For as long as I can remember, I’ve always had a strong opinion about things. Whether it was why we need to teach sexual education to our students sooner or why the Black Panthers were good, it’s always been there. But in the earliest part of my life, it was always about gay rights.

“So what your saying is… I can’t marry anyone I want?” I asked. “But I thought in America we could do whatever we wanted. Isn’t that the point?”

My mom smiled at me through the rear-view mirror. We were on the way home from church; the most usual place for my rants. “Well, some people think that it’s… Unnatural. They are, of course, wrong, but it is their beliefs. And in America everyone can, and should, have their own opinion.”

“But their opinion is wrong!” I cried, kicking my feet against the seat in front of me.

“I know it is,” My mom agreed.

I could feel myself getting worked up now. “How could you have an opinion that stops someone from doing something that everyone else can do?! Why is it wrong for me to marry a girl, but not a boy?!”

“It’s not wrong. Maybe you’ll become someone who helps everyone else to see that.” My mom said.

That was the first time in my life I really realized what I wanted to do. Even though I was only seven, I was ready to be an activist. Although, I didn’t know the word “activist” yet. Looking back on it, it was probably also the first time I realized I was gay; even though I didn’t quite know what that was, either.

Even though I thought it was obvious that I was gay, I knew I needed to tell my friends so they knew for sure. I was getting annoyed of always getting asked which boy I had a crush on and only talking about boys at lunch.

“You’re… gay?” Peighton asked, a look on her face that I would later call hatred.

I nodded, too nervous to really say anything. We were sitting in Peighton’s basement, eating popcorn and watching a show our parents would never approve of. It was standard sleepover behavior.

“Oh,” Peighton said, not making eye contact with me.

I didn’t get it. Why was she asking weird just because I’d rather marry a boy than a girl? Maybe she was conservative. I’d never say that outloud, though. It was the worst insult possible. Peighton spent the rest of the sleepover basically ignoring me. I suddenly felt unwanted.

After that sleepover, Peighton never sat by me at lunch again. We barely mumbled ‘hello’ to each other in the halls of school. But it wasn’t just Peighton, it was her other friends, too. It was obvious that she hadn’t kept my sexuality a secret. I did my best to ignore how hurt I really felt. It didn’t matter if they were mean, I’d just mutter ‘conservative’ under my breath every time I saw one of them so they knew I was mad.

A few years after confronting my mom about how unfair it is that people are denied basic human rights because of something they couldn’t change, I was comfortable with that fact that I was gay. Apparently, I was comfortable enough to tell everyone about it. Everyone meaning my friends and my sister. As a fifth grader, I thought it was none of my parent’s business.

“Your opinion on this matter doesn’t count,” Grace, my older sister, stated before taking the television remote out of my hands.

I pouted. “Well why not? You can’t just watch whatever you want all the time. You have to let other people have a turn.”

“I could say the same for you,” Grace smirked. “Besides, your reasoning is completely invalid. We’re not going to watch another episode of this stupid show just because you think this man is attractive. You don’t even know what attractive men look like! You like girls!”

“That doesn’t make my opinion invalid,” I said.

“Kinda does,” Grace sang, flipping the channel to a house renovation show she knew I hated.

“So I can’t have an opinion because I’m gay?” I asked, my voice growing in volume as I became more angered.
“And that’s the other thing,” Grace ranted. “You keep calling yourself gay. Why don’t you just say that you’re a lesbian? That’s when girls like girls. Being gay would mean that you’re a dude who likes other dudes.”

This was frustrating. Why did any of this matter, anyways? I wasn’t any different from a straight girl. And why couldn’t Grace just let me say and do whatever I wanted? She didn’t get what I was going through; no one did.
“It… It makes me feel uncomfortable to identify as a lesbian…” I whispered quiet enough that Grace would barely hear it, but loud enough that I wouldn’t have to say it again.

“That’s why I don’t really identify,” Grace said. “It makes life a whole lot easier to say that I’m into whoever the heck I find attractive. It’s not the business of anyone else.”

“I still get to say what men are and aren’t attractive,” I decided. “I’m gay, but I’m not blind.”

Grace laughed. “Whatever. But honestly, it doesn’t matter who you do and don’t find attractive. Your taste in men sucks.”
I smiled slightly. “Maybe because it doesn’t exist.”

Coming out to my friends and my sister was easy. Only one of my friends didn’t accept me, but she was long gone from my life by the time I decided to come out to my parents. Seventh grade. The day before New Year’s day.

“We need to talk about this,” My mom said.

I was freaking out. I thought my parents were liberal, but it didn’t seem like it anymore. They were both excited for marriage equality over the summer, so why weren’t they excited that I was brave enough to share such a big part of my life with them?

I nodded and covered my face with a pillow. I was sitting on the couch in the living room with my parents seated on the two chairs. I didn’t want to face them. It felt like my world was crashing down; I didn’t want them to know.

“We’re not upset,” My dad started.

Only a sentence into what I was sure was me being disowned, and I was already crying. The light blue fake velvet pillow in front of my face had patches of deep blue on it. I hated how it felt wet against my face, but I ignored it. I just didn’t want my parents to see me and I sure as heck didn’t want to see them either.

“We just care about you and think it’s important you tell us about this,” My mom agreed.

“There’s nothing to tell,” I spat.

My mom sighed. “Are the kids at school mean to you? Are you going to want to transfer schools? Should we talk to your teachers? Who even knows about this? Have you told your friends?”

“Everyone knows!” I cried.

It was true. My parents were the only people who didn’t know. The people who followed me on the internet had known forever and I’d come out through text to friends countless times. I also had a habit of subtly coming out during every class project I could possibly turn around to be about equal rights.

“Now can I go?” I pleaded.

My mom nodded and I walked off to my room. I plopped onto my bed and covered my face with yet another pillow. This was awful. I had expected my parents to act much differently. Not that it was a bad reaction, just not amazing. And why did they ask if I was being bullied? Just because I was gay I was more susceptible to bullying?
I sat up in my bed and grabbed out my Kindle. Everyone needed to know how this experience had gone. Even though I was upset, I was also relieved. So many people have awful coming out stories where there parents kick them out, but not me. No more hiding for me. It was the first day of my life as a new person; an openly gay teen.