In Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson’s “Confession with Erasures,” the speaker reconstructs one confession into another with blackout text. The confession that results is no less intimate, and invokes a powerful sense of yearning through the juxtaposition of what’s revealed and what remains private.
It’s not a closet but a house. It’s so pretty, I walk around daily and admire it: the antique candlesticks, the hardwood floors, the quartz countertops that, when I polish them just right, shine so pretty I can hardly fucking stand it. At night in the two-story living room, I look up at the moon, naked and waning, and make a wish: REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED. I don’t even know if you can wish on the moon.
When I told my therapist I used to imagine I was a man when I fantasized about being with a woman, she asked, “Do you ever feel like you want to be a man now?” “Oh, God, no,” I said. “It’s just that it didn’t feel permissible to be a woman in the fantasies.” She nodded and asked what’s changed. “I just feel more comfortable,” I said. It was a lie, but I added, “I’m a grown woman, not some gay teenager trapped in the closet on the verge of suicide.” I felt bad after I said it.
To be honest, REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED I REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED know something else: REDACTED the shape of fruit REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED hiding REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED pleasureREDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED wanting, but the wanting REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED.
From the time I could walk, I was trained to be a man’s wife: tea sets and plastic babies, dollhouses and Barbies. As a teenager in church, I’d listen to the preacher talk about the virtuous woman—praised by her husband, blessed by her children—and I wanted to be her: righteous, upright, worth more than rubies. Still REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED women: REDACTED women, REDACTED women, REDACTED women, REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED beautiful. REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED women REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED inside REDACTED deeply REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED.
In college, I used to tell my friends I was one-quarter gay. I didn’t yet know about the Kinsey scale. I just knew that there were women I thought were attractive. “Not attractive in that way?” someone asked me once, and I replied, “No, no. Of course not. I find women attractive, but I’d never act on it.” And we both laughed. It was a running joke, all my girl crushes: Judy Garland, REDACTED Corinne Bailey Rae, REDACTED. Besides, I had a boyfriend, and I was in love. That was the truth.
I love my husband, but REDACTED I REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED I REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED I REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED I REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED me. REDACTED I REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED I REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED I REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED I REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED I REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED I REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED I REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED But sometimes, I do.
My first real girl crush was REDACTED, an English professor with blond hair and skin so pale it looked as if she had been painted with watercolors. I took every class I could with her so I could study her long arms, her pink lips, the way she’d nod her head and giggle when she said something she thought was especially clever. I wanted something from her I couldn’t name at the time, something I still can’t. But once she told a story about how, when she was depressed, one of her friends dragged her out of bed, stripped her naked, put her in the tub and bathed her. Of all the stories she told in class, it’s the one I remember most.
The last time my husband and I made love, I imagined REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED imagined REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED imagined REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED It was the best sex we had in years.
“I know,” he said. “I knew when we were dating.” I thought my husband would be more surprised, but it seems the one who needs to accept me is me. I didn’t know what to say then. I still don’t. What does it mean to realize you’re a forty-something bisexual woman in an almost twenty-year marriage with a man who is also the father of your teenage son? There would be no pronouncements, no revelations, no tense sit-down discussion with disbelieving and angry parents. I won’t ever have a coming out story. My story is more of a letting in.
REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED I want so badly to know REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED that type of pleasure. REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED it feels like grief.
“Can I say I’m bisexual if I’ve never actually been with a woman?” My friend shot back, “You used to say you were straight before you had ever been with a man.” True. When I was a little girl, I used to fantasize about my future husband. He was an artist who owned a ranch, the perfect blend of sensitivity and ruggedness. I used to imagine how he’d kiss me, first on my forehead, then on my lips. As I got older, I pictured how he’d undress me, touch me, fold me into his arms. Those fantasies, green and guileless, are like my fantasies now. To be young and filled with want is not so different from being old and filled with regret.
I must confess: REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED to want REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED a beautiful REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED deep REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED part of myself REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED that part REDACTED incredibly REDACTED REDACTED I REDACTED know REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED.
Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson is a writer and educator living in the suburbs of Chicago. Her work has appeared in New Ohio Review, Rattle, Off Assignment, Painted Bride Quarterly, Cimarron Review, Carve Magazine, Salamander, The Baltimore Review, Sugar House Review, and other journals. She’s been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best American Essays, and Best New Poets. She’s currently working on a memoir in essays that explores childhood trauma and mental health.