It occurs to me, as I look around this morning, that I am sitting in a room surrounded by my friends, and that my friends would frighten a lot of people: A nonbinary person with tattoos all over them, who has just started watching a TV show I like. A trans man who likes to give me hugs and has a lot of piercings. A trans woman who got pissed off with everyone and stormed out last week, but came back this week and apologized. A lesbian married to a trans man, who has a toddler, and who calls me at least once a week. A woman married to a gay man, who had a baby three weeks ago and calls me every other day or so. A widowed woman who moved to my city some time after her husband died; her daughter and her trans daughter-in-law are in the process of moving to a foreign country. A gay guy who invites me to Christmas dinner every year at the beautiful house he owns with his partner. 

And of course a cis straight man who talks gardening with me, and a cis straight woman, widowed some years ago, who brought a present for me today from the trip she just went on. There are plenty of straight people here. Some of them are even what people call ordinary. Normal. Whatever that is. 

Me? I’m a cis straight widow with a nonbinary adult kid, a five-year-old grandson, and a cis straight son-in-law. There you go. Some of my categories. Now you know who I am. 

I worked for many years in a town where the default was straight and conventional. All the people were there because they thought it would make them safe to live in a pretty house with a big yard, tall trees, and good schools, and where everyone looked and acted like them.

It didn’t make them safe. 

I had grown up in that town, and I was a teacher in one of those good schools, and I knew all about the depression, neglect, anger, and fear that lived in so many of those lovely old houses. I also knew that many of my students were gay, and that some were trans. I knew how much everyone was hiding. And one of the reasons I loved teaching was that every child was different, and if I got to know each one of them well enough, I could help them learn anything. 

The parents of my students, meanwhile, assumed I was exactly like them, because I had grown up in that community, so I must be the right kind of person.

The secret is that there isn’t a “right kind” of person.

I feel safe with my friends, but not because they are exactly like me. I feel safe because it’s okay to be myself in this room. Because everyone here, including me, is different.