The Many Sides of Coming Out
Written by Wendy Wang
As quarantine drags on longer and longer, many of us are starting to feel a certain hopelessness creep in. Every day feels more chaotic than the last, as both social media and real-life swarm with constant reminders that our world is not as just as we believed it to be growing up, especially not for our country’s people of color.
America: the land of the free—whatever that means. All I know is that I am certainly not completely free to be who I am, especially in the place you’d least expect: inside of my home.
In the past, I enjoyed going up to my roof, sitting down and trying to tune out the noise happening outside of the four walls that enclose me.
Trying, also, to erase the picture of my mother’s face when I told her I liked girls too.
All of the silence.
Confusion.
Shock in her voice.
Panic in her questions.
Disgust.
Trying to work myself up to the task that night. On February 26th, 2020, I lingered around in the kitchen as she washed dishes.
It’s not a big deal, I thought. Maybe she won’t even care.
I had practiced over and over the words I would use to “come out.” Yet, each time the clumsy Chinese words echoed through my mind: Mama… Wǒ yě xǐhuān nǚhái (I also like girls,) there was never a feasible response to bounce back in reply. I literally had no idea where my parents stood on the topic of LGBTQ+ acceptance.
I finally started the conversation aloud: “Bùyào shēngqì.” Please, don’t be mad at me.
I left said conversation red-faced, ashamed, and suffocated with sorrow. Suddenly, these four walls no longer seemed to me a safe haven. Both outside, and inside, felt to me its own world of injustice, where people were not allowed to just exist and be themselves. There was no escape.
My older sister’s reaction (or lack thereof—always the best reaction) to my “coming out” had been completely different, years ago.
Technically, she stumbled upon some Facebook comments that I made to our mutual friend years ago. I don’t remember exactly what the comments were, but I imagine them to be… quite gay.
After initially encountering those comments, my sister told me she already knew I was different because she had read my diary. Her exact words were, “Yeah, it was kinda weird… what you said about Mrs. S.”
I had written about having a crush on my teacher when I was in middle school. Awkward —not to mention a huge invasion of my privacy on her end.
There were a few times that my sister didn’t make me feel so comfortable. For example, I remember having a close girl friend in middle school who I loved talking to on the phone whenever I could. One day, out of annoyance, my sister snapped at me. “You don’t need to call her all the time, Wendy. What are you, gay for her?”
At that time, I wasn’t out of the closet yet and I was extremely insecure about my sexuality. That small comment rubbed me the wrong way and I stopped calling my friend as often.
Now, at 18 years old looking back, it wasn’t that big of a deal. The real test had been my mother.
After being crushed by my mother’s response, I told my sister about it a few days later.
She asked me why I had come out to our mom.
“Why?”
This is a valid question.
After all, I am still financially dependent on my mother for school, housing, and other things. I am in no shape to move out right now. We hear the horror stories of children being disowned for their sexuality, which is a scary reality for too many.
Basically, I was taking a huge risk in telling her this part about myself. And sure, you can argue that this piece of my identity does not “define” me and so there is no need to tell anyone, if there is so much risk involved. I could’ve waited until I’m able to move out; I can just hide it in the meantime, yada yada.
Yeah, I know. Those were all things I considered too.
Why make life harder for myself? I had thought. But what people (usually heterosexual) don’t understand is that until you’re in the same situation, you can't really understand. Straight people do not need to “come out.” They never have and they never will, because to this day, heterosexuality remains the norm.
Although acceptance of homosexuality is now more widespread in America, talk of homosexuality in China, where my parents are from, is virtually nonexistent.
That’s why I don’t blame my mother for having the reaction that she had. My parents were born in the late 60s during Mao culture, where gay people were actively persecuted for “sexual deviation.”
Despite some progress in the 80s, we have a long way to go in terms of equality. Homosexuality was classified as a mental illness until 2001, and the employment of electric shock therapy as well as conversion camps were all too common. Same-sex marriages are not legally recognized under the law, and same-sex couples cannot adopt children or donate blood.
Even if there are no written laws that prohibit same-sex couples or activity, homophobia still affects the public sentiment towards the LGBTQ+ community today. The worst case? Open discrimination towards LGBTQ+ individuals in gay bars, public gatherings, or employment, for which there are absolutely no consequences.
The best case? Simple indifference from the government and Chinese civilians, many of whom deem homosexuality a threat to traditional values and familial obligations. If you think representation of the gay community is bad in America, take a look at China’s censorship policies towards queer couples. The current policy in China towards the LGBTQ+ community is to pretend that these people don’t exist. All hush hush, don’t talk about it.
I guess you could argue, after the incident, that my mother doesn’t really care—despite having told me that who I am is wrong, and I had better not do those “wrong” things. You can use your imagination to fill in the blanks of whatever “wrongdoing” being gay could mean to my mother.
After all, if she did care, why would she keep the secret from my father? He has no clue. He likes to remark that I look like a boy now, with my short choppy hair. While this is all said in good fun, I can feel my mother’s cringe when he says those things.
I can also hear her silent prayers when she stands before the mini-statue of Buddha in the house, wishing her daughter to be somebody different. I feel defeated, but I have accepted it. She can pray for me all she wants though—I am not going to change who I am. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
We haven’t talked about it since the day after I first came out to her. She told me I was lucky she didn’t tell my dad because he would “never stop talking about it.” She was scared for me, of what he might say or do. She was looking out for me in her own strange way.
But silence speaks volumes. Her silence lets me know that so long as queerness is a facet of my identity, I cannot truly be myself here. Yet, in times of quarantine, there is nowhere else that I can go.
The best thing, for now, is the knowledge that I am not alone. Countless others in the LGBTQ+ community are stuck in a place where they feel they do not belong, whether or not they’ve “come out.” Whether here in America, across the globe in China, or in the 72 countries where homosexuality is outlawed or even punishable by death, stigma against homosexuality prevents queer folk from having agency over their own lives.
I know that I do not have it horribly at all, typing this up on my MacBook Air, in my air-conditioned room, while people are protesting amidst a global pandemic for the right to be not disproportionately targeted by police brutality. I also acknowledge and thank the Black LGBTQ+ community, who has historically helped move the whole LGBTQ+ community forward tremendously. Yet, those of us living in intersectionality do experience difficulties on a day to day basis, whether Black, Latinx, female, Muslim, nonbinary, or other.
All I can say is this: I, as a Chinese American queer woman, stand with you all in solidarity. Together, we will change the standard of living for people of color, both inside and outside of the LGBTQ+ community. 2020 may be just one year in continuous history, but with it, comes new generations of hope, tolerance, compassion, and love.