From “Bi” to “Pan”—Prefixes and Progress

I'm sorry her accent mark is missing!!!!!!!

 “(I) initially identified as bisexual, she clarifies, “but then later I read about pansexuality and was like, ‘Oh, these are things that I identify with, too.’ I’m open to learning more about who I am.” – Janelle Monàe comes out in Rolling Stone, as quoted in this article. https://www.colorlines.com/articles/fans-celebrate-janelle-monae-coming-out-pansexual

Janelle Monàe’s new album is so good I can barely listen to it. Coming from her, the sentiment “I’m not crazy, I’m American” is enough to start me car-sobbing. Hearing The Way You Make Me Feel on the way home from work the other night, on the day she came out and what felt like the first day of spring, led me to an epiphany—it’s way past time to change my prefix.

When I came out as bi (http://indiefeedpp.libsyn.com/jane-cassady-in-1992-all-of-a-sudden-it-got-better) TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO (!!!) (A whole Kurt Cobain lifetime ago!), it felt like such a freeing relief to my sixteen-year-old self. I couldn’t make heads or tails of men (Sorry, sixteen-year-old me, that hasn’t changed AT ALL.) and it made the world seem open and easier now that I had what I thought at the time was one other gender option.

One of the things that gives me the most hope for progress is the difference between my coming out in 1992 and the coming out of my present-day favorite pansexual middle-schooler, an honorary niece. The fact that her adolescence offers a spectrum of options, a vast catalog of identities, and a deeper (but by no means perfect) freedom from assigned gender roles fills me with joy. I think I’m ready to claim some of that freedom, both for my current self and for my sixteen-year-old self who is always still with me and always ready for more hope.

Technically, I could still be bi—by the current definition, it just means you’re attracted to more than one gender. I’ll still attend Bi Visibility Day, (Last year, the mayor came! Reason a million why Philly is the best!) I’ll still do my part to combat bi-erasure (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bisexual_erasure) in whatever ways I can, I’ll still be mad at Dan Savage for that time he said we’re the only sexual orientation he hates. (That’s when I’m not being mad at him for the hostile work environment he created for Lindy West… https://www.thestranger.com/slog/archives/2011/02/11/hello-i-am-fat ) (Or being grateful for the beautifulness he created with It Gets Better, which seems to want to be a running theme here…)

ANYWAY, the “bi” prefix hasn’t been sitting right with me. Even though the word doesn’t want to, “bisexual” still sounds like “two” to me, and it’s been a long time since I A. Thought there were two genders or B. Was only attracted to two genders. About ten years ago, a crush on a handsome New York performance poet sent me down a giddy rabbit hole of trans-infatuation (I’m pretty sure I totally fetishized and objectified him, and I’m really, REALLY sorry.) that has lead me into some of my favorite friendships and communities. I am NEVER surprised when someone I am drawn to later transitions—even my favorite writer in the world is headed down that road. (https://www.thecut.com/2018/03/daniel-mallory-ortberg-interview-heather-havrilesky.html )

So it has felt increasingly weird to have a label that sounds like two, even though I know that isn’t what “bisexual” actually means.

I guess it’s total dork-o-rama to change my prefix because Dirty Computer was finally released, but it’s WAAAAY more dignified than choosing the name “Jane” because a character on Blossom said she thought it was cool. (Thanks Jane’s Addiction and Jane Eyre for providing cover all these years, it’s good to let the secret out!) I’m sad to (sort of) let my old category go—twenty-seven years of anything is a long time—but I want my prefix to reflect my heart. Though I tend to go for those who present as masculine these days, I’m not sure assigned gender is an important factor. I want my prefix to reflect the world I want to see, a gorgeous, free spectrum where self-expression and self-determination trump prefabricated roles and expectations.

There’s a mantra that often floats through my head when I’m uneasy, especially in spring: Let Things Change. It feels vulnerable and maybe even silly to have a new word, but I know it’s right.

Next in the process will be figuring out where I am on the asexual spectrum these days, and I expect there’s a prefix to contend with there too. One thing at a time though. One syllable at a time.

We Did an Incredibly Badass Thing, and We’re Still Doing It!

“Of all the men and women running for president, I found her to be the most qualified, comprehensive in her understanding of domestic and foreign policy, progressive and charismatic. I wanted to write about her and engage rigorously with her ideas far more than I did. But I didn’t. In part, I did not have the energy to deal with the inevitable backlash, from corners right and left. In part, I was trying to understand the popularity of Bernie Sanders because so many people I respect supported him and his ideas. And of course, there was that overconfidence, which, in hindsight, I am ashamed of. Nothing should be taken for granted in a democracy.”

--Roxane Gay, Hate That Doesn’t Hide, August 18,2017

Roxane Gay is not in the top billion people I would blame for Trump’s election. She is one of the most powerful voices of the Resistance, and I tend to think of her as President of the Survivors. Though I’ve never met her, (she did write me a kind and thoughtful rejection letter back when she was editing Pank) she has been with me in my survivor’s fight. If Hillary Clinton is my psyche’s political mom, then Roxane Gay is a big sister, fighting off bullies with her grace, honesty, and self-reflection.

But the fact that this incredible hero of mine felt afraid to voice her Hillary support helps me understand what all of us, including/especially Roxane Gay, have accomplished in these last three years.

A few nights ago, I was driving home at the end of a yucky, crampy, stressful-for-really-no-reason kind of day. I had the window open to stave off some stress-nausea.  A big white SUV pulled up next to me at a stoplight, and the young white man in the passenger seat started screaming at me:

“Did you really vote for Hillary?! Fuck you!”

He threw a just-lit cigarette at me (Thank goodness it didn’t come in the window.) and kept screaming as they drove away. I got home and called my best friend, jangled and afraid, sitting on the bathroom floor in case I threw up. At first I asked Amy to come over and sit with me, but an eerie calm came over me all at once. A voice in my head (or heart?), the voice that has taken me bravely though all these years as a trauma and abuse survivor:

He's mad because he has already lost. He knows he can’t make us go away.

I thought of my bumper stickers and all of the wonderful momentary connections they’ve allowed me to make—the happy and sad waves, the curious expressions, the kids who eagerly turned to see who was driving. I forget which anti-tyranny expert said it, but the signs of Resistance aren’t there to convince the other side, they’re to let the oppressed know they’re not alone.

By supporting Hillary Clinton, no matter how, we changed the cultural and political landscape forever, and we did it in a constant minefield of triggers, under threats,  condescension, and shaming from both Trump’s party and our own. We may not have won the election, but we’re still here, and we are coming together in ways I would never have dared to dream of.

I’m not just writing this to shore up optimism, but to honor the constant daily achievement of survivors. Like many other women, I struggled to feel safe and sane during and after the election. Like so many other women, I flashed back to my own rape and abuse every time I passed a TV with the news on (WHY ARE THERE SO MANY TVS ON EVERYWHERE?!) or scrolled through my feeds.

Making it worse were the feelings of abandonment and betrayal, the sense that I could never stop being at war with men. Almost every male person I considered a friend supported Hillary begrudgingly or passively, if at all. Whether by apathy or antipathy, almost every male person I know chose his own supremacy over the health and safety of women. To me, it really felt like almost everyone I knew was ready to embrace rape as long as it didn’t mean giving up the social capital that vocally supporting Hillary Clinton costs.

AND YET, to paraphrase the words of Mitch McConnell which I am bizzarely about to have tattooed on my arm, nevertheless, we persisted. SOMEHOW there was an opening at Women Organized AgainstRape and I entered weekly trauma therapy at the beginning of March. My therapist is an absolute champion of letting me weave my personal story in and out of politics, never asking me to tone down my anger or not take things personally—she knows, maybe we all know, that politics is always personal.

Yesterday I made the decision to phase out weekly therapy and dedicate my  Monday afternoons to things that are not trauma, and that 100% feels like Reclaiming My Time.

SO I want to step back and marvel. The night of the election, in addition to the terror and heartbreak, a deep warm, powerful sensation pulsed through my body. I guess it could have been panic, but it felt more like resolve, like my soul rising to the occasion and reaching out to join all of the other souls that were doing the same.

Women who support Hillary, I can never thank you enough. Thank you for every Bro you’ve faced down or blocked, every time you’ve had to head the word shill (or shrill, for that matter), for every danger and trigger you’ve faced and still managed to wake up the next day. Whether you fight an inward battle, an outward battle, or a combination of both, thank you so, so much. I’m with you forever and I will never, ever back down.

Keep going, I love you, keep going.

Song of the Week: Don't Stop Believin'

If you see Amy and I getting out of our car, chances are we've just been belting this out. It's a serotonin factory in and of itself.

I'd like to dedicate it to a pal who's just beginning her coming out process. I'm not the best wing-woman in the world, but I'm rooting for you every step of the way.