For queer people, identity is an important part in understanding ourselves within a cisgender, heterosexually-dominated society. External pressures force us to deny ourselves the reality of our situations, and coming out begins to feel like an excruciating, permanent event. But what if that identity was not concrete?
A part of me has always loved women, but I didn’t always know this. Had my childhood lacked in heteronormativity and heavily-stressed Catholicism, the realization would’ve come when I entered puberty. More specifically, when the first girl I had a crush on held the sleeve of my shirt in her finger tips and complimented it. I swooned, always excited to sit next to her in science class and give her the pop quiz answers. Something clicked in me; something I had never felt with boys before. Yet, in my middle school journal is scribbled, “I can’t be bisexual!”
Looking back, it’s clear I was in denial. The fear of being anything other than straight plagued my thoughts more frequently than I’d care to admit. At fourteen, my world was crumbling around me. My feelings only became more prominent, and in a desperate attempt to assume a “normal” lifestyle, I tied myself down to short-lived, mundane relationships with boys. I had come out to everyone as bisexual near the end of high school, but clung to the possibility that I could still be with a man and live that normal life. What I had not grasped then was that I was refusing to allow my queerness to flourish, and I would never feel at peace until I did.
As time progressed and I became more confident in my sexuality, “bisexual” began to feel wrong. The free reign that accompanied college gave me a chance to re-examine my relationships with men. My heterosexual encounters were duller than ever. While I’m aware bisexual people identify all over the spectrum and aren’t always attracted to both genders equally, “bisexual” implied that I was interested in men. The attraction levels were so insignificant they became irrelevant. “Gay” felt right. Its umbrella use in the queer community made me feel there was always a little bit of room for me to say, “I’m attracted to men on rare occasions.” Some other people, straight and non-straight, didn’t agree with the fluidity of identities. It didn’t matter if I fell in love with a man unintentionally, or that I still felt major attraction to women and little to men: I had to be bisexual.
The thought process left me baffled. Those non-straight critics sounded just like straight people, denying an identity by sexual encounters. I hold tight to the idea that a single person doesn’t alter a person’s identity. The opposite concept – that sexuality is based on encounters and not actual attraction levels – is harmful and hypocritical. We don’t tell young people who say they’re straight, “well you haven’t experienced it, so how do you know?” We don’t insist straight women who have had chance encounters with other women and maintain their straight identity they aren’t straight. Why do others feel the need to tell me how I feel when they are not me? It’s a sense of entitlement and directly misconstrues the purpose of those “alternative” identities. There will always be people like me who don’t fit anywhere perfectly. It leaves me with a deep-seeded sense of isolation from both communities. This deliberation encourages people to live a lie, instead of understanding that when words specifically for our sexuality do not exist, we must cling to what does.
Upon entering a relationship with a man, my queer identity is erased. I detest the idea of a world where I cannot have both. No one needs validation from external sources for their identities, including me. They serve the sole purpose of making us feel like we have a place in the world, not making us feel even farther outside of it.
