Coming Out Stories
Recently I watched an episode of Uit de Kast. Two young people told their parents that they were gay and lesbian. The mother of one of them was terribly shocked and at first could not accept it. Fortunately, she came around quickly, though she still found it difficult. What mattered most was that she immediately said she loved her daughter, and they embraced. What a relief. The girl had waited five years before she dared to tell.
In my twenties I interned at the COC, where young girls and boys came in after being thrown out of their homes by their parents. At times we had trouble with youths who came to smash things up. We gave lessons in schools, but sometimes the planned sessions were canceled because parents protested—often at Christian schools. After such a session, there were always young people who came to us afterwards, saying they were afraid it would be found out. They stayed silent during the class, but later they dared to come to the COC, and it gave them strength that we had spoken openly in front of their classmates. So really, nothing new under the sun.
Now about my own coming out, fifty-four years ago: I was sixteen. My fiancé Jesus, a Cuban, and I went to the cinema. I remember giving him money so he could pay and feel manly. We didn’t discuss it, but we did it automatically—the man paid, even if the woman had the money. That was long before my feminist period. The film was X Y Zee, in which Elizabeth Taylor told Susanna York that she was a lesbian. A stab went through my heart. That’s it! That’s me too! Lesbian…
I already found it strange that when Jesus confessed he had held hands with my colleague Karen, I was jealous of him instead of her. On the Leidseplein, outside the cinema, I broke up with him. It had serious consequences, because he threatened me for quite some time afterwards. At home, in front of the mirror, I repeated the words to let them sink in: “I am a lesbian.” It felt thrilling, but I had no idea what to do next. I didn’t know any other lesbian women. I had no idea what to expect or where to find them. The only known gay man was Albert Mol. My mother told me not to laugh at men like him: “Because they can’t help it.”
The first time I told my mother, she said: “Oh, that will pass… all young girls idolize their girlfriends.” The second time, a few months later, she cried out: “Is it still not over?” She ran out of the house and stayed with my aunt for two days. My father immediately said: “As long as you’re happy.” He claimed he had already seen it in the way I buttoned my coat (I still don’t know what he meant). It took eight years before my mother accepted it. Later I heard from my father that she still struggled and blamed his family: “It’s because of your family… your aunt Corrie also lives with a woman!”
Years later I sought out Aunt Corrie, curious, but was met with a Christian tirade about how shameful it was to be a lesbian. So that didn’t help. My mother and I had terrible, heated arguments. I provoked her harshly and mercilessly, and we made life difficult for each other.
One evening I dared to tell my neighbor girl that I was in love with a woman. She advised me to go to the social worker, where her mother also came along. Ouch, a social worker was risky—my mother mustn’t find out. She thought social workers were only for “antisocials.” But I went anyway, because I was full and needed to talk.
I waited properly until I was eighteen before going to the COC. First I went with the social worker to the club above the dancing. A man from the introduction asked: “Are you two lesbians?” The social worker said: “Not me… she is!” and pointed at me. The next evening I dared to go alone to the dancing. With trembling finger I rang the bell, rushed to the bar, and drank three martinis out of sheer nerves. I saw only men and asked the bartender: “Do women come here too?” He pointed behind me: “Look over there!” Behind me was a women’s bar with a whole group of women.
That was the beginning of a new life. Soon I was taking part in actions in the city with others—like dance actions in straight clubs. We were dragged out by Dutch men by our hair because we danced together. The men were beaten up. What’s new? A group of boys once stormed into the club where I was interning, intending to wreck the place. I invited them for coffee, took them to a separate room, and told my story over cake and coffee. They sat in silence and then went home meekly.
Eight years later I invited my mother to a mother/daughter day at the COC. She came along. My father waited outside in the hall. My mother read a poem, and I hid in shame under the bar. To my shock, she was asked to dance by a woman. I looked at her anxiously, fearing her reaction. My mother looked at me challengingly and stood up. The two of them wrestled for minutes over who would lead. Now I see how brave it was, and I am proud of her for daring to do it.
The poem was lost for years, but someone later found it for me online. It had been printed in the COC newsletter:
Poem (translated)
"Ma, I am a lesbian," says your child.
You find yourself in a labyrinth.
Your child has kept it bottled up for years.
Homosexuals have always hidden themselves.
In 1972 it was never spoken of,
so at that moment you feel broken.
When your child says: I am homosexual,
you are struck in your soul.
Later years you begin to understand,
as your grief starts to ease,
that your child had to fight
for her feelings and her rights,
and that your child helps fight
for another child’s rights.
So that another need not fight,
and can calmly say with their soul:
“Ma and Pa, I am homosexual.”
For you teach your child to be honest,
and when they honestly admit their feelings, it hurts you as parents.
That is absurd, it should not be.
And so one hopes for the future
that people no longer need to hide,
nor bottle up their feelings.
And that all homosexuals fight for their rights.
That in the year two thousand
a parent will not be shattered when a child says: I am homosexual.
The parents then can be glad in their soul.
