A MOTHERS LOVE!

Coming out is a thing we have to do over and over throughout our whole lives. While Mirjam Prell is sometimes filled with dread and anxiety when trying to say the words, there is one coming out she wishes she had the chance to do.

My mam died when I was 16 and I started coming out at 19.

I never got to tell her who I am. I have hundreds of different scenarios of this conversation in my head, ranging from difficult talks with tears and disbelief to her calmly telling me this explains so much about me. Usually, the positive ones dominate but on insecure days, I have doubts.

In the past, people in my family have sometimes wanted to hijack the narrative on this coming out. On those bad days, I wonder, are their versions correct? How would my mam have reacted?

Okay, Mama. You might want to sit down. I wanted to tell you that I like women. I’m a lesbian, Mama.

Here’s what your brother said would’ve happened next. You were brought up quite conservatively and religion played a big part. Gay people were those side characters in TV soaps your mam watched but not someone you knew well.

When I told your brother, he said it was okay, but he struggled. He whipped out the Bible to show me where it says homosexuality is a sin. He said you would’ve reacted like him.

But wait, you’re not surprised? Because I dressed like a boy as a child, saying I wanted to be like one too, be able to do what they can do. Remember you joked there had been a mistake made at my birth and that I should’ve become a boy? Did you already suspect it when I was a child, so nonconforming to gender expectations? So obsessed with older girls I admired, wishing I was like them but also desperately wanting to be liked by them. Would you have read the clues right long before I did myself ? Your aunt said so.

Here’s what my dad said: You would’ve had questions since you weren’t exposed to many queer people in our little village. For long, this wasn’t something happening in our world.

What I would give to tell you in person. I wish I could see your reaction; I wish I could be there to answer those questions. But what’s more, I wish you’d be there for me, too.

Especially now, with the world fighting election campaigns on the backs of marginalised people like the LGBTQ+ community. I wish you would support me in speaking up against those in our family using religion to argue that I am on the wrong track. I wish you would say the things I keep telling them because they would’ve taken you more seriously than me.

I wish I could’ve introduced you to my girlfriend. I wish you’d be there when I hopefully get married one day.

You know what, Mama? There is no scenario in my head where you get angry. Where you say you won’t accept me, where you whip out a Bible, where you say you wished I was different.

I know I often wasn’t the daughter you thought you’d have. Whose hair you can braid and who you can put in cute dresses. Who plays with your old Barbie dolls or who bakes and cooks with you. I know you wanted this; you said it yourself.

You got a little tomboy child instead, who hated dresses at the age of 10, who had no interest in baking or Barbie dolls but played football and built wooden weapons pretending to be an ancient warrior, coming home grass-stained, leaves in her hair instead of your cute, glittery hair-clips.

But you loved me, exactly like that. I will never doubt that. So, here’s how I will settle on how our conversation might have gone.

You would’ve been silent for a bit, then asked what that means. You would’ve said you’re not shocked, that you maybe had a feeling. You would’ve asked many questions and needed time to process this information about me. You would’ve been worried I might get harassed and discriminated against, that I will have it harder than others. You would’ve been worried about your child, just as you always were. You wanted the best life possible for your children and you would go out of your way to make us have it.

I would’ve reassured you that I will be fine. And then today, in times like these, when every so often I feel that I might not be fine and safe as a queer person, you might have said it to me instead. That you love me and that I’ll be fine. That you’ll be there for me, whatever happens.