Sorry

Some people plainly and undoubtedly know who they are. Despite my efforts, I am not one of those people. I have struggled to find belonging in my religion, my sexuality, and my culture. For the most part, it’s always easier to pretend I don’t care as much as I do about it. 

Some of my earliest memories consist of praying to God right before bed to make me “normal.” This was a nightly routine. I thought, and sometimes still think, that this aspect of myself would disgust and scare loved ones away, so for a long time, I simply tucked away that part of myself. As a result, throughout middle school and the beginning of high school, I was a recluse with very few friends. Few friends meant I got to avoid opening up to people. 

I focused all of my energy on academics– leaving myself no time to think about my burden. My logic was that if I could be good in all other aspects of my life: a good daughter, an honor student, and a devoted Catholic then it wouldn’t matter that I liked girls. I was my mother’s “perfect” daughter, an easy child who didn’t bring trouble and someone she could gloat to her friends about. I was happy she was happy even if that meant hiding a part of myself. However, this clearly flawed system of mine inevitably collapsed. 

It was toward the end of 7th grade, the peak of COVID-19 and quarantine. There were no more assignments or tests to distract me from my thoughts. Not only that but there was no more Sunday mass, meaning I didn’t have that constant religious guilt hanging over my head. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold this secret of mine, it became especially difficult to do so when I started to catch feelings for my best friend at the time. Fast forward a year later and she would turn out to reciprocate these feelings too but that all came to an end when my mom found out about the relationship. That was all it took for my mom to lose all trust and respect for me– her discovering I had feelings for a girl. My relationship with my mom was ruined. For a while, our only conversations would always end in arguments and tears. 

My mom gave me speech upon speech about how being gay would essentially ruin my life. She would talk about how I couldn’t blame anyone for making obscene comments about my sexuality or for judging me because that was the life I chose. She emphasized that a lot, that I had chosen this for myself. I had not. In what world would someone choose something that would complicate their life? She also talked about how my actions were against god and sinful. In her mind, there was no value in a relationship that couldn’t conceive children. As for my dad, I got speeches about how I was too young to know what I wanted and I was just confused. On one hand, I understood that my immigrant parents, who were born and raised in Mexico, had grown up in a generation and environment where this sort of behavior was frowned upon but that didn’t make their reactions to me hurt any less.

In the end, with the help of close friends, I accepted that I couldn’t dictate the opinions of others no matter how much I disagreed with them but I did have control over whether or not to let those things get to me. I won’t lie there are still moments in which I feel shame for my sexuality but I know I’ve come a long way from where I started. Progress is progress.