A Note Amongst Change

Like so many LGBT folk, I have seemingly thousands of coming out stories. While some people are likely to have a particularly significant story, for better or worse, it is probably going to be just one of many.

I first realised I was probably gay when I decided at 15 that the crush I'd had on my best friend, for the best part of four years, was probably more than a crush. That girl was the first person I came out to, awkwardly and afraid to expressive exactly what was happening in my head and in my heart. Over the next two years I came out to a few friends, some family members and some strangers (via the 'safety' of internet chat rooms). Sandwiched in the middle of these stories, many of which had led to harsh words, anxiety and tears, is the story which still warms my heart almost 14 years later.

On Saturdays I worked at a great street market and would spend three hours covering the lunch rush at a stall which served an odd combination of quick and easy Asian takeaway dishes, hot chips, dagwood dogs and cinnamon donuts. I had been working at the market for almost a year when I started coming out to some of those closest to me and while, in their own way, some of these people possibly tried to be supportive, their words and facial expressions often said otherwise. At the time I had a girlfriend, who I was madly in love with, and when we were ‘outed’ at school our Monday to Friday life became quite unbearable.

For the three hours I worked at the market, on Saturdays, I was pretty happy. I literally watched the world go by, with tourists frequenting the area and people from all walks of life coming along to buy food, clothes, jewellery and crafts from the stalls around me. Over the time I worked there, I became familiar with many regular customers. It was a lovely feeling to be able to share a smile and a few words with a stranger as I fixed their order without them having to even ask, as time went on.

Two young women were among these regular customers and would often arrive at the stall holding hands or with their arms around each other and, as they became familiar, I spent every shift looking forward to their arrival. My girlfriend and I didn't know any other gay people, so the sight of these women outwardly showing affection for each other was wonderful to me. Some weeks they didn’t come by at all and on those weeks I would leave the market feeling a little dejected as though we’d had a standing arrangement and they had let me down. On the weeks they did arrive, I found myself looking at them and in my mind I would be screaming I’M GAY TOO and hoping desperately that they would hear me.

After a couple of particularly harrowing weeks at school, in which the bullies had formed new strategies and our supporters had further dwindled, I made a decision to write these women a letter. I can’t remember all of my words exactly, but I do remember describing the difficult time my girlfriend and I were experiencing and then writing 'I just want to know if it gets better'. Part-way through my shift I saw the women approaching our stall and they had a friend with them who I’d seen a few times before. I worked the stall with three other people, but hurried with the customers I was serving in order to ensure that I would be the one to serve the women.
They placed their usual order and, heart racing, I prepared their food. I handed one of the women the food, the other handed over some money and I’d never been so relieved to have to work out change. It meant they hadn’t just walked away. I dipped my hand into the coin drawer and then, holding it in my left, I reached my right hand into my pocket and pulled out the note.

“Can I just give you this too?” I'm sure my voice would have wavered as I spoke to her and offered out my hand, the change sitting with the note I had written.

I still recall the kind, but puzzled smile she offered me and the second smile I received as she glanced over her shoulder, sliding the note into the back pocket of her jeans as they walked away. I spent the next few minutes buzzing from the same anxious excitement I had felt after writing the note the night before. Glancing around the market trying to locate the women, my gaze soon caught them sitting under a tree in the distance. They were reading the letter as I watched. After a couple of minutes, the three stood up from their spot, the woman slipped the note back into her pocket and they walked away. I don’t know what I had expected them to do after reading the letter, but I felt somewhat disappointed that nothing had happened at all.

The following Saturday, the woman who I’d handed the note to came along by herself. She ordered the same food as she always did and, this time, when I handed her the change she handed me a note. I don’t know if the smile on my face was a big as it felt on the inside, but what I do know is that note burnt a hole in my pocket for the remainder of my shift. I couldn't wait to open it up and read her response.

The only things I now recall about her letter were her writing that she felt I was brave and providing her phone number. There was so much more in it, but those two things are the two which stood out. She was praising me for saying the words everyone else frowned upon, and she was offering her support. Those two things alone would be enough for this story to continue to warm my heart, but it gets better.

Over the following year, this woman and her girlfriend offered me, and my girlfriend, advice and support at every turn. They invited us into their home and allowed me to phone them when I needed someone to talk to. They put us in touch with other people and organisations which could offer support. They supported us when my girlfriend took too many pills, on purpose, and visited her in the psych ward at the hospital. They supported us the first time we broke up and the first time we got back together. Knowing we had the support of these two women was one of the only things that got me through my final year of Catholic school. The following year they moved interstate and I kept in touch with them sporadically over the next few years.

My rocky relationship with that girl ended about three years later. A couple of girlfriends and a lifetime of experiences after this, I found myself crossing paths with these women once again.

My ‘new’ girlfriend and I had been together for about six years and she was pregnant with our first child when I heard that the two women were moving back home. They were expecting their first child also and, as it turned out, the babies were due at the same time.

We arranged to catch up and, at 28, I felt almost as nervous as I had done after arranging to meet them for the first time years before. We had lunch together and they both got along wonderfully with my girlfriend, one of them sharing the highs and lows of pregnancy with her while myself and the her girlfriend shared similar thoughts from a partners perspective.

Our children were born three weeks apart, a girl for us and a boy for them, and we now consider them to be some of our closest friends. The two children are now three years old and just at the age where they are communicating and playing well together and we are able to sit back and watch them while passing the baby, our second daughter, between us.

Last week we were at the park together and marveling at how quickly the 3 year olds can now climb well and play independently and I shared a smile with the woman I had given my letter to all those years ago. The smile itself was nothing unusual, but in moments like that it is comforting to know that she is aware of how significant it is that we are in each other’s lives and I am living on the better side she promised me I would see.

At 30 I am able to look back to 1998 and smile at the image of the awkward, anxious teenager at the food stall who spent over an hour checking her pocket, feeling for the note which would bring about so much change.