Reflections from Sea
By Katie Lotz
Collage by Alex Ramos
Dear Katie,
Surprisingly, it feels as though your letter has reached me very quickly. Sometimes I wish that I could truly respond. Eight years have gone by in what feels like a single heartbeat, and yet I could not, if I tried, fit into one letter the amount of lives we have lived in that time, or the amount of people we have become.
Have you heard of the Ship of Theseus? I guess that is a silly question, because I know we only learned about it in a philosophy class last year. It is a philosophical concept about identity and self. The idea is that if there were a ship that sailed the world for many years, would it still be the same ship when it returned to its home port? Initially, you might think, “Well, of course it is the same ship,” but consider this: what if so many repairs and advancements had been made to the ship over the years, so that not a single original piece of wood remained? What if various members of the crew had died, or decided to stay at far away ports, or retired and returned home, so that an entirely new crew was manning the ship upon its return? Certainly all of the original cargo had been delivered and used up, only to be replaced with new shipments from foreign lands. Now, tell me, is that the same ship?
The human body takes seven years to replace every single cell. That means that as I write this letter back to you, there is not a single cell that was present for the writing of our initial letter, the one that was assigned in our seventh grade English class: Write a Letter to Your Future Self. There is not a single shared plank of wood between us, so I suppose that I am writing to you, Big Katie to Little Katie, as a complete stranger. How odd is that?
I strangely feel that there are some things I should apologize to you for, but I can’t bring myself to do so. Rather, this letter is a confession; I have done many things that we promised ourself we would never do, things that you did not write to me about. And yet, I am surprised to tell you that I don’t regret any of it.
Right now, you’re defining your self worth largely on male approval. Do boys think you’re pretty? Do you meet the strange beauty standards that you are already acutely aware of at age 12? I cut off our long hair about a year ago. I know you worry that your long hair is the primary thing that makes us feminine or beautiful. You think that beauty is the most valuable currency that you have to offer the world, a currency that you can never seem to have enough of.
I have tattoos now, a butterfly on my inner arm and a framed bowl of oranges on my forearm. The bowl of oranges is for a Bright Eyes song that reminds me to look for the beauty in life, even when it’s hard to find. I thought of you when I got the tattoo, and how they were one of the first bands you loved on your own. The butterfly was initially impetuous, but now reminds me to be grateful for my body. We never thought we would get tattoos. Are you surprised at my newfound impulsivity? I certainly am.
I hope you don’t mind that I have decided to make peace with the bigger parts of ourself that you are currently trying to bury. You wrote to me in 2012, three years before the US lifted the ban on gay marriage. You didn’t write to me about how “gay” was whispered like a swear word in school hallways, or about how you’re trying to kill the butterflies that swarm your tiny stomach when you make eye contact with the pretty girl in your photography class. But I remember. The guilt that slid throughout our body like a lethal pesticide is still being flushed from our system. How did we carry so much on your little shoulders?
What was that book series that you read, the one about the girl who’s parents sent her to therapy for being attracted to other girls? It was a small subplot from what I recall, a blip in a larger story, but I don’t remember anything else about that book. I do remember how you read that chapter over and over.
I remember how you would lay awake at night, convinced that mom, or your best friend, thought you were gay. Convinced that they talked to other people about it when you weren’t around. Convinced that they judged you. Well, fortunately I have one lovely little bit of wisdom to give you: stop worrying that everyone thinks you’re gay. They don’t, and you are.
But that advice isn’t what you want to hear right now, of course, which is perfectly okay. Twelve years is not very many, and you aren’t sure what to make of boys and girls and love and heartbreak.
Hopefully it will comfort you to know that for the most part, everyone has accepted me for who we are. I came out to Kelly this year on Thanksgiving, simply because I thought it would be funny to watch her keep that secret for all of Thanksgiving dinner.
Out of the blue, she will occasionally text me a message that reads something along the lines of “love wins!” or “pride!”.
Kelly Facetimed me in the middle of the night a few weeks ago, and although her video was staticky from poor connection, I could tell she was laughing.
“What do you want? It’s almost three A.M.”
“I just wanted to call you to tell you that you’re my gay best friend.”
We both laughed on opposite sides of a glitching connection until our lungs hurt; the five hour drive is easily surpassed. And to think that you and I spent so long thinking that being attracted to women had to be a deep dark secret. To think we ever thought that Kelly would look at us differently, or that the topic would hang uncomfortably in the air around us if she ever knew.
Shortly after telling Kelly, I worked up the courage to tell mom, Ryan, and finally dad. They reacted in various degrees of confusion and surprise, but their primary response was to assure me that I was loved, and that they didn’t look at me any differently. I know that I am very lucky.
Sometimes it hurts my heart to think back on you right now, because you are so unsure of yourself. You think that so many of your relationships are flimsy enough to be affected by your sexuality, when in reality, the people in your life love you for who you are, not for who you love. You think that your worth and your beauty are defined by external forces, largely determined by male approval. You don’t know it yet, but things get a little more confusing before they get easier. You’ll start drinking with friends, and kiss girls that don’t feel anything romantic towards you in the morning. You’ll pretend that you don’t feel anything towards them either. You’ll date boys that you love, and even confide in them about being attracted to women, only to be confused when they don’t get jealous of women the way that they get jealous of men. At times, you won’t feel straight enough for men, and you won’t feel gay enough for women.
I won’t pretend that I have all of this figured out, but instead, I have accepted that I do not need to.
On June 26th, 2015, the Obergefell v. Hodges supreme court case granted same sex couples the right to marry, three days after our fifteenth birthday. At that time, you are dating our first boyfriend, and it feels easy to imagine that we can coast through life without ever addressing the feelings you suppress. But you wake up to see the news alert on your phone, of a 5-4 decision ruling in favor of marriage equality, and you cry. By one vote, there is a chance that your future might look very different, that you might be lucky enough to choose who you want to love.
I write to you from five years after that decision, and it feels archaic to think that less than a decade ago, our country had deemed certain categories of love as illegal. But times are changing. Perhaps I am getting older, or wiser, or maybe the social climate surrounding the LGTBQ community really has become more accepting, but I feel comfortable in our skin. I feel accepted. I feel loved. It is strange to think that I spent so long feeling lost, convinced that I was not the person I claimed to be.
I have decided what I think of the Ship of Theseus. It is, of course, an entirely different ship when it is out at sea, with no past to speak of and no anchor to throw out. No one on board to discuss past voyages and ancient goals. However, upon returning home, I like to believe that there are still people waiting at the port, ready to throw up their arms and welcome her home. Our identity is not ours alone to own to carry. Those who love us and wait for us will always keep a part of us preserved, ready to be reawoken upon our return. Perhaps the ship is more difficult to recognize, perhaps each member of the crew has an entirely new body of cells, but I think someone must be waiting for that ship, nonetheless, ready to catch her docking line and moor her to the shore.
We are still the same ship, no matter how different you and I may seem. The length of our hair, the tattoos on our skin, the hand entwined in our own, has never defined us after all. You have already spent so long lost at sea, convinced that you cannot allow yourself to be the person who you are becoming, but you’ll return home one day, amazed to find that the people who matter not only recognize you, but that they have been waiting for you all this time.
That is love.
– Katie.