Outside the City Gate

My thoughts were always about women, from my most early memory. I remember when I must have been five years-old, maybe six, there was the aunt of one of my playmates that instantly appealed to me in a way that, even then, I knew was forbidden. Where did these thoughts come from beginning at such an early age? Though I kept my feelings to myself, I liked that woman. I questioned myself, again and again. Where had these early feelings came from? As the years went on, in high school, I was afraid to reveal myself to others. Like others, I laughed at, and may have even told, jokes about “sissies and dykes.” I hid behind sarcasm to disguise my true self. I figured that if I laughed the loudest or cracked the best joke, nobody would ever learn my secret thoughts. I figured that if I played along with the others, my secret would be safe. I probably would have rather killed myself than be exposed as a “dyke” in high school. Exposure meant getting my butt kicked or worse. I hated living a lie, but all I had to do was finish school, turn twenty-one years old, and go off and live my life; I thought. The years went on, but I felt so dishonest because I believed that no one really knew who I was. I grew increasingly frustrated living my secret life. It was frustrating because I was tangled in a web of deception with my family. They no longer knew who I really was, I thought. But one day it was finally time to tell them that I was different. Since I never did like the idea of living in a closet, I decided to open my own door. Life was too short. It was time to live my life. Tomorrows were not promised. I felt a strong desire to be honest with myself and to those people who meant the most to me. Beginning to be honest with my mother, sisters, and brother was certain to be a major undertaking. They needed to know who I was and each had to come to grips with the truth. Honesty was the only way. There was a lot to consider. First, my mother’s friends were still at the point where they displayed little tolerance for gays and lesbians. The subject was considered taboo and was just not mentioned. Sissies and dykes were far removed from any of them, or so they thought. I figured it was safer to start with telling my sister, Deb. She was my best friend and she knew me better than anyone else. She thought. So I chose a day. It was time for Deb to know my secret. This particular morning, she and I were on our way to breakfast. I decided that the day was perfect for me to confess to my sister Deb that I was secretly a lesbian. I was twenty years-old, living in my own apartment and about to graduate from the University of Detroit. I remember very clearly. I was nervous. I said, "Deb I have something very important to tell you." I was sweating by then. I was looking straight ahead, though we were walking side by side into the restaurant. I continued to mumble and finally Deb stepped ahead, turned, and stopped right in front of me to halt me in my tracks. "Okay, okay," I rambled. "This is very important and it may change the way that you feel about me," I said while staring down at the ground. Then she raised her voice and said, "Shut up fool, I already know! Can we go eat now? I’m hungry," she quipped! Then, turned to strut into the restaurant and we never spoke on the issue again. I will never forget that day. It did not matter to my sister Deb that I was a lesbian. Years later, after I graduated from college, I got a small duplex on the northwest side of Detroit. It was spring again and probably the anniversary of Deb’s first grade graduation party decades ago. I thought about calling Deb, just to tease about our memories of the old days and to see what she was doing. It had been more than a week since Deb and I last spoken. Now, though sleepy, I wanted to laugh and talk with her again. Lazy, I sat there trying to decide whether to call Deb. I began to dose off to sleep. I heard the sound of the boiling teapot shriek as the steam filled my kitchen. The deafening whistle of the steaming teapot seemed to holler for relief. At first, the piercing whistle of the teapot startled me when I heard the sound. I guess that I had been dozing off to sleep when I heard the screeching sound. I jumped up from the sofa, nearly knocking over the coffee table. Almost simultaneously, as I darted towards the kitchen, and the stove, the sound of the telephone ringing brought me to a sudden halt. Groggy, I was confused about which sound was most urgent. For some reason, I chose the telephone. I scrambled toward the telephone. “Hello, Selma?” The caller on the other end of the phone said cautiously. The caller was my cousin, George. Out of breath, I responded, “Oh, hi George.” He was supposed to have called me days earlier, so I was surprised to hear from him “Selma.” He said in a strange voice. “What’s wrong George?” I could tell that something was wrong. “Okay.” He said while hesitating. “I have something important to tell you.” By now, I was weak in the knees, nervous. I sat on the edge of the sofa. Something was wrong. Very wrong and I could tell. “What’s wrong?” I insisted. “Deb is dead,” the voice said. Suddenly, I realized that I needed God. But where could I go?