(My great-grandmother is rather open-minded. However, being from her generation, sometimes she lacks the vocabulary to talk about things. So, when her granddaughter Karen comes out as gay, she is very supportive, but rather than say, “lesbian,” which was an insult in her upbringing, she refers to anyone gay as a “friend-of-Karen’s.” We have this conversation years later when she is in her mid-nineties.)

Me: “…and then he got his doctorate degree.”

Cousin: “Good for him. He’s a friend of Bob’s, isn’t he?”

Me: “Yes, he is.”

(My great-grandmother gets very confused.)

Me: “What’s wrong, GG?”

Great-Grandmother: “I’m afraid I’m losing my memory. I remember what a friend-of-Karen’s is, but what does it mean when they are a friend-of-Bob’s? Is that when it is two boys?”

Me: *pause* “No, GG, we just meant he went to school with Bob and they play golf together.”

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(I love my family to death, but a lot of my relatives are extremely racist and homophobic. This has always upset me because I’ve seen a few cousins’ interracial relationships crack under the pressure from my extended family, and one cousin in particular has confided in me that he is gay, but will never come out to our “close” family. One day we’re on a huge family holiday — we don’t take holidays apart from each other because we’re so close — in Disneyworld and see a lesbian couple in wedding-style Star Wars costumes; they’ve obviously just gotten married.)

Uncle: “I want to go ask them who the husband is.”

Brother: “Definitely the one with the short hair. The other one is prettier.”

Me: *yells across the way* “CONGRATULATIONS! LOVE IS LOVE!”

(The newlyweds smiled, and my family gave me the cold shoulder for a while. Worth it.)

(It is the 1980s. I’m male with long hair but can’t be considered feminine by any stretch of the imagination. I try out for a part in the school play. I’m hanging out with friends afterwards, discussing various actors and actresses whose methods we like.)

Me: “You know, my parents would be so upset if they knew I wanted to be a thespian.”

(At that point, a young woman nearby jumps up from her table and storms over to where I’m at.)

Woman: “You don’t have to pitch your voice so low if you want to be a lesbian!”

(I blink and look over to where she’s hovering an inch away from me.)

Me: “Lesbian? Well, I do like women, so… but no, we’re talking about thespians. You know, actors and actresses.”

Woman: “It’s okay to be a lesbian. I’m one. Why are you trying to look all manly?”

Me: “Uh, because I am a man.”

Woman: *now screeching* “No, you’re not! Why are you trying to act all butch? Is it because of your friends?”

(She then started screaming at them for trying to get me to act male. I didn’t know what else to do, so I stood up and grabbed my crotch and yelled, “To thine own self be true!” It was then that she realize that I was indeed a man, turned bright red, and stormed off. Every since that day, I’ve been called the lesbian thespian by my friends.)

I live in a mixed dorm and there is a shared kitchen for the entire floor. It is near Christmas and my roommates and I bake some gingerbread men and place them out with a sign with festive messages. A roommate puts up an extra sign saying, “Eat me.”

A couple hours later, on the extra sign, someone has added a title, “Gingerbread Ladies,” and drawn a gingerbread “lady” with long hair, with an arrow pointing at her crotch.

Then comes a lot of chatter guessing which of the guys has done it. The girls are completely overlooked as possible pranksters.

Soon, a second extra sign appears saying, “Go away, dudes; we’re lesbians. Signed, [Female Student #1] and [Female Student #2]. (We’re both single.)”

Yup. That’s how those two girls decided to come out. My roommate who placed the, “Eat me,” sign was actually in on it.

(I work in a hospital. I am a cis woman, but since I am tall and broad-shouldered with short hair, I do occasionally get misgendered by young children, and adults who aren’t wearing their glasses. This doesn’t bother me, particularly because about half the time people are specifically talking about how “tall and handsome” I am, and I will happily take that compliment. When I tell people about these incidents, they usually either apologize or reassure me that I’m very pretty and feminine. However, this elderly gentleman blows my mind with his response.)

Elderly Patient: *to a group of ladies dozing in their wheelchairs by the television* “See? These ladies aren’t nearly as lucky as me; I get a beautiful young woman to stroll around with me, and there aren’t any handsome young men to take them walking!”

Me: *jokingly* “Well, if you’re not wearing your glasses, I can pass for a man!”

Elderly Patient: *completely serious* “Oh, are you trying to tell me something?”

Me: “Oh, no, I just meant with my hair—”

Elderly Patient: “No, no, I think you’re trying to say something. Which do you prefer?”

Me: *very conscious of being in a somewhat conservative, faith-based workplace, where I don’t know most of the staff yet* “Oh, I mean—”

Elderly Patient: “Because let me tell you, it doesn’t matter to me if you prefer one, or the other, or both. None of that matters as much as being a good person.”

Me: “I completely agree—”

Elderly Patient: “You know, I’m 97, and I know I talk too much. I can see I’ve embarrassed you. No, don’t say I haven’t, because I have. But you know what? We’re all individuals in this life. It doesn’t matter which one you want to be. As long as you’re trying to be a good person and not hurt anyone, none of the rest of that matters.”

(For the ten minutes that it took us to walk back to his room, I received something between a lecture and a pep talk about my intrinsic value as a human being, regardless of my supposed trans or non-binary identity. I have heard some awful stories about how people treat the LGBTQ+ community, but this gentleman gave me hope for humanity.)

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