The Town Lesbian
Let them say what they want
My name is The Town Lesbian.
Well, that’s what they call me anyway. The people in this god damned town. It’s awful.
I’m different. I grew up here, left, and moved to the city. I suppose I’m what some would call eccentric. I don’t mind that. So, why am I here? Why am I here in this backward, segregated, depressing little shithole of a town?
Not that I owe anyone an explanation, but I’m caring for my mother. She has dementia, and I’m all she has. It’s been difficult, to say the least. She has moments of grace, of recognition, but the other moments are sad and lonely. Frustrating. Hard. Which I know I shouldn’t say, but that’s the truth of the matter.
As an artist, I didn’t have much money, but I loved my life there. I loved my friends. I loved the person I was. I loved the energy of the city. The smell of burnt pretzels in the air. There, my personal style blended in like a neutral splash of color in a painting. It’s where I started wearing all black. I loved the way my clothes would hang on my tall, too-thin body. The black kept me hidden from the world. I’ve always kept my hair short. I don’t fuss too much — I have a simple capsule of clothes, my hair is easy to manage, my makeup is what it is.
In the city, I was just another awkward artist.
In this town, here I am, The Town Lesbian.
Whispers on the street echo loudly. I walk everywhere and dread being out when kids are heading home from school.
The elephant in the room: am I gay? I don’t know. Does it matter? Who cares. To be honest, I’m simply not attracted to anyone. I’m a lone non-sexual animal. I don’t know if that’s normal or not but it’s who I am and how I live my life. And now, I’m stuck here. Caring for Mom and being gossiped about by the entire town.
Let them say what they want. I don’t care.
What I care about is my mother. She’s getting to the point where I think she needs a nursing home, and it makes me feel so guilty. So empty inside. I have no one else to talk to about this or ask for help. Up ’til now, it’s just been the two of us. She gets so angry. Angry all the time. It’s been bordering on abusive, and then I step outside to the whispers. I am alone.
I walk down the street with a wide stride. I move quickly to avoid being out as much as I can. I hate being out. I’m sure you can imagine. But there are groceries to be bought and medicines to pick up.
There was this one day — ugh, I feel so stupid. But there was this one day when I was walking to the local pharmacy. It was one of those cold February days where you could see your breath as the sky hovered above in a cloud of grayness. Two teenage boys came out of nowhere and began to follow me.
“Hey!” they called.
“Lezzy!”
As they drew closer, I began to feel small stones being pelted at me. Little rocks knocking at my calves.
I felt tense. Uneasy. I didn’t know what they wanted or what they planned to do. Remember, I’m a city girl, so I just kept on walking, walking, walking. Minding my own business. Which only fed their disdain.
“Yo, bitch! We’re talking to you!”
My heart quickened and a painful twitch burned my eyes. Don’t stop, don’t turn around, don’t engage. Don’t engage!
“You’ze aint never had a real man.”
“How would ya like it?!”
They laughed and punched each other playfully. The snickers sickened me.
“Imma fuck the town lesbian!”
“I’m gonna give it to you good. Stop! Come here!”
I walked faster and quickly ducked into the pharmacy when I reached the door. The pounding in my chest was unbearable. They thought they were playing, but I legitimately felt — I felt — scared. Terrified.
I’ll tell you a secret. There have been times when I’ve prayed that my mom goes quickly and quietly. All I want is to get out of here.
Don’t think that! My inner voice screams. She’s your mother! She means more than the people in this town. You have nobody. She has nobody. You only have each other, and you need to bide your time and take care of her like you’re supposed to. You selfish bitch. Selfish, selfish, selfish!
And then I look at my pills and don’t think about what I want to think about. Selfish. Can you imagine what they’d say about the poor Town Lesbian?
Or maybe they wouldn’t say anything at all, and I’d disappear in silence.
Poor Town Lesbian.
Ugh. This is heartbreaking, Kiki. I felt it in my bones. I saw it all unfold like a one-woman stage play as I listened to your narration. Another superb performance!
I remember what it was like to live in a small town for a couple of years, not one where I ever lived. There was always judgment of some sort. This was not necessarily about sexual orientation, but it was about prejudice in general. My husband and I were city slickers from Chicago, and we were distrusted for locking out house and our cars, like we were hiding something, for our educations, the pastor and the doctor, like we were too good for everyone, and even for my husband’s collecting habits (rock and roll records). Of course, there was what he said in church, which wasn’t what they had learned or what they felt was right (they’d learned this in Bible School, and no one was going to challenge that!). They also had their opinions about Native Americans which left me incredulous, they weren’t so sure about that Indian doctor over there in the clinic, and most of them had never seen an African-American except on TV. Needless to say, when the two years was up, we left. See my poem, “Small Minds,” for part of the story, if you’re interested. This was a great monologue, very true to life, maybe just a little too true. Great work!