I am lesbian, by choice

Somehow this story encarved on my mind for a long time.

About ten years ago, I was living in a female university flat with 3 other girls — — Jong, Josh and Jim. They chose boyish names to play/rebel against the gender labels. Me, on the other hand, although never felt comfortable as a female in the physics department or as an engineer. Well, what else could I do? I already made myself infamous enough by my aggressive gender equality speeches. Now that I think back, I just didn’t have the balls to fight back against the pervasive sexism.

Two years ago, it was in Basel, Switzerland that I was talking to my flatmates about dating. I was attributing my hibernated dating life to “my unwillingness of collapsing the infinite possibility.” Also, I had enormous bucket-lists to click that losing my liberty to a partner sounds intimidating. Or maybe, I don’t even know if I am interested in male or female. I think I am just interested in human.

So I said, “No, I don’t put people into boxes. I don’t categorize people by their gender, nationality, skin color, or studying subjects, or careers.” — — I thought that was basic regarding social demeanors. And it sounded like a quote from hypocritical Constitution.

One flatmate commented, “so you’re a queer.”

“What?”

“You’re a queer.” Perhaps she was so used to label people that she unconsciously labeled me as queer.

She didn’t get it. I don’t want to be etiquetted as “lesbian”, ”heterosexual”, “bisexual”, or “queer” or whatever other new terms there are. Human beings are human beings. We’re all human beings at the end of the day. I like the very random and comfortable conversations — — warm, intriguing, and you might never meet the person again. I talk around and learn something more. When I talk to you, I try to see you as who you are as a whole. Not a man, not a woman, not someone of specific color or whatever. You are just you.

Starting from there am I able to conceive myself mature enough to date.

Ok, back to the present.

Bettina, my Godmother in Germany texted me back after 3 months, saying that she and Clara didn’t receive my greeting card.

Clara is her daughter, and we used to be best friends in Germany. She was working in a coffee shop where I went every morning.

One day she asked if I am a Korean, because she’s traveling to Korea next month. But she’ll be back in a month, so maybe we can exchange numbers to keep in contact.

“Sure.” Miraculously I didn’t misspell my 11-digit number.

“And I am Taiwanese. I used to say to strangers that I am North Korean though.”

Somehow the friendly conversation with her warm smile evolved into a profound friendship. She later invited me to her place, and presented me to her mother Bettina.

She comprehended and understood everything I said, her epic accurate usage of English for self-taught and self-healing for depression, which I learnt later, was just too impressive. Let alone being a jazz singer.

We went to the places where she grew up, I met her colleagues and her crush, we had birthday dinner together, we watched Wes Anderson and discussed about books and travels, we celebrated Christmas and shared loads of moments. I met her grandparents and uncles and friends. I became part of their family.

That didn’t prevent me from the outbreak of severe panic attacks, bipolarism or insomnia. My syndromes were rooted deep.

I know their family isn’t in any case typical — — but whose is? Bettina is an art therapist, Clara herself studied IT but switched to psychology last year. By untypical, Bettina is a single mom who remains great friends with Clara’s biological father and his wife and his family. Their miraculously inclusive family is where I realize love is liberty.

From the rare message that Bettina replied to me after I left Europe, I knew that Clara wasn’t doing well. She was suffering from relapse of her panic attacks and severe depression. She was trying to be independent from medications but the school studies were stressful.

I tried to call her. But she never picked up. Maybe for her I was very aggressively and actively hoping that she could recover as well. Sometimes I just screwed things up with my disastrous and pathetic self monologue. That upset me so much.

But you know what?

As I am writing now, if you were to ask me what it means to have a romantic relationship, I realize that I can actually picture myself living with Clara, raising kids together, debating over politics and philosophy and technology in metro or kitchen. Although that doesn’t bring me very willy-wony wily-wony heart beats or physical reaction, but it brings me great contentment and relaxation. That I am okay and accepted. I am not weirdo. And that I love her. I know very clearly that I am physically attracted to male, but wait — — I am too traumatized by my past experiences that I just can't imagine myself being with a guy.

When I think of Clara, I feel so relaxed and at ease and happy. I guess that’s closest to a romantic relationship in my way. Right, I love Clara. In a realm with her, I no longer need to fight against anything, I no longer need to explain my mood because it’s reasoned through my eyes, I no longer need to shave my hair in a gender-unfriendly place and arm myself up against any discrimination. I no longer need to declare my sovereignty over my choices. She is my safe haven.

Oh girl, how I wish you could be happy and proud of yourself.

And following that flatmate, I am a lesbian, but by choice.