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