Beyond Visibility: It Really Does Get Better (And TV Helps)
If 2010 adopted a big gay slogan, surely it would be "It Gets Better." And if my email inbox is an accurate indicator, lesbian and bisexual women really want to believe that. Almost every day I get a message from an AfterEllen.com reader asking me if it really does get better. And if yes, when? And if yes, how?
Those are big questions with complicated answers. I think the answer to the main one - Does it really get better? - is yes. And I think part of the answer to the last one - How does it get better? - is, believe it or not, television.
Wait - hear me out.
A couple of weeks ago my dad asked me for the bazillionth time how old I was when I knew for sure I was gay. It's something he worries about a lot, I think, because he knew I was gay long before I knew I was gay on account of he spent a lot of sleepless nights heating up milk for me while I sat on the kitchen counter and sobbed about how my best friends would rather spend time practicing blow jobs with their boyfriends than braiding my hair. He worries about it because he is convinced I knew, but wouldn't come out; worried that he and my mom hadn't created a safe environment in which I could be myself - because, seriously, how could I not have known?
The only times I ever heard the words "gay" and "lesbian" spoken aloud when I was growing up were when people were all, "Yeah, you know those g-a-y-s, always burning in h-e-l-l." Or, like, "My cousin told me how lesbians dress in men's clothes and then take turns brushing each other's mullets after their weekly kitten sacrificing ceremony."
Read the rest @ AfterEllen.com. Trigger warning for mention of suicide towards the end.
Those are big questions with complicated answers. I think the answer to the main one - Does it really get better? - is yes. And I think part of the answer to the last one - How does it get better? - is, believe it or not, television.
Wait - hear me out.
A couple of weeks ago my dad asked me for the bazillionth time how old I was when I knew for sure I was gay. It's something he worries about a lot, I think, because he knew I was gay long before I knew I was gay on account of he spent a lot of sleepless nights heating up milk for me while I sat on the kitchen counter and sobbed about how my best friends would rather spend time practicing blow jobs with their boyfriends than braiding my hair. He worries about it because he is convinced I knew, but wouldn't come out; worried that he and my mom hadn't created a safe environment in which I could be myself - because, seriously, how could I not have known?
The only times I ever heard the words "gay" and "lesbian" spoken aloud when I was growing up were when people were all, "Yeah, you know those g-a-y-s, always burning in h-e-l-l." Or, like, "My cousin told me how lesbians dress in men's clothes and then take turns brushing each other's mullets after their weekly kitten sacrificing ceremony."
Read the rest @ AfterEllen.com. Trigger warning for mention of suicide towards the end.