Coming Out at 3 Years Old?

Coming Out at 3 Years Old?

I wore baby blue, and Jimmy was forced to wear my pink pajamas when we were about 2 and 3 growing up in upstate, New York. My mother, not able to tolerate my hissy fits over that particular shade of pretty, ultimately turned to just buying us yellow clothes, so I could wear my brother Jimmy’s hand me down’s, as he was 11-months older. Yep, Irish Catholic. I think I knew I was gay when I was 3, but didn’t come out until I was 30. There’s a picture of me with a curl in my blonde hair around that time, meaning my mother must had the nerve to put a curler in my hair, perhaps dashing hopes that I might be turning into a tomboy. In the photo we are at a park and I’m holding Jimmy’s toy gun, I assume, to protect my family. Did I fall down and cry until I was the one holding Jimmy’s gun? I had a crush on my friends even in kindergarten. I knew the good looking ones and asked my mother to make them brownies when I went to their homes to play. My first kiss with a girl was in third grade. Her lips tasted like peanut butter as she had just eaten a sandwich. I was a bit bisexual back then because neighborhood Ned was my boyfriend too. When I did come out at 30, I never told my mother her hunch was right. In fact, at her funeral when she died at 64, my youngest sister asked me, “Sue is there something you want to tell Mommy?” And I got up the nerve, leaned over her casket looking so beautiful and still, and said, “Mom, I’m gay.” Right now, I’m packing for a long trip, and ironically as I was going through my inventory, I discovered most of my shirts are pink. I love pink. Look what I was missing out on as a kid. I just wish my mother could see me now.

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