I need a song to listen to. I'm seeking solace from lyrics, some solution to the vague dissatisfaction that has taken hold in my soul. I'd prefer a song from the lesbian musical canon in its most stereotypical sense: The crooning, acoustic, sentimentality of it all. Ideally an older one, too, as proof that my emotional state was communicated long before I ever got around to being born and thus survivable. Simply put, I need comfort from my lesbian foremothers.

These songs exist, it isn't a stupid wish. I find one and anticipate putting it on; I solicit a hit from my roommates' weed pen before shutting myself off in my bedroom—Just me, a light buzz, and my headphones. The ultimate cure-all is within grasp. I press play.

There's acoustics. There's DIY production quality. There's a folksy rasp. There's women. It's sapphic. There's men. Not literally, no men penetrate the women's harmonies, but they're a presence written into the song nonetheless.

This is a rerecording, akin to a resurrection. It's two women revisiting a tune written thirty years ago to give it justice, to bank on nostalgia, hell, maybe just to have fun. The song they sing is a youthful one, detailing girlish kisses and touches hidden under the sheets, behind closed doors, even behind the back of a boyfriend. There is no real lesbianism. Only lesbian as illicit, a thrill in the hiding but a hiding nonetheless. It is a refusal to exist wholly independent of men.

There's the irony of these women, deeply rooted in the lesbian cultural canon, singing this. It's catchy. I'm nodding along. I'm a little disturbed, though. Was this the reality of 20th century lesbianism? Should I be grateful to be alive today?

I pause the song, certain my contemplation has reached a level of importance negating the need for music. Right now, I can get married—Maybe not right this second, barely a year into adulthood, but the option is there should I want it. That's safety.

Marriage could always lead to divorce, though, and there was the unique matter that the powers that be, the supreme court, could rip this right away from me. Nothing is codified. I'm not really, truly guaranteed anything.

 

Well, there's more representation now. There's lesbian popstars and supermodels and politicians. Lesbian popstars who are attacked for every decision they make, lesbian supermodels who still exist as supermodels—Malnourished, unattainable symbols in a messed up culture—and conservative lesbian politicians albeit underrepresented compared to their gay counterparts. Surely that has nothing to do with misogyny.

At least businesses can't discriminate against the gays anymore. Certain businesses, at least. I guess I can't have my wedding cake and eat it, too. But I'm allowed to shop at the mall, I'm allowed to participate in the Good Jeans from American Eagle, they actually want my lesbian money now, if nothing else I can exist as a capitalist consumer. That means something, right?

Plus now I have the freedom to walk through the grocery store or down the sidewalk hand in hand with my lady friend. And should we be spat at or yelled at, it can be posted to social media platforms and we can see ourselves further lambasted in comment sections.

To the other end, I could use social media to become a Lesbian Influencer. I could broadcast what was once a loving and fulfilling relationship and bastardize it for the promise of sponsors and likes–I could allow total strangers the right to my innermost self, ensuring I lose a parasocial platform and partner should the relationship ever dissipate.

 

Well, the president's granddaughter could be a lesbian now. A conservative white girl could be a lesbian, could you ever conceive such a thing? So I should be safe, I should be safe in my brown skinned, afro having lesbian self, because the president's granddaughter is entitled to it now and why can't I be? What barrier would possibly prohibit me if she has that chance? It's the land of the free, right?

So, on this overcast morning, I could propose to a girl, film the whole thing for TikTok, reach out to a bakery that is legally allowed to refuse to make my cake, then plea to a politician who does not care for me, yet is supposed to represent me, to do something about this, and then I can see a lesbian supermodel, forgo the need for cake altogether, and play the lesbian pop stars music at my wedding venue, as guests center conversation on how selfish and entitled and bad this artist is.

 

I have the freedom to do all of this. It has been thirty years, and this is the life I can live. I shudder. I close my eyes and turn the song back on. I'd rather live under the sheets, behind closed doors, maybe even while having a boyfriend.

 

I can't actually make that concession. I disconnect the headphones, turn the volume all the way up, and allow the folk song to erupt from the opened bedroom door, through the screen windows. I decide I'll let the whole world hear, in spite of it all.