By: Isabella Urbani, Staff Writer
I didn’t start to question my sexuality until my senior year of high school — not even when my entire friend group was doing so in middle school. Back then, I think I was the only one in my friend group who was “straight,” which still did nothing to thwart the rumours that I was dating my best friend. While I couldn’t care less, they did.
I didn’t even know people were saying that about us until they brought it up to me one day. In a way, I actually didn’t mind the idea. I didn’t have any romantic feelings for this person, but something about the concept of us being together felt oddly gratifying, like a compliment. We had love and consideration for each other that was obvious to everyone around us.
It also might not come as a surprise to readers that I was a member of the first Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity club at my middle school, which my friend who I happened to be “dating” led. I attended every meeting not because I was particularly passionate about the matter, but because I wanted to support my friend. But as some of our club members got up during a school-wide assembly to announce the total we raised for a local 2SLGBTQIA+ organization assembly, I remained seated. I told my friend it was because as the club’s leader, they should be the one to unveil the grand total. But that wasn’t why.
In reality, I just didn’t want people to see me up there. It didn’t matter that people had said my friend and I were dating. I could shrug that off because it wasn’t true. But the fear of being associated with the club publically, to essentially feel “outed” in front of everyone when I was “straight,” was terrifying.
I think about that friend group a lot now. It was the happiest I’ve ever been. Those truly were my people. I felt like I could tell them everything. We had the same passions, liked the same bands, and watched the same YouTubers. I only wish I could have expressed myself as openly as they did. They dyed their hair whatever colour they felt like without feeling embarrassed, or worried about how it made them stand out, or what people would say about them. They cut their hair short, even when it made them look like a “boy” to others. They wore chest binders and experimented with different pronouns. Their unwillingness to hide their true selves was what made me confident enough to dye my hair purple when I was 13. And although it failed miserably, and my hair ended up pink, I had done something I desperately wanted to do for years. I had also thought about cutting my hair for the longest time, but was scared of what that would say about my sexuality. To the kids at school, “girls with short hair were lesbians.”
I don’t know if I’m a lesbian, but I also don’t know if I’m straight. Wouldn’t that just make you queer? I guess. It’s not admitting that I can see myself with someone other than a boy that’s scary. It’s that doing so would mean I’m not straight, and as a result, I’d be unprotected from what other people would say. Plus, even now, I try to gaslight myself by thinking I look at girls because I’m a people watcher. It’s not like I like them, I just want to be as pretty as them, right?
For a while, I tried feeling the term pansexual out. What if I liked more than just boys and girls? I didn’t realize that bisexuality was an all-encompassing term for the attraction to two or more genders and wasn’t just limited to liking women and men. I eventually “crossed off” pansexuality when I realized it referred more to falling in love with someone regardless of their gender identity.
I’ve been testing out a variety of labels. I even thought I was asexual for a bit. I’m not. But it would have been the best way to avoid talking about what exactly I like. I’ve felt a lot of complicated emotions regarding my sexuality and identity recently. And, honestly, I don’t know what the “truth” is anymore. I started thinking about how I’ve never really been comfortable wearing “women’s clothing” — how sometimes putting on makeup felt like an unnatural experience for me. Did I just like dressing androgynous? Was I just self-conscious? Or was there something deeper there?
For a while now, I’ve thought about going by “she/they” — testing the waters a lit bit. Every Zoom meeting, I ask myself, is this going to be the time? Should I just hard launch it? What was it about using “they/them” pronouns that felt so appealing? Was it because more and more of my friends were doing so? Or was there something more to it?
But I can’t. I don’t feel “worthy” enough. I’m scared that by doing so, I’m accepting an identity and all the opinions and expectations that come along with it. What if I’m not enough? What if I change my mind? People will think I’m not really “committed” or I’m “faking” it. What would my family say? I’ve only jokingly referred to liking women in front of them.
Would it somehow interfere with getting a job covering hockey? That’s a serious worry I think about. There are tattoos, piercings, haircuts, and hair colours I consciously steer clear from, no matter how much I like them, because it’s obvious there’s a certain look that sells on television. I know that, and I know the way I want to dress doesn’t match that. So, I settle for being “visibly straight,” without giving myself the time of day to explore what I’m feeling.
But why the hell does it matter? I don’t feel comfortable labelling myself one way or another. I wish there were as much legitimacy in not labelling yourself as there is in labelling yourself. Who I like is one fraction of who I am as a person, and unlike my name or pronouns, is not anything I should have to disclose if I don’t want to. The only person that information pertains to would be someone I like or someone who likes me.
Like gender, sexuality is fluid and it’s not so cut-and-dry. Attaching a label to yourself is just one way of indicating to the world who you are. News flash: most people are still trying to figure themselves out, but when it comes to sexuality, it feels like you have to lock in your choice.
A year from now, I might not feel this way. But I need to at least honour how I feel now. I want to attend Pride and not feel like an imposter. I don’t want my friends to look at me differently when they read this article, or feel surprised because I never expressed these feelings to them previously. I just want to be able to feel how I feel, unconditionally — no matter what that looks like along the way. And I hope that one day I get my answer, whatever that may be. But until then, admitting that I’m attracted to more than just guys, is a solid starting point.
