I was born in the late 60s in Hamburg, Germany. My parents were upper‑middle‑class: educated, employed, free of existential threats, and center‑left leaning. They fed me, provided a stable home, and rarely beat me. This, together with Hamburg being Germany’s second‑largest city, could have been the perfect environment to grow up queer. But it wasn’t for me.
My first conscious memories reach back to the early 70s. There aren’t many, and I’m not sure how much I subconsciously suppress and don’t want to relive. I’ve spent many sleepless nights trying to uncover more, but this is all I can access.
Clothing. At around age five, I remember my mom taking my sister and me shopping for clothes. It was like Groundhog Day. Every time, it was a disaster: I didn’t want what was available; I wanted something different. I can’t recall exactly what kind of clothing I was looking for, but I remember my mom explaining many times that I couldn’t wear certain things because they were for girls. These excursions typically ended in tears, but afterward, my mom would buy us ice cream.
Hair. This didn’t go much better. I must have been about eight when I first started going to the hairdresser alone. I remember my mom scolding me repeatedly for not cutting off enough. Once, she was so upset that she dragged me back to the hairdresser and had them cut my hair shorter, under warranty, if you will. Again, she told me many times that my hairstyle was too feminine.
Friends. I liked having girls around me and doing girly things with them. I must have been around six when my mom intervened and, aided by my first‑grade teacher, paired me with boys carefully selected to be adequately male in behavior. I don’t remember being upset, maybe even hopeful. I trusted them to do what was best for me.
My dad is notably missing in all of this, though he was always present as the authoritative figure pulling strings in the background. My mom often mentioned that what she had us do was really what my dad expected, wanted, or demanded. Or how much she had to fight for me because he wouldn’t approve of my desired presentation.
My happiest childhood memories are of birthdays, not my own, though. I remember my sister’s tenth birthday, when they couldn’t delegate me away, and I got to celebrate with her and her beautiful friends. It was wonderful. I also remember one of the girls I hung out with in first grade inviting me to her birthday. Again, I was in heaven.
In all of this, I could very well sense the awkwardness of the situation. I knew something was off, that I was somehow different—a misfit. But I didn’t have the words. I couldn’t put it together then. There were no role models to aspire to, no help available. Without me being able to imagine any different path, I tried to be a boy as best I could.
When puberty hit, I still preferred to surround myself with girls. It got easier, since that was the behavior expected from a boy. But for the most part, it wasn’t about romantic relationships. It was about observing life as a girl and forming bonds in innocent BFF style.
I remember one girl in high school with beautiful auburn hair, usually worn in a French braid. One day, I asked her to teach me how to do it. She spent an entire afternoon with me, letting me braid her hair countless times until I finally got it right—another emotional highlight from those days.
But with testosterone came an inexplicable anger toward everything, everyone, and the world. I started hanging out with a bunch of “No Future” kids. We didn’t share much else, but we were united in our anger and frustration, our fear of U.S. cruise missiles on German soil, and the threat of a looming World War Three.
That anger and aggression wouldn’t leave me for the next forty years. I was always on edge, with an extremely short fuse. It ate me up inside. It sent me into tailspins where my thoughts couldn’t escape the issue at hand, keeping me awake at night and leaving me even more agitated the next morning. All I knew was how to fight.
I never backed down from an argument, and I wasn’t smart about picking my battles. Multiple times, my mom had to appear at school after I got into arguments with teachers. I was simply flagged as a rebellious kid, told to keep my head down, and that was it. Looking back, I would have needed so much more help.
Fast forward to 2024, when I came out to my parents at age 56. My mom claimed, “There were no signs.” My dad said, “But for fifty years you’ve been normal.” They were both painfully wrong. A careful observer could have seen that I required help all along. A loving family should have provided the support I needed. And with Hamburg’s population of almost two million, such resources would have been available, even in the 1970s and 80s.
And here, the scope changes. I don’t think this was all just about me – it was also about my parents. They couldn’t imagine having a queer kid—the embarrassment of their first son malfunctioning. I’m not questioning their intentions. Likely, they just wanted us all to fit in and live a life of least resistance. They were clearly unaware of the lasting damage all this would do to me and my life, all the pain that could have been avoided.
Which brings us full circle: visibility and role models are everything. Not only role models for me to look up to, but also for my parents to observe and learn from, examples showing how queer people can be happy and successful, fitting into loving families and broader society. But instead, it was all swept under the rug. Nothing to see here; we’re a normal family.
And that brings me to the present day. I have tears in my eyes as I write these lines. It still pains me—all those years wasted, all those memories I’d rather forget, all those places I’d rather not go. I’m not writing this to get it off my chest. I’m writing in the hope that it may change the path of some kid out there.
Yes, parenting is hard. But if there’s one message I have for parents who suspect their kid might be queer, it’s this: spare your kids a lot of pain, and don’t make them be someone they are not. Please.
Heartfelt hugs, Liz
