It’s Pride Month, and my heart hasn’t been in it, which is fine and life. Some years, things hold less weight in our hearts or minds than other years, and that’s okay. But I need to care a little bit because I am le gay, and I can’t not. So here I am, forcing myself to Pride for the last eleven days, and I’m starting in the most uncomfortable way I can.
Being proud of literally anyone I know is so easy for me. Like… have you seen people? Pretty incredible. Okay, less so for white dudes. I’m so proud of my people for just being them. To the point I could explode with how incredible and strong I know they are.
How do I do that? How do I give myself even a modicum of grace I give everyone else? What have I done deserving enough of pride? Nothing. That is my visceral answer. That is what I truly believe to my core. I have done nothing nor am I worthy of being proud of myself. I know, logically, this is not true, but it feels true. My internal monologue can be boiled down to: feelings fighting logic. Feelings never win out against logic. Except when logic is trying to convince my feelings that I’m a good or decent human deserving… anything remotely on the cusp of kindness. Pride falls into this strange category of feeling based on logical analysis. Or it is, at least, for me.
Making myself create a list of reasons I’m proud feels like a form of self-harm; though, I know, it’s actually a good exercise in self-love, which is indicative that I love myself. I do not. I am solidly pretending that I love myself. Fake it til you make it. Going on 32 years, I’ve gotta have a breakthrough at some point in time. It’s not today, but over the course of 16 days—truly started this one a hot minutes ago—I came up with this list. I stretched. Maybe #12 should be: I’m really proud I finished this list and actually put it into the world.
Just a Pride photoshoot. Nothing to see.
I came out. Simultaneously the easiest and hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I am alive.
I got tattoos. I now have ten with appointments for two more this fall. They make me happy. They make my body feel like it belongs to me just a little bit. My tattoos are personal and public reclamation and declaration.
I don’t respond to my parents’ anymore.
I cut out toxicity. The people who made me feel anxious, less than, unworthy, undeserving, too much. I shut out the people who wouldn’t or couldn’t match me. Being in my life is an investment, just like I believe being in other people’s lives is an investment; so I’m not making shitty investments anymore.
My puppies are safe and loved. In 2020, I spent a lot of time, money, and emotion rescuing and raising a dog and her thirteen puppies. Every single one of them is safe, happy, loved, and thriving in their furever homes.
I’m chasing peace rather than chaos.
I’ve sought out friends who accept me as I am.
I keep going.
I’m trying really hard.
I’m making an effort to be vulnerable with those who have earned it.
I got my first tattoo when I was twenty-four. I didn’t get my next until last month when I was in Denver visiting my best friend. The last set of tattoos were about embracing and even publicizing my queerness, specifically my lesbian identity. In hindsight, I should’ve gotten them years ago; it’s really cut down on the number of men who approach me out in the world. Also they make me happy.
For my 31st birthday, I doubled my number of tattoos by getting three all at once. They also mean a great deal for very personal reasons. The most personal being the most visible. No one has asked yet, but I know it will be commented on one day. I have no idea how I’ll handle it, hopefully with grace.
After getting my tattoos in Denver, I knew I wanted more. And I knew exactly what I wanted to get. I didn’t have any set plans for when or where I would get them, but I knew it would be sooner rather than later.
I’m going to take this moment to introduce Meghan. A few names pop up in my writing with frequency: Dylan, Alex, Amanda, Kelsey. Meghan has been mentioned multiple times over the last eight months but never by name. I don’t name people often because I really do like to keep my private life private. Also I am guarded, and it takes a long time for me to be convinced someone actually wants to be in my life for the good and the bad. Once they make an appearance in my writing, there’s no undoing that. For whatever reason, people pay attention to me and my writing and ask questions when new people show up or when regulars disappear. Eight months is actually quite fast for me to mention a name, but we bonded fast, and sometimes you just know when a human is for you. I figure she’s probably sticking around at this point; we’ve been through a lot. I might as well let her have her name. Plus, like all my other notable friends, she has an exceptionally generic name, unlike me, so there’s still a modicum of anonymity; except I will tag her on Instagram, so if you really want to know what she looks like: good luck her profile is private. Anyways, Meghan is a fundamental human in my life. Why do I mention her now? Because she’s an important part of this story.
A week before my birthday, Meghan asked what I wanted to do on my birthday. I generally don’t think about it because a) I hate my birthday b) I just let whoever’s in my life plan whatever they want for me c) or I ignore it completely. After giving it some thought, I told her I wanted to have it be very low-key, get tattoos, and have a bonfire. So that’s exactly what we did.
On the day of my birth, we both got tattooed. Her tattoo is her story to tell, but I will tell you about mine. I got an 8 on my left ankle, servive just above my right elbow, and a crocus on my ribs near my heart.
A perfect 8 for a perfect boy.
The 8 was not originally a tattoo I knew I wanted. On May 7, Meghan and I buried her cat Ocho, who died suddenly. My gay concentric circles tattoo (read about that here) is partially in honor of Ocho’s dog brother, Nigel, who also passed far too soon. I spent so much time with both Ocho and Nigel since meeting Meghan. They weren’t my pets, but they absolutely stole my heart in every single way. When they both passed, I was truly devastated. I still miss them. Ocho was all but a kitten. He and I played… hard. When he wanted to play and I didn’t, he would attack my ankles like the apex predator he was. He ruined my ankle modeling career with his murder mittens. I still have scars. He was also the snuggliest, sweetest, goodest, most determined, stubbornest, swiftest boy in the world. So when he died, I knew I wanted to get something to commemorate him like I did his brother. Nothing felt more right than an 8 on the ankle he loved to shred. I miss him every single day, but I carry a sweet little reminder of his ridiculous antics.
I love flowers. My best friend, Amanda, is a floral designer who turned me into a subpar designer when she needs me, so now flowers are more than just something to be admired. I appreciate them. I also know a lot more about them than I did a few years ago. So Amanda helped me figure out which flower best represented what I wanted to communicate to myself because… this tattoo will really only be seen when I want to show someone. It’s more of a show and tell kind of thing.
22 year old me would be extraordinarily surprised by all of these tattoos but especially this one.
The tattoo placement and color is an interesting choice for a couple reasons. I always said I would never get color tattoos… Woops. I have a very colorful arm tattoo and a very colorful crocus tattoo. I also said I would never get a tattoo on my torso until after I had child[ren] because I don’t want stretch marks to ruin them. The older I get, the less and less likely it is I have a kid, so fuck it.
Crocuses thrive in adverse conditions. They actually can’t bloom without four months of below freezing temperatures. They bloom even when there’s snow on the ground. Year after year, crocuses come back with more and more blooms. Small and delicate flowers with a huge impact and an ability to thrive because of the chilling period. I feel like a crocus that hasn’t bloomed yet. I feel like someday I will thrive because of the chilling period. That I will bloom because of the harsh conditions I have servived. I wanted it near my heart because sometimes I think my heart needs the reminder that all the pain it has endured will lead to something beautiful. I just don’t know what the fuck that beauty looks like yet. Hopefully, I servive long enough to find out. I chose the color purple because it’s my alma mater’s color; the place I met two loves of my life, Alex and Kelsey. I would not be here covering myself with tattoos if they had not chosen to love me all those years ago.
servive was the hardest. It took me two weeks to be emotionally stable after inking myself. I was truly a wreck the day after my birthday. I didn’t get off the couch.
My favorite but the absolute hardest.
“Servive” is a word I came up with because I hate being called a survivor. I am. I was cyclically raped for years. I’m a domestic violence, sexual assault, rape, psychological abuse survivor. It’s an integral part of who I am. It’s not something I have ever hidden from. But I hate the term survivor. I didn’t survive. The girl I was before is dead. Everything I went through killed that person. Who I am now is not who I was. I will never be her again, and I would give anything to be the person I was before. I am not stronger, I did not survive, but those are conversations for another post another time. So, I coined the term servivor or servive because I use my experiences, my story to serve others, to make change, to bring awareness. There has to be good that comes out of the hell I call my life.
I watched the ink needled into my skin as each letter of servive started to appear. I cried the whole time. It was hard and overwhelming and emotional. I knew it would be hard, but I had no idea how awful it would be. I’m glad Meghan was there because I needed someone who loved me to be by my side. The men who hurt me left their mark on my heart and soul and memory. It’s indelible. I will never forget. But they’re invisible. I only had invisible reminders of the men who killed the person I was before. Now I have a physical reminder. It’s not for everyone. For me, I needed it. I need that pain to be visible, even if I’m the only one who understands.
The process of having servive tattooed on my body felt like I was branding myself with every wrong and violence those men put my body and mind through. It was awful. It was horrifically painful emotionally. I was not okay in any way. Choosing to put it in a visible place was a choice I made for myself. A very hard choice that opens me up to questions because it’s misspelled, but it also opens me up to vulnerability just as much as animosity. I made that choice knowing it would be hard. It’s one of the few times I’ve underestimated how difficult something would be. I do not regret it. I love this tattoo more than the others because it’s hard. Because I earned it. It is a reminder of where I’ve been, so many obstacles I’ve overcome, an allowance to give myself grace, and a message to not give up.
While I was getting the first of the three tattoos, Meghan had just finished getting hers. She sat down to watch me get mine, as much for her own amusement as in support. She asked a question that I will never forget, which she does frequently without meaning to, it’s irritating how accidentally insightful she can be, “After you get a tattoo, do you feel like it was always supposed to be there?” I had never thought of it in that way, but the only tattoo I had up until six weeks ago is not extraordinarily visible. Having it felt right. But it had also been there for seven years, and I go long periods of time without seeing it. With my most recent tattoos, I see them constantly. I can’t agree with her more.
Looking at these tattoos on my body, they feel like they were always supposed to be there. I feel more myself than I’ve ever felt before. I wasn’t the kid who looked at tattoos and thought I would have them. It wasn’t until I was in my early twenties that I even considered getting one. I’m a cautious person by nature, and tattoos are permanent. These tattoos, that mean a great deal, feel like I’m finally reclaiming my body—something I constantly struggle with. These tattoos make my body feel like my home. Like I’m taking ownership of something that has always belonged to me but was never accessible. Marking it. Making it my own. Decorating it with things that make me happy, turning it into a representation of my truest self.
For my 31st birthday, I got tattooed. I’m slowly giving my body back to myself.
Hey, y’all. I’m queer. Pansexual to be specific. This isn’t my coming out. I’m fully out of the closet. If I’m being honest, I never had an I’m-not-straight talk with anyone. It’s just been something that has existed as a solid fact in my life for a decade now. My non-heterosexual identity has been talked about for awhile, but as I get older, I’m feeling the need to live more loudly in my queer identity. This story is a whole lot longer than a single blog post, and, honestly, I may turn it into a collection of essays at some point. Let’s be honest, I’m unpacking so many things about my sexuality that I have kept firmly in a box unto itself, which is very unfair to my identity and journey as a human.
I never felt the need to come out for a whole lot of reasons. Too many to count. The two biggest being my family and my college.
I grew up in a weird house. Conservative in as many ways as it was liberal. So much progress mired in an ideology founded in my parent’s small, Midwestern childhoods’ of the 60s and 70s. My parents were and are accepting, but they did not grasp the nuance, language, or broad rainbow spectrum. They were products of their generation, and it showed[s] in their language, phrasing, expression, and beliefs. Equally, I am a product of my own generation, education, family, and ultimately genetics.
Cornell College, my alma mater, is incredibly liberal. The epitomization of: college is for self-exploration. My friends embodied “Do the thing. Do all the things. Try them now before life crushes us with debt and responsibility.” Damn, I love those humans. There were labels, but if you were on a journey and didn’t label anything, well that was okay too. Label it or don’t, just be a good person.
My favorite pride dress.
I remember writing, “I think I’m gay.” at twelve. I quite literally burned that piece of paper. For so many reasons I couldn’t name back then. Shame (which was not instilled in me by my parents or church, just, you know, society and the patriarchy). Isolation. Mostly uncertainty. I knew I wasn’t gay in the binary that I was aware of. Bisexuality wasn’t even presented to me as an actual sexuality… I’m not even going to get into that here. The isolation came from knowing I wasn’t straight, but knowing I wasn’t gay either. In a progressive town that had… all but no gay people (that I knew of, especially at the time), I would have been very much alone in an identity I still had no name for. For the kids reading this, this is pre-high speed internet, and I would have had to know the term to look it up in a dictionary—it’s a large book containing all the words and their definitions. I remember hearing people say, “Oh, she’s gay.” But “she” had moved out of town years before. Had I known what I was and been out in high school, it would have changed nothing because there were only boys to date anyways.
For so many reasons, the unknown of what I was didn’t affect my adolescence in any way. Truly, there is zero trauma stemming from my pansexual existence; loads and loads of trauma from other things in my life, though!
I don’t have that trauma because of a seminal moment in my adolescence.
But first, back story. I was an incredibly late bloomer. I didn’t get my first period until I was sixteen. I was not interested in sex until I met the love of my life at almost twenty. (I did get raped repeatedly by my high school “boyfriend” from 17 to 19. Oh hey there, trauma. Sup?) My sexuality wasn’t a crisis because it didn’t really exist for twenty years. I did not go through the boy/girl/sex crazy phase. Ever. I might be entering it now at thirty. Like I said, late bloomer. I became a sexual human at 19.5 when I fell in love and entered my first serious relationship with a human, who happened to be male. I fell in love with the human because he was and is incredible.
More back story. As a kid, I was pretty intensely into ballet. I was also a cheerleader, had a huge affinity for dresses, played the flute, was working on being a classical pianist, had straight As for most of middle school and high school (getting raped affected that a bit), obsessed with wearing heels. In so many ways, all arrows pointed to girly-girl, on the surface. (I still present super femme.) Dig deeper into my psyche and for those who knew/know me, the gender expression and sexuality waters get a lot murkier, but I won’t get into that right now.
Can’t Even Think Straight
On to the seminal moment.
At fifteen, I was walking through the kitchen, having just gotten home from cheerleading practice. My mother was in the kitchen stirring spaghetti sauce. One hand controlling the wooden spoon. One hand holding the pan. One foot grounded and the other on a stool, a bit Captain Morgan-ish now that I think about it. As I walk past, she says, “RaeAnna, I have a question for you.” My mother is never this formal. The Type A personality in me froze. What had I done wrong??? “Okay?” Without missing a beat or looking at me, still very much focused on her task, “Are you a lesbian?” Not the question I was expecting at all. It was so far off my radar, I really never ever thought I would hear that question. I had always known that if I was gay that it would be no big deal. My parents would be able to accept that without a problem (probably one of the few things about the authentic me that have been easily accepted). I hadn’t really thought about it since writing “I think I’m gay” three years prior. Like I said, not a sexual human at that point in time. “Um… Not that I know of.” Again, without missing a beat, “Okay. Just asking. If that ever changes, let me know.” One of the most nonchalant conversations I have ever had with the woman. She has given me a lifetime’s worth of writing material, but this is one of the moments I look back on and respect the hell out of her for.
If you don’t know me, if you don’t follow me, if you’re just meeting me for the first time, I present as ultra feminine, conservative, Christian, Suzy Homemaker, Type A, straight woman. I can be femme, but I also have some serious masc energy. I am absolutely not conservative; I get why people think that, but yikes no. I live my life pretty conservatively because that’s my comfort zone. Haha, trauma. But I am not conservative in any way at all. I am quite the flaming liberal, progressive, intersectional feminist. I’m not Christian; I’m atheist, but I was raised Methodist. I am definitely a Suzy Homemaker. Call me grandma; I love cooking, baking, sewing, cross stitching, knitting, crocheting, taking care of people, and keeping a clean house. I hate cleaning, but I AM Type A with a touch of OCD. Hey there, I’m neurotic, fun neurotic, still neurotic, though. I am NOT straight. I have only been in relationships with men. For a lot of reasons, none of which have anything to do with preferring men to women.
There was never an announcement of my queerness. No discussion. No party. I never officially came out. I never felt the need. It started with an “I’m attracted to women.” progressed to “I would definitely date women.” before turning into “I would have sex with women.” and eventually became “I’m attracted to people. I could spend my life with any gender.” It was slowly and steadily established as a fact about me. It’s been the last six years that I started using the term pansexual to describe myself. It’s been in the last year that I’ve started claiming queer. It’s a journey, and I’m on it.
Worth A Read Yes Length 384 Quick Review Elle and Darcy are complete opposites. After a disaster of a date, they end up faking a relationship to escape the familial judgement accompanying the holidays.
My reading habits trend toward nonfiction and classical literature. As a blogger, I’ve been trying to branch out more. In 2020, I have read more fluff than I’ve ever read in my entire life, and it’s been great. Not because the books are great, but because this year sucks. That being said, I looked forward to reading Written in the Starsby Alexandria Bellefleur because it is a rom-com with two women at the center of the love story.
Elle is the co-owner of an astrology company with her best friend and roommate, Margot. They’re partnering with a popular dating app to create something new and innovative for users. The app’s owner sets Elle up with his sister Darcy, an actuary. Due to being complete opposites, the date is a complete disaster; however Elle and Darcy embark on a fake relationship to get them through the holidays.
If this ruins the story for you, you’ve not read or watched enough rom-coms… meaning this is your first. Elle and Darcy fall in love in the vein of: opposites attract. Woah. Written in the Starsis a cute novel that’s well written. There’s nothing revolutionary or phenomenal about it and hits all the common beats in a rom-com. At its heart, it’s just another love story. I like it more because it’s a rom-com with two women going through the motions of falling in love.
Even though I didn’t hate this book, I really enjoyed the female friendships that both Elle and Darcy have. They’re full of unconditional love and support. I will never get tired of reading about realistic representations of female friendships. There are not enough healthy depictions of women supporting women, and I will always show up for them.
I’m kicking off my Christmas reading with Written in the Stars because it’s my favorite that I’ve read so far of the holiday books. It’s well written with good dialogue. The holidays are a part of the storyline but not the driving factor. I definitely suggest giving it a read the Christmas.
Memorable Quotes “ One too many exclamation points and you’d sound too eager. Whether you chose lol, rofl, or haha said something about you, about the conversation. How you spelled the word okay mattered, each iteration distinct in tone. K, of course, was in a league of its own, and if there was a period behind it? Chanceres were, things were not, in fact, okay.” ““No one is worth feeling like you’re not good enough, that you’re not amazing exactly as you are.””
bisous und обьятий, RaeAnna
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Title: Written in the Stars Author: Alexandria Bellefleur Publisher: Avon Books Copyright: 2020 ISBN: 9780063000803
Andrea Lawlor’s debut novel Paul Takes the Form of A Mortal Girlis quite the book. I’ve never read anything quite like it. It’s not my typical read. I didn’t love it, but I didn’t dislike it. It just made me uncomfortable. Not because of the queer coming of age story. It’s the sex. Not queer sex, I don’t care about that. I just don’t read books with sex in them because reading and watching sex makes me uncomfortable. This book has a lot of sex. The New Yorker calls it “Smut,” and I don’t disagree. The sex has a point to it.
Paul is queer in 90s Iowa City working and going to school as a Women’s Studies major. Paul has a dyke best friend, bartends, and dates around. Paul is a shapeshifter and can be anything he wants on demand. Paul changes his body by shortening his hair to becoming a party girl and everything in between. The young man travels from Iowa to San Francisco encountering struggles and pleasures along the way.
I may have been uncomfortable through the book, but it is very well written. Lawlor fills Paul Takes the Form of A Mortal Girlwith insightful and quippy one liners from the first page. Paul may be a young man trying to find himself and his place in the world as a queer person, but I think most everyone can identify with Paul in one way or another. People of all ages, genders, and sexualities are on continual journey to find themselves.
I also love that the book is partially set in Iowa City. Unknown fact, Iowa City is a UNESCO City of Literature. The city is home to the University of Iowa, and their internationally renowned MFA Writers’ Workshop. I grew up in Iowa and spent a lot of time in Iowa City during college.
If you’re looking for an intellectually stimulating book which is also fun for the summer, I would highly suggest Paul Takes the Form of A Mortal Girl. It is not for the faint of heart because it is quite the emotional roller coaster.
Memorable Quotes “Paul was flattered Jane thought he could understand what she was saying, did understand some percentage of what she was saying, and was bored by having to think that hard.”
The fact we have to have a month to bring awareness to any population of the world is shitty. I truly wish the world was a loving and accepting place full of kindness, but it isn’t. Which is why we have African American History Month in February, National Women’s History Month in March, Asian American Pacific Islander Heritage Month in May, National Hispanic-Latino Month in September, National American Indian (cringe) Heritage Month in November. This month of June is Pride Month to celebrate all our LGBTQIA+ brothers, sisters, and gender nonconforming family members.
I was lucky enough to grow up in a family and church where sexual orientation and gender identity were nonissues. My parents wouldn’t have cared if I came home with a girlfriend. When I was young, the church I grew up in created a mission statement accepting and welcoming people of all identities as God’s children. Two places where seeds of hate and ignorance could have – and for so many are – sowed, I was given examples of acceptance and love. People are who they are. I have always believed and will continue to believe sexual orientation and gender identity are a part of who a person is and cannot be changed, though they are often far more fluid than people realize.
Pride month is important to me like all the other months celebrating the beautiful diversity of humanity. I have known out LGBTQIA+ people my entire life. (We all know them, we might not be aware, though.) I remember my parents explaining to me, at four or five, why our family friend brought another man instead of a woman to dinner. The conversation went pretty much like this: Mom/Dad, “Instead of falling in love with a girl, he fell in love with a boy.” My reaction was along the lines of “ok.” Totally scarred for life. Just kidding. I loved him, he loved a man. Cool. When I was 15 and a freshman in high school, my mother asked me if I was gay because I had no interest in boys. It wasn’t a big deal, but it was a question. I was not a lesbian then, and I’m not now. (Although, my sexual preferences are probably more fluid than I had thought possible at 15.) People I knew came out at all ages around me. In college, I knew a ton of gay, lesbian, and bi kids; there were even people transitioning. On the first day of class, one of my classmates introduced herself and said she was transitioning and would prefer to be addressed with the pronouns “she and her.” I went to a very liberal school, and everyone had a nonreaction of “cool.” She was a she, and no one cared or made a big deal about it. It wasn’t really until after graduating from college, when I ran into homophobia or transphobia along with a lot of other phobias based on rigid and outdated ideas of how people work. I knew they existed, but it seemed like it should be a thing of the Ozarks where there is a lack of teeth and running water.
I’m all about Pride because everyone should support people embracing who they are. I’m also all about Pride because I have two gay cousins, who I love very much. I have friends who are LGBTQIA+, who I love very much. I want them to be able to inhabit the world with the same rights, protections, and abilities to be who they are and love who they love as their straight, cisgender neighbors without fear of violence or persecution. The world is changing; not nearly as fast as I would like. Marriage equality has been passed in my lifetime. It’s a huge step forward, but there are so many more to go.
Falling anywhere on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum or not on it at all is fine by me. I don’t care either way as long as you are a good person. My opinions are my own, and I would never push my own opinions and feelings on other people. I may not know a great deal. I do believe acceptance, kindness, and respect should be given to all people because every person is deserving.
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