Living In the Open: Explorations in Self-Identity and Invisibility

My sexuality isn’t something I talk about much. It doesn’t come up. In Tucson and, more recently, in Eugene, I have found that I can talk about my wife, and the most response I’m going to get is a slightly startled look. People accept without question that a woman might be married to a woman. And while this attitude is not universal (for instance, in Huntsville, Alabama, I mostly got people being very polite but quickly making excuses not to talk to me), it does point to a very encouraging trend in societal values.

            The response I have never gotten is, “Oh, so you’re a lesbian?” It just doesn’t come up. Which makes sense. If I were to talk about a husband, no one would even think of asking, “Oh, so you’re heterosexual?” It’s not that I’m closeted. There is simply very little opportunity to talk about sexual orientation when one is in a happy, stable relationship.

            Because the thing is, I’m not gay. And I am definitely not straight. I tend to say I am bisexual, but since my view of gender identity is one of a continuum (or maybe even broader than that), the “bi” prefix is a bit problematic. On the other hand, I’m not prepared to talk about myself as “omnisexual,” because that term seems too broad, somehow.

Besides, when my sexuality does come up in conversation, it’s usually in the context of some guy going, “Oh, you’re bi? Wanna threesome?” and saying I’m omni would only compound that problem. (For the record, if that’s where your mind went immediately, then the answer is no. HELL no.)

I am proud of my sexual orientation. It’s a big part of my identity. But it is continually masked by the assumption that sexual orientation is about whom one happens to be having sex with. When I dated guys, everyone assumed I was straight.  Now, everyone assumes I’m gay. Even my closest friends tend to forget that I’m not.

On some level, I don’t mind this. There’s nothing inherently wrong with being gay or with being straight, and neither is an orientation that I would be unhappy belonging to. But in fact, I belong to neither group. And it really bothers me that because I am in a monogamous relationship, people will assume that I am either gay or straight, with no sort of nuance or interpretation.

Not that the problem would go away if I were in a polyamorous relationship with both male and female partners. If I were to walk down the street with a guy on one arm and a girl on the other, most people wouldn’t think “bisexual.” If they realized a sexual relationship existed at all, they’d more likely just think “slut.”

I am, for all intents and purposes, expressing myself to be gay when I talk about my wife. And, as I noted at the beginning, no one is going to question that presentation. Indeed, I would probably be offended if they did. But what they assume I am is not who I am. And I don’t like it when people walk around with an erroneous impression of me. It feels like lying. However, it feels even more awkward and like I’m a nitpicky uptight bitch if I go around correcting them.

It’s a problem without an easy solution. Or maybe there is. Maybe instead of wearing my rainbow necklace everywhere, I should switch over to one like this: 

Better living through self-marketing jewelry. If only I liked the way it looked.

Stowaway

Tableau of Chivalry

A dragon sits, scaled and resplendent, on a mound of treasure. It is his pride and glory, a lifetime of ransacking. He has coins from a civilization long past and now faded, rough-cut gemstones from dozens of upstart empires, crowns and swords and jewelry wrought in hundreds of styles for the vanity of thousands of wealthy lords. He has books as well, for he knows that not all treasure is tangible, and he knows that there are those who prize the ideas within the books above all else, though he himself lacks the skill of reading them. He collects these things, attractive glittery gems, though he does not know why.

            He is old, this dragon. He has grown impossibly large. His wings are a map of scar tissue so thick they would not bear him aloft, except he has grown too large to fly in any case. His scales are thick, too, though this is to his advantage. What was once a shining glittery skin easily pierced and ripped away is now rock-hard, and rattles when he moves. His eyes gleam with ancient intelligence, and though his sight is not as clear as it once was and his reactions slowed, his hearing and sense of smell are as sharp as ever, and with claws and teeth as large as his are, fast reaction speeds are less important.

            A knight stands before him, encased in armor. He is young, and he trembles, though the armor hides it. He is sweating, though he does not know whether it is the heat or his raw fear. But he stands fast, knowing that a knight must be brave, and being brave means standing strong when all good sense screams at him to run and hide.

            He is not rich, this knight. He won his armor and his title through brave deeds, battles fought against other armor-clad warriors, jousts won against other, human, knights. Mock battles. Mock bravery. He did not come for the dragon’s hoard, it is true, but he is tempted by the glittering pile. And by the books. He has never seen so many.

            Between them sits the lady. She is young, too, younger than the knight even. Her cheeks are streaked with tears, her hair tangled, her clothes dirty and torn. She does not look a lady, in truth. She looks like a scared girl. For the first time in her life, however, she does not know how she looks, nor does she care. She sees the dragon, huge and looming, its giant claws arching, its wings flexing, its eyes narrowing and smoke beginning to drift from its nostrils. She sees the knight, standing at the ready, longsword drawn and sharp, face hidden behind a visor, inscrutable. She does not know which she is more terrified of.

Cheetah dude.

It's a cheetah dude. Inexplicably wandering through a jungle. Enjoy.

Monday Night

I studied, wrote, reviewed, and fretted
'Til I thought I'd take no more.
Finally done, I rose and sweated
Glad 'twas time to mop the floor.

[this space unintentionally left blank]

I have spent an inordinate amount of time just sitting, staring blankly at the computer screen.

Once, I overflowed with ideas. I couldn’t put pen to paper fast enough. I couldn’t make my fingers move fast enough over the keyboard. But that was before.

Before the cactus.

It sits there, so innocuously, maybe four inches high, squat and spiky, and deep dusty green. It came into my home several months ago, a gift from a friend. I welcomed it to my bare apartment. It brought with it a feeling of hot desert summer, a blast of dry air that cut against the damp cold drizzle outside. I set it on my desk.

Over several weeks, I found myself talking to it. Perhaps I had been alone too long. It started with complaints, the random frustrated utterings that come from spending too long surfing the internet. “How stupid is that? What are they thinking?” and “That’s a ridiculous price!” These things, one says regardless of whether there is anyone listening; the audience is one’s own self. Over time, though, it grew to be more personalized: “They’re insane, don’t you think?” Or, “You don’t think that way, do you?” And later, “What do you think of that?”

The cactus never answered, and I didn’t expect it to. Over time, however, I talked to the cactus more and more. It was my best friend, my only companion. I told it everything I was thinking. It was a patient audience. It never interrupted, never contradicted, never gave “constructive” criticism. I tried out my ideas on it, and it sat in silent approval.

And then one day, I noticed that I was talking to the cactus less. It wasn’t that I had stopped telling it everything that I thought (I told it, as I carefully poured water around its roots). It was that I was simply thinking less. That was strange, wasn’t it? I thought back over the days and found vast blank stretches, where I was aware, but not thinking anything in particular. I asked the cactus, “You don’t have any idea why that might be, do you?”

I guess I wasn’t being careful where I poured, because at that moment, one of the spikes became embedded in my thumb. I yelped and pulled away, sucking at the drop of blood that had formed abruptly. And I sat back down.

An hour or so later, it occurred to me that I ought to do something besides just sitting there. Several hours after that, I got up and went to bed.

I still wrote, occasionally. I fed myself, bathed myself, clothed myself. But the apathy was growing stronger. I found myself gazing at the cactus, enraptured by the way the dark green near the base faded to a bright neon green at the top, how the dark high ridges of the ribs contrasted with the paler green of the valleys between. This was infinitely more important than writing.

Near the back of my mind, I could sometimes feel the ghost of an idea, that this apathy was abnormal, that a person like me would not normally sit for hours without a conscious thought. But whenever that idea came close to the forefront of my mind, my eye would be caught by the cactus, and the thought would vanish.

So I sat. I have been sitting. I exist. And so does the cactus. We exist together, linked in silent plant time, waiting for waiting for waiting waiting waiting wait

Moving Life with Nectarines and Cactus

Holey moley I can't believe that actually sort of worked. MUAHAHAHA I AM THE STOP MOTION GODDESS!!!