“Hey Sequoia, can I ask you something?”

The corners of their mouths tugged into quivering, nervous smiles.

“Yeah, sure.”

Their fingers pulled at clothing articles; they shuffled their weight between their feet; their eyes skirted mine.

Oh great, here we go.

Apathetic dread clouded my chest, but I stayed silent, wearing my mask of politeness and neutrality.

“Are you a lesbian?”

Some asked bluntly; some with a euphemism. Some asked kindly; some with scrutiny. I’ve faced this question and its variations more times than I believe warrants in the past few years, and no matter how many times it finds me, I feel no more comfortable than I did the last time. Maybe I’m no longer surprised to receive it these days, but I’m tired.

Let me be clear: I am not annoyed because of the content the question. It’s not an insult to me that people think I’m homosexual; the purpose of this article isn't to press, “Guys, I’m not a lesbian! Here’s a bunch of reasons to convince you that I'm straight!” But neither is the purpose to say, “Well guys, you got me. I’m coming out.”

You see, I understand why this question likes me. I have short, stereotypically “boyish” hair. I rarely wear makeup. I do not own a skirt or a dress. I wear primarily sneakers, and shirts originally designed for men and boys. My wardrobe consists mostly of dark, neutral colors. I only come up to five feet, four inches, yet I tend to initially intimidate people I meet. Multiple people have told me I have mannerisms reminiscent of a teenage boy. I’ve never dated anyone, even though I'm eighteen and I've had opportunities to.

So yes, I admit, I look like the quintessential closeted lesbian.

However, my physical attributes have no bearing on my sexuality. My hair is short because it’s easier to manage, and because frankly, I look fabulous. I rarely wear makeup because last year I chose to stop relying on cosmetics to feel good about myself. I walk everywhere, so sneakers are just practical and easy. Women's fashion is unpredictable and expensive, so finding clothing I like is much simpler in the men’s section. With my naturally dark hair and pale skin, dark, saturated colors suit me better than pastels and patterns. I’ve never dated anyone because I’m exceptionally picky and I’d rather stay single than settle for less than I believe I deserve.

I don't want to invoke "don't judge a book by its cover," because I actually think there’s a key factor in that argument itself that is poorly articulated. A human being is not a book. Flip to chapter seven in a book day after day, and you’ll find the same text, the same margins, the same images. However, flip to chapter seven in a human day after day, and you might find scribbles along the sides, pages ripped out, crossed out paragraphs. Maybe the chapter doesn’t even exist anymore, or maybe it was replaced with an audio file of Smash Mouth’s “All Star” playing on repeat. Humans are not static. Rather than a book, a human is more equivalent to a group project GoogleDoc, where a flurry of alterations from ten different authors ceaselessly morph the text. I am different from yesterday, as I was different from the day before, as I was from the day before, and so on and so on. We’ve never stopped changing, and we never will until the grave.

As far as sexuality, my own interpretation of mine has already shifted at least four times, and I’m just eighteen. I have no clue where it will go in the future, so I’ve stepped back from trying to label it and I am now just letting it go its course. But at the same time, I’m haunted by a niggling voice whispering to me that I need to define it. Just in a psychological sense, the human brain needs classification to function. Without hierarchies and boxes to organize the continuous stream of incoming information, we would be unable to focus on what’s important to our situation, because everything would be important. We have what are called schemas: mental concepts that inform a person about what to expect from a variety of experiences and situations, which use past life experience and memories as primary sources.

So based off of our own lives, we each have our unique preset model of interpreting people. Unchecked, we end up with stereotypes and tropes. You know them: Asians are cold and calculating; Black men are thugs; men are strong and hypermasculine; women are delicate and feminine; gay men are effeminate drag queens; lesbian women are butch male wannabes; everyone is straight and cisgender until proven otherwise. With the number of people and their vast span of cultures and experiences in this world, yes, it’s easier to rely on preconceived notions.

Look, we all do it. I am not some perfect being who has never made a snap assumption based on someone’s appearance. It happens. If you have a properly functioning brain, it’s unavoidable. But the difference is that I know that my perception of that person is an assumption, and I do not act on it.

See, my own sexuality has always been an awkward and private topic for me, even when I identified as heterosexual. There are maybe only four people I feel comfortable discussing it with, and these people are my closest friends. None of them ever asked for my sexuality, and I never asked for theirs. Sexuality came up naturally in conversation after an appropriate amount of time, when we trusted and knew each other as complex people, not as perceptions. If I don’t feel comfortable sharing my sexuality with you, it’s not a personal affront on you. Really, I just don’t think it’s necessary for you to know what kind of genitalia I prefer.

Sexuality is not some little factoid like a favorite color or movie, where you gain insight to the person inside without much baggage. Sexuality has weight. People do not choose their sexualities, and given the unending warped climate around sexuality and gender, some would rather keep theirs hidden, with good reason to. Yes, some people consider their sexuality an integral part of their identity and want to make sure everyone knows, but others (like me) perhaps consider it a fluid concept and would rather let other’s images of them rest on something else. No one chooses a non-straight sexuality in order to have an unusual attribute to brag about.

But people who seem “straight” never get asked about their sexuality. Before I cut my hair and developed my current sense of style, no one ever asked me about my sexuality, and now it’s the hot question of the year. Friends of mine whose outward appearances align with the stereotypical images of their gender aren’t prodded about their sexualities, and actually have to convince people that in fact, they are actually not straight. Since I'm aware that I don’t fit your idea of the average teenage girl, when you ask about my sexuality, it feels less like you’re interested in me as a person and more like you’re trying to figure me out and explain why I’m different. Even if you don’t intend so, you’re just trying to justify your own assumptions. A teenage girl who leans more towards a stereotypically masculine appearance? There must be a reason.

“Hey,” you may say. “I promise I’m not trying to be rude! I’m legitimately interested and curious.” You can be as well-meaning as you want, yet it still is intrusive when you ask what my sexuality is, particularly if you include your assumption in your phrasing, like in “Are you a lesbian?”. Good intentions don't negate from how asking about someone's sexuality is meddlesome and rude. You may not mean so, but it's like you're coercing someone to come out. I say when in doubt, just don’t ask; people are more likely to trust you and come out to you in due time if you allow them. Grant them the right to do what they want on their own clock, because it's not your business, it’s theirs.

Here's another way a book is a bad metaphor for a human: a book is produced explicitly for mass consumption, to entertain and enlighten anyone who picks it up. Humans do not exist for any reason other than they do, and they do not exist for anyone but themselves. My contents are my own, and I am not for you to read at your leisure. You are never entitled to my sexuality, my gender, or my body. My sexuality has nothing to do with you.

There is not a reason for everything. Everyone's personalities and interests are composed from many reasons, but there is not one ultimate characteristic that eclipses the others. I’ve battled with why I am the way I am for a long time, feeling like something’s wrong with me for not enjoying typically feminine things, and I’m laying down my sword. I don’t need to justify myself to myself, or to you, or to anyone. So don’t make me. Leave me to exist the way I am, and don’t pry into what isn’t yours.