I'm a gay teacher. You can tell us not to say 'gay,' but we'll find each other — even in school.

• I'm a gay teacher in New York City.
• In my experience, gay kids will find and support each other.

In middle school, I had a Spanish teacher who was young and friendly, and I probably had a crush on her, though I couldn't have articulated that at the time.

One afternoon, she was describing a night out at a club in which she had seen two women dancing with each other. This bothered her, she said, even more than she thought it would. She didn't use the word "disgust," but she didn't have to.

As my classmates nodded agreeably, urging her to go on, I bored a hole in my desk with my eyes as heat rose to my face, my body coiling protectively inward in a futile attempt to disappear. I had a secret that I couldn't quite name yet. Even while entertaining us with the story, my Spanish teacher never said the word "gay."

As an adult, and a teacher myself, I know that gay kids will find themselves and each other despite any books or word bans imposed by less understanding adults. I'm also here for them to feel protected and seen.

Coming out was liberating for me

In spite of the lack of education I received, I soon managed to fall in all-consuming, obsessive, hormonally-driven teenage love with another girl.

I briefly thought I was bisexual, but then I realized I was a lesbian and never looked back.

In the internet-free wilderness, I was drawn as though by magnetic force to other girls like me. I must've shared a thousand knowing looks and slight nods with other queer women, including teachers at school.

Each acknowledgment was life-affirming: I see you. You exist.

As a teacher, I want to make sure all my students feel supported

I began my own high-school teaching career in 2005, swearing I would never let slip a detail of my personal life. But the thing about adolescents is that they know. They run on a more highly tuned emotional frequency than adults.

Before long, there was a group of students who always ate lunch in my classroom because that was where they needed to be.

As the years passed, I slowly opened the closet door. These days, having an out queer teacher is hardly noteworthy in New York City.

When I had my first out transgender student 10 years ago, I worried. I fixed her name on the attendance and used her pronouns, but I wondered whether that was enough for her to feel my support.

One day, another student got irritated with her and called her by her deadname. In the pounding silence that followed, I felt the old heat rising to my face. This time, I was the adult.

I raised one arm and pointed a finger at the door. "Out. Now," I said.

I left the student standing alone in the hallway until I reached a pause in the lesson.

"I only said his name," he protested, although I could tell from the crack in his voice that he knew he'd crossed a line. Once he promised that it wouldn't happen again, I allowed him to return, head bowed, to the classroom.

My trans student had assumed the position of protective coil around her phone. She was furiously texting someone, or maybe posting on a message board. My concerned gaze was all right, but it hardly compared to the lifeline at her fingertips. Kids like her, from all over, who had been there, who understood.

They can stop teachers from saying gay, or ban books, or whatever their next attempt may be, but queer people will always find each other. And with all of humanity just the tap of a screen away, it has never been easier to make the kinds of connections that sustain and save lives.