The last chair on the third row all the way into the classroom waiting with stomach in knots for the final class of the day in third grade to be over. I sat in my favorite long black bell bottom jeans, boys blue converse tennis shoes, Pac-Man sweatshirt, and my messy hair pulled back into a ponytail after my mother took the time to brush it and braid it but I hate girl hair. My legs swung from the desk anxiously as I sat on my sweaty hands. I made a secret valentine for the first time in my life. I hated Valentine’s Day normally because I was not a popular kid in class. I sat quietly most of the time and teased. So when kids brought their cards, some of them intentionally did not follow the rules and give everyone a card. Some gave me a lame card while they bothered to tape candy to their friend’s cards. I always ended up going home with my feelings hurt. This year I decided to put a card that I did not sign into the bag of the prettiest girl I had every laid eyes on. Unfortunately, she would never guess it came from another girl and spent the next two days playing a guessing game with the boys. I knew back then I could never sign my name to that card.
As I grew older, this ritual of showing affection on holidays or with coming of age traditions, became harder and even harder. I watched everyone go to their first dance with the gender they wanted to go with. Again, in the same boy’s shoes and shirts I sat against the wall in chairs with the girls that no one asked to dance. I was okay with that because I did not want to dance with boys. I usually attended to watch over the latest girl I had a crush on. In high school, I would watch as the boys put their team jackets on their new girlfriend and gave them their class ring to wear. I stood in the shadows as people shared their first kiss or first sexual experience. I could only day dream about having those moments in junior high and high school.
Valentine’s Day always sucked because that is the day that red hearts, cards, flowers, and candy would always show up to the teachers from their spouses. High school no longer required anyone be fair and put a card in everyone’s bag. You walked up to a table and purchased flowers and/or candy for classroom delivery to the one you loved. Either that or you actually had a delivery company bring something into the school. I once again had a big crush on a girl. I could not walk up to the table and pay for anything for anyone and mark it anonymous because someone would tell. Calling the delivery company was out of the question because someone could find out whose credit card it came from, not to mention my mother did not have a credit card, so it would mean going into the store in person. I had no way to tell this girl that I loved her.
So I came up with an alternate plan. I had watched my Aunt create letters out of candy for baskets she sold at church. So one night when my mother worked late, I baked a sheet of candy and cut out I love you (well I did the best I could in cutting out the letters with a knife), carefully placed each letter on a stick, and borrowing a basket that I was sure my Aunt would not miss since she had so many, carefully placed them on a stand and filled the basket with rose petals. Once my mother was home from work and asleep, I carefully crawled out of my bedroom window, rode my bike across town, and with the most careful of movements placed the basket I made with an anonymous note on this girl’s back porch.
Now, would she ever know it was me? Of course not, this was 1990 and I could never dare sign my name. So why do it? For like everyone, especially with hormones at 17, I just wanted to express what I was feeling somehow. I just wanted to her to know that someone thought of her the way she wanted to be thought of. I wanted to believe in romance like I saw in the movies. I wanted to believe that one day I could do something creative and cute for another girl. For now, I just had to do it as her secret admirer.
That next day in class, I sat as I always did in the last row and last desk I could find. I had on my Adidas three stripe athletic pants that I adored because I hated women’s jeans and I did not want to be teased for wearing men’s jeans, my Adidas boy’s sneakers, my Def Leppard T shirt, and my hair pulled back into the usual ponytail. At 17, I was taller than most so instead of my legs hanging from my desk, my legs touched the floor both shaking with anticipation. I tried to pretend I was writing to avoid sitting on my hands. I waited for her to walk in and just acknowledge her secret admirer. I just wanted to see the smile on her face. That would be enough for then. She came in and I was immediately crushed because her meat head of a boyfriend took advantage of the situation and took credit for the whole thing. I was mad but back then I could never ask her to a dance or sign my card to her.
Now, as much as life gets away from me and I do think sometimes that the retail industry is trying to control us with holidays such as Valentine’s Day, I do go out and I do get some flowers, candy, and especially a card. Yes, it is a hallmark holiday and yes it is not one anyone likes to be single on but whether I like a girl or am with one, I always get a card because now I can finally sign my name.
the40somelesbian 