Amongst the chaos that was Sherry's room, including thousands of books, jewellery boxes, VHS tapes, clothes and other cool things I could only dream of, was Sherry's enormous collection of Barbie and Ken dolls, complete with sports cars, Dream Houses and all of Mattel's accessories for the archetypal Californian beach babe dream. We always lined up her collection of dolls - Malibu Barbie, Ken, his wavey haired blue-eyed friend Derek and all of the other Barbie clones. Our ritual was to each choose one in turns until all were gone.
Sherry's first pick would always be a Barbie, and mine would always be Derek.
There was something about his painted short hair, his unblinking blue eyes and that smile of his that could only be obtained by some serious oral plastic surgery and dentures. Unlike Sherry, I wasn't attracted to the idea of Derek-type one day coming over in his red sports car to whisk me off my heeled feet and run his hands through my peroxide blonde hair and rescue me to our detached beach dream house. No. I was attracted to Derek for a different reason. To me, Derek was an opportunity to express a part of myself that I simply couldn't understand or comprehend at such a young age. I wanted to be Derek. I wanted to talk through him, charming the girls with my wit and compassion. It was only through Derek that I could somehow be myself. Of course at the time I thought nothing of it. It's only now that I look back that I realise just how ironic it all was.
So we chose our figures, and set the game plan, which inevitably always revolved around who was going out with who in our own romantic soap opera. I remember Sherry looking down at her choice and mine, and commenting about me always taking the guys and her being left with the girls. Again, I thought nothing of it, and brushed off her comments by sticking my tongue out at her.
We played for about an hour and were in the middle of a beach party bordering on an orgy when we stopped to snack on our treats of Kool-Aid, granola bars and graham crackers her mum brought upstairs to us.
"Oh my god, Tristan is so cute," Sherry said.
"Mmhmm." I replied.
"I wish he'd ask me out one day, I can't help staring at him and feeling like such a dork!"
Tristan was a blonde-haired, baggy shorts wearing guy who all the girls were after. He loved to skate-board and seemed to have all the latest Vans and Airwalks. I loved his wardrobe.
"So who do you like in school?" Sherry asked.
"Tiffany," I answered, without even a moment's hesitation.
Tiffany Lantz. My God did I have a crush on her. She was the best singer in the school, and would always perform at school rally's and choir nights, which I insisted on attending. I remember her singing "Wind Beneath My Wings", which I then recorded when I heard it on the radio and played it over and over again, daydreaming she was singing it to me and that one day I would be the wind beneath her wings (and skirt).
Reality check.
"Tiffany?"
I looked up at Sherry, my mouth filled with granola bar which seemed to plaster itself into my mouth like concrete.
"Tiffany???"
The look on Sherry's face hit me - the way the glass filled with Kool Aid stopped midway to her lips which were stained blood red from the strawberry colouring. Did I say something wrong?
"Yeah," I said sheepishly. "I think she's really pretty. You said yourself that you thought she was one of the prettiest girls in school."
Sherry did say that, as did most of the girls in school. I mean come on - Tiffany was stunning, popular and everyone wanted to be friends with her, including my little band of friends.
"Yeah I think she's pretty, but I don't wanna go out with her! Oh my god, that means your GAAAAAY!"
My 6/7/8 year old world came to a screeching stop. My little body started to fill with cold liquid silver.
Gay.
Gay?
I heard that word around the playground, and used it myself so many times. I had no idea what it meant, much like I didn't fully know what sex actually entailed or where babies really did come from. All I knew that it wasn't good. It was a bad word. It was a cuss word. You'd only use it to pick on the horrible kid at school, and it was something used to describe bad, disgusting people everyone seemed to hate. Was I a bad person?
To give Sherry credit, she just looked at me, she didn't laugh, she didn't point her finger at me and mock me. She just sat there, in stunned silence. We both did.
I thought it was completely natural for girls to like girls and want to go out with them. I'd been feeling like that as far back as I remember in my 6/7/8 years on this earth. I didn't want to be the princess in fairytales, I wanted to be the prince rescuing the princess and make her live happily ever after.
"I'm just kidding," I retorted. "I don't wanna go out with Tiffany. I thought you meant who do we think is good looking at school."
Sherry kept on staring.
Think quick kiddo.
"Tristan!" I nearly shouted the name out. "Yeah, Tristan is really cute. He lives closer to me than to you so HAHA!"
She bought it. I had confirmation of this because she picked up a pillow from her unmade bed and hit me across the head with it. I was back in. Accepted. I was still cool.
On the outside at least. On the inside I was a ball of confusion, horror and shame. I went home after helping Sherry clean up our imaginary world of play, made my excuses why I couldn't stay for dinner (I always stayed for dinner) and rode my bike home.
I looked at myself in my mirror at home. Short hair. Never wore dresses. In fact, despised dresses. My toy cupboard consisted of cars, HeMan, Castle Grey-Skull, Nintendo. I had a few Barbies - I even gave one of them a serious haircut to match mine.
Gay = Bad. Gay = Bad.
NO.
I slammed myself into my metaphorical closet and didn't emerge until the age of 21. Those 15 years of my life were spent concealing so many aspects of myself from others. Some I fooled, but others I didn't. I realise now that the only person I was fooling was myself. The only person I hurt was myself.
Some people say that you choose to be gay. Trust me, you don't choose to be gay. It's not something you can turn on and off like a light switch. God knows I tried. For 15 or so years. I refer to those times now as the Dark Ages. I had joys and happiness like everybody else, but much of it was done by living through some kind of smoke screen. My real world was concealed, hidden behind a blanket where the real me cowered away from the world.
Today I live the life of an out and proud lesbian. I'm proud of who I am and what I have gone through in order to be the person I am today. God knows I deserve it, as do so many others who live a life similar to my own in the Dark Ages. What I say to those people is this: break through the smoke screen. No matter what you have to face in order to do it, it's not as scary as not fully living your life.
Just before I came out there was an advert on TV for some soap brand. The actors were all filmed in a tub or in a shower singing a song. It was I Am What I Am. I'd like to thank the markerting person behind that ad, whoever they are. Unbeknownst to them, they not only sold a brand of soap; they liberated my life in just 30 seconds of commercial television space.
