Once upon a time, you were a child. Your understanding of the term ‘gay’
mimics that of a Victorian aristocrat: happy, gleeful, cheerful, joyous. That is,
until your best friends gather at the back of the school toilets.
“It means when a boy likes a boy,” they say, adding that childlike intonation on
‘like’ which so often implies love, “or a girl likes a girl. It’s weird.”
And you agree. Because you don’t know any better. You don’t know any other
way. Later you learn that more people are ‘weird’ than you ever could’ve
imagined. You learn even more people don’t like those who are ‘weird’. You
learn, almost without realising, to reassure yourself that you are not ‘weird’.
That you’re just like everyone else because nobody has looked at you and
shouted words that even you know you shouldn’t say. So it’s not surprise that
when at 15 you do realise, finally, truthfully that you are also ‘weird’, you know
you’ve got to tread carefully.
But as with everything life, you find a way. You find your friends. You find your
people. You make your memories. Whether it’s shooting down the road in your
neighbour’s car, blasting pop music, or chatting with with hushed voices in your
local park (because you never quite know who’s listening), you find your life, no
matter how quiet or secretive you have to be otherwise, is still full of small,
joyous moments. You realise that maybe ‘gay’ (or whatever term found you
along the way) can still mean ‘happy’.
