The Abstract Lesbian

Guest post by Mo.

I have been coming out to people for almost 10 years now.  First my cousin, then my sister, brother, friends, coworkers, parents, grandparents.

The conversations have varied, from terrifying to nonchalant, from awkward to hilarious.  I’ve learned that coming out is not a one-time declaration – it’s something that I’ve done dozens of times and will have to keep doing for the rest of my life.  It’s old hat, and while it still presents its challenges, it is no longer the daunting task it once felt like.

There is another sort of coming out I’ve done just as often and for just as long.  And just like coming out gay is a necessity in a world where most people are straight, this other revelation is necessary in a world where certain assumptions are made about people of a certain age.

My being gay hardly surprises anyone anymore, but this still does:  I am a 31-year old virgin.

More specifically, I am a 31-year old virgin lesbian still ...continue reading ….

Getting My Hair Did
Guest post from our fabulous friend Cola!

By all appearances, it was an ordinary winter Wednesday morning in Edmonton; sunny and extremely frigid. Somehow, it still managed to be sort of pleasant. I had just finished work and was going home to sleep, though not for long. A short cat-nap was all I required because TODAY was the highlight of my week.

Soon…so soon, I told myself, calm and cool.
Yes indeed, y’all. I was finally getting my hair did!

You see, I am a woman who very much enjoys her hair. My hair can do many things. Although it is my weakness and my vanity, I had been neglecting my formerly luscious locks and it definitely showed.  If my hair could talk, it would not be speaking to me. It’d be pissed off at the fact that I’m the one responsible for its dull, lifeless appearance.  I had unfairly taken away its life and lustre; I had completely annihilated its reason to exist. Needless to say, a trip to the hair stylist was much needed.

I arrived at the salon later that morning. My stylist greeted me with an enormous smile. She had always been extra sweet to me. She more than understood my hair struggle and was eager to guide me through it. Grateful for her skills, I made myself comfortable in the chair.

My stylist is an African woman and the salon is tailored to Edmonton’s black population. It’s a beautiful concept that has played itself out quite nicely. I’ve always enjoyed getting my hair styled there; it was always warm, open, and welcoming. I have always felt safe and cozy in that space. It was so full of energy all of the time. People floated in and out continuously. Some came for appointments, others for good company.  Friends and clients never hesitated to drop by, even if it was just for a “hello”. I enjoyed the buzz of activity and the crazy laughter. Getting my hair done was always a treasured experience. I loved bonding with new members of my community.

That day, we were joined by a woman I didn’t recognize. She was tall and very slender. Her clothing matched her voice, loud and colourful. When she spoke, people stopped their own conversations to listen. Bundles of gossip escaped from her mouth in mere minutes.  She talked a lot with her hands. Her tone was crass but she seemed harmless enough:

“…Lord knows I wouldn’t send my worst enemy into her shop, not even for a wash! She’ll do anything to get business up in there. And then there’s that stupid flag on display. Ridiculous! Do you know what that means?”

Neither my stylist nor I understood what she was chattering about at that moment. We glanced at each other, looking for clarification. The unknown woman needed no other prompting:

“That rainbow flag! Do you know what that means? It’s for those gay people. Ugh. How disgusting. Why would you flaunt that?”

My mouth contorted and I felt my eyes widen. I opened my mouth and then shut it again. My thoughts began to race and I felt dizzy trying to keep up with them. Time slowed itself down; I disengaged from the present and I withdrew fully into my mind. I needed to make sense of my discomfort.Okay brain, this is all you. Give me something I can work with; something eloquent and precise. My brain whirred; about to deliver a simple, all encompassing thought….

“WHAT THE ENTIRE FUCK!!!”

Huh. Better luck next time brain – points for powerful expression though.

The conversation (more so, this woman talking relentlessly) continued. Shortly after, my stylist chimed in. Their words entered my world quickly and painfully:

“People are allowed to be gay, if they have to be.”

“ If they are gay, they can’t be gay and on display!”

“Hanging up a rainbow flag is just plain disrespectful.”

Wow!

In my head, I had already stood up to tell them how disrespectful they were being. I explained that the rainbow flag is displayed so the queer community knows they are safe and welcome in that area. I stated that it’s obvious that neither of them truly accept sexual minorities if they can spew such hate. Then I got angry and abandoned my sweet explanation. My arm was spring loaded and ready to snatch a weave.

Except, none of these things actually happened.

My eyes glazed over and I felt ashamed, as I already knew that my thoughts would never be vocalized, not into their world. These women do not know that they are hurting my communities. Such repulsion does not benefit the black community or the queer community. Nobody wins. I sure as hell can’t fucking win.

This same space that went out of its way to welcome a minority population cannot accept another. There is so much that they needed to understand. I could have shared this knowledge and planted a tiny seed for change. I should have. I didn’t.

I caved to the fear of not being able to heal the hurt that just took place. What if I couldn’t be the person to bridge both communities and make it right? I was so afraid that I’d have to choose one or the other. I, like so many others, belong to both. I crave to be recognized, accepted, and loved in every community I belong to.

I should have. And I didn’t.
I guess my hair isn’t my only weakness.