Unmasking

Some truths take years to name, especially when you grow up in a house where the stories shift, the rules wobble, and you’re expected to smile through it all. For a long time, I believed the version of me that others held up was the one I had to live inside. It wasn’t until much later that I realized how quietly those early distortions shaped my sense of worth, my voice, and my understanding of love itself. This moment—small on the surface—is one of the first times I started to see behind the mask.

Graduation came and went with no celebration. No party, no ring, no yearbook—just a few class pictures, a cap and gown, and a diploma to prove I’d made it. I told myself my parents had six more kids to see through school, but deep down, I knew better. My oldest brother and I graduated together, so even that milestone didn’t make me special.

Before prom and graduation, I had no idea what my future would hold. One Saturday, with time on my hands, I walked down Prospect Boulevard toward downtown and pass a small plaza near 118th Street. There was a military recruitment center. A big poster of Uncle Sam pointed straight at me saying: I WANT YOU, drawing me inside the building.

“Hello, young lady. How may I help you?” asked the officer in fatigues.

“I want to join,” I blurted, my heart racing. I didn’t even know why I’d said it, but there was no turning back.

“You want to join the Army?” he asked.

I paused and thought about my dad and I sitting on the lake in the early morning hours. “No, I want to join the Navy.”

It sounded perfect in my head—a way to chart my own course. The service would cover my expenses, and maybe, just maybe, I’d come out an officer. After the testing and paperwork, I went home with a consent form since I wasn’t eighteen yet.

That evening, I laid it on the table in front of my parents and made my case. Daydee didn’t hesitate—he signed right away. Then he slid the form and pen to Ma. She scanned it, set it down and announced, “No daughter of mine is about to become a dyke.”

And that was the end of my military career before it even began.

I had applied to several universities when my school’s musical group returned home from the southern tour, at Ma’s insistence. Honestly, I had forgotten all about it until one day she handed me an already opened envelope. I pulled out the letter and read my acceptance to Midwest University—with a four-year scholarship. It wasn’t what I had dreamed of, but it was something. Midwest would at least put some distance between me and Ma. Already knowing the contents of the letter, she asked what major I planned to pursue.

“Music,” I said, “with a minor in English.”

She looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “No you won’t,” she clapback.

We arrived on campus that fall, and I was assigned to Riverview Tower on West Campus. Ma had no idea these were co-ed dorms until we got there to unpack. Bracing for the meltdown I was sure was coming, I started putting my things away slowly, figuring I might need to pack them right back up again. To my surprise, she calmed down once she realized all the rooms in my suite were for girls. We ate lunch, and then our next stop was the gymnasium to finalize my schedule.

The place was packed with students and parents standing in long lines, hoping to get into the classes they wanted. We were also required to declare a major. When we finally made it to the front of the line, the person assisting me took my form and asked my major.

Before I could open my mouth, Ma jumped in and said, “She’s majoring in library science.”

Both the red-headed boy and I stared at her like she’d lost her mind—both of us knowing thee was no such major. Thankfully, he didn’t challenge her; I wasn’t in the mood for a scene. He handed me my schedule with the pre-reqs I had chosen. Fuming on the inside, I followed Ma back to the dorm to finish unpacking. I couldn’t wait for her to leave.

The afternoon dragged on with Ma giving endless instructions—where to put this, how to do that. I opted to wear my good-child mask, nodding as if I understood and agreed, just to keep her calm. While Daydee hauled my trunk and other things up from the car, she seized the moment to give me “the sex talk.”

“Keep your legs closed.” That was it. Short, sharp, and dismissive—like everything else she said to me.

She kept after me for the rest of the day. Nothing I did was right. Nothing was good enough. By evening, I was mentally drained—not just from the day, but from years of living in that constant tug-of-war with her. I wanted her to go home. Most of all, I just wanted to fucking breathe.

The good child and the rebel had always coexisted inside me. The good child believed, If I’m better, they love me, while the rebel stood nearby, arms crossed, seething, ready to burn the whole damn thing down. And that’s exactly what happened. The next morning, I was back in the gym, telling the redhead boy I wanted to change my major to English.

Changing my major was the beginning of my rebellion. Once I realized I could do things my way, the floodgates opened and the rebel rushed in—wild-eyed and loud. She didn’t care about consequences or safety. She just wanted out—out of expectations, out of roles, out of every suffocating thing that ever tried to own me.

Looking back, I understand now that this wasn’t just an isolated moment—it was part of a much larger pattern of being taught to doubt my own reality. Many of us grow up carrying someone else’s version of who we’re supposed to be, and we don’t realize the weight of that mask until it starts to crack. As a child, I didn’t have the language for manipulation or gaslighting. I only knew the feeling: that sting of confusion, the shrinking of your inner world, the quiet question—Am I the problem?

But healing taught me something different. It taught me that unmasking isn’t about confrontation; it’s about recognition. It’s noticing the places where you learned to disappear so others could feel bigger. It’s reclaiming the truth you weren’t allowed to speak. And most importantly, it’s learning to see yourself with clarity, compassion, and courage—even when the people around never did.

Moments like this shaped the woman I became, but they no longer define the woman I am. Writing my memoir gave me permission to revisit these places, honor them, and finally release them. And in telling the truth, I found my freedom.

If this glimpse into my journey resonates, you can explore the full story in my memoir The Winter of My Soul.