It's a Girl Thing

By Marci Cohen

I couldn't have heard her correctly. Then she asked me again. This time, while peeling potatoes for a scrumptious batch of Hanukkah latkes, I sliced a superficial layer of skin from my thumb and watched the thin stream of blood trickle down the sink drain. I knew what she was asking.

"Marci, are you gay?" my mom repeated.

I didn't have any idea how to answer that question. My marriage had ended over a year before, and the men I had subsequently dated could not hold my interest. Mr. Cliche, the Impostor, the Psychotic, and last but not least, the Rabbi-wanna-be. It wasn't simply their idiosyncrasies that turned me off (in fact, as I would later discover through my first girlfriend, eccentricities could be endearing. She could not enter a restaurant without turning the event into a scene from When Harry Met Sally. "I'll have the crisp green salad with three kinds of low fat dressing on the side. Grill the fish please, but with no butter or oil. And is the bread made with unbleached flour? Because, you know, the bleaching process takes away at least half of the nutritional content.").

I needed a best friend, a soul mate. I just hadn't found that in a man. At that point in time, love was an emotion I was neither able to express nor accept. I remember this as a desperate and lonely place to be. But I still could not bring myself to say the word, lesbian.

"What? Why are you asking me a question like that?" I hesitantly responded to my mother.

"Well, you seem so high strung lately. You react so strongly to issues of fairness. It is as if you've enlisted as a volunteer member of the P.C. police force. Besides, Dad appeared in my sleep last night and told me that you were struggling with this issue." My father had passed away several years before, and my mother continued her relationship with him under the blanket of a darkened sky, while both she and the sun slept peacefully.

"Oh." I could taste the salt from my tears. "I don't know," was the only honest answer I could give her.

We continued our dinner preparations, and decided to postpone the rest of our talk for later. The holiday was a pleasant mix of verbal competition with each other (as well as Peter Jennings), an unbridled intake of calories, and a moment of silence for my father. A late evening phone call from my older sister instantly reminded me of what I risked to lose: a nuclear family and unconditional social acceptance. But we pressed on with our important discourse. At midnight, on the seventh night of Hanukkah, 1994, my mother and I began an open and honest dialogue about love, sex, and camaraderie.We talked into the night. She helped shed some light on my past friendships, pointing out the intensity that my "intimate" ones had lacked. "You always felt so deeply for the girls. Remember when your college roommate went into drug rehab? You couldn¹t eat or sleep for a week, you were so worried about her." She didn't know the half of what I had felt for this girl. Until that moment, I wasn't so sure I did, either. But after prying my own mind open enough, I was able to come to some resolve.

As all lesbians know, coming out is a lifelong process. At 29, I once again felt like a child, sheltered beneath the loving wing of my mother. She was able to express her love when I needed it most. And not only did she accept me for who I was, but she was proud. Proud that I had the courage to lock horns with adversity. Part of her pride came from watching me twist and squirm until I felt comfortable in my own skin. I will always love her for that.

Marci Cohen lives in Somerville, MA and is a teacher of academic skills and writing at the Cambridge School of Weston. She also creates original designs for furniture, sportswear, stationery, and ceramic pottery.