“You don’t need equal rights, you already have more rights than everyone,” said my father, after he openly said he wouldn’t hire a gay worker, not even me, his daughter.
“You don’t deserve to have kids,” said my mother, who couldn’t understand why the words she said made me cry. “A child deserves a mother and a father, and two queers like you could never raise a child.”
“But she doesn’t look like a lesbian,” said my aunt, the one family member I thought might defend me.
“Where did we go wrong,” asked my parents, as if there was something wrong with me. “We thought we raised you better than this.”
“You’re just confused,” said my father. “Therapy can help you figure out your feelings.”
“She goes to the University of Minnesota,” said my relatives, “what did they expect, her to come out normal?”
“Do you know where people like you go when you die?” asked my brother, who wouldn’t look me in the eye. “Do you want to go to hell?”
“You should be careful,” said my mother, when I told her I was going out. “Because do you know where you’ll go if you die today?”
“All transgender people should just be shot,” said my mother, “just like the queer people they are.”
“You need a mental examination,” was the reaction of my parents, after they first found out. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I’ve met a lot of lesbians,” said my cousin, the girl I once considered my best  friend, “but she just doesn’t give off the vibe.”
“She’s going to regret this when she’s older,” said another relative, after I came out on facebook. “She is ruining hope of having a normal life.”
“I love you,” said my good friend, crying like I had told her something bad. “But you know I can’t accept that lifestyle.”
“We’re praying for you,” said everyone, as if I had said I was sick.
“I am so glad you’re over that,” said my mother as I was finding out what heartbreak meant. “Now you need to date a nice boy.”
“I think she’s over that stage,” my mother told my aunt after.
“You are messed up,” was a text I got from my mother while I was attending the Women’s March.
“All that is is a march of a bunch of queers.” She spit out the last word, said it like it tasted as bad as I felt when I heard it.
“I just thought you had better morals than that,” said my mom. “You really have no morals to be doing that.”
“It’s just gross,” they said. “How can a woman love another woman? Something is wrong in your head if you think that’s okay.”
Gross, disgusting, immoral, unspeakable, sickening, shameful, horrid, dyke, queer.
“Don’t tell anyone, ever,” said my mother, ashamed of her daughter.
“We can never accept or condone your behavior,” said my father. “Having this around will influence everyone in the family.”
“You’re heading down a slippery slope,” said my mother. “If that’s how you want to live your life, go ahead. But the only thing that waits for you is drugs and alcohol, because you’ll need it to live with yourself.”
“I just can’t stand her,” said my mother to my sister.
“The last the we want to do is push you away, but we have other kids to think about,” said my mother, because obviously the other kids are more important than me.
“You are nothing but a queer,” said my mother, to my face.
“And we will never,” said my mother, “accept you or your lifestyle choice.”
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