The Aprili Media blog section is dedicated to various individuals and diverse viewpoints. These blogs are not an editorial category and reflect the personal opinions of the authors. The positions expressed by the authors may not necessarily represent the stance of Aprili Media.
[Due to the homophobia present in Georgia, the author of this blog wishes to remain anonymous]
My first girlfriend’s name was Mariam. Such an ordinary Georgian name, you’d never guess that behind it was a lesbian girl from Samtredia. I spent the best summer of my life with her.
Loving women is gentle and beautiful. It feels like you’re “staying with a friend” every day, except that you love each other. Before going on a date, you do each other’s makeup, choose outfits, share skincare routines, and protect each other from the touches and gazes of strange men when out at a bar.
After a few dates, Mariam gave me a notebook and said, “I’ve always wanted to have a shared diary where we could write letters to each other when I fell in love with someone.” It might seem a bit pathetic, but I nearly started crying when I heard that. Until then, I had only had boyfriends and had never experienced someone expressing their love for me exactly the way I felt for them.
We were in a taxi, so I just kissed her hand, so she would walk around with my lipstick mark all day.
We developed a tradition of giving each other small gifts whenever we met—sometimes chocolate, jewelry, a bookmark, or even an old coat that the other had been eyeing for a long time.
I used to jot down little details about her on my phone so I wouldn’t forget anything. To this day, I have saved messages I sent to myself on Instagram — “Mariam’s favorite color is blue”; “She always dreamed of living in a seaside town”; “She loves butterfly earrings, don’t forget to buy them”; “She’s looking for ABBA vinyls, check the Dry Bridge market”; “She’s interested in books by Georgian women writers” and a thousand more like these.
The first time I stayed at Mariam’s place, she introduced me to her plush toys (I remember all three names) and lent me her pajamas. She showed me the view from her window. I memorized how many spoons of sugar she put in her coffee.
Heterosexuals often think that queer relationships are very different from theirs, but I’m describing exactly what we’ve been seeing in romantic comedies for years.
What struck me in Mariam’s house were two items on the table—a rainbow flag and a book of prayers next to it. Of course, like many people living in Georgia, I grew up in a religious family and spent part of my childhood going to church, committing to fasting, and confessing to the priest. Mariam was the same; she always wore a cross, yet it still surprised me that she hadn’t lost her faith.
It was strange how she still believed in God despite what priests taught us about women and queers. How could she still have hope in Christianity when people chased us down to kill us in God’s name? Seeing these two items side by side was as absurd as it was hopeful — Christ told us that judging people was not our business, that we all deserved love, and being next to Mariam, I began to believe that too.
When she left for work in the morning, I stayed at her place. I kissed her goodbye, watched her from the window, and waved until she was out of sight. I loved thinking that my life could be like this. Simple. Safe. Peaceful.
A few days later, she asked me to be her girlfriend with a letter.
“The summer sun slowly set between the trees, and I still had much to say. It’s okay, we have plenty of time ahead of us, but for now, I need you to answer one question: Would you like to be my girlfriend?”
She lied. We didn’t have much time. Exactly two months later, we broke up.
That day, we went on a picnic. We exchanged flowers. During this, her mother called to say they had decided to come from Samtredia and were on their way. We went home, cleaned up, and checked every corner.
We packed a few cigarettes, a rainbow hand fan I had given her from Greece, a certificate from a queer organization training—these and other “suspicious items”—into my bag and I left. She lied to her family, saying a male colleague had given her the flowers. When I got home, I gave the flowers she bought to my mother to avoid suspicion.
We thought we had hidden everything, but we forgot one item. Mariam’s diary was left in the drawer. The chances were slim that her mother, who had never read her diary before, would do so now, but that’s exactly what happened. Mariam’s mother saw everything. She found out about us.
The words her mother said to her that day will never leave me. How proud she had been of her until then. How she had disappointed her parents. If her father found out, he would kill her and then himself. Who was I, where did I come from, and how had I corrupted her? How would she face her relatives? What would she say to the neighbors? How could she live after this? Why couldn’t she raise a normal child? What had she done wrong? She told her to forget about me and fall in love with a boy, or else she would lose her family and everything. Mariam was a student. Her family paid for her tuition. Without them, she couldn’t continue living in Tbilisi. Breaking off relations with her parents also meant giving up her little siblings. Her grandparents. Her relatives. Her family’s home. Friends from there. Visiting in the summer. Her entire life.
Heterosexual people will never understand what it means to be queer. They will never grasp what it’s like when your mother disowns you simply because you love someone. When you have spent your whole life trying to be a good child, a good student, a good person, everything falls apart. And for what? Your relatives, family members, friends will never look at you the same way again. If they find out, how many people will you lose around you? How many will avoid you? Some will hate you, and at best, some will just feel awkward and not know what to say. How many beloved people will you have whom you can never introduce to your partner? They will never come to your wedding, and they will never see your child if you ever have one. And how many people will think you deserve this? That you deserve to be abandoned. To be punished.
Mariam and I broke up five days after her mother read the diary. She told me she couldn’t take it anymore. It was late at night. We were sitting in a park. She had snuck out of her house. We both cried a lot. I kissed her for the last time. I told her I loved her. A few months after the breakup, she got a new boyfriend, of course. The first thing she did was tell her mother about him. That boy treated her terribly. I saw her many months after the breakup. She told me, on Valentine’s Day, she was thinking about how we would have celebrated it, what we would have given each other, and where we would have gone. I refused to be friends. I don’t believe you can be friends with someone you loved.
A few weeks after the breakup, I came out to my mother. Of course, I was scared. I was nervous, but after breaking up with Mariam, I couldn’t go on any other way. If my heart was going to hurt, if I had to know that my family would treat me the same way Mariam’s treated her, I needed to know now and not have false hope. I couldn’t get any worse than I already was.
I told my mother that every time she said my happiness was the most important thing to her, I thought she was lying because I believed if she knew the truth about me, she would change her mind. I told her I could have lied for my entire life, just like with other relatives, but she was too precious to me, and I didn’t want to do that. I told her I understood her religiosity, that I knew we disagreed, and I remembered her views on queer people (“They can do whatever they want at home”). I told her I wasn’t asking her to change her mind; I just wanted her to know. I told her I was sure and had known for years that I was queer. I told her that if I had a choice, I would never choose this because it was too painful. No one would choose this.
I’ve sometimes heard people say how great it would be if they were attracted to girls. My heterosexual friends have said this. They are tired of men. They will never understand the fear that the people who should love you unconditionally will hate you; the fear of being kicked out of your home; the fear of losing everything; the fear of never being able to live safely; the fear that what you want with all your heart you can never have, and that you will always have to make sacrifices.
My mother told me she loves me. Many months have passed since then. We have talked about this topic a few times. I know there are many things she doesn’t understand, and many things are still strange and unclear to her, but she supports me. She respects my life and the person I choose to spend it with. She is as proud of me as she ever was, maybe even more so, because she taught me to fight for my desires, dreams, and myself. I know that as long as my mother loves me, I will fear nothing.