I was dreadfully lonely, and like many of my ill-advised peers, I resorted to talking to strangers I’d met on the internet. There, I met a boy, he told me he liked me, and as the weeks went on, a feeling I can only describe as repulsion set in. I can still name the instance which set it off: I sent him a photo and he complimented me, writing “ur cute :),” I was instantly disgusted. It had nothing to do with him, although I’m sure the Depop-oriented long-distance girlfriend network I’d discovered he had didn’t necessarily help, but instead that I had to grapple with the reality of a man and not the fictional, faceless version of him that existed in my head. That night, I texted him to let him know we couldn’t speak anymore, I was a lesbian. I, once again, felt a deep sense of repulsion, not with him, but with myself. 

I’d known I was queer for years, flaunting my bisexuality became an almost telltale symptom of my generally insufferable fourteen-year-old vibe, but the hope of heteronormativity always remained for me—the hope I could present as “normal.” Suddenly, upon my revelation that I was a lesbian, all of that hope vanished. I’d never have a husband, I’d never see my entire family, smiling around me as I stood next to a man in a tuxedo. Having children, something I’ve always wanted, seemed nearly impossible. I knew my Abuelo would never be at my wedding, and I knew my mother would be ashamed. I knew too much, so I took my revelation and buried it deeply within me.

You can’t really bury things like that, honestly. I’d try to date several boys throughout high school, but the only relationship that stuck was with—you guessed it—not a boy. The pattern would repeat: I would like a boy, he’d like me back, repulsion. The reality of his existence, the reality of a man, repulsed me. I would feel literal waves of nausea at the thought of him touching me in any remote way. At a certain point, I knew it wouldn’t be possible to keep stowing my sexuality away, but everything I had to lose seemed to outweigh everything I had to gain. Despite my nearly two-year-long relationship with a not-boy, the promise of a future with a boy seemed ever more sophisticated and alluring. So, when my high school relationship inevitably came to a messy ending, even though I’d allegedly accepted my lesbian identity, I dove back into trying to find a man who would fix me. 

I’d continuously hurt the men I allowed into my sphere, villainizing them to my friends, when in reality, it was just my own insecurity in my identity projecting onto them. Men who’d accept me back after repeated ghosting were considered weak, men who attempted to engage in meaningful dialogue with me were considered stupid, and I promoted a false sense of misandry to protect myself from what I’ve always known: I am a lesbian. At times, the men would ask me if I was a lesbian, to which I’d endlessly mock them for questioning my sexuality, yelling that bisexuality exists (it does, I am just not bisexual), and again calling them stupid to my friends. It enraged me that even the men I knowingly used to cover up my lesbian identity could see through me. It felt like everyone could. 

When I came out as a lesbian to my mother at sixteen, she told me that I hadn’t tried hard enough with men. After all, I’d been wasting my youth dating someone who was not a man; therefore, how could I know? If I waited and kept trying, then I’d eventually land on the right one. I applied this logic for many years, consciously “choosing” to try and date men, but the reality of the situation was that I was needlessly causing pain to both myself and perfectly innocent men, simply because I was a lesbian. 

I know I am not alone in this experience; queer society often emphasizes the importance of “gold star lesbians” and invalidates those who aren’t, to which I offer the argument that, in a heteronormative society, isn’t heterosexual exploration nothing short of natural and expected? We as lesbians are told constantly by mass media that repeated attempts to change ourselves will ultimately work and lead to our heterosexual enlightenment. Women are expected to follow the path socially selected for us: meet a man, preferably when we are young, marry him, have his babies, raise his children, then die. It is enforced into us from early stages of our lives, so of course, there is a sense of loss for some lesbians, myself included, when we realize we cannot achieve these socially determined goals, ultimately leading some to forms of hetero experimentation. 

An article was published recently by Malakiva Kannan which focused on her experience of “choosing to be a lesbian.” I rebuke that concept, and it feels like a slap in the face to all of those who have no choice. I have no other choice but to be a lesbian, and there’s nothing else I would want to be. The love I share with my partner is like no other, and I’d rather run through the streets of Toronto naked in negative weather than ever put myself through what dating men felt like, because there was no other option for me. I worry that my writing sounds self-loathing; however, I am simply trying to convey the lack of options attached to being a lesbian. I had to knowingly walk away from everything my family had envisioned for me, everything I’d envisioned for myself, for me to truly be happy. There was no happiness in my life with men, and there never would be. I couldn’t select lesbianism, it was something which I’ve been blessed with from birth. I remember my first crush on a girl, my best friend in the third grade. I remember exactly how it felt, like the world fit into the palm of her hands. When I fell for my partner, all those months ago, it felt like the world fit into the palm of their hands, my heart softened with each touch, and my skin melted into theirs in a way I’ve never felt. In my life with men, there was nothing but dread and discomfort, no matter who he was.

There is no choice in queerness—reinforcing that stereotype is dangerous—and political lesbianism has been shown time and time again to be nothing more than a failure and meager cry for attention. Lesbianism isn’t just a rejection of men, boiling it down to that is offensive and wrong. Lesbianism, as it is defined, is solely being sexually attracted to women and non-men, and allowing men into a personal definition or “decision” to be a lesbian negates the whole point. I couldn’t choose to be a lesbian any more than I could have chosen to have green eyes. You cannot choose to be a lesbian because you are tired of having pregnancy scares (a legitimate reason listed within Kannan’s essay), you either are a lesbian or aren’t. I’m aware that this may be a controversial take, but I’m willing to stand by everything I’ve argued. I’ve wasted too many tears and hours ripping myself apart, and watched too many of my friends struggle similarly, for our identity to be taken as an act of political dissidence or an option for those who’d like to avoid pregnancy. Bisexuality is beautiful! Embrace it! Leave lesbians alone.