Poeaxtry's Prism

Spell. Stone. & Sparks that Ignite Change

Tag: small town life

  • Part 1 — National Coming Out Day Reflection

    Part 1 — National Coming Out Day Reflection

    The Beginning of Owning My Truth

    In eighth grade, I told my best friend at the time that I had to tell her something. Before I could even say it, she looked at me and said, “What, you like girls?”

    No duh, me too.

    That moment was my quiet entry into honesty. It was not a big speech, not a dramatic scene, just truth spoken aloud. I told a few other friends. Most didn’t care, one freaked out a little. You know, the classic “ew, we slept in the same bed!?” comment. In my usual fashion, I just told her, “Yeah, no shit. Doesn’t mean it was anything weird. Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m into all girls.”

    It wasn’t some grand parade or rainbow banner moment. I just stopped hiding it from all my homies.

    High School and Small Town Silence

    I grew up in small-ass Martins Ferry, Ohio. A tiny town, tight gossip circles, everyone knowing everyone’s business. I graduated in 2010, and there were maybe three out lesbians in my class. The rest were “straight in public” or “hush-hush about it.”

    I wasn’t loud about my sexuality in high school. But the moment I was no longer a student, I made my Facebook and MySpace say “interested in women.” No more hiding, no more pretending. Just existing.

    Family Reactions and Reality Checks

    My mom’s best friend was a lesbian who came out in the early 1980s, so she didn’t have much to say beyond not wanting it “broadcasted” to my little sisters. They were nine at the time. But my younger cousins told them. It wasn’t like they knew better.

    One sister said she didn’t care. The other said “ew,” but she got over it fast enough. Kids echo what they hear. And they learn what we show them.

    But there was one adult man, a friend of my mom’s. He was much older than me, always joking that he’d “take me on a date when I turned 18.” Everyone would laugh like it was harmless. I knew it wasn’t.

    Sure enough, once I turned 18, he messaged me on Facebook asking me out. I told him, “Dude, I’m with my girlfriend. I’m gay.”

    He flipped out, said I “lied” instead of just saying no. But I wasn’t lying. I was telling the truth, my truth. But he just couldn’t handle it.

    Looking Back on Coming Out

    Back then, coming out wasn’t about attention or pride flags. It was about not lying anymore. It was survival in small-town Ohio. And being honest even if nobody clapped for it.

    When I think about National Coming Out Day, I think about that moment in eighth grade. The one where I said, “Yeah, I like girls.” I think about every time after that when I had to say it again. Whether that was to friends, to family, to strangers who thought they had a say in it.

    This is Part 1 of my story… the first step in a much longer journey.

    Part 2 will come later today. It’s about when I came out again, not as a lesbian.

    Because coming out isn’t one moment. It’s a lifetime of moments: each one a little braver, a little louder, a little more you.

    Today, on National Coming Out Day, I remember that younger version of me. Who was scared, quiet, and honest anyway. The one who chose quiet truth in small towns where everyone knew your name.

    I came out as a lesbian first. I came out as myself second. Both are chapters worth telling. Both matter.

    Because every story of coming out whether it’s whispered, shouted, or written down… reminds someone else they’re not alone.

    Stay tuned for Part 2: Coming Out as me.

    When Axton first came out socially as transgender female to male. The start of a era
  • The Layers of Me: Girlhood, Survival, and Becoming a Man

    The Layers of Me: Girlhood, Survival, and Becoming a Man

    “Never the Enemy”

    by Axton N. O. Mitchell

    Raised

    I was raised a girl. That’s how the world saw me. That’s what I was told to be. A little girl with crooked pigtails m, buck teeth, and scraped-up knees. She didn’t like being touched. She didn’t like being stared at. She never liked how the world made her feel.

    Taught

    She was taught to smile. Not because of happiness, it was just safer. She learned to laugh off the gross comments much before she could read chapter books. She learned how to keep a boy from following her home. How to hold keys and lighters in her balled up fist.I know that just existing in a body the world called “girl” comes with a constant background noise of threat.

    Assaulted

    I was assaulted, as a little girl, as a teen, and as a man. A few years after passing the awkward transition phases; I was  years on hormones. A woman I was dating at the time liked to get me drunk enough to forget. Not that I want to but, it’s worth mentioning I never  remembered one single time. She told me it was easier that way. Then the used up it’s me not you. 

    Myth

    There’s this myth that once you transition, it all goes away. As if you can flip a switch, cut your hair, change your name, and suddenly be safe. As if I am suddenly respected. Erasing my trauma from living as a girl as if it doesn’t  stick to me. My second skin. Even after the world starts seeing you differently, it doesn’t mean it treats you right. If you  don’t “pass” all the time. Especially when you live in small-town maga country .

    Now, I get called “sir” until certain people get told, because no they can’t tell. The people that claim they “are my friends” say “she” behind my back as soon as they get mad at me. However, the flip side is worse for me. Now these people assume I’m one of them. Racist comments. Sexist jokes. Homophobia. Trans baby conspiracies.Assuming I’m a good ol’ boy. I was never meant to become the enemy. When I out myself they stop treating like the man I am. The privilege stops when I defend someone. I won’t close my mouth to save my neck. 

    Remember

    Remember not all men started the same. Some of us became men on purpose. With intention. With pain. With joy, too. But it wasn’t simple. And it wasn’t fast.

    In my late teens and early twenty’s, I thought I was a lesbian. I wasn’t pretending. I wasn’t confused. That label made sense for a while. I liked girls. I never felt like one, I tried to. I didn’t have the words to explain, but I was a man.  Not a phase, I just hadn’t fully found the truth. I have lesbian memories. I have lesbian trauma. I have lesbian experiences. That doesn’t go away just because I’m a man. Identity isn’t always a clean line. I’m a transgender man, and I lived as a lesbian. I survived as a girl. I became someone else and stayed alive.

    Yearn

     I yearn to be read. I want my work to move people who’ve never been seen. People that never had a place at the table. I’m not wasting time trying to win over systems that ignore us. I’m going to carve us something new. Each project I curate is rooted in the belief that all minority stories deserve to be told in our own voices.

     I want people to remember and know that minorities don’t just die. We live. We laugh. We have favorite songs. We have poetry in our blood and grief in our bones.

    I write because I won’t be erased. I write because I’m still here. I want to make sure no one else feels like they have to disappear just to be seen.

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