Finding a comfortable label in today's queer alphabet soup
Having just written a piece coming out about body image issues, and it being pride month, I'd feel that to not write about my own sexual orientation would be an act of actively withholding that information, something that I recently decided not to do anymore. So here goes. Vulnerability, be my friend once more.
A couple of years ago I stumbled upon this blog, written by an acquaintance of mine from college: On being a first time lesbian and feeling like you aren't gay enough
It blew my mind. I was so moved by her honest telling of the confusion, insecurity, and even grief associated with finally figuring out her sexual orientation.
I read it over and over, reliving past experiences: the time in middle school when I thought I was gay; a few weeks later when I asked my two "best" friends how they'd react if one of us were gay and they said they'd reject her (fun fact -- one of them turned out to be gay); when I met the first guy I fell for and decided I must be straight; the moments in the art room at Essex High School when I was pretty sure I was more attracted to the females in the room than any of the males, and didn't know what to make of that; the first time I received a mixed tape from a girl; the time I went to my locker and found a beautiful, yet incredibly dark, poem written by an anonymous admirer, and then finding out that spring that it was my female lab partner (it's odd thinking back to those chemistry classes -- of the four people at my lab table, one was that girl and one was my now husband); something clicking in my brain when a girl in my art class openly dated a girl and shared that she liked people because they're people, not because of their gender; the time in a practice room of the music department when one of my close male friends and I both said out loud that we were not just attracted to the opposite gender; my sister visiting that week from college and filling her in on the conversation -- the first family member to hear my secret -- and her wonderful reaction; a formerly-close-friend looking livid and saying "it's disgusting" when witnessing two of my friends go to prom with same-sex dates, and my inability to break through my shame to defend them; the first time I tried out the word "bisexual" when coming out to a friend in our freshman dorm in college, and his response, that bisexuals are hot and threesomes are fun, and we should check out hot chicks together; my conflicted feelings that night, by myself, when I wasn't sure if I was thrilled by his acceptance or unnerved by the sexualization that had been made of my identity; telling my mom in the car ride home from college, the conversation about women being sexualized in our society, and that maybe I just felt attraction because I had been overexposed to sexy women by the media; coming back to school and realizing that I wasn't actually as interested in the women that mainstream media portrayed, but much more in women that I'd later find out were lesbians; realizing that my lack of interest in sex with people I did not love wasn't "normal" and grappling with what that meant; cuddling with a girl I really liked and bonding over our mutual dislike of the bisexual label, and then learning about pansexuality; dating her, but feeling firmly trapped in the closet; later dating my now husband, trying to still cling to my newfound identity despite the relationship, and feeling excluded from queer communities on campus; the existential crisis that followed when I realized I wanted to marry him, but felt that it was a betrayal to who I was, and that I'd never had the chance to openly date other genders; crying alone in my room while reading and watching coverage of Minnesota (and the states that followed) legalizing same sex marriage; marching in my first pride parade; finally coming out, bit by bit, to people in my life, and finding it too painful, exhausting, and confusing...
The snapshots go on forever. There are new moments every year that feel like I've been punched in the diaphragm, but they are becoming fewer. Dating and marrying a man meant that I've had to re-assert to people I've already come out to that I am in fact still queer, that it wasn't "just a phase" and that my relationship doesn't change how I identify as a person. I've stopped going out of my way to come out to people -- the anxiety and build up are simply too much for me. As I've taken more social justice and cultural competency classes, I've learned that the educating shouldn't fall squarely on the marginalized person, so I've come to accept that I don't need to put myself through it. If people want to know, they can learn to not be so hetero-normative, and can ask me about it. If it comes up easily in conversation, like when my students last week asked why I use the word "partner" rather than "husband," I will share, and I've gotten much better at owning it without fear or shame. Not all the way better, but I'm getting there.
As an aside -- I'm sorry for those of you learning this about me through blog, rather than in person. I hope you'll understand, though, what it takes to come out so many times, and that it's nothing personal. If you're really taken aback that you, of all people, were left in the dark, take it as an opportunity to examine how you have reacted to queerness. If you've been nothing but warmth and acceptance, I probably never felt the need to come out to you because I felt so safe already. If you're not always comfortable with it, or actively show disapproval, it's possible I subconsciously shied away from being open around you. I have witnessed a wide range of reactions to my loved ones coming out and bringing home their partners, and each time they are met with anything but love and support, it affects me in a visceral and permanent way. It makes it that much harder to find pride in myself when I'm afraid of that disappointment being applied to me. So, think about how you want your loved ones to feel when they come to you, and let that influence how you express your discomfort.
As a young person, once I realized that I could have deep, meaningful, compatible relationships with a range of people, I made a semi-subconscious decision to limit myself to men. I had enough anxiety and shame in my life. I couldn't handle the thought of a relationship tainted by such things. I figured it was the same as choosing a Jewish spouse -- sure it was limiting, but it made holidays and family dynamics less stressful. The problem was that in finding a Jewish spouse, I was affirming my identity, whereas in choosing a male spouse, I was further concealing and repressing my identity. When I finally tried to talk to a therapist (who I'd been seeing for awhile and really liked) about this, he told me that he was very religious and this was not a topic he was interested in discussing. My therapist. So I continued to bury it for a few more years. I sometimes wonder if I will ever fully undo the damage that I created by trying to pass as straight for so many years.
As a different-sex married adult, especially one who is introverted and sick, it can be really tough to find ways to express that aspect of who I am and to find community around it. I joined the rugby team when I came to Burlington, and that was amazing. I never actually came out to anyone, but the hetero-normativity I've come to expect in society did not exist! I don't know if my queer teammates assumed I was gay (because of rugby cultural norms), or if they didn't assume one way or the other, but they definitely treated me as one of them and didn't exclude me from jokes and references about being queer, the way previous communities had. Since my joints fell apart, I have had to lose that community, but I'm working to at least surround myself with people who know and accept that part of me.
To bring myself back to my original purpose in writing this post... I've really struggled with how to label myself. I'd love to not label at all, but unfortunately our world often asks for labels and I never know how to respond. The word "queer" was used in not so great ways when I was first noticing I was different in middle school, so that felt abhorrent to me for a long time. I tried "bisexual," but found that people's reactions were never what I'd hoped:
"it's just a phase"
"all girls are slightly bisexual"
"you must have SO much sex"
"wanna be in a threesome?"
"so can't you just choose to be straight?"
"oh that's hot!"
etc.
On top of that, I found that the way I feel towards males is very different than how I feel towards females. It's not that one is more or less than the other, it's just different. For some reason my brain interprets "bi" as meaning it's the same experience with both genders, which doesn't feel right. This brings me to my final issue -- that bisexual implies a gender binary, which is not an accurate depiction of the spectrum of genders on which attraction exists for me. So I rejected bisexual as my label and turned to pansexual. Pansexualality acknowledges the spectrum of genders but also hints at the spectrum of experiences that may be wildly different from one another. It was also first described to me as being attracted to people based on personality, not their physical attributes (such as their sex, build, height, etc). This felt like the best fit, so I embraced it for awhile. The problem with identifying as pan is that no one seems to have heard it before, so I end up having to do a lot of explaining, deal with a lot of questions, and often have to hear the response that everything's getting so complicated these days, and why can't there just be two genders, etc. It severely limits my ability to subtly drop information into a conversation without making it a big deal and greatly increases the anxiety I feel when having these small coming out moments.
So I decided to follow the larger trend and reclaim the word "queer." It felt incredibly uncomfortable at first, but one day in therapy it just slipped out in conversation, that I am queer. She reflected back to me how comfortable I seemed with that term, and I realized that somehow I was now. It is a wonderfully vague umbrella term, that reflects I am connected to the larger queer community and that my identity is not straight. It is also too vague, at times, since it leaves people wondering exactly what I mean. I'm usually ok with that uncertainty, but for those moments when I want a word that describes my unique orientation, I was again left without a word.
And then a friend of mine remembered a conversation she and I had a long time ago about the unfortunate challenges of being bisexual, and passed along a book called Bi: Notes for a bisexual revolution, by Shiri Eisner. I am still in the first (very long) chapter about defining bisexuality, but I'm already feeling myself being drawn back into the label. I hope to write a longer post about the incredible intersectionality addressed in this book (as the author is a left-wing Israeli Jewish middle class white-passing genderqueer bisexual activist), but for now I will just share my current favorite takeaways: that bisexuality can be an umbrella term for anyone who doesn't fit into gay or straight; and that bi doesn't have to imply a gender binary, but rather people who are the same gender as you and people who are different genders than you.
So now, after years of discarding uncomfortable labels, I might end up back where I started, with bisexual. Maybe the world will catch up to Shiri's understanding of the term and plea for acceptance in both queer and straight circles. We'll see.