Out in the Woods: How Some Old Trees Helped Me Figure Out How to Love Myself
I wrote and performed this story for a Feb. 12, 2017 storytelling event called Stories for Change, a benefit for a sexual violence prevention center at the U of M.
I grew up not far from here, in the last of the Big Woods, surrounded on all sides by towering basswood and red oak and sugar maple. On boiling hot July afternoons, I’d walk down to the woods and wade up to my shins in the ice cold creek. Crisp days in September were spent running up and down hills, tripping over logs, trying to find the brightest fallen leaves. But the most exciting time of year for me was Spring, when all the woodland wildflowers would bloom. I’d collect them by the handfuls and bring them back home, usually broken and half-wilted by the time I finally got through the door. Those woods were an endless source of entertainment, of comfort, of so many fresh-picked raspberries that I’d eat until my arms were scratched from the thorns, my hands were stained red and my belly ached.
I built my own private world there. Even if a friend tagged along on the occasional excursion, I knew they could never see the woods as I did, feel the trees breathing with me. It was a place only I could experience, a place that lived inside my head as much as it lived outside of it, a place of beauty, where no thought or feeling or action was wrong as long as it came from good intentions.
I knew from an early age how I felt about girls. I just didn’t know it was anything different than how others felt. I remember the first time I kissed a girl, sitting in the shade on a hot summer day. She leaned in, pecked me on the mouth, and then we both collapsed into giggles. It felt so natural, I didn’t question it.
It wasn’t until one day in high school that I finally learned just how different I was. Somebody in my friend group had made some dumb offhand comment like “Why isn’t there a straight pride parade?” Being a calm, level-headed 16-year-old, I coolly brushed off his remark.
No I didn’t. I was a teenager. I yelled at him and then went home and cried to my mommy. I always thought of my mom as the most progressive, accepting person in the world. She’d always taught me that everyone was important and deserved love, no matter who they were. Which is why it hurt all the more when she just didn’t understand why I was getting so upset over a stupid thing some boy said, when I told her “He’s insulting my friends, my family, even… me.” I’d never thought of it that way before.
“I don’t know about that, your cousin was a LUG, you know.”
Ouch. L. U. G. spells Lesbian Until Graduation. It’s perfectly normal to experiment with the same gender in college and while often people find they identify as straight afterward, this term is too often used to deny bisexual identities by minimizing someone’s orientation to “just a phase.” I was shocked by how casually she said this, so.. I pushed the issue. I told her outright: “Mom, I like girls.” I left the “and boys” out because, well, she had met my last boyfriend so I figured she knew that part. She didn’t take this well. As she started crying about how she would never get grandchildren, I threw on some rain boots and slipped out the door.
I felt so betrayed. I could always tell my mom everything, but now, when I needed her support the most, I didn’t want to tell her anything. I didn’t know what to do.
So I ran to the woods. It was spring, so the small creek that ran at the bottom of the deep ravine was thawing out and filling with snowmelt. The chickadees and nuthatches were beginning to sing, a sure sign of warmer weather to come. I stepped onto the trail, wiped my feet to prevent the spread of invasive species, and had the distinct feeling of coming home.
When you’re young and queer, it’s hard to find your place in the world. You live in between, more worried about how you pass than who you are. If you pass as straight, you won’t have trouble in school but you will probably have trouble in your lovelife. If you pass as gay, you’ll have a chance at love but your life will likely be made hell by your peers and you could end up on the streets. A 16 year old in the suburbs, I was so concerned with my image. I’d get Juicy brand velour sweatsuits and ugg boots bought off of Ebay after saving up for months so I could look like all the other girls. I wore them like camouflage. They fit terribly. They were always too tight and stretched awkwardly over my chubby adolescent body. I felt forced into this mold that so clearly wasn’t meant for me, but I had no idea who else I could be.
In the woods that afternoon I was angry at the world for not understanding me, and angry at myself for the same reason. Lost in thought, I wandered off the trail and nearly tripped over a branch that I quickly sidestepped to avoid. When I lifted my foot I realized I had stepped on a jack-in-the-pulpit, a rare flower native to these woods and one of my mom’s favorites. I felt too big for my body, like my clumsiness would end up hurting everyone. I made my way carefully down the hill to the ravine, watching every step. At the bottom of the hill I looked up to the opposite side and saw a young deer peering down at me. Watching. We stared at each other for what seemed like forever until finally he seemed satisfied I wasn’t a threat and slowly walked on, his white tail waving like a flag.
I spent the rest of the afternoon following the creek down to the small lake. I could feel the coldness of the water radiating through my rain boots and wool socks, but my feet stayed dry so I kept going. I arrived at the lake and found a huge tree cut down and lying on its side. I counted the rings for a while but got bored as soon as I got up to 70 and realized there were still more to go. I climbed on top. The damp moss that covered it left spots and green stains on my near threadbare velour sweatpants. Looking out at the lake, I realized just how big the woods were. I felt as if I had been walking forever. I tucked my hair back in my hood and laid back on the tree, staring up at the canopy overhead. Most trees had leaves at this point but I could still see the white sky like lace where they parted.
At that moment, I had two thoughts. The first was that I felt so overwhelmingly loved. I couldn’t pin down where or who it was coming from, but the sensation washed over my body, warm like a hug. The second was that I was so small. I was laying on a tree at least 5 times my age, surrounded by others even older. These woods had been around thousands of years and had watched millions of lives: human, deer, insect, bird. I could be myself, exactly where I was and fit in perfectly. When you walk into the woods, the trees don’t care who you are or how you feel or who you love or whether you think you’re a good person or not. They just want you to tread lightly and show care.
I felt my phone vibrate. A text from my mom. “Coming home 4 dinner?” Apparently I was worth feeding, even if I would never give her grandchildren. I weighed my options. I could stay in the woods forever, but the raspberry bushes wouldn’t ripen for another 3 months, and I only had half a granola bar in my pocket. I hopped off the old tree and stepped back on the trail towards home.
We didn’t talk about my identity again until I was almost 21. It hurt at first, not being able to share my experience with her, but soon I forgot it was ever an issue. It seemed like my mom had also forgiven and forgotten. We were driving to Pride and talking about something or another when I mentioned being queer.
“Oh, you are?” She sounded slightly surprised.
“Mom, I’ve been out for years. Don’t you remember? I came out to you when I was 16.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t remember. But ok.”
While it was strange that such a huge moment for me was so easily forgotten for her, I was happy she was finally accepting me for who I was. I learned later that she hadn’t had the same open-minded sexual education that I had, and she understood that she had to make a choice. My mom chose to marry a man and have a family. It wasn’t that she didn’t approve of who I was, it was that she didn’t understand how much the world had changed. Well, most of the world, at least.
After I got back from Pride, I went out to the woods again. It had been almost 3 years since I had last set foot in those woods, but I felt drawn there that evening. I covered myself with bugspray and started out on the trail to find some sort of.. reconciliation, I think. Sometimes you seek forgiveness even when you’ve done nothing wrong. I turned the corner and found myself staring at.. a jack-in-the-pulpit, and then another, and then another, and then a sea of green-and-burgundy striped cones unfurled and dancing in the dappled light.
I am so small, but I am deeply loved.
