If there is one lesson I’ve learned from my childhood, it is that to be different is to be isolated. It was not until I met Lee that I began to unravel this belief like an old sweater I’ve held onto for far too long.
Growing up during the early 2000s in a relatively chaotic household of two divorced lesbians and an autistic older brother, I grew conscious of the piercing eyes in the grocery store during my brother’s meltdowns, or the squeamish expressions of my elementary school classmates who learned I had two moms. The feeling of rejection buried itself tightly in my stomach. I decided on one thing: to avoid this feeling I would become small enough to fit in anywhere.
I lay awake on my first night of college, feeling like a small fish floundering in a deep unfamiliar sea, praying someone would find me. The next morning, a girl named Lee asked if she could sit beside me while I studied. Her striking dark hair, with faded pink-tangled ends, draped over the hood of her jacket.
She ate her tray of arroz con pollo while firing off endless questions about me. I hated this—what response could I possibly come up with that wouldn’t make me sound stupid? It was like she could see right through me. Suddenly, a swarm of bees darted straight for her food. Lee tried to swat them away but gave up, abandoning her meal so they would leave her alone. I laughed, feeling a little less silly about myself after seeing that she could be caught off guard too.
We went out for smoothies one afternoon. Lee ordered a vibrant pink raspberry sherbet smoothie, whereas I, in an attempt to be healthy, ordered some concoction filled with kale, protein powder, and other tasteless “health blend” ingredients. I sipped my straw, pleased that it at least tasted refreshing.
Lee pointed her straw at me to try her smoothie, and I offered mine in return.
She took a sip and her face turned sour. “That is fucking disgusting.”
I laughed, feeling my cheeks turn red. She really has no filter.
Lee was as transparent as the walls of the moon jellyfish she loved so much, captivated by their serene flow. She could be authentically herself in any situation, following her instincts and not caring if they set her apart from others. She told me she grew up in a dusty desert town with little to do in the blazing heat.
To prevent boredom, she grew up in a bubble, filling her days with endless karaoke sessions, countless games of MovieStarPlanet, and stories she’d write that she’d later forced her family to read. Her impulsive hunger for something new made her hair an ever-changing flow of different colors.
We began going on night walks so I could escape my roommate’s shirtless, hairy, 30-year-old boyfriend and Lee could avoid her roommate’s bug-infested compost. Lee said she loved the stillness of the night.
She wasn’t allowed to go out much as a kid, so night walks made her feel free. Her gaze absorbed everything around her, from the dew on plants to the frogs croaking in the distance. Being with Lee made me feel present, slowing the thoughts circling in my head and anchoring me to the earth. She took my hand in hers, defrosting my cold exterior as she guided me. I liked feeling close to her and wondered if she felt the same. I thought about my family and, though I’d told myself I wouldn’t be different like them, I began to question if that would be so bad.
I dragged her along for a beach date during our first summer living together. She confessed she was scared of the ocean—she hadn’t grown up by it like I had. Lee lay soaking in the sun’s rays. I used to hate lying on the sand, I preferred the adrenaline of the waves. But with Lee it was different, I could relax.
She looked up at me and smiled. “I’ve always been someone that just walks along the edge of the ocean but I dream about being the kind of person who dives in.”
I grabbed her hand. To this day, she insists she can swim, though I have my doubts. She screamed when the waves hit her, clinging to me like a little kid. I wondered how someone I saw as fearless could be afraid of something so natural to me. We balanced each other out that way. I used to think love was this magical feeling of perfection that could solve anything. Now I know it’s something deeper: it’s finding someone who makes you feel safe enough to express the parts of yourself you swore you had to hide.
Kiera is a recent UCSB Film and Media Studies graduate. She recently completed editing a women’s rock-climbing documentary with the Carsey Wolf Center at UCSB as a part of their GreenScreen environmental film program. She is relatively new to writing but excited to continue to tell meaningful female stories in a new format.
Stories Matters is a mentoring program founded by best-selling author and award-winning documentarian Leslie Zemeckis. Co-sponsored by the Santa Barbara International Film Festival (SBIFF) and ENTITY Mag, the writing program focuses on craft and confidence. Guest professional female authors join weekly, mentoring the next generation of female storytellers. A six-week intensive challenges every writer to work on an 800-word story about “A Woman You Should Know.”
