On coming back to a small town.
The path curves around the contours of the lake, following the ebbing water for as long as you want to walk it. A concrete trail, upgraded from gravel and dirt a long time ago, now the groundwork for a sense of stability.
I sit and stare at the mountains reflected in the still water, ignoring the phone buzzing in my pocket. A harder task than one expects.
I wrote a short story about this same place, years ago. Is it the serene water and recently dusted snowy mountains pulling me in, or something more? Perhaps it’s something innate, something I’ll never be able to define. Holding me indefinitely.
The first time I swam here was the first day of high school in a new town and I knew no one. I was wearing a white skirt but when everyone jumped into the water, I refused to allow my inappropriate clothing to hold me back.
I swam to the pontoon, staying in the water where my body remained hidden, highly aware of what others might think of it. When we returned to shore, I crossed my arms, pushed the hair from my brow and hoped no one saw the fear trembling through me. Now, looking back, I know no one cared. Except, perhaps, for myself.
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Those early days were filled with confusion while teenage hormones reigned supreme. Every time a pretty boy talked to me, I’d blush such a furious shade of red I was forced to hide in my arms. Someone would ask if I was okay, and a friend would tell them, “She’s just going red.” Girls were never as scary as the boys.
I had crushes on the boys. They were palpable, tangible things encouraged by naïve flirtations and encouraging rumours. At home I watched Home and Away, The O.C. and 8 Simple Rules, absorbing stories about teenage sex and mental illness and dysfunctional families. Those worlds felt real. The characters’ lives and struggles were so far from my own that I decided it must have been me who was at fault. I was supposed to like boys, and my liking of boys could make my life interesting and possibly offer popularity.
Secretly, I was falling in love with the girls that I called friends. I knew them better than I understood myself, and I never questioned it. We walked everywhere and I became enchanted by their words, speaking of everything and nothing. Each time it was like a strong hand gripped my heart, refusing to release the pumping intensity until they’d turn into the mean girls that the movies depicted. And then it felt like I lost everything.
I came second to the boys they had crushes on. There was no competition, I made no attempt to do anything beyond what platonic relationships would allow. And instead of acknowledging this, I followed their gaze and placed my attentions on the opposite gender with a focus I lost with age. Boys might have been scary, blush-inducing things, but they were easy. They still are easy, if I’m being honest.
The cloud covers the sun for a moment, the water losing its lustre. It looks less like a photoshopped image and more like the foundation for something powerful. I could place the township atop the surface, and it would hold, only sinking to the watery depths once the light returns.
Some know that they’re a big city or small town kinda person, and some will die on that hill. Some, like me, are somewhere in between. In the pasture between needing the excitement and diversity of a city and the relaxed, always-10-minutes-late-to-everything town.
For a teenager, this place was stifling. There’s nowhere to hide in a small town, no crevices to escape from peering eyes and loose lips. There was no shopping. Sports were played all over the region, my brother travelling four hours for a single Saturday rugby game. There was one gay teacher, and that was the only real-life exposure to queer culture I had for a long time.
Exploration and discovery require space, something that’s hard to find when everyone knows everything about you. When I left for university, I was prepared to run a million miles to live a life that felt new and exciting. Somewhere I felt safe to be myself.
Now, looking across the water, I realise it was never that simple. The surface might change with the wind, sun, and rain, but below, way down in the deep, the water remains solid and life-giving. Having a place or people accept me was never as important as my own acceptance.
It wasn’t until after a pandemic and multiple lockdowns that I felt homesick for the small town my parents still lived in. In your late twenties, family feels different, looks different, and after pushing aside a career that was doing me no favours, my people were what I wanted to concentrate on.
Sexuality is a wild, wonderful thing. Our understanding of it changes and morphs as we, and the world, grows. My sexuality has never changed, but the way I understand it, the way I hold it within myself; that changes constantly. Small towns are much the same, forever morphing into new versions of themselves to make way for new populations and industries.
Coming back to the small town of my teenage years has been an exercise in facing the truth with an honesty I was not prepared for. I walk the same paths, drive the same roads, to find new buildings, different scenery, and more roadworks than ever. But everything makes sense in a way it couldn’t before. I can see how these changes will play out and how those changes can benefit the community.
Time and change walk their own path, hand in hand. And while this lakeshore has evolved and developed as the town has grown, so have I. Now, sitting here and looking at the mountains, I know neither gender or social status, romance, or sex, can ever be defined and decided by someone other than myself.
Words: Catherine Hart
Photo: Laura Williamson
