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Meant to Mentor
My exPerIence MentorIng tHe
lgBtq youtH
I am a woman. I am a lesbian. And I am proud.
I embrace my sexual orientation like I embrace my lover.
I admire my sexual orientation like I admire my inner strength.
And I love my sexual orientation like I love my life.
It was not always this way.
by taylor spining
Growing up in Orange County, I saw first-hand how a bigoted, discriminatory society works. If
it is good at anything, it sure knows how to make one feel less than. As I walked down a busy
street, fathers would pull their daughters closer to them as I walked past them in my tattered
jeans and pierced lip on the sidewalk. Day after day, these caring, loving parents would
protect their children from me, and from the contagious disease called homosexuality. High
school wasn’t much different. As I walked through the hallways, my classmates who smiled at
me when I walked by would turn to their friends after I had passed and make bets on whether
or not I admitted I was a lesbian yet. It was hard not to notice the sideways glances when I
complimented a girl on her hair or her new shoes. I must have been hitting on every single girl
that I talked to.
Experiencing instances like these on a daily basis really had a negative impact on the image
that I had of myself. I internalized what other people thought of me and viewed myself as
they did – a punk ass gay kid who was unworthy of happiness. And so I fled as soon as I
graduated from high school. I fled far, far away and ended up in Northern California. Little
did I know that I had done nothing to fix the problems. I had the same problems and the
same unhappiness. The only difference was that this time I didn’t know anybody and my only
support system was back home in Orange County.
At around the same time, gay teen suicides started to appear in the news. Again. And again.
And again. Day after day, I was confronted with the news that yet another gay youth had
taken their life because of bullying. As they saw it, they had two options. They could remain a
member of a society that does everything in its power to convince them that who they love or
what they feel is wrong. Or, they could end the pain and suffering. Those teenagers chose the
latter. As saddened as I was that these kids were in so much pain and saw no other way out, I
was envious. I was envious because they no longer felt the pain. I felt the pain.
I would sit in my dorm room in Northern California, alone, turn on Jeff Buckley’s version of
“Hallelujah,” and drag my dull Swiss army knife across my skin, making lacerations that were
intended to relieve my pain. Before I knew it, I had the word “FUCK” jaggedly carved into my
stomach. That was exactly what I was feeling. I was fucked. Sometimes I would think about
how I would probably end up on the news next. Breaking news. Yet another gay teenager took
their life today. No word yet from the parents. A brief moment of silence would be allowed
by the newscaster before she was on to the next piece of news. And just like that, the world
would go on. The people watching would go back to their dinner. But I would be gone.
By some miraculous miniscule amount of willpower that I had left, I moved back home to face
my problems and get the help that I needed. I took the time to confront what I was running
away from. It was the most difficult thing that I have ever experienced, but from it came an
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