A few weeks ago, I was complaining to a male friend of mine—we’ll call him Matt—about another male friend, who had said and done some things that suggested he was interested in me. I was complaining because I was not looking forward to telling this guy, “Sorry, I’m a lesbian.” I asked Matt, half-jokingly, “Why does he have to screw things up by finding me attractive?” Matt responded, “Well, Lisa, you don’t look like a lesbian.”

And with that simple sentence, it all fell into place. I understood why. Why I’m so afraid, why I’m still nearly closeted, why I let only a few close friends know about my sexuality. Why I merely smile and say “no” when someone asks me if I have a boyfriend. Why I’m more open about being lesbian when I’m at home, in my conservative North Dakota town, than I am at Macalester. Why I don’t go to QU meetings or Coming Out Week events. Why? Because being a “lesbian” has many connotations other than simply being attracted to other women. It suggests a certain style of clothes, a haircut, an attitude, a way of life, a way of thinking. And if that’s what it means, then I’m afraid I’m not lesbian enough to be completely “out.”

Like I said, I come from a conservative North Dakota town, from a fairly reserved family. It’s scary to come out to them. But I have. My family knows. They’re not the ones I’m afraid of. My Christian friends know—they’re not the ones I’m afraid of either. I am afraid of the lesbian friend who spent a year and a half trying to convince me that I was not bisexual but lesbian, despite all my protests that, at the time, I honestly did not know what I was. I’m afraid of people who question how I can be queer and Catholic at the same time. I’m afraid of going to a QU meeting and being mistaken for an ally. I’m afraid that it’s not okay for me to be afraid. In the liberal Macalester environment, is it okay for me to be less than liberal?

I am lesbian. I am not queer. Other than wearing a rainbow pin on my backpack, I don’t give you many clues. There are a lot of straight girls who look more dyke than I do. Many people who see and talk to me almost every day have never heard me say that I’m lesbian. I keep quiet because I feel my sexuality is a private matter. I don’t fear discrimination or rejection for being lesbian; I’ve been tolerated so far, and I can cope with that. I’m so “out” in ND because I don’t know any other lesbians in my city to compare myself to—or worse, who might judge me for not being dyke enough. My fear is not fitting in with either the hetero or the homo culture.

Accepting that I’m lesbian meant accepting a huge part of my identity. It is also part of my identity to keep my hair long and to wear the clothes that I like, even if it means that I “don’t look like a lesbian.” This is simply who I am, this is how I look. I look “straight” but I’m attracted to women. I’m attracted to women but I look “straight.” So where is it that I belong?