By Kanika Ameerah
I was 19 and had recently moved into my very first apartment when I first came out. For some time, I’d suspected that I was “not straight” and started to slowly confide to some friends that I was bisexual. Not that I might be bisexual, but that I actually was. One of the first things I did upon coming out was making an hour-plus long trek from my hometown to visit the LGBT Center in Manhattan. On Friday afternoons, The Center held a support group for young women under the age of 21. I attended this group regularly, made a couple of friends, and even marched with them (under the youth contingent) in my first Pride parade. That entire summer was spent trawling every lesbian bar and club that existed in NYC, dancing my butt off until closing time and taking the long trek home at sunrise. I was not old enough to drink back then, and wouldn’t have been admitted to any bars or clubs today, but it was the 90s and things were a lot more lax.
At 19, I had great expectations of what my life would look like as an out bi woman. I imagined myself permanently implanted in an alternative community, living an off-beat, bohemian existence far, far away from the rigid, close-minded, and homophobic environment in which I grew up. I quickly learned that my idealistic expectations would vastly differ from reality.
Those first few years of being out were filled with tough, painful lessons, especially when it came to understanding what community means to me. I always knew that I would never receive support from the people in my provincial hometown, but what I didn’t expect was the eventual isolation I’d feel from the very community I considered a refuge.
Back then, there was a sharp and deep divide between lesbians and bisexual women and I sensed it from day one. From the disappointment in a woman’s voice whenever I told her I was bi, to the snide remarks often made about bi women, or the downright anger and resentment directed towards me by others due to their past negative experiences with bi women. What was even more bothersome was the level of objectification I had experienced by straight men, couples, and even other bisexual women. After a while, being an out bi woman started to feel like a heavy burden rather than a source of pride.
I suspect that for those reasons, some of my bi friends would ultimately choose a community to assimilate into, depending on who they were in a relationship with or preferred to date. One friend suggested that I should self-identify as a lesbian, as she did, because at the time I wanted to date women and found it challenging to do so. I refused to do this because I knew I’d be living a lie.
For many years, I floated from one designated scene and community to another, trying to find a place I would fit in. As I aged, I realized that there was no one community where I would neatly fit in, and decided to form my own, composed of people from all walks of life who accepted and celebrated who I am as a human.
Another set of lessons I learned over the years was how allies don’t often come in the form that you would expect. When I came out to my family, it was met with mixed reactions. My feminist, non-religious mother did not (and I suspect still does not) accept my bisexuality, and this became a source of contention between us for many years. On the other hand, my (now late) very Muslim father, stepmother, and siblings were more accepting of my orientation. Whenever I call or visit my paternal side of the family, one of the first things they’d ask me is if I found a man or woman yet, and I would always answer no to both. I feel as if this was their way of saying they accepted me.
I know that my father’s family doesn’t understand my orientation and disagrees with it, but their willingness to overlook their religious beliefs to acknowledge my attraction to other women out of their love for me meant a lot. The second time I felt a sense of alliance was through my job. When I worked onsite, I used to wear a bi pride pin on the lapel of my uniform blazer on two occasions: the last week of June (Pride Week), and the third week of September (Celebrate Bisexuality Week). One time, I was wearing my pin when the director of my department (a gay man) called me into his office. When I arrived, his eyes zoomed in on my pin and he looked surprised, but in a good way. It was a moment of shared, yet discreet camaraderie.
My next set of life’s lessons come from the uncomfortable experience that we call dating. Some people are lucky enough to find their forever person early on, while others have a series of people that they’ve loved and lost over the years. Then there is me, the long-term bachelorette.
When I was younger, I presumed I would marry a man and have a family, mainly to say that I’d done it. The reasons for wanting heterosexual marriage were two-fold: I wanted to absorb myself into the straight community (due to the above-mentioned experiences) and because, as someone who was bullied for my appearance, I wanted to prove that I was lovable. It turns out that marriage and kids was not in the cards for me, even with the convenience of this new thing called online dating.
With my childbearing years in their sunset, I thought I would regret not having the chance of being a wife and mother, but I don’t. Subconsciously, I knew that I would’ve been doing it for all the wrong reasons. When I was younger, my romantic desires and expectations in a partner were very surface level. I’d never given serious thought to what kind of a relationship I wanted with another person, and what that would look like. I’m confident that if I had a relationship back then, it would’ve been an absolute mess.
Though I’m single, my life hasn’t been lonely; I’ve traveled quite a bit over the years (and find that I definitely prefer doing it alone), and have the companionship of furry friends and an amazing, supportive social circle. I’m surrounded by love, even if it’s not the romantic kind.
Being single, especially as a middle-aged woman, is a blessing. It’s allowed me time to reflect upon my desires for a relationship, release outdated beliefs, and incorporate new visions about what romance looked like. I feel that I’m in a much better place for a partnership than I ever was when I was younger.
My last set of lessons have come from the trials and errors of trying new things (more errors than trials).
There are many other things I’ve tried doing, only to realize that I wasn’t good at them. This includes taking drama classes in high school, cheerleading, and working at a telemarketing firm, all because they all sounded like glamorous and fun things to do. Upon realizing that I have performance anxiety, the coordination skills of an ostrich, and was awful at pitching sales, I knew it was time to walk away (though with the telemarketing job, I was offered the chance to resign willingly or be fired).
In my early thirties, I ran a bisexual pop culture blog and social media website; it had a cult following and I enjoyed connecting with other bi people throughout the world. Eventually, I realized how stressful and competitive running a blog was and really missed the stability of a 9-to-5 job, so I shut the website down after a year and got a job at a medical billing company. A few years later, my mother would tell me that my brief blogging stint was what changed her mind about same-sex marriage. She was vehemently opposed to it prior and now supports it. Though I’m not cut out for freelancing or “being my own boss,” I still consider blogging one of my favorite adventures and greater successes (even if it was technically a failure).
These lessons (and more) are ones I wish I could go back in time and tell my 19-year-old self in order to prevent a lot of grief, disappointment, and heartbreak, but it’s doubtful that she would even listen. I’m listening to myself now, and plan to take these lessons with me onto my next chapter of life.
If not at the local biergarten drinking with friends or the airport trying to escape the U.S., Kanika Ameerah can be found at home streaming British cozy mysteries while contemplating the possibilities of life with a persnickety brown tabby. Originally from the Big Apple (New York City), she now calls the Garden State (New Jersey) her home.
Kanika shared “I have more appreciation for nature now. It allows me to slowly observe things rather than rush through the path with blindfolds.”