By Erica V
I’ve learned to be wary of self-proclaimed allies.
Hear me out: experiences shape our understanding, and I recall one that gives me the credence to make this somewhat controversial statement.
I have a distinct memory from several years ago: I’ve recently arrived at a notable downtown restaurant, celebrating something-or-other for a woman I don’t know very well. I’m an obligation invite, that oddball person you’re required to include due to some semblance of a relationship—a godmother’s great-aunt who’s in town for the week, a parent’s neighbor who was always “good to you,” a distant cousin you never text but still counts as family…you get the idea. As with all memories, some of the less-important details have been lost in time. But I can say for sure that I hate the dress I’ve picked for the occasion, the food is late, and I’ve never met most of the women sitting at my table. There are a few notable exceptions, such as the one sitting right next to me. She’s someone with whom I have a “situational” friendship; if not for our mutual connections, we wouldn’t necessarily be socializing at a party. But circumstances had previously brought us together, and here we are. I enjoy her company, and it’s good to have a familiar face among strangers.
Before I continue, you should know that I do my homework before attending events with people I see fairly irregularly. I’ll hit their socials and scroll to the previous June, looking for traces of anything Pride-positive, even just a quick article share. I’ll keep a mental list of these people, while also noticing the ones who stay silent or actively crusade against the enemy team—a team that I sit on, sometimes quietly but always knowingly. I notice these people as much as I notice the ones who inadvertently tell me they’re safe by way of an unhidden Facebook timeline. I hate to admit this dictates my participation at events; but society as of late unfortunately seems to encourage this of me, someone in the LGBTQ+ community who straight people tend to forget about.
My friend’s Facebook profile screams motherhood sprinkled with inspirational memes. It’s pretty neutral, but that doesn’t really matter; she’s fully aware of my identity. We’ve talked about it cordially, and I’m relaxed in her presence.
You see, I’m the type of bisexual who sits in the corner to claim prime people-watching real estate with a view of the whole room. You’ll notice me smirking at the crowd, but you may not pay me much attention—unless, of course, you want to smirk back and share a hearty laugh over my glass of wine. I’m softly and loudly visible at the same time. I wear my pink, purple, and blue colors openly while holding my dear husband’s hand. The ones invited into my circle of intimate friendship see me for exactly who I am, just as the ones who merely recognize the vibrant pattern on my shirt give me a nod of solidarity, comfort, or perhaps something else. I find genuine joy in talking through my identity with those who would like to listen and experience my entirety—not just the parts they want to see. I don’t view the sharing of my bisexuality as vulnerable, and I enjoy destigmatizing queer discourse. I work to normalize the idea of identities like mine, making peace with the fact that some straight people will never quite understand.
And the ones who don’t really know me, or perhaps don’t really associate the nuances of queerness beyond the mainstream rainbow, just pass on by. The puns on my t-shirts fall under the radar. My tri-colored ring somehow is assumed to be “patriotic,” (I understand the blue, but purple and pink? Huh…). Most of the time I’ll just walk on by and roll my eyes.
With that said, let me bring you back to the table, and the women surrounding me. I haven’t seen their social media profiles, but there’s something telling me that they may fall into the “non-supportive” category of my classifications, or at best neutral. But for the moment, that’s okay—I’m perfectly content chewing my bread thoughtfully, wondering when my manicotti (or whatever I ordered; apparently, that’s a missing detail) will manifest in front of me.
At some point, the conversation focuses on an expecting acquaintance. And as I hear the direction the conversation is going, I feel the familiar creeping of dread settle in.
Pregnant people.
The phrase is said in a mocking tone, with air quotes and high-pitched voices out like full frontal nudity. And soon the table just erupts. Here we go, I think to myself.
It starts with an attack on the inclusive term now being used within OB/GYN care contexts, rather than defaulting to “woman”; as a mother myself, this is a change I happily welcome in honor of our genderfluid peers. The conversation continues to meander and takes on a rudely familiar tone: queer people are encroaching on every aspect of society, and they need to leave everyone else alone. I glance at my friend, hoping to catch her eye and signal a budding desire to infiltrate on behalf of the broader LGBTQ+ community. But unfortunately, that’s not what happened.
Because she’s sitting there, nodding her head. And then I see her mouth move, and I hear words fall out. And my heart just drops.
The conversation may not necessarily be targeting bi+ women specifically, but an attack on any queer identity is an attack on us all. And as an ally, she should know better. Right?
It suddenly occurs to me that most people at this table wouldn’t recognize that I belong to the LGBTQ+ community. I’m sitting here in a very hetero-presenting (albeit ugly) dress, talking about how my husband does laundry more efficiently than me, and agreeing with everyone that men are just so lovingly frustrating sometimes. I guess for straight people, these are all markers they look for. I now understand there are no allies at this table. Not for me, not for other queer folks, not for the beautiful diversity of the LGBTQ+ community collectively.
In this space, they see their tablemates merely as women with husbands—who cares what they think, who they know, where they lie on the political spectrum? We’re all obviously straight here, so these words can’t do any harm. They don’t see the grays between black and white, and they don’t understand the nuances that exist on the plain defined by collective understanding of “straight” and “gay.” They just don’t realize that people like me exist. Or perhaps they conveniently forget, as my companion apparently did that day.
And she called herself an ally, I think to myself, a checkpoint for me and an open gate to safety.
I think about this experience quite often, and I frequently wonder if any other so-called allies exist in my life. These people are separate from the ones who truly stand for us—the “accomplices,” as they may be called. And this unfortunately isn’t the first time someone has inadvertently shown their true colors, or perhaps a version of their reality previously hidden from my gaze.
We live in a world in which people mask for the sake of others. Sadly, I’ve witnessed many “allies” fall into this trap; they’ll be seemingly sympathetic in spaces where queer people are visible but shelve our existence the minute we fade into the background. On the contrary, I have learned to keep the accomplices close; they not only can recognize this dilemma, but they transcend upon it. I’m lucky to know some incredible accomplices, friends and advocates who empower all of us to exist boldly. I promise they exist, lining the track with inspirational signs and cheering loudly. They laugh, cry, and rage with us; they sit and let us speak, but they will also speak when we feel the need to sit. And most importantly, they dive deep below the sea of people-pleasers and swim against the current when the tide rises. And they savor every stroke.
Back in the depths of my memory, our plates finally arrive. The conversation pivots yet again, moving abruptly. Many of these women will probably forget what has just occurred; but I certainly won’t have that luxury. But in the meantime, I may as well enjoy the free meal. I pick up my fork and take a bite.
Author’s Note: Some identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals referenced in this narrative.
Erica V lives in the Philadelphia area of Pennsylvania in the U.S. with her husband, son, and two cats. In addition to spending time with her family, she puts her soul into creative outlets, including floral crafting, mixed-media art, and writing.