I realised I was bisexual when I was 15. I can’t remember if whether that eager but self-denying teenager thought that she would be secure in her sexuality at the age of 21. What I do remember is the paralysis I felt at the thought that my dad —whom I loved to death and who called gay people mentally ill—would believe there was something wrong with me. I also remember, soon after realizing I was head over heels for a girl, telling my friend: “I’m bisexual. And I don’t think I can ever tell my parents. But that’s no problem—I’ll just choose to love guys.” The sentiment that I could choose who I loved obviously didn’t last long—again, I was literally in love with a girl at the time—but I am still saddled with the instinct of resigning my bisexual identity in order to avoid judgement by “passing” as straight.
But what does it mean to appear straight? Why does the silence of it make me feel as if I’ve donned a mask? What is this experience I’ve had in the six years since coming out, in which I’ve felt and identified as queer internally, but was often perceived as straight externally? I am not outspoken about my sexuality unless I feel it’s safe to do so—is my ability to do that a privilege? And if so, why does it hurt so much? Is this due to my own personality, or is it biphobia? For me, being a silent queer person has been both a privilege and suffocation.
I am not the first or the last person to choose when to stay strategically closeted—hiding or muting a queer identity in situations where it would be unsafe, uncomfortable, or even simply unnecessary to reveal oneself is not at all uncommon for LGBTQ+ folk. There are many unaccepting spaces, and I’m sure more of us have found ourselves within them since being quarantined away from sources of queer community.
Here’s the thing about these unaccepting spaces: the automatic assumption is that everyone—well, everyone “normal”—is straight and cis. Straight society’s oft mentioned “gaydar” is really just a “weirdo detector”: they simply search for people who don’t fit social norms. So, if you’re in an unsuspecting social position—in my case, being a bi girl in a relationship with a guy—and you don’t announce yourself, you will fly under the radar.
In a heteronormative world, the general rule is that people are straight until they show that they aren’t. The result: straight people throw around bigoted remarks, simply assuming that no one present will be affected. As a queer person who falls through the cracks, I’ve been treated to an all-you-can-hear buffet of opinions about “those people.” Claudia Boleyn, a bisexual YouTube creator, aptly names her experience of this as being a “bi spy” in one of her videos—you find out that people truly think of you as other and that they’re ready to express it when they think people like you aren’t around.
Initially, I wanted to write a catalogue of some of the most ridiculous remarks that I and other “undercover” queer people have come across. But the more I asked others and myself, the clearer it became that we don’t remember these statements as a series of anecdotes, but like static on a radio station—so exhausting that one eventually numbs themselves to tune it out. While I’ve been lucky to have found some kind and progressive friends and online communities, I have gotten more than my share of static from parents, acquaintances, and during visits to my home country. It certainly hasn’t encouraged a desire to disclose my sexuality.
I’ve asked people in my BIsphere (har har har) about how these remarks affected their own tendency to make their queerness known. While some have echoed my proclivity for selectiveness, others have said they find ways to reveal their identity to make others think about their words, and others actually make it a point to be visible and argue against bigoted ideas. So, although these remarks affect some people similarly to how they affect me, the variety of responses has made me think about my own impulse to hide. Even now, as I write this piece in a car full of people I am not out to (they haven’t had a reason to assume I wasn’t straight, and I haven’t told them otherwise), I am scared someone will look over my shoulder and see what I am doing.
For some bisexuals, the opportunity to hide in plain sight due to being in a relationship with the opposite sex can garner attacks from some parts of the queer community. One particularly irate section of the internet has christened girls that identify as bisexual but “present straight” or “choose men” as “bihets.” (Claudia has an articulate video on this term as well. Seriously, shoutout to her for helping orient the mess of thoughts I have on the topic.) This is an extreme example of the general narrative which sometimes rears its head: that bisexuality is just a phase, and that bisexual girls, in particular, are just visitors of queerness and can choose heterosexuality.
I bristle when I encounter this biphobic narrative because, on paper, I seem to fit that very stereotype: although I have been equally attracted to girls and nonbinary folk as I have to guys (which is just one of the ways of experiencing bisexuality), I have been more successful in my romantic pursuits with the latter. I know I don’t choose which loves succeed and which don’t, but once in a while I begin to doubt: am I the stereotype? And if I’m not dating a girl, am I not entitled to queer space because I experience less discrimination?
I do of course acknowledge the elements of privilege I have while in a relationship with a guy. No one is going to get weirded out by us holding hands or kissing in public. No one is going to deny us a lease because our bond seems untrustworthy. My parents won’t reject my significant other based on his gender. Those are not privileges I would have if I were dating a girl or a nonbinary person. If I don’t reveal my identity, I won’t have any queerphobic ire directed at me. And I won’t be affected by homophobia or biphobia—or so I assumed.
I started working on this article thinking that I wasn’t all that affected by biphobia anymore. But as I continue writing, I realise that such thoughts were simply the result of being so shut-in self-defence that I numbed myself to the pain manifested by hiding. It has chipped away at me, enough that I assumed that not telling people close to me about who I am would make me more comfortable.
I am not comfortable. I am on alert. As long as I am in a relationship with a guy, or while I keep silent about my bisexual identity, I have the privilege of passing as straight. But it is a privilege that costs me my humanity as I hide a part of myself while finding out just how much of an outsider I am to those around me.
When this year’s Bi Visibility Day came around in September, I realised that I didn’t feel I could celebrate because I was anything but visible. I was masked. I realise now that I needed to write this because I have been feeling less and less like myself and more and more like a shadow. I need to find a moment to take off the mask.
So, here is a cliché line for me and others like me: your identity is real, it is not a lie—even if you don’t speak about it, and even if you feel insecure about not speaking about it. You have a right to keep yourself safe. But you also have a right to breathe. Do not shut yourself up so much that you run out of air. You have a right to spaces where you are visible. You have a right to exist as you are without judgement. Find yourself a way to do so. I will too.
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