What They Don’t Tell You

Welcome back to my space; the place where my words come so naturally, and I can candidly speak about the misadventures of my day-to-day. This is for you all as much as it is for me— Enjoy! Xx

I was raised in a Christian household, with a strict, neurotically loving mother, and a father slow to judge, but quick to protect. I have siblings, but this is as personal as I’ll go in this already personal recount of events.

Before Cottey, there had been no discussion of sexuality, just divorce while I clung to a boy who worshipped himself. In my first year at Cottey, I met a girl. She walked in and introduced herself, Hannah, a native Virginian, who loved camping and s’mores and giving me advice. I’ll stop there for a second—I know what you’re thinking—no, we weren’t madly in love at first. She didn’t make time stop, but she was always there. She would meet me for lunch, and walk me to class—she even took me to buy pumpkins when I was the most homesick, missing family traditions. She was always there.

When I returned home for spring break my first year, I tried to tell my mom that I was a different person. I remember telling her that I loved who I loved, regardless of gender. She told me she didn’t think that I was sure, and that I should stop dating and figure everything out before I got hurt. Nothing could have hurt more than that did. I figured I wouldn't tell her these things anymore. Later came the summer, and I was enamored with Hannah—she’d been itching to visit and I so wanted her in my arms.

My father, always the receptive parent, met Hannah under bizarre circumstances. She’d been visiting, and my father’s herniated disc was acting up. Within three minutes, Hannah was at my father’s home, helping pick him up off the ground and into his bed. At this point, Hannah was a “friend from college,” but she brought me solace and comfort.

Let’s fast forward to this summer, Hannah meets mom. But before any of this, I told my mom that I was absolutely and completely gay. Or maybe I just liked girls. Or something. And that’s when it hit me—it doesn’t matter the title. It matters who makes you smile. It matters who makes you tea when you’re sick, and combines their Dave and Buster’s tickets with you to get better prizes. I don’t know what label you’ve chosen for me, but I love Hannah—love doesn’t need titles.

Coming out to my dad wasn’t bad, he smiled, we hugged, we drank Prosecco. Short, sweet, and 100 percent Tokarowski-esque. I hope this is how all of my encounters play out...though I know they won’t.

These are things no one tells you about “coming out:”

• You never really stop “coming out.”
• If you have two parents, who don’t live together, you get two different stories .
• Older people always think you and your S/O are “roommates,” or good friends.
• You pick and choose who you tell - you don’t have to!

That last one is important... who federally mandated the “coming out” thing? It’s no one’s choice but your own, which is why I waited so long to post pictures of Hannah and I. I was never afraid, I just wanted to keep our personal life personal. My dad is big on this; do you introduce yourself to someone with your name and sexuality? No. That’d be super weird. That’s probably why I waited so long to do this thing, loving a woman is not my identity. Hannah is a key part of my life, my sexuality is not.

Also shoutout to the boy who told me I would “lez out” in college—maybe you’re the reason I don’t like men... (you’re a prick).