By Meghan Serceki
By now we are all familiar with the depiction of gender and sexuality as a spectrum, and recently new terms and labels have been coined to lend visibility to those along it. However, spectrums are planes made up of infinite points, and people are changing with each second. For each point we define there are infinitely more waiting to be discovered, to be acknowledged. With every second that passes, our points move, however large that shift may be.
My own experience as part of the LGBTQ+ experience has been one of trying to place my sexuality along this spectrum. I first came out as bisexual. It made sense to me. In middle school I went through a phase that might have been defined as “boy-crazy.” That is, until the “boy” in question came out years later as a transgender woman. Throughout high school and my freshman year of college, I went on a few dates with cishet men I had convinced myself I was attracted to and brushed off the discomfort I felt as nerves. But when I downloaded a dating app I found myself only really being interested in the women on it.
Settling into my first relationship, it was easy to call myself a lesbian. Safe. My mom insisted still that I must be bisexual since I had gone out with men in the past, and my sister labeled me pansexual once my seventh-grade “boyfriend” came out as Magdalene. But as long as I was in the security of a lesbian relationship I didn’t question it. A part of me thought, too, that if all went well I might not ever have to truly grapple with my identity beyond that.
Of course, though, like most people’s first relationships, ours fell apart, and my continued search for someone caused me to confront the uncertainty I felt in presenting myself and my sexual orientation to the world.
I maintained the label of “lesbian,” but I carefully caveated it with the fact that I wasn’t totally opposed to the idea of ever dating a man. Only that it would be unlikely. I felt like not having this disclaimer would somehow prevent me from ever pursuing something with a man if I felt a connection with them. I was satisfied with this answer.
My mom, however, questioned this ambiguity. One night before our extended family came for my sister’s wedding, she asked me, “Do you identify as a lesbian or are you bisexual? What should I tell the family?” I was upset, and I told her I was comfortable not having an exact answer to that question, so she could be, too. She explained, though, that she simply wanted to represent me how I want to be represented. And for her this meant having a finite point on the spectrum and a label for it. I still haven’t been able to give it to her.
This question, and a million others like it, were racing through my mind the other night when I matched with a transgender man on Hinge. If things were to move forward, how would I explain it to my mom? Would it be unfair to him that my friends all consider me a lesbian and I find him, a man, attractive? What would I label myself instead?
Obviously, this was all getting a bit ahead of myself as matching with someone on a dating app is far from committing to any kind of relationship. Still, I was already shutting myself off to the possibility because of my concerns over what other people would think. Whether or not it would be confusing to them. Confusing to people who wouldn’t even be involved in the relationship, who didn’t need answers. Who could be comfortable without them.
When I brought it up with my friends, none of them were fazed by the idea of me dating a transgender man. They just said “I fully support,” “trans guys are hot,” and “we’re here for it.” They understood my concerns, though, and Magdalene even said that part of the reason she didn’t talk to her family about her girlfriend was because she didn’t want to have to explain herself. She knew her family would want answers that she can’t yet provide.
Having a label can be freeing, it can make people feel seen, it can give them the sense that there is a community of people like them, it can give them a more concrete answer to give the people in their lives. But it’s not always possible, and it’s not necessary.
People will always have questions for us, and unfortunately I can’t give a catch-all solution to navigating them. I have learned, though, that the only person you have to answer to is yourself. Don’t let anyone make you feel less whole if you don’t have a succinct explanation for where you lie within a plane of infinite possibilities. Labels are ours to define. They should be a positive way of identifying ourselves, not another source of anxiety in our lives.