I’m Real

I like to tell stories.  It’s a major part of my life and personality.  Some of my new classmates have heard the story of a poem named after me written by a former student.  My friends back home know of an epic story that’s simply referred to as “the Glee cup story.”  Last night, while watching…well, Glee, actually, I told a story of my high school.  When I was in the 8th grade, the school gave us free tickets to come see the musical, so I went.  The show was The Wiz, and I told my buddies about when Glenda came out, carried by four greased up football players.  A new friend of mine smiled and said something to the effect of “that probably made you want to go to the school, huh?”  The question caught me off guard.  It took me a few seconds to stammer out “um, yes, 13-year-old me enjoyed that very much.”  The moment passed just like that, but it stayed on my mind.  Well, clearly it stayed; I’m writing about it.

In reality, 13-year-old me was far more interested in the fact that I was, over the course of a two and a half hour play, turning into a theatre person.  So why did I not just say that?  Well, there are two reasons.  The first one is that I’m not used to people making comments about my attraction to men.  I realize that, as a side effect of my trying to be vocal about my queerness and my (slight) preference towards women, I do talk about women an awful lot.  What can I say?  I like girls.  I just also happen to like boys, too.  The second is that, as sad as this sounds, I was projecting.  You see, if there were several greased up football players (of age, of course) in front of me right now, my reaction would not be to a play.  Still, I didn’t want to make it seem like my young self was, well, queer (especially when, at that point, I had NO clue).  It’s not like I was embarrassed or anything, it’s just that no one ever asks me about boys.  It was stupid, yeah, and the fact that I’m about to analyze it may also be stupid, but it’s me and this is the internet, and isn’t that the purpose of having your own blog?

So wait, why is this a big deal to me?  Me, who sleeps under an Anyone But Me poster and wakes up thinking “F-yeah, Naya Rivera!”  Why the hell do I care that no one asks me about boys?  Well, for every friend I have that totally gets it and gets me, I have at least one who “forgets” I’m bisexual.  I’ve been accused of not being attracted to men.  I’ve been called a lesbian by “accident” (and not by the people who flat-out didn’t know how I identify) and actually told I was wrong when I corrected them.  Hell, I used to get asked why I didn’t just identify as a lesbian once a week.  It reminded me a bit of the kids in school who used to call me “white” even though I’m not because of how I acted.  Guess what?  That hurt when I was a kid and this hurts now.  And this is not against those who talk to me about girls because they know I prefer girls.  This is for those who choose to believe that, for whatever reason, I don’t make sense.

I shouldn’t have to prove my sexuality to anybody.  If I say I’m bisexual, you should believe me.  Why?  Because I’m the one in my body and brain, that’s why.  Because I know what and who I like.  Because no matter who or what I talk about, I know what reaction is happening in what part of the body when I see a shirtless Eric Dane and I know it’s the same I have when I see Alicia Keys.  My sexual orientation is not a matter of opinion.  I like who I like, I liked who I liked, and I will like who I will like.  So, when I say who I am, I expect people to listen.  I don’t want to have to repeat myself.

What bothers me is not my friend’s comment.  She is a lovely person who, from what I’ve seen, is one of the most respectful people I’ve ever met.  She also didn’t say a damned thing wrong.  What bothers me is my reaction.  It was one thing when I was fighting to get people to see me as who I am.  The fact that I felt the need to present a certain image to a person who was not making any assumptions or doing anything wrong means that, sadly, I’ve internalized some of this bisexual confused.  I’ve become bi-fused, and I don’t like it.

This may seem strange, but it is extremely difficult to just be yourself.  Sure, people always tell you that, when you’re meeting a new group of people or trying to attract someone, you should just be yourself.  Here’s the thing about that: it’s really hard to know who you are.  Living in a world that’s constantly telling you what it means to be male or female, rich, poor, or something in between, or whatever race you identify with means having to sift through all the messages and find out which ones are coming from you.  This is simple for some people, but, for many of us, it’s not.  There are tons of ways that gay people are supposed to be, and the same goes for lesbians, which makes it difficult if you don’t fit that mold (don’t believe me?  Ask a hyper-masculine, football playing high school aged gay boy or an uber-femme lesbian).  What does society say about bisexuals?  Well, that we’re desperate whores (I can ignore that one simply by living), that we want and get all the dates (once again, I’m proof against that), and that we can’t make up our minds or that we’re secretly gay.  Oh, and that if bisexuality DOES exist, then we like men and women 50/50.  If I have to try to live up to that while disproving that I’m secretly anything, I will go crazy.  I just cannot be myself.

Here’s the beautiful thing that I constantly have to remind myself: I’m special.  Bisexuals are specials.  You can like girls and guys 50/50.  It can be 60/40, or 30/70, or 80/20, or whatever.  It can change over time and go back and forth and who the hell cares?  You can choose a long-term partner and still be bisexual.  You can have a committed relationship with someone of the opposite sex and still acknowledge that you were once with the same sex and vice versa.
You can be a fluid, complex human being and that’s okay.  That’s who you are and you shouldn’t have to apologize or explain yourself to a damned soul.  Thirteen year old me should not have to be lied about because 25-year-old me wanted to prove something.  I need to let go, and so does the rest of the world.  We are real.  End of story.