LGBTQ+ Revolution 2.0

By Jill Fredenburg

Bisexual people make up 52% of the LGBTQ+ community, but are 6 times more likely to hide their sexual orientation from friends/family than a gay or lesbian person.

LGBTQ+ Revolution 2.0: A Celebratory Collection of LGBTQ+ Narratives is an open, honest depiction of life from the point of view of people who are part of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jill Fredenburg
• Release date: Jul 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781641377539

Book preview

LGBTQ+ Revolution 2.0

Jill Fredenburg

New Degree Press

Copyright © 2020 Jill Fredenburg

All rights reserved.

LGBTQ+ Revolution 2.0

ISBN

978-1-64137-944-1 Paperback

978-1-64137-752-2 Kindle Ebook

978-1-64137-753-9 Ebook

Contents

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Introduction

Author’s Note

A Very Brief LGBTQ+ History:

Moments in the History of the Gay Rights Movement in the United States that Inform Our Paths Forward

Misty:

Called Me Out

Vishaal:

Opportunity and Media Representation

Robyn:

Vulnerability to Activism

Stacy:

Q and OC

River:

Asexual Identity

Xany:

Coming Out Is Almost Always Scary

Ari:

Online Community

Alexis:

Gifting Boundaries

Trisha:

It Can Be Small

Valerie:

Finding Vocabulary

Hafsa:

Identity in Multitudes

Fanfic as Discovery

Cassandra:

Finding Community in Subtlety

Kash:

Coming Out Twice

Alayna:

Why Stir the Pot?

Kim:

Your Identity Is Yours

Blair:

Exploration

Alex:

What Would Your Life Look Like without Shame?

Shape of Love

Seek Out Experts:

In Knowledge, Support, and Loving Kindness

Acknowledgments

Resource List

Appendix

Introduction

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In a beat-up, black, regular-ole car parked in the empty lot of a college campus, with the smell of a moneyed, freshly mowed lawn in the air. That’s where Cassandra* (she/her) realized her sexuality would be something she’d constantly have to redefine as important. For the remainder of her life, she’d need to re-prioritize her sexuality as a true aspect of her identity, re-assert again and again as a valid, worthy part of herself both to herself and to those around her.

In late 2012, Cassandra had begun dating a new guy. He was the nerdy type, quiet and smart. This fresh relationship came with all the regular questions: When would she ask about his favorite music, childhood hobbies, and values? Religion? Dietary habits? Weird fears? Aspirations? All these inquiries filled her mind, adding weight to each of her late-night conversations with him.

Among these inquiries was the topic of sexuality, something most straight folks don’t need to discuss. But how would she go about bringing this up? How would she come out to her new boyfriend? At the time, Cassandra identified as bisexual (attraction to two or more genders).¹ She still uses this word often but is also comfortable with pansexual (capable of being attracted to any gender), and she felt her sexuality needed to be made known in order for their relationship to be honest and strong.² Biromanticism and panromanticism are sometimes included within these labels, though some people are sexually attracted to certain groups or to no one, and romantically attracted to other groups or no one. But would he react poorly? Would he try to sexualize this part of her identity for his own gain?

To wrap her head around how she would discuss this aspect of her identity with her new guy, Cassandra found herself on a late-night drive with a friend she’d known since they were baby-faced sophomores in high school. Eric’s* black car had been a frequent Taco Bell-tinged clubhouse for their small group of friends. Escaping Thursday evening family awkwardness in favor of a laughter-fueled night driving around East Memphis had become a ritual, one to rely on for hipster tunes and cuddle fests. There were few physical and emotional boundaries, and this made everyone feel accepted, celebrated, and whole in their moments together.

Tonight, though, it was just Cassandra and Eric. Whenever this particular duo found themselves parked together under the cool blanket of a Southern evening, they spent the time solving each other’s problems. Nineteen-year-olds do, after all, make the best therapists.

The two disagreed frequently, but the act of listening to each other and providing time for real feedback was special and crucial to both of them; their personal growth was impacted by these check-ins. So naturally, when Cassandra proposed these questions surrounding her new love interest to Eric, she expected the same attentive, thorough responses she’d grown used to. And he did provide this comfort at first, assuring her that she need not be nervous to ask questions of her new beau, until she brought it up—the bi thing.

"I mean, do you have to tell him?" he asked.

To Cassandra, the car suddenly felt very different—like the doors were more restrictive than she’d noticed before, closing in around the pair.

She did not know how to respond. The fact that she was attracted to women was important to her. This personal importance made the conversation imperative. This element of her being wasn’t going to vanish just because her new partner was a man.

I could sense the confusion she’d felt at the time, as she told her story over the phone years later. The hurt that came from her friend’s lack of support was still evident in her voice.

"My bisexuality doesn’t disappear because I’m dating a man. That just isn’t how sexuality, or at least my sexuality, works. But it was frustrating because it made me feel like I was making a big deal out of something unimportant."

Of course Eric’s response was frustrating! Often bisexuality and pansexuality get written off as phases or kinks or are ignored altogether, when in reality these identities are pretty common. According to a UCLA study from 2011, those who reported any same-sex sexual behavior and any same-sex sexual attraction at all are substantially higher than estimates of those who self-identify as lesbian (women attracted to women), gay (men attracted to men, though this is often used as an umbrella term for all of the LGBTQ+ community), or bisexual.³ The study revealed that 19 million Americans (8.2 percent) report that they have engaged in same-sex sexual behavior, and nearly 25.6 million Americans (11 percent) acknowledge at least some same-sex sexual attraction.⁴ The discrepancy between the rates for self-identifying as lesbian, gay, or bisexual and the rates for admitting same-sex encounters or attraction makes those who are questioning their sexuality feel abnormal and often prevents those who own their questioning from having a more fluid sexuality being taken seriously by others.

The Williams Institute

The Williams Institute

Cassandra’s story and these statistics really resonated with me. The first time I tried to broach the subject of my bi/pansexuality with my family—the only time I unsuccessfully tested the waters (literally, in some sense; we were at my family’s annual beach trip to the Outer Banks in North Carolina), I received a similarly irritating response.

My uncle had brought up my dating life since I had been single for a while. As I was about the age of fifteen or so, the appropriateness of this topic for conversation was questionable, though I think many adults have a hard time connecting with their teenaged family members and assume the awkwardness and humor that comes with speaking about romantic flounders is a safe bet. My uncle was wrong in this case, because I had been considering and scrutinizing my own sexuality for at least two years leading up to that point, making the conversation ripe for a particular kind of discomfort for which none of us were ready.

His simple, So, what’s your type? turned into discomforting jokes when I admitted, naïvely trusting him, that I didn’t really have a type; in fact, I didn’t think I was limited by the genders of prospective partners.

Trish, did you hear that? Jill is bi! my uncle yelled across the kitschy family beach blanket.

I don’t remember my mom’s response. I think there was an awkward laugh and a silence between everyone before I interrupted, quickly saying, I mean, I’m just figuring it out.

I wasn’t expecting to be capital O-U-T with my family on that trip. Yet, somehow, even that horrible announcement didn’t out me fully, because it wasn’t taken seriously. My uncle did not know the right thing to do, obviously, or else he would have simply said, Oh, that’s interesting, to make me feel safe in that moment, rather than announce our conversation. But this was his reaction to discomfort.

I am now ten years older, wiser, and although I am sure of my identity as a pansexual woman, this memory is still gut-wrenching. His comments initiated a learning and relearning journey for me, exploring the world’s interpretations of my sexuality. What has helped me establish my positive mentality toward my sexuality and romantic preferences throughout my life have been the communities I’ve built for myself and the knowledge that I am not the only person struggling with external pressures to conform to hetero-centric ideas of sexuality and love.

*Starred names are fictional, used for privacy

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1 Ashley Mardell, The ABC’s of LGBT+. (Mango Media Inc, 2016.), 8.

2 Mardell, The ABC’s of LGBT+, 8.

3 Gary J. Gates, How Many People are Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender? (Williams Institute), April, 2011.

4 Ibid.

Author’s Note

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So much has happened in the LGBTQ+ community over the past twenty years, and because of this, there’s often a sense of We’ve made it. Sometimes this book will use "queer," an umbrella term taken on by some in the LGBTQ+ community, though not everyone is comfortable using it because it has historically been used as an anti-gay slur.⁵ On June 25, 2015, the US Supreme Court struck down all state bans on same-sex marriage, marking a monumental step for the gay rights movement.⁶ From the founding of the Society for Human Rights, the first documented gay rights organization in 1924, to the first National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights in 1979, to Billy Porter becoming the first openly gay black man to win the Emmy for best lead actor in a drama series, the LGBTQ+ community has had many wins.⁷

But for people like Cassandra and me—bisexual women who have to re-validate ourselves to others—there still seems to be so much work to do in order to feel included in this powerful community.

I started writing this book with the hope that the process would help me understand how experiences like Cassandra’s and my own fit into the larger movement surrounding LGBTQ+ identity. What I have discovered has made me excited for the next wave of LGBTQ+ rights. I’ve seen broader, more intentional conversations around inclusive policy and social practices that promote safety, vocabulary, and community-building.

This wave is ushering in a new future for the LGBTQ+ community, a future where trans- and gender-affirming pronoun-usage isn’t seen as an inconvenience, and bisexual people do not need to produce a list of same-gender partners to prove their queerness.

I, personally, like to think of myself as part of this LGBTQ+ Revolution 2.0 and hope you see yourself as part of this positive learning path too.

Like many of the people you will read about in this book, I am someone who cycles between labeling myself as bisexual, pansexual, and queer depending on my audience, and I have gained much of my early LGBTQ+ education from YouTube. I have become an ever-learning ally to the trans, asexual (ace), gay, lesbian, and + communities with which I do not expressly identify. I am in a position of both great privilege and great curiosity. I look forward to the advances the LGBTQ+ rights movement will achieve next in terms of gender acceptance, racial equity, and disability rights, among other areas.

I benefit from the work of Marsha P. Johnson and Mark Segal; of Kathy Kozachenko and Susan Sontag. I benefit from the work of hundreds of unnamed queer individuals and allies. I am hugely lucky, for now is arguably the best time in our nation’s history to be an LGBTQ+ person. I am also acutely aware of the current tensions within and around the LGBTQ+ community and know that we can all do better for ourselves and our community.

In August of 2017, after completing my undergraduate degree (Art Major, with minors in International Relations, Netflix binging, and caffeine, thank you very much), I traveled to Narva, Estonia, on a Fulbright scholarship to teach English and Media Literacy to groups of young people there.

Narva is a small city, located in Ida-Viru county. This city is at the extreme eastern point of Estonia, separated from Russia only by the Narva River. While Narva holds the title of the country’s third largest city in Estonia, it only has a population of about 57,000 people.⁸ Like any LGBTQ+ person living in what most Americans would consider a small town, I was quite concerned about my queer identity becoming too apparent. In hindsight, this concern was somewhat silly, as the heteronormative assumptions there were even stronger than those I had grown up with in Tennessee. (I’d likely need to paint rainbows on my face for anyone in Narva to question my sexuality.)

However, LGBTQ+ people often seem to magically find other people like ourselves. We attract each other somehow.

In Estonia, I worked for an amazing organization as my primary service location. This youth-empowerment program was never explicitly LGBTQ+ friendly as far as I could tell, but the program had some support from the Estonian government (as part of the European Union) and provided a space where Narva’s youth were able to reflect upon and explore their interests and goals.⁹

During the nine months I spent in Narva, a small group of students, individually from one another, came out to me as LGBTQ+. I’m still not sure why they felt comfortable approaching me with this information. Some said they had sought out my Instagram and Facebook accounts and seen the subtle rainbow emoji on both. Because of that rainbow, or potentially due to some general queer vibe I may give off, or maybe simply because I was a twenty-something woman from America, they got the feeling I would be a safe person with whom to share their sexual and gender identities.

I didn’t think to ask why they confided in me, not even after the fourth student asked to see me after class and asked if I had any online resources they could use to learn more about LGBTQ+ identities. I was too stunned with the students’ confidence in their own terminologies, the assumptions they’d made that I was a good resource, and their direct questions. I gave them all the support I could and shared links to the age-appropriate resources I’d used when I was younger. I still don’t know if my efforts were sufficient, but I like to think that talking with someone helped them feel seen, at least in some small way.

I briefly mentioned to a supervisor that I was having interesting conversations with young people about identity, specifically about nationality and sexuality. She encouraged me to respond exactly as I had been responding, which was reassuring.

Looking back, I wish I had asked what marked me as a safe person in which to confide. However, I was so focused on balancing my personal safety with the responsibilities of the role I was fulfilling through the United States Department of State’s funding that I prioritized getting the