(gay thought daughter)  

When I was in grade school, my mama would brush my hair before bed. It was a quiet luxury of ours. We always assumed the same positioning. I sat on a pink plastic stool in a T-shirt far too large for my body, my damp hair dripping down my back, leaving spots on the fabric. My mom would tut at me for not drying it well enough, telling me I would get sick if I went to bed with wet hair. One hand would wrap around the dark red hairbrush, the other on the handle of a dryer. She would brush and dry rhythmically as she knelt on the bathmat until my hair fell over my shoulders like silk. 

But I didn’t let her go to sleep yet. These nights were my favourite. The noise of the house had ceased, the air was just warm enough in our fogged bathroom, and finally, it was just the two of us on the tiled floors. In these moments, it felt like I could ask her anything. 

One night, I leaned back on her shoulder as she ran her fingers through my freshly washed hair and whispered, “How did you and baba meet?” 

“We met on a bus,” she said, “he came and sat next to me on the first day of college.” 

She was never much of a romantic. I probed and pushed for more details, but she never gave me much more.

“What about your wedding? Were you nervous? Do you have pictures of your dress?” I would ramble, itching for more details. 

“It was China. He was the first boy I ever dated. My dress was simple. Red. It was a different time, baobei.” She’d respond. 

 She preferred listening. 

As we grew, romance became an integral part of our relationships. It was almost strange, as an immigrant mother, how accepting she was of my endeavours. I told her about my first ever crushes — the blonde hockey boys and freckled redheads — while she would tell me I was too young but laugh at my gushing anyway. She sat with me through the worst of my breakups, cradling my head as my body shook, never minding the way my tears soaked through her best dresses. I FaceTimed her from my freshman dorm every time I kissed a new boy at a party, screensharing their Instagrams and zooming in on their faces. 

“Do you think he’s cute?” I would ask, giggling at the ridiculousness of my questioning. 

“As long as you are happy, I am happy.” She would respond. 

And as I fell into my second semester at college, I became the happiest I had ever been. But I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the phone. 

Being straight is easy. I’ve always been so meticulous about my appearance, making sure to never leave the house without blush and a sickly-sweet smile. I screwed boys like a working whore, skipping from man to man, my heels clicking with every step. I dyed my hair blonde and captained my cheer team, making sure I never missed a beat. No one ever questioned it. Why would they? 

When I was thirteen, I made a new friend. She had this high ponytail that she wore to class every day, she was unapologetic and loud and tall. She would make me laugh. She had this flip phone — her Mormon parents didn’t condone digitals yet, but she still texted me every minute of every day, her fingers clicking rapidly at the numbered keys, smiling at the screen. It was sweet — but I’d never admit it. 

She came over to try drinking before we hit real teenage-girlhood, and I cracked open my father’s Hennessey, completely unaware of its alcohol percentage or the price on the back of the handle. She placed a hand on the neck of the bottle and the other under the base, threw back her head, and drank. And, god, that girl could drink. We sat and giggled and listened to our latest favourite boy bands like real teenage girls on the floor of my basement, talking until our cheeks went numb. She kissed me for the first time, quick and sweet and scared, her lips tinted with the taste of alcohol. I kissed her back. 

She ended up throwing up all over my wooden floors. I called her mom to pick her up, telling her I was sorry, sorry for everything. She picked her up and moved to Texas. I never saw her again. I think she goes to BYU now, though. 

I’ve told and relived the story over and over again, knowing just how it’ll end. I crushed on pretty straight girls, made out with my friends drunk at parties, and swore to myself that this, this is for the best. 

It worked. It worked for what seemed like forever — until I met her. The first time we spoke, my eyes lingered too long on their smile, the way their dark hair framed their face and how their sleeves clung to their skin, rolled to reveal the tattoos that covered their forearms. She was confident and earnest and beautiful in a way that was undeniable. 

For weeks, I denied any sort of feeling like a fish flailing out of water. It was useless — and painfully fucking obvious. In the times we would get to talk, my cheeks would flush with red and my hands would fly over my mouth, attempting to stifle a laugh. This girl infected my every thought. I couldn’t focus on my schoolwork or my sleep, I couldn’t go a day without writing and rewriting texts, I couldn’t find a corner of campus far enough to make her fade from my memory. 

As the semester neared its end, this girl became everything to me. We spent our mornings in bed, giggling with my roommates between sheets, our days in the sun, the warmth of its rays painting her eyes gold, and our nights on dancefloors, her fingers tucked into my beltloops. I fell in love with her.

But when I wasn’t thinking about her laugh or voice or hands, I was thinking about what my mom would say. 

I wanted more than anything to tell my mom about her. I wanted her comfort, her advice, but most of all, her approval. I couldn’t do it. Every time I thought about telling her, I imagined the way her voice will quiver and how the tears will fall despite her best protests — I could see it so clearly — the disappointment on her face. It made me sick. As I arrived home for summer break, I ran laps around my mind trying desperately to find the right time while simultaneously attempting to convince myself I shouldn’t tell her at all. But as we walked through the neighborhood we had lived in all our lives, I looped my arm through hers and willed myself to speak. 

“Mama, I have to tell you something.” I said, my breath already shaking. 

She looked at me with the same gentle kindness her eyes have always held, and asked me what was wrong. The silence of our suburbia pressed against my eardrums, the sound of our footsteps aligning with my quickening heartbeat. I can’t do this.

“What’s wrong? You can tell me. You tell me everything.” She said. 

She guessed over and over again, name dropping every boy I’ve ever liked, telling me that they weren’t worth my tears. I would shake my head and tell her it wasn’t that. “What is it then? Are you pregnant?” She choked out, her eyebrows turning upwards as she inhaled sharply, as if that must be what was happening. 

Fuck. I’m in too deep now. 

“No, no, mama — I like girls.” 

Her face softened. I waited for it to happen. For her body to crumble, for the tears to fall. 

“Oh. Well, everyone likes girls. I have lots of girl friends.” 

What? 

“No, but I like a girl as more than a friend. I like her like you like boys. I’m gay.” 

The silence lingered, suspended in the warm summer air. 

“No you’re not.” 

And that’s where it started — the confusion. For weeks, she insisted that this was a concept that neither of us could ever understand, that girls liking girls was simply unnatural. 

“So what are you going to do? You want to live in a house with your best friend forever? And never get married? You always wanted a wedding.” She would say as she washed the dishes. 

“No, mom. I want to marry her.” I would reply. 

At first, I found her questions a little funny — sweet, even. I thought that she was trying her best to understand. I thought I was one of the lucky ones. But the more she learned, the less she supported it. Even after my girlfriend came to visit, charming my mother over dinner with perfect Mandarin and the same chivalry she always held, nothing changed.

“I know you think you like her. And she is a nice girl. She is very pretty,” my mother said as we stood, cleaning out our old bathroom for the movers. “But you don’t know anything yet. You are too young. I still hope you grow up and both of you find good boys to take care of you.” 

As I looked up at her, the merciful woman who used to sit with me on these very tiled floors to brush my hair for hours on end, I no longer saw someone safe. I became sickeningly aware of the constant pressure in my chest and the knot in the back of my throat as I fell silent. 

“What? You’re upset now? Just because of what I said about your ‘girlfriend’?” She said, completely unaware of the mockery in her voice. 

“Yes. Yes, and I have tried so hard to explain it to you. I know you don’t get it. I know you’re tired,” I’m getting louder now. “and I love you, and I’m not saying that you’re a bad mom because of this or anything — I just don’t feel like I can talk to you anymore. And I miss you. I miss you so badly. I just want you to try.” 

“You want me to try? I can’t try for something I don’t believe in. It is this kind of Western world that has ruined you. You are so pretty, baobei, smart, too. You’re just sick. If I raised you in China, this wouldn’t have happened to you,” She shot back, her words cutting into my skin. “I have lived here for almost 20 years. I don’t go to church. I don’t drink coffee. I know what I value.” 

Our words echo through the hallways. But it’s just us. 

“But I am different than coffee or church. I know you care about me, and I care about her,” I felt the tears run down my face. I didn’t care. “I have tried my entire life to make you happy. All I have ever wanted is for you to be proud of me. I did it with the grades, the extracurriculars, the career choices — this doesn’t change anything. I am still smart. I am still happy. Mama, please.” I took her hand, willing her to look at me as I continued. 

“If I could change, I would. I don’t want to put you through this kind of pain. But I can’t. And I love her,” I pleaded, crouching to level with my mom as she sat on our old plastic stool. She put one hand over her face, covering her eyes as she rested her head. I know she’s crying too. 

“But I love you too. I just want you to try, please,” I’m on my knees now, my calves pressed into the cold tile.  

“Mama. Please. I’m still your daughter.”