In the first installation of this column, I discussed my own experience of heteronormativity in the heterosexual world, and why it is harmful to queer people. In this installment, I will address the internalized heteronormativity that many queer people — myself included — have to grapple with.

This internalized heteronormativity is something I have heard queer people outright deny. It’s simply not possible, in their minds, to be both queer and heteronormative. This is simply not the case. The damage done by heteronormativity is compounded when a queer person internalizes it, as I did at a young age.

I believed that one day I would find a nice, effeminate young man.

Although I was a vocal queer activist in my youth, I was unable to be open with myself or others about my own sexuality. I had always known that I was interested in women, but I did not tell anyone until high school, when I fell in love with Sabrina. She was a student a year younger than I was: tall, pretty, and somehow different from her friends.

One of my best friends, Rachel, had asked why I never had crushes. I said that I did, but that I kept them to myself. She was hurt, as she always told me about her latest love interest, no matter how trifling he ultimately was. I decided to fix this at lunch hour.

“Hey, Rachel,” I said, catching the attention of the other two members of our clique as we stood in a circle. “I have a crush.” I could not help but smile as her eyes widened.

“Yeah? Who?”

“Sabrina van Heusen.” I was unsure how to preface such a shock. My friends, Rachel included, had often asked me if I was gay due to my disinterest in boys, so I knew this would radically alter their image of me. When asked to clarify, I told them I was bisexual, which they thought very cosmopolitan.

Rachel was appeased, not only because she had the information she sought, but because she had “always wanted a gay friend.” I was embarrassed by this tokenism, but I did not have terms like “heteronormative” with which to articulate my discomfort. I was happy that she was happy — I was accepted.

Damage done by heteronormativity is compounded when a queer person internalizes it.

The news spread like wildfire: a grade nine girl had a crush on the tall grade eight girl in the Emily the Strange T-shirt. I was furious with Rachel, who meekly conceded that she had told a handful of people about her new gay friend.

I was grateful that no one knew who it was. When another girl was outed by fellow students two years later, she was not so lucky. A school counsellor told her to suppress her nature in order to preserve her future, as it was “just a phase.”

I was socialized by events such as this to believe that, although queerness was fine at a distance, it was simply something I could not be. I owed it to myself, my friends, and my family to be heterosexual. I believed that one day I would find a nice, effeminate young man who I could settle for, which never happened. My self-esteem was on a downward trajectory.

Coming out is something I have never regretted. I out myself whenever someone misidentifies me as heterosexual, and I hope they think twice when making assumptions about others as a result. Given the heteronormative atmosphere I — and all queer people  — are raised in, living openly is exhausting.

I hope this article not only gives hope to queer Peak readers, but reminds heterosexual readers that their words have the power to remedy this.