Sherrill is a bisexual, non-binary young adult living in Columbia who grew up in a conservative part of the state. They spoke about the relentless bullying they experienced in high school all while trying to figure out who they were for themself – they have since found a supportive community in Columbia.
As a note, this piece contains some vivid descriptions of bullying and its impacts on mental health.
Alphabet Soup shares LGBTQ+ Missourians’ stories through portraiture and personal narratives.
Sherrill: Growing up, my understanding of it was horrible actually. It was like this indoctrinated idea that it was some mental disability, and if that you're having these thoughts about yourself, it means something's wrong with you, which is what I was taught, which I really didn't unlearn until college.
I was also kind of taught that, like, if you're really openly gay or openly queer or questioning things not like super, super confident in your masculinity – there will be consequences. You will be bullied a lot for that.
Recent years is progress. This place is so much nicer, and I'm kind of in the process of figuring out what it would it really, really means now when other people aren't trying to ruin things for you.
The first time I came out to myself was a bit of a time because it was a middle school, I think it was like sixth grade – I was so young.
But I had these two friends, and we were just having some jokeish conversation about, like, “Oh, would you marry a girl like this in the future? Would you marry a girl like this in the future? Oh, what about Brandon? Would you marry Brandon in the future?”
And I take one look at Brandon – he's kind of hot, and I go, “Hmm, maybe,” and from then on out, everyone knows you're gay because it's not a big school, and it's not a very accepting school.
It instantly becomes so big a part of your life that you have to start looking at yourself more severely.
It's not a pleasant way to come out to yourself – is to just have everyone else figure it out well before you really have given it any thought, it's not a pleasant way to come out.
The bullying in high school was horrible. People can't actually find anything wrong about you, so they lie about it, and they try to get you in trouble, and they try to make sure that you don't have friends. They do what they can to ruin your life. Then if any of that doesn't work, they literally beat the sh*t out of you, and that was that was high school, day in and day out.
The tragic part is that I really didn't know these truths about myself – other people thought that they knew these truths about my sexuality and my gender, that I was still exploring.
It was not making me not explore them more. It was making me think, “Am I this thing that is clearly so wrong?” And you blame yourself, and everyone blames you, and you blame yourself because everyone blames you.
These things hurt – they hurt everyone. This is not how you should be treating other people, and it didn't even stop me from exploring myself. It just kind of made
![May Hall sits on her motorcycle on Tuesday, April 1, 2025, at David R. Francis Quadrangle in Columbia. “For me, gender euphoria is kind of a nebulous thing to pin down because it's the sort of thing where it's like, I will occasionally look in the mirror and be like, ‘Wow, I look really cute. Wow, I look really girly,’ etc, etc. But it's less of like a, ‘Oh my God, yay,’ joyous moment, and more of like a, ‘Oh my God, finally. I've been waiting on this.’ It's more of like a, ‘There we go. That's kind of what I've been aiming for this whole time,’” Hall said. “It is just those moments where I'm more passively just pleased with where I'm at. There are times where I'll be laying with my head on [my partner’s] chest, and it's like, ‘That just feels really nice.’ I feel, I don't know if it's feminine, but it's definitely, like, at peace. And, at this point in life, I'm less chasing the euphoria of like, ‘Oh my God. Gender,’ because I don't even know what I'm aiming for, and more aiming for the, like, ‘I would like to feel broadly satisfied in my life.’”](https://npr.brightspotcdn.com/dims4/default/dd6682b/2147483647/strip/true/crop/1750x1158+0+0/resize/260x172!/format/webp/quality/90/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fnpr-brightspot.s3.amazonaws.com%2F95%2F25%2Fa58d4aec4668be6e25abc498c907%2F20250401-bas-queer-joy-may-hall-0200.jpg)
![Julie Rosenfeld, an associate professor at the University of Missouri School of Music, stands in her office on Wednesday, May 15, 2024, at the Fine Arts Building in Columbia. “When I was coming out in the 80s, and 90s, I mean, that's what would you called women who were [attracted to the] same sex. You called them lesbians. And, I mean, I love Sappho, the Isle of Lesbos. I thought it was a really great term, as a matter of fact. I liked the term. I thought it was a great way to identify. You know, ‘Jewish, lesbian, violinist.’ Sounds great to me. So, I never shied away from it,” Rosenfeld said. “I'm a baker also. So, ‘Jewish, lesbian, violinist, baker. All those things are important to me. But, I like the term. I think it's a great term. Were that we all were like Sappho.”](https://npr.brightspotcdn.com/dims4/default/a250771/2147483647/strip/true/crop/1750x1158+0+0/resize/260x172!/format/webp/quality/90/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fnpr-brightspot.s3.amazonaws.com%2F91%2Fb4%2Fa5b0e316435388adde92690d1f29%2F20240515-bas-queer-joy-julie-rosenfeld-0023.jpg)