So I’m pansexual. I’m not uncomfortable with sharing it, though I know some are uncomfortable hearing it. I told my friends first, like any other teenage girl would. I figured that they had the right to be the first to know. Strangely, I did not think the same of my parents.
I didn’t want to tell my parents. I was afraid. I am still afraid. But my friends convinced me that I needed to tell someone. I figured my mom was the easier choice. She’s always been more laid back about that kind of thing so I only hoped she wouldn’t freak out when I gave her the news.
“Mom, I’m pansexual. I like girls and boys.”
“Don’t tell your father.”
Those words repeat over and over in my mind. Why? What would he say? What would he do? Would he yell at me? Would he send me to those gay reform camps I’ve been too scared to research? Or worse, would he completely abandon me?
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“He’s trying to change his views, I think. Your dad doesn’t want anyone to think of him as ignorant so he’s trying to adjust his thoughts on LGBT rights and transgender rights.”
“So I can tell him?” I asked excitedly. “It’s safe to come out?”
Mom sighs and smiles sadly, like she knew I would ask that. “No, sweetie. Not yet anyway.” She goes on to tell me about how just a few years before I was born, my father viewed homosexuality as disgusting and unnatural.
My own father used to think people like me were a