It was like any other Wednesday night. I’d logged off from work for the evening and was sitting in my bedroom turned home office, scrolling through Twitter on my phone. I read a tweet from an editor calling out for pitches from bisexual writers. The simple request brought on a tsunami of emotion and the realisation that I’m about to face yet another Bisexual Visibility Day as an invisible bisexual.
It's been almost four years since I began to come to terms with my sexuality. I still remember how much I struggled to write the words ‘I think I might be bisexual’ in my journal as 19-year old. There was something about the words existing on paper that made them real. Speaking them out loud only further solidified the truth in my mind. But for months they were words only for me. I’d whisper in the darkness of my bedroom, ‘I’m bisexual’. Driving alone in my car on the way to work, I would repeat the words like a mantra.
I was still in the closet, but I took secret pleasure in allowing the words to roll off my tongue in moments of solitude. I was growing into a knowledge of who I was, and it felt like a powerful thing.
I still remember how much I struggled to write the words ‘I think I might be bisexual’ in my journal as 19-year old. There was something about the words existing on paper that made them real
But stepping into that power still felt scary. At the time I had just one friend who was out to me as bisexual. I decided that she would be the first person I told. Over a period of six months, every time we caught up, I told myself that I would come out to her. And each time, I would drive home cursing myself for having chickened out once again.
Eventually, I told her – pushing the words out of my mouth as I was driving her home from lunch one day. “I’ve been trying to tell you for months, but I just want you to know I’m bi too,” I admitted as I turned my car into her street.
“Don’t you dare take me home now!” she exclaimed, “Drive me to the park, we need to talk about this.”
I did as she said and we sat in my car until early evening laughing and crying together, cementing a queer friendship that continues to sustain us both today.
While I’ve come out privately to many, many friends since then, I’m still not publicly out. I’ve never told my family. I don’t post about my bisexuality online, choosing instead to let the pink, purple and blue heart next to the rainbow flag in my bio do the heavy lifting for me. I’ve never even kissed a woman.
On a good day, I know that none of those things change the fact that I know who I am. I'm a queer Brown woman. But on my bad days, I wonder how I can inhabit that identity if nobody is witness to it.
I guess that’s exactly why days like today exist. To give those of us who identify as bisexual, the opportunity to celebrate that. To ask our communities to bear witness to our love, our resilience, our strength.
The first and only time I've been to Mardi Gras I planned my outfit meticulously. Sparkles to make sure that my queerness was at least a little visible and nails carefully painted in pink, purple and blue - a symbol subtle enough to be missed but glaringly obvious to any fellow bisexuals.
After a few too many shots, my straight friend and I tottered out of a bar and past the glitter-drenched gutters of Oxford Street clutching each other's hands. I couldn't be sure whether the the blissful warmth that enveloped me was a result of the alcohol or the feeling that for the first time in my life, people were looking at me and seeing my sexuality. Holding hands, we looked like any other queer couple out to celebrate Mardi Gras.
I couldn't be sure whether the the blissful warmth that enveloped me was a result of the alcohol or the feeling that for the first time in my life, people were looking at me and seeing my sexuality
I’ve never felt that same sense of recognition when I walk down the street with my partner. Anyone looking at us would assume that we are a straight couple.
Gigi Raven Wilbur, who are credited with having instituted Bisexual Visibility Day recognised the pain that comes with that. She said:
“I too have been conditioned by society to automatically label a couple walking hand in hand as either straight or gay, depending upon the perceived gender of each person.”
My partner and I are part of the queer community. Neither of us are straight. But the conditioning that Gigi Raven Wilbur refers to means that nobody will ever look at my partner and I together and see our queerness in the way that I wish they would.
Today I will text all my bi+ friends and let them know that I love them. We will laugh about the clumsy conversations we had when we first came out to each other. I might post on my socials - making my support for the bisexual community obvious, but my membership less so. And then I'll fall asleep thinking of all the people just like me, who are wishing for the strength to make themselves visible. And if any of you are reading this - here's your moment of recognition. Today is still your day.
*Name changed to protect privacy.
