READ/LISTEN ON SUBSTACK (and subscribe while you're there!) "I bet your feelings for her will go away as soon as the play ends. You’re probably not actually gay." The first time I wondered if I might like women, I was playing Hermia opposite a girl playing Lysander (traditionally played by a man) in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. For the first time in my 21 years, I was questioning my heterosexuality. The circumstances are both poetic yet unremarkable, having my first crush on a girl playing my love interest in the theater department at a liberal arts school. Up until then, I had always been a fierce LGBTQ+ ally, but had never once considered that I might be a part of the community myself. I grew up at the intersection of conservatism and liberalism; a Native New Yorker raised in a religious household on 20th and 1st. I started attending Sunday School as a toddler, and was teaching it myself before I entered middle school. And yet, my family thankfully does not share the same conservative beliefs that so many churches do. I first learned about same-sex couples as a toddler while driving around downtown with my mom. While waiting in traffic, we intercepted the Pride parade. I asked my mom why two men were kissing. She said something along the lines of “people kiss when they’re in love.” Until then, it hadn’t registered to me that Barbie could love Barbie, and Ken could love Ken. It immediately made sense. It wasn’t a big event. Just a fact. And it still is. Love is love. Ironically, I don’t remember much about my first impression of the girl playing Lysander. I do remember thinking that she was funny in an irreverent way. A little elusive. Definitely disarming. There was something unique about her. I wanted her to like me, and it went beyond wanting to work well together. I also didn’t want her to think I was trying too hard, because I wanted to seem cool. I don’t remember the exact moment that I fell for her, but it truly felt like it happened overnight. At first, I told myself that my fascination was purely about taking my acting role seriously. I had never played opposite a woman and wanted to ensure that we developed a believable connection. The more we got along offstage, the better. Yet even now, years and years later, I can remember the electric, thrilling feeling of running into her on campus, or walking into the room and meeting her gaze at a rehearsal. I was so bewildered by my feelings, even though I couldn’t have been in a more supportive environment. I had no idea what her sexual orientation was, or if she would ever be interested in me. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with myself. I once ran on the treadmill for miles without stopping to release some of my pent-up emotions. I couldn’t just show up to rehearsal and blurt out, “Hey, I’ve never had a crush on a girl before, but I have these feelings toward you that I can’t describe, and I have no idea if I want to pursue them, and no idea what your sexual orientation is, but just thought you should know!” So, I ran. From her and my feelings. Even when she appeared next to me on the adjacent treadmill by total coincidence (true story), I kept on running. (Very unlikely for me. I only run when I’m late. Back in freshman year, it took me until December to realize I hadn’t packed sneakers. That’s how much I don’t care about the gym. Eventually, I told one of my best friends and housemates about the crush. She was supportive, but not shocked. It was an anticlimactic conversation. You have to understand that we went to Vassar. Coming out was a non-event. The percentage of people who come to Vassar thinking they’re straight and leave queer is astronomical. And so, that’s the attitude I went into my therapy session with when I told my (former) therapist the news. “By the way, I think I might be gay. How’s the weather?” Alexa, I bet your feelings for her will go away as soon as the play ends. You’re probably not actually gay. And just like that, I wasn’t queer. Because my therapist said so. If my therapist of 5+ years didn’t think I was gay, I couldn’t be gay, right? Part of me was shocked. But I didn’t question her at all. I immediately agreed with her, and I thanked her for helping me “come to my senses.” Imagine thanking someone for telling you you’re not gay. I let myself continue to indulge in my feelings for the girl playing Lysander until the show ended, and then we went our separate ways. My feelings “faded” just as my therapist said they would. Until five years later. I’m 26. I am still convinced of my straightness. I’ve stopped seeing my old therapist for an entirely different reason. I am quite literally on my knees after a devastating breakup. I am anything but well. For the first time in a long time, I find myself craving a church community. I’m in desperate need of faith. And the idea of new friends doesn’t hurt either. After a few weeks of attending virtual church services on YouTube, I decided to bravely look for a church community once more, and found one rather quickly that happened to be right in my neighborhood. It almost felt too good to be true. (Which usually means it’s too good to be true.) There was a vibrant, diverse community of young people. The sermons were accessible yet driven by the text of the bible. And the music was gorgeous. It was so easy to feel at home. I was quickly persuaded to volunteer in all kinds of ways, from Sunday School to joining the welcome committee to inviting people to my home for weekly bible study and other fellowship events. I was finally beginning to develop a personal relationship with God, after years of simply reciting scriptures and playing the part of a ‘good church girl.’ I felt so connected to my faith, those around me, and myself. My faith and this community were both such a grounding force in my life, exactly when I needed it. I thought that nothing could go wrong. So naturally, everything went wrong. Seemingly out of nowhere, a close friend from that church reveals in casual conversation that being gay is a sin. I was completely appalled. Did other people know she felt this way? Did our pastor know? I wanted to be compassionate and take a sincere, thoughtful approach. I wanted to help her tackle and unravel this clear, obvious homophobia. My first and only thought was to help her see the light. I texted my pastor to get coffee. Everyone is welcome in our church, but I would never perform a marriage ceremony for a same sex couple. My pastor agreed with my friend. All of my friends agreed with her. I walked around numb for days. Until the following Sunday, when I found out that our community was part of the Evangelical Covenant Church. I was standing outside with the welcome committee petting a passerby’s dog when I heard another volunteer tell an inquiring stranger that we were an evangelical church. I truly thought he was mixing up the words episcopal and evangelical. I told a friend later, hoping we could laugh it off together. There was no mix-up. I had somehow been part of an Evangelical church for half a year without knowing it. A group that famously promotes “faithfulness in heterosexual marriage.” I felt like the ground was being ripped from beneath me. I felt like I couldn’t trust myself anymore. How had I not seen this? How had I not instinctively known? Why didn’t I ask? How the hell did I convince myself that this Evangelical church was inclusive and non-denominational? I am 26. I am healed from my romantic heartbreak, but facing another of an entirely different kind. I still think that I’m straight. But I’m as fierce an ally as ever. I sent the following to my pastor: a paraphrased quote from an episode of Glennon Doyle’s podcast We Can Do Hard Things. I am firmly of the opinion that it is not possible to celebrate and love anyone by simply tolerating them. You can only love or reject them. We’ve decided that as a society, we can disagree with people’s identities. What we call disagreement is in fact rejection. Many would make the counterargument that you can privately disagree with someone’s “lifestyle choices” and publicly support them and love them, as Christ called us to do. Yet to love our neighbors as we love ourselves, we have to want every good thing that we want for ourselves, for others. (Ex: freedom, marriage equality, protection by law, safety.) I don’t even remember his reply. I think he said we could agree to disagree. To which I say, no we f*****g cannot. * The episode, ‘QUEER FREEDOM’, is linked. I’m 27. It’s been a few months since I left that church, and almost exactly five years after my A Midsummer Night’s Dream crush. And the truth of who I am is finally ready to bubble out of me, quite rapidly, as truths so often do. I now realize that I was absolutely subconsciously protecting myself and making space for my full self to emerge when I left that church. On a cozy March Monday, a guy I had briefly dated called to tell me that he was no longer romantically interested in me. I was less upset about the rejection and more upset about how he handled it all. I made my usual short-lived vow that I was going to swear off men for a while and mused about how much easier life would be if I could just be attracted to women and never have to deal with men again. That evening, I was scrolling through Facebook and saw a status update from a classmate who had recently transitioned. They shared some photos, along with their new name and pronouns. I hadn’t seen this classmate in years, so I decided to scroll down memory lane to our younger days before doing a little deep dive into what they had been up to since we graduated. Sitting at my kitchen table, looking at these pictures, and watching my old friend’s journey unfold, I meditated on the idea of transformation. I thought about my younger self. I thought abou
