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Lesbian Stories
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Lesbian Female / 30
From Darkness Into Light
In my house my father referred to my mother as 'his woman'. As kids we never paid much attention to it, sure they were married but she was still 'his woman'. My mother never complained.
In college I learned how bad that was, how bad my father was, and my grandfather, that I and my sisters, and mother were all oppressed by men like him. The only time my mother slapped me was the day I told my mother that we were oppressed by him. I was never angrier, more sure of my disgust with my father, I went back to college to the embrace of my fellow women, taking a degree in Sociology, and in a relationship with a fellow graduate, a smart, driven, activist of women's rights, gay and lesbians, and all the oppressed peoples of the white supremacist.
My father died unexpectedly, I went to the funeral, my sisters and my mother did not want me there. My younger sister called me a freak, a lesbo bitch. Do them a favor and go back to Oakland.
I went back to Oakland, I was not the same. I didn't feel right, the words of the 'community' did not feel right. My father was not an oppressor, my mother and sisters were in pain and so was I. I broke up with my partner, went home to live with my mother, to make peace with her and my sisters. I fell into a relationship with a man, the first person I ever confessed all my feelings to. The first man who took me into his arms as a 'woman'.
I am gay, after three years I met this woman who stole my heart, a school teacher and with his 'permission' and my mother's permission we now live together. He is not my father, he is everything, he holds my hand, listens, he is the light I follow. My partner and I live under his eye, his hand, his love. He loves me even as I am, I am gay, I will always be 'his woman'.
In college I learned how bad that was, how bad my father was, and my grandfather, that I and my sisters, and mother were all oppressed by men like him. The only time my mother slapped me was the day I told my mother that we were oppressed by him. I was never angrier, more sure of my disgust with my father, I went back to college to the embrace of my fellow women, taking a degree in Sociology, and in a relationship with a fellow graduate, a smart, driven, activist of women's rights, gay and lesbians, and all the oppressed peoples of the white supremacist.
My father died unexpectedly, I went to the funeral, my sisters and my mother did not want me there. My younger sister called me a freak, a lesbo bitch. Do them a favor and go back to Oakland.
I went back to Oakland, I was not the same. I didn't feel right, the words of the 'community' did not feel right. My father was not an oppressor, my mother and sisters were in pain and so was I. I broke up with my partner, went home to live with my mother, to make peace with her and my sisters. I fell into a relationship with a man, the first person I ever confessed all my feelings to. The first man who took me into his arms as a 'woman'.
I am gay, after three years I met this woman who stole my heart, a school teacher and with his 'permission' and my mother's permission we now live together. He is not my father, he is everything, he holds my hand, listens, he is the light I follow. My partner and I live under his eye, his hand, his love. He loves me even as I am, I am gay, I will always be 'his woman'.
