Not courage, but survival

When I told my therapist I was non-binary, she called me brave. I told her it wasn’t courage, it was survival. I don’t think she really got what I meant, and I don’t think I was quite able to fully articulate it at the time. So I’m going to work through it here. I did mention it briefly in a previous post, but I want to unpack it a bit more.

When you have a minority identity, especially around gender or sexuality, you’re often accused of “shoving it in people’s faces” – that is, being queer/trans/non-binary/black/etc in public. Any attempt to say “hey, I live here too and I also have needs, wants and preferences” can be met with hostility or even violence. So why do we persist in expressing our identities when it might seem easier and safer not to?

I can’t answer for anyone else, but for me, there came a point where I was doing more violence to myself (by remaining closeted) than I was avoiding. I simply could not pretend any longer. The fear of losing friends or family, of violence or harassment from others – that was outweighed by the damage I was doing to myself. I had tried pretending to be like everyone else, and it had just made me miserable. So, I simply stopped.

And the relief of it! To be able to say “this is me” and for it to be 100% true, to be able to go outside feeling as though I was showing my true self to the world for possibly the first time, that may have been the most free I have ever felt.

Of course, this makes it sound simple. It wasn’t quite as easy as that, but the core realisation was that trying to be something I’m not not only wouldn’t work but was actually hurting me. It might be more comfortable for other people for me to pretend I was like them, but I’m not. And pretending is exhausting. So much energy spent on trying not to mention certain things to certain people, trying to remember who knows what about you, trying to decide if certain topics give too much away about you, trying to act in the ways I thought I was supposed to.

I don’t think I’m brave; in some ways I am quite lucky. Nobody I’ve told has reacted badly. But I always think of courage as being a positive decision, and this was not that. This was more like despair, more of a desperate last-ditch attempt, fuelled partly by my cancer diagnosis and treatment. This was giving up and letting go of the cliff edge, and then realising that you were only a few inches above the ground. And I am fully aware that it is not that easy for many of us.

I’m not offering advice, just a perspective. For me, it was better to come out; for someone else, the calculation might be different. But remaining closeted isn’t an easy choice either.

© bardofupton 2018

A new poem

Literally just finished this one:

you think my gender is written on my body
a text for you to read
but you’re wrong
it’s written deep inside
somewhere in walnut curves and sparking neurons
and merely displayed on my body
a work of art
subject to interpretation

what you see may not be what you get
and that is not my problem
but yours
for failing to understand
that this is more complicated than x and y
m and f
a curve not a point

people are always more complex than you think

© bardofupton 2018

Some thoughts on identity

I went to see a play today (April 11, 2018) called Scene about an interracial queer couple, and it got me thinking about identity.

About how long it took to start identifying as black/mixed race: because I grew up in a country where black and brown people were in the majority and were in positions of power, I had precisely the white Western experience that “people like me” are normal. Not that I didn’t know any white people – I did. I had white friends and family, but I was not aware of their race (or my own) as a thing. I just thought of them as people with different hair/skin to me, but not fundamentally different in any way. I certainly didn’t feel less than them, or that they thought of me as lesser. I had to move to the UK to have that particular experience. I’ve had to train myself to be aware of race, in a way that black people born in the UK probably don’t.

I identified as bisexual (these days I call myself queer) way before I started thinking of myself as black – and in fact I never did think of myself as black. I identify as mixed race, and I’m aware that other people think of me as black.  For me, black is something imposed on me from outside – much like I thought of my gender, back when I (sorta, kinda, well-if-you-push-me-then-I-guess-I’m-female?) identified as female. It was never how I felt, more how I knew other people saw me. Which is weird in its own way – I knew it wasn’t me, exactly, but I tried so hard to fit into the boxes that other people put me in.

Now I don’t care – or rather, I do care, I just know that being myself is more important than trying to conform. One of the few positives I can say about having had cancer is that it really makes you think about what matters to you. And what matters to me is being myself, and not trying to fit into other people’s boxes. My therapist called me brave, for (finally) realising my gender identity and acting on that, and I told her that it’s not bravery, it’s survival. I can’t pretend any longer. I can’t spend the rest of my life trying to meet other people’s expectations, because I have become suddenly strongly aware that the rest of my life might not be all that long.

And identifying as non-binary has been an amazingly freeing experience. I mean, there are a bunch of downsides, like legally my gender does not exist in the UK. But for the first time in my life, I have stopped worrying about whether I’m enough – do I meet the expectations for my gender. Because there really aren’t any. I get to decide what I look like, rather than having to try and look how someone else thinks I should. I don’t have to worry about being feminine enough – because that’s not me. It has been so relaxing.

© bardofupton 2018