The most hazardous aspects of North American lesbianism are incestuous friends; whinging acoustic guitar music; and expensive hair-texturing wax.* Not bad.
But! Some Huffington Post readers disagree. Check out the comments:
More than a few readers find Born Gay, Born This Way a nefarious projection of queer sexuality onto children. To paraphrase: “So what if he’s got a a red sparkly wand, a pair of matching high heels, and a purse with a teddy bear in it?! He was just being a kid! It didn’t mean he was fated to grow up and become a pervert, you perverts!”
It didn’t take them long to get into the obligatory hippocampus debate, either. My favorite quote: “Evidence does not exist provening people are born gay!” That argument is logically disingenuous as well as grammatically tragic; combining, as it does, Americans’ contempt for science and homosexuals. The only thing missing is a warning against vaccinating kids, lest they develop a sudden love for South Pacific or sensible shoes, whichever freaks you out most.
Obviously there’s a genetic component to people’s sexuality, but I don’t much care. Often, when someone says, “I was born gay! It’s WHO I AM,” there’s an undercurrent of “…so will you accept me?…because it’s not my fault.”
This isn’t always the case. People’s Exhibit A: the flaming, Fire-Island-style “I CAME OUT OF THE WOMB LIKE THIS, WOO-HOO! PASS ME A SCEPTER AND A BOWL OF POPPERS, CHILD!” But often, it is.
The subtext: If I’d had a choice, I’d have gone with hetero.
Once, my own mother said, “You must be wired that way — who would choose such a hard life?” I think she was remembering The Children’s Hour.
But I love being a lesbian. I’d be unhappy if I found myself attracted to a man. I don’t want that lifestyle — and in some ways, it’s more of a lifestyle than lesbianism, because it narrows options for women.* Being a bird with lavender feathers gives me more choices, because the straight world writes me off as a lost cause. There’s freedom in that. Another plus: Lesbianism centers my world on women, and I know so many magnificent ones.
Also, when I fell in love with Butch Concentrate, I doubled my wardrobe. Except for shoes. She’s got mad tiny feet. Can’t have everything.
*Provided you don’t live in, say, Killdyke, N.D. (pop. 1,248). More hazards there.
**Specifically, how they’re expected to look, dress, behave, and consume; their reproductive/economic vulnerabilities; and the fact that if they get injured or killed, it’s most likely at the hands of a male partner.