Meet Auntie Dyke: Here for you and all of your queer queries. A safe space for all, this reoccurring column serves as an anonymous place for questions to be posed by, and answers to be given to, LGBTQIA+ individuals. Rooted in community, and fueled by her desire to create meaningful conversation, Auntie Dyke is here to talk about it all.
To my Dear Queers,
Hello. It’s both relieving and thrilling to finally meet you. Consider me both gagged and gooped. Dipping my toes into Trill waters has been a careful process, and I’m thrilled to be making your acquaintance after so much planning. (Understand me, dear readers, I do not exaggerate when I say this. Much time and effort has been committed to reaching you.)
You may be wondering, at this point, who I am. Beyond my name, that is. A name can be telling (or existence-altering, for those who choose their own later in life – one must never dismiss the power of a name), but in this circumstance, it lends little in the way of beneficial information.
So allow me to introduce myself properly.
My letter to you, my dear queers
I’ve not always been Auntie Dyke. As all lesbians are at some point, I was simply a Dyke before the word “Auntie” ever prefaced my title. Admittedly, I came from the womb as a Dyke — my fate sealed the moment I was brought to this world.
This is a fact that may come as unsurprising to many of you. Most people who are aware of their lack of heterosexuality (whatever that “other” sexuality may manifest as) are well aware that they never had a choice as to who they would end up loving. The decision was made for them long before they were conscious of it — buried deep within their chests whether it be acknowledged or not.
Still, I feel it important that I establish for you that the term “dyke” has applied to me long before I ever learned the word myself. In the least sexual sense, I have loved women since I was a child. That piece of me has always been rooted in my soul: inarguable and undeniable.
Of course, as a child, these “signs” showed up hidden in plain sight, innocently as they could be. My deep obsession with boybands (One Direction allowed me to sing about pining for women long before I understood why I identified so closely with the lyrics), or my pervasive discomfort with the idea of having to live with a husband for the rest of my life (I only ever wanted a non-stop sleepover with my girl friends), or even my adoration for playing “princesses” as a kid (playing the “prince” was ideal, so long as it meant I got to save and woo the “princess(es)” involved), alone were clear signs of my lacking heterosexuality.
(We won’t even bother addressing my fixation on Padmé in the Star Wars prequels.)
My cosmic calling
Granted, I am not dull enough to leave unacknowledged my young age when I finally did come out of the proverbial closet. I was lucky enough to realize and acknowledge my sexuality far younger than most people do. My mother remembers the “Mom, I’m gay.” conversation as early as 11 years old. (Admittedly, the words “lesbian” and “queer” came far later, though that may be a conversation for another time).
In this way, I am luckier than many, and of that I am not blind. I suppose that is why I’m here today, making an attempt to build a safe space for you, and others like you, with little else but words.
Perhaps I feel some cosmic calling in regards to you.
Perhaps that is the compromise. I came out early, and for that gift, I pay with experience.
I will try not to get ahead of myself, though.
Because, of course, coming out early was a gift (that deserves to be recognized). Yet, it also played as a burden that would be woeful to leave unmentioned.
The queer gift that doubled as a burden
While I perhaps did not undergo the stereotypes of being thrown in a dumpster at my high school campus or having my head pushed down the toilet while water flushed itself around my ears, I underwent my own path of being othered, nonetheless.
Inappropriate questions followed me everywhere. (“Do lesbians actually scissor?” — Really, readers, why did middle schoolers even know words like these? To this, even I don’t have the answer.)
Boys constantly toed at boundaries to test if I was “really gay.” (Perhaps someday we’ll talk about the time I was in 8th grade, and two boys hid in a bathroom to spy on me while I changed into a bikini because “It doesn’t count if you’re really a lesbian!”)
Parents of friends eyed me suspiciously, openly concerned that I would turn their children gay. (You would be shocked to hear the things grown adults will say when faced with an openly queer child.)
Yet, despite it all, I would be a liar if I were to deny the joy I found in my sexuality. Even when I was young and relentlessly scrutinized for it, I found freedom in what I’d learned about myself.
So, again, we come upon the gift that accompanied my burden.
It all comes down to community
While I faced the unavoidable public sting of coming out in the early 2000s era in which gay wasn’t really “in” yet, I nonetheless fell in love with my community with each passing day I spent within it.
I think this may be one of the most important things to remember as a queer person: Our community is always open and waiting with a welcoming grin. This was something I had the joy of learning early.
And as I fell deeper in love with the LGBTQIA+ community — the friends I made, the connections I built, the safe spaces and arms I was held by — my desire to play an influential part in it only grew as I did.
It started small, that desire. All things do.
It began with the questions. Queries were that which first led me to realize my adoration for queer people and our surrounding culture. From age 11 and forward, I was privy to conversations that often are held only in private. I was the one who was faced with the curiosities of those around me. Confronted by those who were desperate to join me in my queer freedom, yet unable to find the access door for themselves.
“How did you know you were gay?”
“Was coming out scary?”
“Is that why you cut your hair?”
“How did you know you were lesbian, and not bisexual?”
Endless queer queries abound
The questions piled up around me, readers, truly. At the end of the day, we are all constantly feeding our inner children, are we not? We can’t help asking ourselves Who? How? What? Where? When? Why why why why?
These questions may have been predictable to some degree — I mean, of course one of the only queer people in town would be the one fielding such questions. My love for such inquiries, however, was less anticipated on my part.
Really, it was the conversations they stimulated that I so adored.
There is nothing quite as special as being faced by someone’s barest, rawest self and being given the chance to offer understanding, reassurance, allyship, and answers to them. (We all want answers, ultimately, don’t we? It’s what we can’t help but crave.)
Let me make myself clear, readers: I am blessed to be able to have these conversations. I love them. Every time someone asks me a new, tentative, tremoring question, I am faced with a world of possibilities for them. Better, I have the opportunity to help them glimpse such a world for themselves.
Tucked within this sentiment is why I am here now, writing to you.
Cis-het people (cisgender heterosexual people, for those who may not recognize the phrase) so often are given the world in a simpler form. To no fault of their own, cis-het people are granted the gift of simplicity just by existing. Simultaneously, those within the LGBTQIA+ community have to fight to make sense of their reality. Too often, queer people struggle at the fringes of society, begging for answers, and solutions, and camaraderie. It’s so frustrating to witness. Infuriating to contend with daily.
And thus, Auntie Dyke came to be.
Why I’m here, now
I, who so love to provide safe spaces to queer individuals in different stages of life, finally came to understand the benefits of my tendency to attract those with a desire for knowledge, those with a craving for answers.
Finally, I found a way to build the safe space I so badly crave.
With this, my dear queer readers, I can finally explain what I intend to do here at Trill.
I am here to create space and understanding for you.
With an open inbox, and an eagerness to delve even deeper into conversation with my community, I implore anyone who may have any questions regarding queer life to ask me whatever your heart may desire.
And please understand this: I do not hope to limit these submissions to queer people only. I am just as interested in having a dialogue with those in the community as I am with those outside of it.
We face a world in which open and honest conversations are painfully hard to come by. In a space of my own, anyone — everyone — is welcome.
So please, readers, send me your questions. I would love to answer them. Even better, I can’t wait to answer them here at Trill Magazine. For every question you ask, someone else may be searching for the answer. How can they find them if we do not provide the information readily for their discovery?
How to submit to Auntie Dyke
Please keep in mind, dear readers, that all questions asked of me will be shared entirely anonymously. Queer topics often tend to toe at sensitive subjects and material. I wish upon no one the fear that they may be exposed publicly before they are ready. You are safe here.
I, Auntie Dyke, am here to keep your secrets and answer your queer queries.
I simply cannot wait to hear from you.
Even better, I cannot wait to write you back.
Do you have any burning questions? Are you desperate for some not-so-straight advice? Maybe you just have an opinion you’d like some feedback on. Submit your queries* to Auntie Dyke!
Submissions accepted at: [email protected]
*All questions will be kept anonymous
