MHS SP, part deux

My College Essay

The common stereotypical thought about gay, lesbian, or bisexual teens is that they are either out and proud, waving rainbow flags and exclaiming their sexuality just short of wearing a flashing neon sign, or they are hidden in the closet that they refuse to come out of unless it was lit on fire. I, however, like to think that I fit into neither of those categories. While my parents are unaware, a majority of my friends know that I am gay. I will not shy away from the topic; if asked about my sexuality, I will honestly, if a bit hesitantly, confirm the fact that I am a lesbian. For those who scoff at the word “hesitantly,” thinking that I am not as confident as I appear to be, let me explain that I think of my sexuality as something private. If everyone else isn’t expected to introduce themselves as, “Hi, my name is so-and-so, and I’m a heterosexual!” then why should I be expected to include my sexuality in something that seems so irrelevant for everyone else? I prefer not to publically exclaim my sexuality for all to hear, and while a part of it is knowledge that not everyone is as accepting as my friends, my reason has more to do with my family over anything else.

My father cares about my wellbeing, worries over me when I’m sick, and does his hardest to provide food and a roof over my head. Despite this, after years of occasionally seeing him once a week on his day off from work, the lack of communication has wedged a wall between us. It’s that same kind of feeling you get when you see a relative again after five years or so; you have to get over the initial shyness before you can get the familiarity back, and because of that it’s rather awkward at the beginning. My father and I, we’re continuously looping through that awkward phase; we barely know anything about each other, and he talks to me through my mother. My mother, in playing the role of my father for my father, often corrects him before he can even finish his suggestion. “She won’t eat that,” she says snidely. “She won’t want to go,” she says assuredly. “She won’t want that,” she snaps, short of rolling her eyes towards him. And the entire time she tells him this, I am not less than five feet away from her, hearing the whole exchange.

My mother tends to be a subtly controlling person; she seems quiet and shy, but has a way of making you feel guilty about arguing with her, guilty about making her sad, guilty about doing something that you haven’t even done. Whether it’s crying after accusing me of not wanting to be successful because I thought of majoring in psychology or communications rather than medicine, or accusing me of not caring if she were to die after I made a comment about her misplaced wallet, she makes me reword everything I say to fit into what she wants. While this doesn’t make me love my mother any less, at times it does get grating. She has insisted on me moving back to Thailand when I finish college, not so I can succeed, but, just in case I fail, so I can lean on my cousins to help me.

I respect my parents, and I do my best to be completely honest with them. Despite this, however, I believe that you can give a person your body, your time, even your heart. But the one thing you can never, ever let go of is your power. Telling my parents the truth about my sexual orientation would relinquish my one piece of power, because all my life my mother has tried to make decisions for me, tried to tell me what to do, or guilt me into doing what she wants. By her not knowing, I retain a part of my life that she can’t try to control, that she can’t try to manipulate. That piece of power, that freedom I have over myself can flourish, leading to making my own decisions, based on my thoughts, and in doing so carry them out through my actions. So with all my being, I will hang on to that piece of power as long as I can. I may share it with people I care about, but I refuse to give it to those who want it to control me.