“I’m afraid to tell them.” The words would burn in my mind, night after night, keeping me up until the twilight creeped through my bedroom window. She was...afraid. Though, what haunted me the most, was the reasoning behind her fears. Why was she so afraid? A familiar voice would echo answers in the back of my mind. “It’s not her fault - it’s theirs.”
Of course, how could I be so oblivious? Society was a joke, especially the narrow minded people who walked its streets every waking day. They would encourage you to be the person you truly are, to express yourself freely, happily. What a dream that would be, huh? But the tables would turn, and their only goal became ridicule, that you felt nothing short of utter disdain for that person. You had to be worthy of this world's affection. After all, it’s always been one against the world.
It was sickening. If society was as glamorous as everybody made it out to be, my best friend wouldn’t be in tears every night before bed.
Just for now, let’s say that my best friend’s name is Alisa.
Alisa was feeling threatened, that because of who she loved, she wouldn’t be categorized as ‘human’. This wasn’t her fault, of course, but she was the one being punished for it. She should be prideful, happy... but instead, she’s disowning herself more and more each day.
Alisa would whimper to me late at night over the phone, sobbing over her impending fate as an outcast. That girl always knew how to shut me up, because I could never deny the things she said.
The opinions that circled our small town school petrified her, and it was obvious as to why. We would walk down the abundance of hallways and corridors, shoulder to shoulder, unintentionally tuning in to conversations around us. “That’s so gay.” “She’s a dyke… I hear she even tried to kiss my sister, once!” “She’s too pretty to be a lesbian.” “He’s gay, I swear! Oh, I mean, he’s fabulous.” “What a faggot.” I’d be scared, too, hearing slurs like that thrown around in every day conversation. Actually, scratch that - I’d be mortified.
I would comfort her from time to time, as she insisted that coming out would be the right thing to do. After a few good friends and only a handful of extended family, she was feeling more secure about it all. But I would still have to offer my shoulder when she would cry afterwards, every time. It was tragic.
A vague answer wasn’t nearly enough to soothe that concerned subconscious of mine. The same question would linger, even after a good day. It never seemed to die down, or give me peace of mind. Why was she so afraid? The voice in the back of my head piped up after a long while.
“She thinks she’s different,” It would say, but I would interrupt.
“Different? Is that all you’ve got? We all fall in love, why the hell does it matter who it’s with? We deserve to be happy, it’s a natural right. We don’t go around making marriage between a man and woman illegal - why does ours have to be?! Since when does it matter if two men want to share the same bed? Why does any of that even matter? What gives you the right to speak on behalf of people you know nothing about?”
I grew furious with the world, with it’s people, and how cruel they can be to one another. To leave my best friend in tears? You’ve crossed the only line I ever drew.
I was yelling at my bedroom wall, into thin air. A sigh of relief was all I’d accomplished from it - but that’s all I needed.
I didn’t know I had it in me, puffing my chest and clenching my fists. I was startled with myself though, because only afterward had I realized that throughout my outburst, I’d used the terms ‘we’ rather than ‘they’.
To my own surprise, I wasn’t upset. I was proud to portray myself as one of them.
And for the first time in months, the voice grew quiet, and I found rest.
I recited my rant to Alisa the next day at lunch, where we sat alone at the farthestpossible table. I was taken aback by her reaction, a casual smirk glued to her stupid little face. Not smiling, but smirking, as if she’d found a comforting irony in what I had said. Perhaps she did. I may never know.
From then on, walking those same high school halls with a pep in her step, Alisa told even her newer friends, seeing it as just something else to throw out there. I was so incredibly proud of her, my best friend, for overcoming the worst fear she’s ever come to know.
I felt like a parent in some ways, because she was so terribly afraid of learning to ride that bike… but after the good push I gave her, she was already pedaling down that long road. I catch myself smiling from time to time when I think about it all.
When Alisa would spend the night, we would stay up until the birds began to sing, joking around about it and generally having a good time.
She - we - were proud to be a part of a community. We didn’t run from what we didn’t know, not anymore. When it came down to it, Alisa learned that other people’s opinion’s are irrelevant against your own. She holds that value near and dear, even now.
To tell you the truth, we both do. Together, we’ve both been proud to walk to the beat of our own drum. We didn’t care about what people were, their pasts, how they decided to dress… what mattered most to us what the kind of person they chose to be - a follower, or a friend.