I was born and raised in the conservative, religious town of St. George, Utah. Now, Utah has its reputation of being LDS central and the land of the ‘“sheeple” as others have so eloquently put it. Unfortunately, they are not exaggerating about the state of this place. It has most definitely caused some slight trauma, religious guilt, and a bit of family tension when I came out to my family. I realized I was gay at the ripe age of ten, at this realization it was swiftly packed up internally and not to be thought about for a few more years–or at least until I hit middle school. Whether it was the wild combination of raging hormones or the influx of peers, being queer was suddenly all that was on my mind again. I kept it quiet, but spent a lot of silent time analyzing myself and my feelings. This led me to the conclusion that I was an asexual lesbian. I didn’t identify with this label for a long time, but I knew what I was. I heard people talk about the queer community, they all had less than positive things to say. It was scary knowing I was different from them. That I was something they hated. The first time I said the words out loud was to my best friend at the time. I thought if anyone would understand it would be her, but she didn’t understand and I lost a friend. It was long after when the rumors started up. Rumors about things I had never done. When someone becomes the laughing stock of the school it starts with rumors and then it becomes bullying. Violent. Physical. I have always been sympathetic towards assault victims, but it wasn’t until I was assaulted that I understood what they went through. The first time it happened was with a girl. She told me I should like it because I was gay and she was a girl. I’ve never fully gotten over what happened in that locker room. Like all things the torment began to fade out, rumors to assault to writing slurs on my car to the occasional hateful comment. I learn quite fast that the people who preach that they love Jesus and try to be like him to everyone else, are the same people who spit in your face and call you disgusting for something you have no control over. Writing became my escape. My coping mechanism. A way to express the torrential down pour of thoughts and feelings I found overwhelming. Poetry calmed my emotions. And stories allowed me to share my experiences and let people know they are not alone. That there are people like me–like them–in the world, people who understand all the things they have gone through. It’s with writing that I have connected with people in my community and guided people in the same situation as me. I have helped people figure out their sexuality, come out, and find a safe spot to just exist. What happened to me–and so many others–is horrible. But I wouldn’t trade my experience for anything because it has provided me with something I love and a way to help people like me. Writing gave me a space where I belong and where I can help others find that too.

It isn’t everyday that you find a teacher who is understanding and encouraging, who takes them time to get to know you, and teach you in a way that is as meaningful as it is informative. When I was fourteen, my mental health plummeted. I was struggling to get out of bed, let alone eat and go to school. My health started to deteriorate and so did my relationships, that was until I took a chance on a creative writing class. The teacher, an upbeat blonde woman–who was a returned vet–with a crippling addiction to Dr. Pepper accepted me into her classroom with open arms. Despite her seemingly careless demeanor, all the woman did was care. She cared about everyone in that room, and did more for them than anyone else ever had. What was supposed to be a class teaching me how to write turned into a class teaching me that there is something more to life. We talked about life and death, about sadness and happiness, about right and wrong, and how we can change the world. She showed us the ways we could and she taught us that we need to believe in ourselves. She protected us from the people outside that classroom–who tormented us for our passion, and she loved us for all of our weird traits. One day, it had been particularly rough, I wasn’t feeling it. I was nodding off in class, had incoherent answers, and was abnormally quiet. She pulled me out into the hallway and did something I never thought a teacher would do, she let me talk. No judgement, no restraint, and she listened to every word I had to say. She offered no advice, no apologies, no pity. Just a simple, “Yeah, that is hard, but you got this. Remember you are the one who got kicked out of regular english to go into honors. You are the one who submits the best pieces in class. You are the only person who gets to decide how you feel. Life is tough, but you’ve made it this far, right? Wouldn’t it be a waste to stop now? Life is tough, you are tougher. You got this. Do great things, okay?” She checked in on me every day after that. She asked me how I was doing and if I needed to talk. She taught me how to express myself through writing and encouraged me to speak up when something was wrong. Everyday was the same, “Are you okay? Really?” And eventually the answer was, “Yes, I am really okay.” I am not proud that I struggled for so long, but I am proud that I made it through that struggle. Thanks to my amazing Creative Writing teacher, I learned that actions are more powerful than words, and love is always more powerful than hate. Sometimes, you just need someone to listen and encourage you to be better. Things do get better, and she taught me that.