Coming Out and Coming to Life

Mother of four daughters, wife for 15 years, Black, and lesbian. The day I looked in the mirror and said, 'you are lesbian' to my 30 something self was the day I claimed my right to a life without longing. The longing that was always with me, the longing I had learned to live around, the longing that did not have a name was gone; banished by a woman's touch. To my shock and horror, that made me lesbian. In retrospect, the day the longing stopped was the day I became an abomination to the Black community.

Before coming out, I was comfortable and afraid at the same time. I had a safe life with a Black man who was a good provider and faithful husband. I was protected, secure, and valued by the larger African/American community. I was a mother, which meant that I was doing my part to ensure that African/Americans continued into the future. Black men respected me and looked at our family with admiration. I was a wife, which meant that supporting Black men was most important to me. Other women called me blessed because I had a good husband and beautiful daughters. My mother-in-law introduced me to her friends with pride. My future was secure. My place was defined. My heart was fearful. I was afraid of being alone.

Overnight my greatest fear came true. With one forbidden touch, my future became uncertain. Being lesbian meant that I was something to be exorcised from the Black community. Suddenly, people assumed that I hated men, especially Black men. Mothers protected their children from me, and looked at my daughters and ex-husband with pity. Men took it upon themselves to correct my lesbian waywardness through unwanted sexual advances. My in-laws shunned me. My friends avoided me. Coming out meant I had no community. I had no protection. In my mid-30's and rejected by the overall Black community, I found myself searching for acceptance in the gay community.

The failure of established gay rights activist to engage Black communities in the battle to oppose Prop 8 and similar anti-gay movements tells me that what I experienced in the mid-90's is relevant today. As a newly out Black lesbian looking to the gay community for the acceptance I had lost, I quickly learned that my oppression, my pain, and my presence were important only when they validated the white gay agenda. This means that for the most part, Black LGBT people are neither valued nor wanted. Our experiences are not valuable to white LGBT communities and our presence is not wanted in Black heterosexual communities. This puts Black LGBT people in a chasm of indifference and apathy. The world is indifferent to our struggles and we become apathetic to our own pain. We learn not to value who we are. We learn to ignore our pain. We learn to live with internalized homophobia.

I was very much stuck in that chasm for years. I did not value who I was, so I did not demand the respect that I deserved. In addition, I did not acknowledge my own pain. When my partner and I found each other, and decided to make a life-long commitment, there was no celebration with family and friends. No community blessing and no welcome to the family. Being ignored and ostracized in this way hurt, and deep down I believed that I deserved the treatment. This was my internalized homophobia.

Ignoring my pain, and not expecting our relationship to be honored by family and society only served to damage my relationship with my partner. Recently my partner and I have started working to repair the damage caused by internalized homophobia. To do this, we both had to understand how anti-gay attitudes hurt us and how internalized homophobia hurts our relationship. The work is difficult. We have to trust our wisdom and respect the wisdom of the other. Most important, though, we both have to come out of our fear. We have to release the fear of being alone. Stop being afraid of offending those who could care less about our happiness.

Coming out meant losing the longing. Coming to life means losing my fear.