#respect bisexuality

[mosscaller]

Bisexuality has always included Trans and Nonbinary people.

[hellomynameisbisexual]

I’d always prided myself on being able to meet people IRL. Who needed dating apps? Not me. But when I turned 23, I came out as bisexual, and suddenly, I began struggling to meet potential romantic partners the old-fashioned way. The confidence I once had with women slowly dwindled, until it seemingly vanished entirely. Foolishly, when I came out, I thought the world would be my oyster. I believed Woody Allen when he said, “Bisexuality immediately doubles your chances for a date on Saturday night.”

Instead, the opposite occurred. I’d tell women I was bi, and they’d quickly reply, “Oh, I can’t date a guy who’s bisexual.” So I started waiting a few dates until the women got to know me better. I figured once they liked and trusted me, they’d feel more comfortable dating a bi guy. That’s when I started getting ghosted.

During the time period women assumed I was straight, I didn’t feel like myself. I kept obsessing over what their response would be when I eventually did come out to them and feared my effeminate mannerisms would turn them off.

Gay men, while typically responding more positively than straight women, simply pretended I was gay. They’d ignore the fact I was bisexual, only to get uncomfortable when I brought up an ex-girlfriend. Yet they had no problem bringing up their ex-boyfriends. Or, they assumed I would eventually transition into “full-blown gay,” and were patiently waiting for me to make the big announcement. When it didn’t come, our texting would peter out.

So I downloaded Tinder. At first I didn’t put that I was bisexual in my profile — not because I was ashamed, but because I thought more people would Like me if they didn’t know. I could tell them later. But then I found myself breaking the news before agreeing to meet up in person and getting rejected over and over again.

It’s exhausting being rejected no matter the reason, but when it’s for something innate to your identity — something you can’t change — you’re left feeling discouraged, until discouragement eventually morphs into hopelessness.

With nothing to lose, I added “bi” to my profile. Those two simple letters changed everything. Quickly, the number of matches I had with women dropped by at least 90 percent, and that is not an exaggeration, but the matches I did make were much more meaningful. I didn’t need to officially “come out” because they saw my sexuality on my profile and Liked me, which alleviated a lot of pressure. We also tended to actually chat more on the app and eventually meet up.

Prominently displaying my sexuality filtered out people, in particular women, who wouldn’t date me because of my sexuality. Most of the time, my matches were queer or if the women were straight, they loved dating bi men. In their experience, openly bisexual men were less concerned with gender norms and often better in bed. Of course, I loved hearing this, and this was a couple years before Maria Pallotta-Chiarolli, Ph.D. published her book, Women in Relationships with Bisexual Men: Bi Men by Women, in which she interviewed 78 women about their experiences with bi men, and found that well, dating an openly bi guy is the absolute best.

For the first time in my life, women wanted to date me for something that others ostracized. I felt empowered and optimistic about my romantic future.

Ross, a 27 year-old living in Chicago, had a similar experience when he added “bi” to his profile. “The few women that do [Like me] are generally more open-minded or even consider themselves on the queer spectrum,” he says. “The ratio of queer to straight women I’ve dated is drastic.”

I also found myself meeting more bi men. Men who didn’t explicitly write “bi” on their profile, but would happily say something the moment they saw I proudly displayed my sexuality. Except for my current boyfriend, who identifies as gay, every person I’ve dated seriously has identified as bisexual or queer. I don’t think that’s coincidental. When you have shared experiences with discrimination, it’s easier to date. You share common ground and trauma.

Michael, 42, who lives in Somerville, Massachusetts, has a boldy bisexual Tinder profile picture. The image depicts him opening up his suit to review a big purple “Bi” shirt, à la Superman. “I’ve always had something written about my sexuality as a filter,” Michael says. “I figure it’s important to list big, fat deal-breakers upfront, like being non-monogamous, for example.”

He credits this transparency for his positive experience. “I often attract people who are relieved someone is being open about being bi,” he says. “I get compliments and responses of solidarity, which is sometimes enough to make up for the crappy bi-hating behavior I otherwise see so frequently.”

Like Michael, I too have encountered what he so eloquently called “crappy bi-hating behavior.” It wasn’t all rainbows, unicorns, and acceptance once I updated my bio. I had people take in upon themselves to tell me bisexuality doesn’t exist. Some folks only matched with me to then “prove” that I’m not bisexual since I’ve “only had sex with men for the past six months.” But do you know what’s great about online dating? You can unmatch those people. You don’t have to reply. You don’t have to engage. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.

[mosscaller]

[mosscaller]

Sit gayly, and speak the anthem of the bisexual.

[mosscaller]

[mosscaller]

I never know wtf is going on, even when I am informed.

[hellomynameisbisexual]

[hellomynameisbisexual]

The 50th anniversary of Stonewall provides us with an opportunity to celebrate our survival and the remarkable strides we’ve made—politically, legally, culturally—during the last half century. We have come a long way.

But this is also a moment to take stock of the complicated and contested dynamics within the LGBTQ community. Marginalized people understandably respond to oppression and exclusion by creating alternative spaces where we can define our own “normal.” In doing so, we also establish our own boundaries and borders, our own distinctions between “us” and “them,” that sometimes lead to new kinds of oppression and exclusion. This is the case within the LGBTQ community, which has often been overly invested in a “normalcy narrative” of civil rights: “We should be accepted because we’re like you, just gay.”

Some of us are anything but normal. Those who are more difficult for mainstream culture to understand—especially transgender and bisexual people—are still often excluded because we complicate this convenient narrative and challenge simple binaries. More often than not, we are perceived as liabilities to the larger community and movement—and treated that way.

As a bisexual woman, I have lived this reality. I have identified as bisexual for 42 years. In 1982, six years after coming out to myself as bisexual, l finally gathered the strength to live openly. But when I showed up in “lesbian and gay” spaces, I discovered that bisexual people were largely unwelcome. Our presence was often challenged—sometimes subtly, sometimes overtly. We were rejected from gay spaces and accused of trespassing in lesbian spaces. We were told that bisexual women are sexual “tourists” who exploit the lesbian community and dilute its “purity.” Some of my bisexual friends found it too uncomfortable, so they left. I was one of the few who persisted and insisted on my belonging.

The fact is that our community has always included people who loved more than one gender. In 1970, out and proud bisexual activist Brenda Howard organized a rally and march in New York to commemorate the anniversary of the Stonewall riots, the first of the annual LGBTQ marches and celebrations that now take place in cities around the world. Some of the prominent cultural figures claimed by the lesbian movement, writers Kate Millett and June Jordan among them, loved more than one gender. But they knew emphasizing this publicly would result in them losing their standing in the lesbian community. So many others also remained silent. I don’t fault them for this, but their silence has facilitated our erasure.

With some notable exceptions, our histories have been written by white, cisgender lesbian or gay people. I rarely see anything that reflects the full, diverse LGBTQ history I have witnessed and am living. Bisexuality, if mentioned at all, is rarely given more than a few paragraphs. For this reason, among so many others,I celebrate the recent recognition of Sylvia Rivera and Marsha P. Johnson, both of whom—in addition to being women of color, transgender, and poor—were also bisexual. May we remember our trailblazers in all of their complexities.

Over the past three decades, I have spoken in 48 US states and 15 countries. I have witnessed a vast multitude of experiences, communities, and lived realities. In some places, many LGBTQ people are woven fully into the cultural fabric of their communities and being “out” is not a big deal. In other places, this remains unimaginable. Several years ago, when I spoke in Laramie, Wyoming, a student told me with tears in his eyes: “You are a visitor from a future that I hope to live in someday.” When I heard this, I cried, too.

So many of us still struggle, to varying degrees, with racism, transphobia, biphobia, and other forms of oppression. Being authentic is still an act of real courage. The opportunity to meet on-the-ground activists, living their lives openly in the “hard places,” is the greatest reward of my work. These are my real-life s/heroes.

And times are changing. The number of people identifying as bisexual and/or with non-binary genders and sexualities is growing. Bisexual people currently constitute about half of all non-heterosexual people, and our numbers and proportions are increasing in the rising generations. The most recent Centers for Disease Control study of high school students found that eight percent self-identify as “bisexual,” compared to 2.4 percent who identify as “lesbian” or “gay.”

Young people have a far more expansive understanding of gender and sexuality. Though they may not see themselves this way, they are the true radicals of our time. Let us learn from them and follow their lead.

As we honor the 50th anniversary of Stonewall, I hope we use this moment to fully embrace those who have historically been marginalized—in the larger society, certainly, but also in the LGBTQ community itself. We are different in real and important ways, but queer people also have more in common than we tend to acknowledge. As we continue to fight our way into the light of liberation, let us do so with a renewed understanding that we are much stronger together.