Befriending my bully
It was 1998. I was 14 years old and about as out and proud as it is humanly possible to be, against terrible odds. That was me, racing down the school corridors illegally draped in rainbow scarves, with illegal Indigo Girls lyrics etched illegally in capitals across every subject folder (oft en, of course, with a copy of DIVA poking out of the side).
Then there was Lisa. My homophobic closet-case bully, shouting “Dyke!” at me across the lunch-hall, avoiding me in the PE changing rooms and generally wishing furiously that she wasn’t anywhere near me. By the same token, I cannot think of anyone I hated more at the time, and I gather the feeling of horror at one another’s sheer existence was somewhat mutual.