Why I Stopped Discussing My Bisexuality
Currents
I have just learned that it is bi visibility month. I have been torn on whether to make my bisexuality visible or not. Part of me was reluctant to do so for two reasons. First, my sexuality is one of the least interesting things about me. I write about Critical Social Justice (the radical identitarianism that has spilled out into the mainstream from political activism on the academic left) — and I write about its philosophical opposite, liberalism. Nobody who follows me does so because of my sexual orientation. Second, I have been in a monogamous marriage with a man for 21 years. Do I truly have any right to consider myself to have a bisexual “identity” at all?
That first thought — not wanting to be defined entirely by one’s sexuality — is, I think, valid and comes legitimately from my own mindset and principles. The fact that, before I met my husband, I casually dated people of both sexes for a decade, including two relationships with women, isn’t very relevant to most of the issues I write about. My sexuality isn’t a secret. It just doesn’t come up unless I happen to be speaking among old friends about the time when I was living with one of my old girlfriends, Sarah (not her real name). That was a particularly special relationship, but one that, after a few months, we both realised had morphed into a simple friendship. We continued to be flatmates and dated other people for another three years quite contentedly. I then met my husband and a few years later, she met her wife. I have very happy memories of my time with Sarah in all its facets.
It was that second objection that made me decide that I would write about myself for bi visibility month. That doubt about whether my sexuality is an authentic “identity” that I have a right to claim and speak about doesn’t come from me or my principles at all. It simply isn’t a liberal perspective to regard romantic or sexual attraction as a claim to a marginalised identity whose authenticity must be confirmed before one has a right to speak on such matters. This is a collectivist mentality based on the concept of “positionality” as set out by Critical Social Justice theories. It is not how I operate as a liberal, individualist woman developing relationships with other individuals. I just find some women sexy, and when I was young and single, I acted upon this with other women who also found me so. Since I have been with my husband, I have stopped acting upon this, but I am still bisexual. That doesn’t go away. I am married, not dead. (My fangirl status for the English women’s national football team goalkeeper, Mary Earps, may not be 100% to do with her sporting prowess).
One of the problems with engaging so much with Critical Social Justice scholarship and activism, as well as critiques of it, is that, on occasion, it insidiously finds its way into my thought processes and causes me to overthink human interactions and relationships that should really be quite simple. I once briefly worried that I had “oversmiled” at a black woman with an adorable toddler after reading Robin DiAngelo’s Nice Racism (2021). This awful tome claims that white people do this to mask their anti-blackness, which is exhausting for many black people, some of whom would even prefer open hostility to niceness. This is, of course, largely nonsense. The other woman’s genuine appreciation of my admiration of her gorgeous little girl was quite clear in the warm smile she returned to me as one mother to another.
This problem also occurs when it comes to issues of queer and gender studies and related activism where, as a lifelong feminist, I increasingly encountered demands to declare my intersectional credentials beginning in 2010 and really taking off in 2015. I found my identities increasingly scrutinised by intersectional feminists, and soon enough, I began internally considering them before I spoke. I came to feel that I could no longer speak naturally about my past relationships in this context without being understood to be making some kind of political statement or claiming a marginalised identity and thus some kind of authority to speak, which would only open me up for further scrutiny. Because my liberal feminism had become “problematic” by this time (as I tried to urge feminism back in that direction), any mention I made of my sexuality was challenged by intersectional feminists inclined to object to me. On some occasions where I did describe myself as bisexual, I was informed that due to my long-term marriage to a man, I did not have the lived experience of homophobia necessary to claim such an oppressed status. If I only mentioned being in a heterosexual relationship and my previous relationships with women then came up, I was accused of “bisexual erasure” and a lack of solidarity with the same LGBT community I had been told I did not really belong to.
Bisexual women in exclusive relationships with men are very easy to problematise and dismiss as inauthentic if they do not comply with intersectional feminism or the expectations of biphobic gay separatists. I began not to mention my previous relationships with women in feminist spaces, even when relevant. Sometimes, I would refer to myself as “mostly heterosexual”, not because I was afraid of homophobia but because I did not wish to be accused of making a political statement or not being “queer enough.” I have never thought of myself as either marginalised or queer (in the critical queer theory sense). I am someone who has had fun and caring relationships with people of both sexes, and I did not want them cheapened by this kind of identity-accounting.
Helen and her husband in the 1990s.
Bi visibility month is partially about addressing the distinct issues bisexual people can face that gay men and lesbians might not. Other people will doubtless speak of being suspected of being confused, fickle or “experimenting” by straight, gay and lesbian people. They will tell of the frustration of being expected to get over it or “make their minds up”, as well as simply not being taken seriously as a potential love interest. I have experienced some of these attitudes, especially as I always hoped for an eventual long-term partnership and was fairly sure it would be with a man. It was dispiriting when people assumed that my “phase” had passed, and I had simply stopped finding women attractive when I got married. That is not how sexuality works. I didn’t seek an open or polyamorous marriage that would enable me to continue having relationships with people of both sexes not because I had suddenly become heterosexual, but because I am deeply introverted, and one relationship is all I have the emotional energy for! My husband, too, is the monogamous type and these are the rules of our relationship that are necessary for him to feel valued and respected. They suit us both perfectly.
However, in my 49 years of life, either the misconception that bisexual women stop being bisexual when in relationships with men has reduced significantly or I have gained more friends who know how sexuality actually works. My friends tend to know which women I will find attractive and will tease me about it if a tall, robustly built woman walks past. Strangely, I appreciate this recognition of an aspect of my character. My sexuality is not invisible to my friends or my husband but nor do they define my entire identity by it or consider it to be a political statement or think of me as a member of a marginalised group with special insights and rights to speak. Bisexual is just something I am, but I am also so much more than that. This is the kind of visibility I like. The kind that wields liberal principles of individuality, pluralism, and universalism against narrow collectivism, identity politics, and the disempowerment of women by victimhood narratives. I can only keep hoping and pushing for intersectional feminists and critical queer theorists to rediscover the consistent liberal principles which have done more to deliver universal human rights (including women’s and LGBT) than Critical Social Justice ever could.
Published Sep 13, 2023
