HIJAB BUTCH BLUES

LAMYA H SHARES A QUEER MUSLIM COMING-OF-AGE STORY

PHOTO LIA CLAY AND THE QUEER|ART COMMUNITY PORTRAIT PROJECT

I am aged 14 the year I realise I am gay.

Realise is a strong word. It’s not exactly something I realise in the conventional sense; it’s not a sudden epiphany, or even something I have language for yet. It’s more of a steady gathering of information, a piling up of block upon block until suddenly a tower appears. A tower that is no longer part of the background, a tower that – unlike a scattered set of blocks – is no longer ignorable. And gay is a strong word, too, and not one that I know yet to use for myself. Gay is a hush-hush thing, not to be talked about seriously, only to be used as an insult. What I’m noticing in myself, though I don’t quite have the word for this either, is desire.

I find myself fascinated with this person who happens to be a woman, an economics teacher at my school. She’s Irish, in her early thirties, has two boys, and an Arab husband. Rumours of marital discord and an air of tragedy surround her. And also, she is beautiful – has long, blonde hair that she never ties back, and wears fashionable dresses cut to show unexpected slivers of skin. Her smile is difficult to extract but worth it for the way it spreads across her face, the way that it crinkles her eyes. She is always put together, always precisely on time, thorough in her lessons, and impossible to stump with questions.