Yolanda and I were folding shirts behind the register when a gay couple wandered into our section. They stopped to admire some ties fanned out on a display table, and as they stood there deciding on a color, one of the men leaned over and kissed the other on the lips. The kind of kiss that happens a few years into a relationship, as automatic as double-checking the front door is locked after leaving your house. Gross, I thought, the same as I did whenever I saw my parents kiss as a child. “What? Why is that nasty?” I asked, feeling suddenly defensive, my heart racing, and before I could wimp out I added, “I’m gay.” I didn’t realize she’d been watching them too. “You and me both know that’s not what you meant,” I pressed on. Maybe it was because she reminded me of my mother, who worked at Starbucks and would have been ruined if she lost her job and the health insurance that came with it, that I didn’t.īut after that, I kept Yolanda at a distance. Obviously Yolanda thought I was straight. I was wearing the outfit I specifically put on when I wanted judgmental old Catholic ladies to think I was. “You’re good,” I told her when she started bringing me home-baked sweets, and I said it again every time she tried to have a conversation about how much she enjoyed the Ellen show.
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Nasty was hardly the worst thing gay people had been called, and I wanted to move on. Still, though things eventually returned to semi-normal, I privately couldn’t get over the fact that she’d even felt comfortable speaking to me that way to begin with. It wasn’t her blatant homophobia that irritated me, but that she’d thought we had it in common. When I worked in the home department, no one cared if I showed up in skinny jeans and my favorite Cyndi Lauper T-shirt. In Suits, however, there was an expectation for employees to dress up.