The Role Of Pride In The Twilight Saga
At nine, you took great pride in your passionate, unwavering hatred for the Twilight saga. There wasn’t anything in the books that you outright objected to, but you didn’t like how your friends would dedicate your precious sleepover time to breaking out in violent pillow fights over whether Bella should date Edward or Jacob. Perplexed and disgusted, you would watch your sweet friends who played hopscotch and licked lollipops transform into young savages that violently swung around fluffed bed pillows. They would cackle uncontrollably at the height of their insanity, bearing wide grins full of missing teeth, before retreating back to their demure state of third grade school girl. And while they would huddle together in their sleeping bags and gush over sparkly vampire boys in hushed voices, you would be staring at the ceiling,
…show more content…
wondering why you were more interested in the shadow puppets you could make with your flashlight and your hands.
As much as you adored your friends, you looked down upon them for their taste in literature, which, as far as you were concerned, didn’t extend far beyond the realm of conventionally attractive supernatural beings. You weren’t like your friends, because your favorite book was The Giver. You fell in love with Silo Wolry’s* writing style, and you were drawn to the book’s constructed black and white world and its authentic portrayal of dreams. However, the only real reason you were able to pinpoint that book as a distinct favorite of yours was that it was often a required reading for middle schoolers. Reading books written at the middle school level meant that you were smart. It meant that you enjoyed books known for their symbolism and intellectual breadth and not for their large tween fanbase. You were nine, and your lack of attraction to Edward Cullen was a sign of intellectual capability. You took great pride in not being an ordinary nine-year-old.
You kept that pride until twelve, when you learned that the differences between you and your peers extended beyond the realm of Twilight.
You stayed up late one night watching TeenNick, and you stumbled upon a mid-2000s television show called South of Nowhere. South of Nowhere depicted a lesbian couple in high school, something you had never seen before on television. You quickly became engulfed in the world of the show, but you ignored how your heart skipped a beat every time the two main characters kissed. You told yourself that you only watched the show for the straight couples, and you told that to yourself time and time again as if it would help you forget any sort of overwhelming thoughts swelling your head. You tried to forget the mental image of two girls kissing that flashed repeatedly and only grew stronger by the second. Every time the image reappeared, you promised yourself that it would pass, but it never did. You squeezed your eyes shut and buried your head into your pillow, but your heart only began to pound faster, because you were terrified of your feelings, and at that moment, being unordinary didn’t feel so great
anymore.
As you did with any other fear, you ran from it. You ran in every conceivable direction, desperate to make it go away, but you would find it at every corner you turned. By thirteen, you had no choice but to resign to it and accept it as the truth. You were gay. You said it to yourself over and over again, but it couldn’t sink in—the statement didn’t fit with any of the previous notions you had about yourself. You looked in the mirror, your face flushed and your eyes clouded with tears, and for the first time in your life, you were repulsed by your own reflection. The image in the mirror wasn’t of you, but of a lesbian. The word rolled off your tongue with disgust, and you had no idea why. You were never a homophobe, or so you thought, but you knew that you wouldn’t be able to sleep easy that night, or the night after that, or even for the following year or so. South of Nowhere became the guiltiest of your pleasures and the dirtiest of your secrets, even though you knew it wasn’t really all that dirty. When you watched the characters struggle with their own identities, you saw what a treacherous journey the road self-acceptance could be, and recognized how far you were from your destination.
However, as you tripped and stumbled your way into your high school years, you found your queerness to be surprisingly bearable. You met gay people, but not too many, and glitter, rainbows, and parades dedicated to your identity were like little consolation prizes. You turned fifteen at the beginning of your freshman year, and from that moment on, you decided that the answer to the question “Are you gay?” was “Well, I guess so.” However, you always kept that part of yourself well under wraps, because god forbid you were perceived as “too gay.” You calculated the distance and direction of your every footstep, making sure to never step out of line and express feelings towards girls that would rub people the wrong way. You didn’t like meticulously calculating over thinking your actions—you did it out of habit. But high school was a time for growth and progress, you promised yourself. Little by little, you were going to break those habits.
You are now seventeen. Back when you were nine, twelve, and even fifteen, seventeen seemed old, wise, and far into a future where everything was perfect. You now know that this is far from the truth, but not entirely false. You’re still as lost, confused, and intimidated by the world as you always were, but things are a little bit better than ever before. The halls of your high school have grown familiar, and so have the faces of the people you pass by on your way to each class. In between math and physics, you see Veronica emerge from the eastern stairwell, and she salutes you with her middle and index fingers. You and your friends have coined this greeting “the lesbian salute,” because one of you read on the internet somewhere that Nina Mektonck, the ultimate lesbian goddess, uses it as a casual greeting. Soon, it became your own secret handshake. You own rainbow pins, hats that say “Heda,” and “Leksa kom Trikru” patches, plastering your belongings in drawings of raccoon eyes as a tribute to your love for Lexa from the cable network drama The 100. Your friendship lives through casual, subtle references to your favorite TV shows, books, movies, and celebrities, which are all queer or queer-coded like South of Nowhere. And while they still make you a bit uneasy, they are ultimately a source of giddy, childish joy.
Contrary to popular belief, queer teenagers can have sleepovers without making out and having sex, which you were pleased to find out when Hailey invited you to the first slumber party you attended in years. You tried to remember how you used to build pillow forts, arranging the pillows to make an array of faulty contraptions. Your frustration grew with every failed attempt at a pillow fort, and you soon found yourself in a heated argument over which female ghostbusters should be together. It’s petty and immature, but that’s precisely what you love about it. Later that night, you huddle for warmth in your sleeping bags that rest on the cold hardwood floor. As you stare at the ceiling you share your crushes and favorite ghost stories with one another. You’re seventeen, but you feel younger than you did when you were nine. Through naïve professions of love and inside jokes about your favorite fictional characters, you try to take it all in. Perhaps it could be considered making up for lost time.
wondering why you were more interested in the shadow puppets you could make with your flashlight and your hands.
As much as you adored your friends, you looked down upon them for their taste in literature, which, as far as you were concerned, didn’t extend far beyond the realm of conventionally attractive supernatural beings. You weren’t like your friends, because your favorite book was The Giver. You fell in love with Silo Wolry’s* writing style, and you were drawn to the book’s constructed black and white world and its authentic portrayal of dreams. However, the only real reason you were able to pinpoint that book as a distinct favorite of yours was that it was often a required reading for middle schoolers. Reading books written at the middle school level meant that you were smart. It meant that you enjoyed books known for their symbolism and intellectual breadth and not for their large tween fanbase. You were nine, and your lack of attraction to Edward Cullen was a sign of intellectual capability. You took great pride in not being an ordinary nine-year-old.
You kept that pride until twelve, when you learned that the differences between you and your peers extended beyond the realm of Twilight.
You stayed up late one night watching TeenNick, and you stumbled upon a mid-2000s television show called South of Nowhere. South of Nowhere depicted a lesbian couple in high school, something you had never seen before on television. You quickly became engulfed in the world of the show, but you ignored how your heart skipped a beat every time the two main characters kissed. You told yourself that you only watched the show for the straight couples, and you told that to yourself time and time again as if it would help you forget any sort of overwhelming thoughts swelling your head. You tried to forget the mental image of two girls kissing that flashed repeatedly and only grew stronger by the second. Every time the image reappeared, you promised yourself that it would pass, but it never did. You squeezed your eyes shut and buried your head into your pillow, but your heart only began to pound faster, because you were terrified of your feelings, and at that moment, being unordinary didn’t feel so great
anymore.
As you did with any other fear, you ran from it. You ran in every conceivable direction, desperate to make it go away, but you would find it at every corner you turned. By thirteen, you had no choice but to resign to it and accept it as the truth. You were gay. You said it to yourself over and over again, but it couldn’t sink in—the statement didn’t fit with any of the previous notions you had about yourself. You looked in the mirror, your face flushed and your eyes clouded with tears, and for the first time in your life, you were repulsed by your own reflection. The image in the mirror wasn’t of you, but of a lesbian. The word rolled off your tongue with disgust, and you had no idea why. You were never a homophobe, or so you thought, but you knew that you wouldn’t be able to sleep easy that night, or the night after that, or even for the following year or so. South of Nowhere became the guiltiest of your pleasures and the dirtiest of your secrets, even though you knew it wasn’t really all that dirty. When you watched the characters struggle with their own identities, you saw what a treacherous journey the road self-acceptance could be, and recognized how far you were from your destination.
However, as you tripped and stumbled your way into your high school years, you found your queerness to be surprisingly bearable. You met gay people, but not too many, and glitter, rainbows, and parades dedicated to your identity were like little consolation prizes. You turned fifteen at the beginning of your freshman year, and from that moment on, you decided that the answer to the question “Are you gay?” was “Well, I guess so.” However, you always kept that part of yourself well under wraps, because god forbid you were perceived as “too gay.” You calculated the distance and direction of your every footstep, making sure to never step out of line and express feelings towards girls that would rub people the wrong way. You didn’t like meticulously calculating over thinking your actions—you did it out of habit. But high school was a time for growth and progress, you promised yourself. Little by little, you were going to break those habits.
You are now seventeen. Back when you were nine, twelve, and even fifteen, seventeen seemed old, wise, and far into a future where everything was perfect. You now know that this is far from the truth, but not entirely false. You’re still as lost, confused, and intimidated by the world as you always were, but things are a little bit better than ever before. The halls of your high school have grown familiar, and so have the faces of the people you pass by on your way to each class. In between math and physics, you see Veronica emerge from the eastern stairwell, and she salutes you with her middle and index fingers. You and your friends have coined this greeting “the lesbian salute,” because one of you read on the internet somewhere that Nina Mektonck, the ultimate lesbian goddess, uses it as a casual greeting. Soon, it became your own secret handshake. You own rainbow pins, hats that say “Heda,” and “Leksa kom Trikru” patches, plastering your belongings in drawings of raccoon eyes as a tribute to your love for Lexa from the cable network drama The 100. Your friendship lives through casual, subtle references to your favorite TV shows, books, movies, and celebrities, which are all queer or queer-coded like South of Nowhere. And while they still make you a bit uneasy, they are ultimately a source of giddy, childish joy.
Contrary to popular belief, queer teenagers can have sleepovers without making out and having sex, which you were pleased to find out when Hailey invited you to the first slumber party you attended in years. You tried to remember how you used to build pillow forts, arranging the pillows to make an array of faulty contraptions. Your frustration grew with every failed attempt at a pillow fort, and you soon found yourself in a heated argument over which female ghostbusters should be together. It’s petty and immature, but that’s precisely what you love about it. Later that night, you huddle for warmth in your sleeping bags that rest on the cold hardwood floor. As you stare at the ceiling you share your crushes and favorite ghost stories with one another. You’re seventeen, but you feel younger than you did when you were nine. Through naïve professions of love and inside jokes about your favorite fictional characters, you try to take it all in. Perhaps it could be considered making up for lost time.