Wednesday, October 23, 2019 // The Statement
2B

Managing Statement Editor

Andrea Pérez Balderrama

Deputy Editors

Matthew Harmon

Shannon Ors

Associate Editor

Eli Rallo

 Designers

 Liz Bigham

 Kate Glad

 Copy Editors

 Silas Lee 

 Emily Stillman

 

Photo Editor 

Danyel Tharakan

Editor in Chief

Maya Goldman

Managing Editor

Finntan Storer
statement

THE MICHIGAN DAILY | OCTOBER 23, 2019

I 

told Tinder I was bisexual before I 
told my mom.
This was three weeks ago now. 
After deleting and redownloading the app 
for what must have been the tenth time, I 
began typing the shorthand “bi” into my 
bio. I had mentally prepared for an hour, 
repeating over and over that this was right, 
that this was what I wanted. The “b” came 
with ease. One letter down, one to go. 
Then, my thumb recoiled, hovering over 
the “i” like a claw machine waiting to wrap 
its metal fingers around a prize. All I had 
to do was push the red button on the joy-
stick. But a cold burning in my stomach 
stopped me from finishing the word.
It took years to even get to that moment. 
I wish I could say I knew I was bi since I 
could walk. Unfortunately, I wasn’t afford-
ed that level of personal understanding. 
Throughout high school, parents, teachers 
and friends alike assumed if I was any-
thing, it definitely wasn’t straight. I always 
auditioned for school plays. I vehemently 
shopped in the women’s clothing section. 
I would spot my friend Michael from the 
end of the hall, run towards him, and jump 
into his arms before class. In our hetero-
normative society, I was an outlier.

Whenever I heard that someone thought 
I wasn’t straight, I was compelled to prove 
them wrong. Instead of exuding main-
stream masculinity, I leaned even heavier 
into their assumptions, being as boisterous 
and goony as possible. I wanted to prove 
I could be an outlier while still claiming 
I was heterosexual, that two sides of the 
spectrum aren’t mutually exclusive. 
A friend once told me I was “the most 
queer straight guy” she knew. From that 
day on, I told myself that’s what I was.
At the beginning of this semester, I was 
on the bus heading back from North to Cen-
tral Campus, chatting with a new friend 
from class. She was a freshman and wanted 
to get involved in some LGBTQIA clubs.
“Can I ask you a personal question?,” she 
asked.
I choked out an affirmative response, 
beads of sweat lining my hairline. I knew 
what was coming.
“Are you queer?”
I almost said yes. A gut instinct tried to 
take over and all of the questions I have 
asked myself about my history with my 
queer identity flooded in. Why is my favor-
ite Frank Ocean song “Good Guy”? Why 
did I pour over the written exchanges 

between 
Allen 
Ginsberg 
and Neal Cassady, soaked in 
repressed male love? Why 
was I so inspired by Amy in 
“Booksmart” coming out as 
gay when she was in the 10th 
grade? 
At the last second, my 
defenses kicked in.
“Nah, I’m not.”
For the rest of the bus ride 
home, I could feel my quick-
ening heartbeat reverberat-
ing in the pit of my stomach. 
This feeling is familiar; it 
happens about four or five 
times a week at this point. I 
feel it whenever I see a couple 
holding hands, or embracing 
each other before they part 
ways for class, or laughing 
together over steaming cups 
of coffee while I study a few 
tables away. Any act of pub-
lic intimacy makes me shrink 
inside my garish outfit of the day.
While I continued to make small talk 
with my new friend and give her what 
little advice I could about how to find 
clubs, I could only concentrate on my 
stomach pains. There were no couples 
in sight, no interwoven fingers dangling 
between the felt-covered seats, no Face-
Time conversations about how each oth-
ers’ days went, and yet I could hardly 
breathe.
For the following weeks — even while 
writing this article — I teared up every 
time I thought about that moment on the 
bus. I could have confirmed my identity 
to someone else on my own terms. No 
rumors echoing down the long, third-
mortgage-gray high school hallways, 
just an earnest question from a new-
found friend. I was given the opportu-
nity to share a moment of intimacy with 
another person and, instead, I threw it 
away. I was ashamed and wouldn’t let 
myself forget it.
But even if I had said, “Yes, I am queer 
and I’m goddamn proud of it,” it wouldn’t 
have mattered because I hadn’t told myself 
yet.
Embracing who you really are takes 

insurmountable faith and self-confidence. 
Convincing myself I was straight for so 
long meant, when it finally came down 
to being proud of my bisexuality, I had 
to reckon with the years I spent denying 
myself happiness and self-love. There’s a 
healthy amount of guilt in this too. How 
could I have given into peer pressure and 
heteronormativity, purposely sabotaging 
any chances of being myself?
In her book “All About Love: New 
Visions”, author bell hooks writes, “Giving 
ourselves love we provide our inner being 
with the opportunity to have the uncondi-
tional love we may have always longed to 
receive from someone else … When we give 
this precious gift to ourselves, we are able 
to reach out to others from a place of fulfill-
ment and not from a place of lack.” 
Rapper Kendrick Lamar confirms this 
sentiment in his song “Real” with the line, 
“What love got to do with it when you don’t 
love yourself?” 
I have my stomach aches to thank for 
clueing me in to my bisexuality. I do believe 
hooks and Lamar are right when they say 
the acts of loving yourself and loving others 
are inseparable. If my stomach turns when 
I see public displays of affection, a healthy 
dose of self-love will do more than a Tums. 
Being honest with myself about my sexual-
ity is a good first step. 
Weeks after that fateful afternoon on the 
blue bus from North to Central, I waited for 
the “i” in my Tinder bio. But frankly, I was 
tired of waiting. I’d spent too many years 
waiting. As I took a deep breath and typed 
the word “bi” in my Tinder bio, I felt a 
surge of warmth from my stomach to every 
extremity. If the shoe fits … 
While reading over this piece just a 
few days ago, making sure every word got 
across what I was trying to say, I listened to 
the new Avett Brothers album. My dad had 
recommended it, claiming it was “excep-
tional” and “def worth the time.” On the 
second track, the Brothers sing, “Tell the 
truth to yourself / and the rest will fall in 
place.”
I stopped editing and grinned like an 
idiot into my reflection in my coffee. Here’s 
everything falling into place.
*cue “I’m Coming Out” by Diana Ross to 
play us out*

PHOTO BY DANYEL THARAKAN

Waiting for the “i”

BY MATT HARMON, DEPUTY STATEMENT EDITOR

