Rachel Charlene Lewis

I was — for a long time — straight. And then I wasn’t.

When I told my friends I was gay, the majority of them said, "I knew it! I kept wondering why you wouldn't tell me." But they never made me feel like I could.

It was in my second year of college that a girl expressed sexual interest in me. It took me a month to realize that what I thought were hangouts were actually dates. It took me another month to realize I wanted them to be dates. As I realized I wanted her to like me, I slipped back into my old routine — my makeup got more advanced and my hair was always straightened. I still thought that to be attractive, I had to be as feminine as possible. I’d been a hardcore ally for a decade at that point, but had no idea about the politics of beauty within the queer community; I thought I was stepping back into my old role.

I spent my undergrad years as the president of the feminist organization, so I have a lot of experience spending time with feminists. The people I worked with were passionate, thoughtful, and often downright hilarious. And a lot of these people became my very good friends and people I admired.

Still, as my school was majority white, a lot of these feminists were white. And, sometimes, they were White Feminists.

As a woman of color, this was something that became difficult for me to navigate.

In general, I don't believe in compromising for love. I'm not interested in a relationship where I become less of myself to make someone else happy. It's not that I want it all — it's that I know that both my partner and I deserve the most intense and unfaltering happiness and satisfaction we can bring each other.

For some reason, the idea that two women are related and together in public is somehow so exciting that it must be made known to everyone within a mile radius.

About a year and a half ago, I started having something a little strange go down in my nether regions.

As soon as I hit puberty, I was fascinated by sex.... As I’ve gotten older (and actually had sex), my relationship with the act has shifted. Most of this has been the result of my not only coming to terms with my body and what it does and doesn’t like, but coming to terms with another part of my existence: my anxiety disorder.

No one should have to explain themselves to gain legitimacy. If we spend all of our time flashing our cards to get a pass into the queer club, we’re screwing ourselves over. At the end of the day, who's in charge of the gates? The white cis men who currently dominate the queer narrative?