How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Being A 'Super Dyke'

“Super Dyke!” A snarling voice spews the familiar words as I search for a seat on a junior high school bus jammed full with backpacks and pubescence. The voice, the dreaded moniker—I don’t need to look. I know the yell is for me.

I find an open spot and slouch low, propping my knees against the brown plastic seat in front of me. I want to suck my head into my chest, turtle style. I pretend not to hear the taunts. I start conversations with the girls around me, laughing too loudly to demonstrate I don’t care. Or I stare out the window at the snowy pastures and shivering cows that line the route toward my rural Utah hometown.

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