Hannah Montana’s confused, so you can be too!
Coming to terms with my internalized homophobia.
By Lorelei Alverson
When I was seven I thought lesbians had to have short haircuts. I thought girls could only like other girls if both women involved wore loose fitting capris and flannels, or looked like the ladies my grandma gossiped about at the kitchen table: “you know Janet! I’ve heard she’s… you know… playing for the other team”.
It didn’t matter to my seven year old brain that I was infatuated with the girl who sat across from me at lunch, or that I got a warm tingly feeling when I braided my best friend’s hair; all that mattered was that there were two categories of women. The category that my grandma would pray for in church, and the category who wore purple frocks and danced in the sunshine, basking in god’s light. I was subconsciously determined to keep my identity in the second category.
When I was ten my eyes hovered over a shiny tabloid article lying on my grandma’s dresser. “Miley Cyrus; I’m a Bisexual!” was printed in a daunting red font over a retouched image of Miley emerging from a club, in a scintillatingly short skirt and sunglasses. On the drive home I asked my mom what Bisexual meant, and she told me “it means you’re confused.” I was sad that Hannah Montana was confused, but I hoped she would feel better soon.
By the time I got to high school, so many stereotypes had massaged themselves into my brain that I couldn’t begin to detangle. I didn’t like girls with short hair, I knew that. My parents’ friend who was gay wasn’t anything like me—she had bulky muscles and a gauged ear, and carried herself with a masculine stature. I, on the other hand, wrapped myself in a confused femininity of booty shorts and cropped T’s. Besides, there was the confident caress of my lust for guys. My poster of Leonardo DiCaprio reminded me of that, anyway. I would see pretty girls, and mask my affection with jealousy. Her eyes were bright and beautiful, but my obsession might just have been my desire for equally beautiful eyes? Right? I clung to these false hopes and turned a blind eye to the obvious facts in my heart.
The summer after freshman year, after a traumatizing nine months of pretending not to notice how beautiful my geometry partner was, I began to do my research. I emerged with a lot of false information—as one does when resorting to the internet for sex advice. But, among the thorns and useless weeds, there were rainbow flowers. I learned that girls could like other girls without the seemingly mandatory fresh shearing (although I would later learn that short hair can really work on some girls). I learned it was possible to like both Cara Delevingne and Channing Tatum. But, most importantly, I realized I wasn’t alone. There were girls somewhere out there just like me, with long flowing hair and a girly sense of fashion, asking the same ridiculous questions on the internet before they went to bed at night.
In sophomore year I came out as Bisexual. I heard every range of naivety and criticism, from people chanting dyke in the hallway to people gossiping that I did it for attention. But the truth was, I’d heard it all before. Ever since childhood I’d clung to the preconceived notions which echoed from the adults mouths around me, pouring ignorance into my cranium like fine homophobic wine. I’d basked in the stereotypes and molded myself with labels. But it only took a desire for knowledge, and three bars of WiFi, to set me free.
I began to view my sexuality as one of the many puzzle pieces which construct my identity. It is not a label, a lifestyle, or a chain designed to hinder my self expression. I am not a scandalous buzzword in People magazine, or even the notions of bisexuality which I had formulated in my imagination. I started to express my true self—a self that was defined by me, and me alone. The rainbow which I had buried within is now sprinkled into every burst of creativity, and exalted in every song, written word, or stroke of my paintbrush.
I now understand the monster that internalized homophobia is—I no longer stay up at night, haunted by what it all means, and I don’t cry anymore when people tell me it’s just a phase. I have psychology, science, and a massive network of allies armed against the layers of unintelligence and unawareness locked deep in my brain. In any case, I’ve learned that life is a learning curve. And you most certainly can’t pray the gay away.