Holding Hands With a Girl

“I have a boyfriend!” Melanie sang out, her voice loud and clear, swinging our joined hands as she strode over the cobblestones. I felt heat rush into my cheeks and I ducked my head, hiding behind my cloud of frizzy red hair.

She played the clarinet and she had amazing hair. I used to sit at my keyboard in the back of the band room and try not to stare at her lustrous chestnut curls.

It was my first trip without my parents. It was my first school trip. I was sixteen years old and I was socially awkward and very introverted.

My band teacher pushed me toward the flute and clarinet players with their perfect hair and makeup. “Go hang out with the other girls! Have fun!”

I wished she wouldn’t do that. An adult forcing the nerd to hang out with the popular girls? In what world was that a good idea? But, to my surprise, Melanie smiled and welcomed me into their group. Soon, we were all walking together down the cobblestoned sidewalk of Vancouver’s Gastown, all holding hands in a line.

I had held hands with strangers before—in church, during prayers. I had held hands with my parents and my younger brothers. I had never held hands with my friends. It was strange, but kinda nice to hold Melanie’s hand, to walk beside her vibrant beauty as if I was part of her circle.

Then one of the other girls said, “I just realized I’m in Vancouver holding hands with a girl.” And she laughed, high and nervous. “What does that look like here?”

Vancouver is the San Francisco of Canada. Liberal and artsy, it hugs the Pacific coast and shines as a beacon of freedom and diversity. In the ‘90s, when I was in high school, “gay” was still a pejorative in my town, but “everyone knew” that the gay community in Vancouver was thriving.

Melanie’s hand tightened on mine and she lifted her chin, tossing her thick curls back over her shoulders. “I’m not gay!” she called out in a singsong voice, loud enough for any passerby to hear. “I have a boyfriend!” Her eyes were bright, her smile wide; she was confident and certain in herself.

I wanted to disappear.

I was not confident. I was not certain in myself. I had no idea who I was. I had no interest in dating anyone to be honest. The boys in my classes were incredibly immature, and the girls, while pretty, had never crossed my mind as an option. I was a nerd, focused on studying and grades.

I prayed that no strangers on the street would look at me, even while I hid behind my hair. I wonder if anyone did glance our way, and smile indulgently at the silly teenagers. While I writhed in agony and embarrassment, passersby likely barely noticed us, and forgot us shortly thereafter.

Years later and miles away, I wonder if I noticed Melanie’s hair and confidence because I was envious or because I was bi?

After that trip, we went back to our own circles in school, though she did always smile at me if we passed each other in the hallway. Though popular, she wasn’t a mean girl, but we had nothing in common outside of band class. I spent most of my time outside of classes in the library, and she did whatever beautiful popular girls do in high school.

I haven’t been to Vancouver in many years, but, if I visited today, I would walk the streets with my head high, confident and certain in myself.