In which we discuss all those swirly questions about who I fuck(ed), why it matters, and whether or not we should even be discussing it at all.
(For background on my sitch, and an ongoing discussion of the role of men in feminism, check out Part 1.
For a not-as-irrelevant-as-it-seems-at-first tangent on what to do when your friend is dating a manipulative fuckwad, check Part 2.)
So. Yes. From 1992 until 2006, I dated and slept with only women, genderqueers and queer-identified transmen. And then, last year, after the excruciating breakup of a four year relationship that I had expected at one point to last forever, and after a period of months in which I couldn’t imagine dating anyone at all, ever again, I discovered I was curious about dating cisgender men.
Now, I never identified as simply “lesbian” (though I did come out that way to my parents, since I feared that if they knew I was still attracted to men as well as women they would just insist I “choose” to be het). I used “bisexual” for a while, but never really felt like it fit, and eventually realized that I hated the term for the way it re-inscribes the gender binary. But labels aren’t — at least that particular label isn’t — the point here. The point is, it’s not like I woke up one day and realized I was still or again attracted to cisgender men. The attraction wasn’t news to me. The desire to act on it was.
I had dropped out of the world of men for complicated reasons. You can read more here if you like, or else suffice it to say that once I discovered that I was attracted to women, I immediately realized that I had no reason to deal with male bullshit at all anymore. Even after a decade plus of evolution and change, it still surprises me sometimes to find that I’m now in a serious relationship with a Factory-Direct Guy.
But how I got from Point A to Point B isn’t what I want to talk about here, either. It’s what it means now, to me, to my family, to my community, to society.
(Let’s get something out of the way upfront: No, I don’t think I’m the first person to have this experience, by quite a long shot. But I do think there’s a lot of silence around it, for reasons I’m about to get into.)
The funny thing for me about all of this is that when I was with someone who was genderqueer and decided to transition to a male appearance and identity, it didn’t in any way cause that crisis that a lot of queer women have when their formerly female-identified partners begin to ID as male. Everyone kept asking me if I was stressing about what his identity meant about me, and I was like, no, why would I? This is about him.
But at the end of the day I think what protected me from that identity dissonance that I’m struggling with now is that I was so obviously still in a queer relationship. He passed with ease in public, so we did have to deal with what it felt like to suddenly be treated like a het couple, and all the weird privilege that came along with that, but neither of us were closeted about his history, and he identified (and still does, I think) as a genderqueer transman, so while I never went out of my way to “out” him as trans, anytime there was an opportunity for it to come up naturally, it did.
And even when it didn’t, it was like a safe experiment. I’ll never forget running into an old dyke acquaintance I hadn’t seen in a long long time. We started chatting, and I said something about my “boyfriend.” And she was all, you have a boyfriend? And I’m catching her snap, but refusing to make apologies or play the “it’s OK, he’s trans” card, so I’m all: uh, yeah. And she’s like, how long have you had a boyfriend? And I say: oh, couple of years now? And then she’s silent and the conversation moves on as her judgment lays over me like a wool blanket.
Later that night I told the whole story to my partner and we laughed and fumed. Nice assumptions. We knew she would have been far less shocked if she knew he was trans, but we also agreed smugly that it shouldn’t make any difference.
Thing is? It does.
I’m a femme. I can’t explain everything that means for me in the context of this post. What’s important here is that it means my trans partner wasn’t the only one who passed in our relationship. I pass — despite my best intentions sometimes — as straight. (Sometimes even in a queer context, which makes it hard to pick up girls, believe you me.) And that makes me a suspect from all sides. That means I’ve spent the last 15 years insisting to my community and my family of origin — for opposite reasons — that my queerness is not Just A Phase.
At first, when I began dating cisgender men, I built myself a roomy new closet for that part of my life. It worked to keep my parents in the dark (though it had the side effect of convincing them that I was a spinster workaholic who wasn’t over her ex), but not my queer community — rumors found their way back to me almost immediately (Did you hear? Jaclyn’s dating a MAN!), though I never figured out the source, since I’d told so few people to begin with.
But I’ve never liked closets anyway. Silence makes me feel unsafe. So it was only a matter of time before I gave up and came out. Again. Some more.
In some ways, this was the hardest coming out I’ve ever had to do. When I came out as lesbian/bi, I was terrified of being rejected by my family (not my friends, really, given where I went to school and who my friends already were), but I felt righteously prepared. I was giving voice to the Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name, and whatever I had to bear personally, I knew I was a warrior for Truth and Love and Liberation. When I came out as loving genderqueers and transfolk, I did fear my community’s rejection as well as my family’s, but my Speaking Truth to Power righteousness was stronger than ever.
It’s a lot harder to imagine you’re striking a blow against The Man when you’re announcing that you’re sleeping with one. Even now I can hear you, gentle reader, snickering: Boo Hoo. Poor Jaclyn and her heterosexual burden. I can hear you because I’m snickering that myself.
What’s my point here? I don’t know anymore, and maybe that’s my point. The losses I’ve suffered this time around aren’t political badges, they’re just personal wounds. My parents’ excitement about this penis guy they’ve not yet met far outstripping any enthusiasm they’ve shown for my previous partners they’d come to know and (I thought) love. My sudden discomfort in my own community, not knowing if people are whispering about me, not knowing if it’s OK to bring my love with me to the very place I’ve felt most loved and welcomed for all these years. Not knowing if it should be OK to bring him, but feeling that profound loss and separation from my community. Like I suddenly don’t belong in my own home, even if not everyone there knows it yet. Like they might throw me out at any moment, they might have already thrown me out, and I’m not sure I would blame them.
I am feeling anti-righteous. I am feeling like someone who has lived up to the worst expectations everyone’s had for me all along: like I really have “gone back” like everyone always suspected I would. (Some of you may here object: But you’re still just as queer as you’ve always been! Why should it matter who you’re sleeping with at any given moment? And I agree with you in principle, but answer me this: what if this monogamous relationship lasts a long, long time (as I’ve certainly begun to hope it will)? Sure, six months in I’m “still just as queer,” but what about six years in? What about sixty years?)
And what about the day some wingnut happens upon this very post and uses it as evidence that all we dykes need is the right man to fuck us straight? What about my family members who have already come to that conclusion? What can I do to undo that? What do I do about the fact that my life and my love and my desires can be used to oppress my own self and so many people I love?
Silence is not an option. Silence = death. It’s still true, and this is still a story about the consequences of patriarchy and oppression. About people being separated from each other based on arbitrary categories of GOOD and BAD which shore up the structure we’re trying to dismantle.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m in love. That’s a good thing. A blessing you can’t count on having in your life. I’m grateful. And the people closest to me could care less about his gender or his biological sex. I’m safe and privileged and loved and I have lots of support. I’m not suffering by a long shot.
But I am struggling to figure out how to make sense of all of this. How to stay part of the solution, how to keep taking apart the power structures when I suddenly have more power, and what to do with these losses I feel somehow I deserve.