My Grandmother Dragged Me Out of the Closet
I was 12 years old when I first suspected I liked women. I was obsessed with a girl named Roisin in the year above me at school. Each moment intended for learning was instead spent assessing her whereabouts, ensuring we were conveniently in the same place at the same time so I could get my fix of a hug, or, in most cases, just a “Hey!” If I didn’t obtain said interaction, I’d be on a comedown, unable to concentrate until the next time I caught sight of her in the corridor. I was a complete addict. She was my first thought in the morning and my last thought at night, and this was my first real infatuation — but it wasn’t behaviour that was alien to me. Since primary school I have idolised girls and made it my aim to befriend them without thinking anything of it. It was one lunchtime, however, that I realised this was different.
Roisin had stopped in the door frame of my classroom to look for someone, her Amazonian height filling the space, and my eyes had barely glanced at her when my heart jumped so hard it felt like I’d been whacked in the chest. I was distraught. Why had my body reacted this way before my mind had even identified who it was? That afternoon, I bunked off P.E. and sat in the medical room in silence, staring at my lap and faking physical illness, although I was certainly emotionally disturbed. I felt like my life had halted. Was I gay? The nurse called my mum to come and pick me up, and that evening I broke down in the shower. The thought of one of my mates repeatedly taunting our group of friends flashed before me… “Did you know that one in four teenage girls turns out to be a lesbian? It’s definitely going to be you Fern,” she’d say. To this day I have no idea of the truth in that statistic, but Oh my god, I’d think. What if it is me? My friends seemed to have accepted my fate before I’d even acknowledged it.
As my mum caught me sobbing in the bathroom, still wrapped in a towel because I was too dejected to dry myself, I could hold it in no longer. “I think I’m a lesbian!” I wailed, pouring my heart out with all the liquid in my eyeballs until water and tears were indistinguishable. My mum replied by calmly asking me if I’d had sexual thoughts about girls or just wanted to cuddle them, and because I was still pre-pubescent, my answer of the latter managed to convince us both that it was just a phase.
Seven years later, while my mum remained nestled comfortably in the lap of denial, the rest of my family were still in the dark about my sexuality. Meanwhile, I’d had the bright idea to start seeing someone who lived in the same block of flats as my nan. After a night of arguments and drama, I’d stormed out on this girl without my shoes and found myself outside my nan’s door at 4am with panda eyes and blotchy lips. Coming out was an essential part of telling her what was wrong, and her reaction was the cutest. “Well I knew there had to be something — you were too perfect,” she said. I was extremely grateful to her at this point, even more so because she promised not to tell anyone. I should have remembered that she also regularly promised to quit drinking, yet it was rare for me to see her sober more than twice a year.
True to my retrospective word, a few days later I left work to find a missed call from her. Phoning her back I heard the emotional, drunken slur of, “Your dad loves you sooo much.” I knew immediately what had gone down. She’d told him. Better, she’d called him up during a romantic meal with his fiancée, unaware in her intoxicated state that it was Valentine’s Day and she was disturbing their entire evening. I was furious. But she hadn’t stopped there. My beloved grandmother had then proceeded to call random members of my family, taking it upon herself to administer the news like the Angel Gabriel. I didn’t talk to her for a month. She’d stripped me of my right to come out, something I strongly believe everyone should choose to do off their own accord as a means of personal growth. Luckily, my fear of people’s reactions was unfounded and backfired on her. My uncle — her own son — called her a “cunt” for betraying me.
I avoided my dad for the next few days, but when I finally picked up the phone I was met with a mere, “So what, am I not gonna have any grandkids then?” After assuring him this that was not the case and I was born to be a mother, he simply said, “Do what you gotta do”. It’s barely been mentioned since. Everyone else has similarly welcomed my sexuality with open arms and I have not had one of my friends or relatives receive it negatively. I understand I am one of the lucky ones, and it is only as I am writing this that I truly realise how grateful I am to everyone in my life for making this the case. At the time of writing, my little sister is 12 and my mum recently informed her of my sexuality. She was as unphased as I could hope for, and rightly so — I only wished I had that foresight at the same age. Now, even if I could be straight I wouldn’t be. I love girls, and I bloody love loving them.
