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keyfyapmak · 5 years

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Proud?

When I was 17, my mother and I sat on my bed in my room in Ankara: the wall was covered, corner to corner, with fine art prints. It was the backdrop to my mother as we chatted casually, on some weekend morning. “What would you do if I married a woman?” I had asked, not even aware of not being straight at the time; it was genuinely a hypothetical question. She paused, took a breath, and looked aside thoughtfully. “Well”, she said, “I’d be sad about two things: one, the way that the world would treat you. And two, that I wouldn’t have natural grandchildren.”

And that was that. Two perfectly reasonable fears, one of which doesn’t even apply (Mum you doknow that IVF exists right?). That simple answer, which she probably doesn’t even remember responding with, ensured that I would live my entire life free from insecurity about my sexuality. It cemented itself deep in my brain, and I knew without a single wavering doubt that my mum would accept that part of me unconditionally. And that’s exactly what happened when I accidentally came out to her last month. We were talking about a queer arts event, when my mum offhandedly said ‘but wouldn’t you be the only straight one taking part?’.

Turns out the countless hints I had left over the years never hit home. I have always been content with the idea that I have never had to really ‘come out’, that I just dated as I pleased, and dropped enough hints or casual mentions that everyone probably knew or guessed and that was good enough for me, and if they assumed I was straight I wasn’t really bothered either. For me sexuality has always been more connected to my dating life than an intrinsic part of my identity, so I genuinely have never really cared, or thought much about it. But suddenly here I was, lounging on my sofa in the middle of a conversation with my mum, about to come out. I paused, chose my tactic, and went for it.

“Oh no Mum, I’m not straight,” I replied, with a casual smiling condescension.

“Oh right,” she replied. “But you’ve had so many boyfriends?”

Later I would look back and wish I had replied with “Just because I’m not straight, doesn’t mean I have good taste,” for extra comedic retelling value, but instead I just went, “yeah I know.” I then moved the conversation along swiftly as if we had just discussed what I was planning to have for breakfast. This was exactly how I would have wanted to come out: casually, with no anxiety, no big deal. But my casual demeanour dropped as the conversation came to an end. I blurted out, “Mum! Before you go I just want to say I didn’t tell you because I never bothered to because you never gave me a reason to be scared about it, and that’s why I’m so ok about it, because of you, thank you, I love you.” She paused again, and as I was halfway out the door to let a friend in, she finished with “But you know I would always love you anyways, of course.” And I did. Of course I did.

My mother happened to be visiting my godparents at the time, a gay couple, who called me some weeks later. They told me how she had come down the stairs, sat down at breakfast slightly dazed, and relayed the conversation back to them. “Just like that?!” They had asked her, incredulously. “Yes, just like that.”

‘Just like that’ is how I planned to continue as well. I didn’t like the idea of one one or two people knowing, because now it felt like a secret. I decided to suck it up, and consciously come out to my aunt as well. I did this while putting on liquid eyeliner, with her on speakerphone. “Oh by the way,” I added at the end of a conversation, “I told Mum I wasn’t straight because it just came up, and I didn’t want it to be a secret, so now you know too.” My aunt didn’t even pause before saying “Oh, I kind of figured.” At least someone in my family has a gaydar. I completed a perfect wing-tip, and hung up. Two down. That would do for now.

That casual tone, that implication that it simply isn’t a big deal or interesting enough to warrant a conversation, is how I have always viewed my sexuality. For me, it simply isn’t. Perhaps pride is something that comes from struggle, and I hadn’t struggled. I didn’t feel like I had earned something that I was just born with, and hadn’t fought for. And I suppose that’s why, after a lifetime of safely not caring about being bisexual, I finally encountered the one thing that would shatter that comfort:

Other queers.

I have spent my life moving country, on the periphery of all communities and groups. With the exception of my university friends, who I cemented my heart to in a way I haven’t with any other groups of people, I generally keep at the edges of everything. Last September, in a Facebook thread, I mentioned that I had written a poem about how inconsequential it was for me to be bi. I was surprised that this led to me being immediately booked to perform said poem at the annual Bi+ Ireland Bi+ Visibility Day event. I was even more surprised when, at my first ever queer event, I won the award for bi visibility. Me! The person who at the time had no coming out story, and spent my life comfortably under the radar! I remember meeting new people who I immediately liked, who made me laugh with terrible puns, and with great taste in tropical shirts. It felt strange, being in a room with people ‘like me’. I didn’t really know what that even meant.

After that initial dipping a toe in, I went a step further and joined the Bi+ Ireland Facebook group. I suppose that’s where things started rubbing up against insecurities I didn’t know I had. The group itself is lovely, and supportive. I was drowning in a sea of posts about bi colours, and queer in-jokes, and flags I didn’t know existed. It reminded me of how when I was in the bathroom during the Bi Visibility event, I overheard two people talking about queerness, with a confident and casual hold over terms and references and in-jokes that I didn’t understand. I didn’t feel a sense of joy whenever I see the colours blue, pink, and purple. I couldn’t relate to the jokes, the stories, the coming out tales, or the relationship structures most people seemed to have. It came as a huge shock, after being so quietly confident about this part of myself, to find out that I did in fact have fears about queerness. It was the same fear I’ve had about joining any community. It was the fear that, after all that, after finding ‘my people’, I didn’t fit in at all. Even though the group does everything in its power to reassure people that no matter what, they are queer enough, now that I was in a pool of people ‘like me’, I felt like I wasn’t anyways. My deepest insecurity that informs most of my life is the fear of not being ‘enough’. Suddenly this was tapped in a new way, and ‘not queer enough’ became my new obsession. I finally found something I could relate to with other queers: the feeling that I hadn’t earned my queer stripes.

And I suppose that’s where pride comes in. I’ve never felt proud of being bisexual, because I’ve never felt anything about being bisexual. For me it was like asking me to be proud about my favourite colour. But of course, I’m aware it’s nothing like a favourite colour. It’s intrinsic, and something you choose to act on. The same applied to my nationality, my ethnicity, my womanhood. These are all things I was born with, and so I’m not proud of them. I didn’t work hard to be bisexual, or Indian, or a woman. I worked hard at making a career in the arts, at being an immigrant, at supporting my friends. THOSE are the things I am proud of, because I feel like I have earned them. When I am finally Irish I will be overwhelmed with pride, because I would have fought 8 long years to earn that title. And perhaps I am just that little bit prouder of being a woman since Ireland repealed the 8th, because I knew that despite my mental health and inability to vote, I fought. I put up posters. I wore Repeal merchandise even though I knew it made me a walking target. I still wear an Abortion Rights NI tote bag, because the fight isn’t over. During the Marriage Equality referendum I was deeply unwell in my old job, and so I felt like I absolutely didn’t do enough to canvas, or help, or fight for that glorious outcome. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? The fight? How could I be proud of something I didn’t fight for?

So here I am. On Pride morning, in 2019, trying to figure out what I am proud of. And I think I am starting to figure that out. Yes, pride seems to come from coming out the other side of a struggle, and I realise, there are fights I haven’t fought yet. I am not proud of my nationality because I haven’t begun working through my cultural identity issues and insecurities. I’m not proud of being bisexual because I still am so distanced and a little baffled at my own sexuality that I don’t feel ownership over it. I haven’t done enough work on the things I was born with because I feel like I didn’t earn them. And the fight in this case isn’t on the streets, or with facebook posts, or by canvassing strangers. It’s a conflict I haven’t resolved in myself, and I suspect once I am on the other side of that struggle, a sense of pride will come naturally. I may be very late in the game coming to terms with myself, but better late than never.

In the meantime, I have a very bright pink pair of trousers and a tasteful tropical shirt to put on, and a March to attend. Even that small step might be something to be proud of.

#Pride #pride month #coming out #bisexual #bisexuality #proud #identity #bi #queer #family #friends #insecurity

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