stories from the Realm

There was a time when I let my sexual orientation rule me. For 4 years it was the focal point of nearly every conversation, every joke, every academic paper. As one of perhaps 4 out teenagers at a fairly conservative Christian high school, I occupied a nether region somewhere between circus freak show and official queer spokesperson. People would ask me questions randomly, during lunch hour: “Did you know right away?” “Are you going to be like this forever?” “Do you think you’re going to be a good mother?” I answered these questions with aplomb and fortitude that I didn’t truly have – I was still searching for the answers to those questions myself, but admitting this would have meant diminishing my credibility as the resident gay person in high school.

As many young teens do, I struggled to find an identity for myself, and being known as The Lesbian provided not only a script to reference and follow in social situations, but a painless way of ignoring the sexual politics of high school that I so desperately wanted to avoid. So for a while, I was fine with the rigid definition of “lesbian.” However, in time I grew weary of having only one sense of identity. I am not only queer. I am a musician, I am a woman, I am a writer. I want people to see these parts of me before they see my dating habits. I became restless.

Further complicating things, after I went to college, it turned out I wasn’t as much of a lesbian as I’d thought after all. I met a wonderful guy a week into my first collegiate semester, had an identity crisis, and had to come out all over again, this time as bisexual. My foundation was shaken, but it was worth it – the man I’m dating is funny and endearing and driven, and when we are together I am happy.

I admit that my new identity as a “straight” woman has, in a sense, freed me from needing to think about many queer issues on a daily basis. Do I hold my boyfriend’s hand in public? Well, yes, of course I do. No one thinks twice about that. And neither do I. It is a testament to the pervasive nature of heteronormativity that I have so easily let myself slip into the role of passive observer when it comes to queer politics, instead of active participant. Things like public perception and marriage laws no longer directly affect my relationship. Without the constant reminder of my inadequacy, I’ve become soft. And I feel guilty.

Part of this is a problem with the movement itself. When I attend queer activism events now, and tell people that I have a boyfriend but am bisexual, many of the dykes look at me as though I’m faking it. Perhaps my implicit endorsement of heterosexual relationships makes me something of a threat to them – I don’t know. I think they assume that because I’m dating a man now, I cannot possibly understand their plight, and I in turn am put off by the suggestion that I do not belong, when the overarching goal of the queer movement is that everyone should belong.

The truth is, I still feel like a lesbian even though I’m dating a man – a quality that confuses and angers many people, queer and straight alike. My straight friends wonder why I make it a point to tell people about my sexual history. If I can pass as straight now, they ask, why don’t I? On the flipside, queers look at me as though I’ve betrayed them by finding someone who makes me happy. They say I can no longer call myself queer because I’ve chosen to date a guy.

In a conflicted way, I almost think that the queer groups themselves are part of the problem. When you choose to make your sexual identity the core of your personality – when it’s your job, your art, your social circle – what room is left for any other sense of definition? How can you let other people see you as anything besides gay?

Maybe my personal experience has clouded my judgment – I know many people who find great value in queer-oriented activities and social groups. But I’m no longer one of them: I’ve expanded my identity to include other things, and in doing so I have almost left this one behind. I like to think it’s because I’ve become “post-queer.”

But the truth is, that’s just vanity.