By Jen Bonardi
I’m at a meeting in the university where I work. Eric from the Center for Public Service is running a debrief on the Volunteer Vacations that I and a few other staff “chaperoned,” for lack of a better word. The college students that we traveled with on spring break obviously didn’t need supervision but they did need two employees over age 25 to rent and drive the vans.
My buddy Gerald, who works in the main library, had told me about the Queer Volunteer Vacation in Philadelphia and wanted me to be the other chaperone. Most of the students on the trip were not themselves queer, but they did an incredible job volunteering for LGBTQ non-profits. I overheard one of them, as she swept the floor in a homeless shelter for trans people, gently telling a journalist to interview the people living there instead of her. Another was visibly moved when we discussed some of the struggles we witnessed within the queer community.
Gerald couldn’t make the meeting, so I alone share anecdotes with Eric and the university staff who were on the three other Volunteer Vacations. The Philadelphia trip was the only one that centered on a particular community, and its participants’ excellent work bodes well for similar programs in the future.
“I do have one bone to pick,” I tell Eric. “Gerald is asked to chaperone every year, but I wouldn’t have even known about this program if he hadn’t reached out to me. It’s important that queer university staff–beyond Gerald—be alerted to these opportunities.”
The ostensibly straight woman next to me quickly jumps in to say, “I think we all should be alerted to them.” To his credit, Eric ignores her and asks me to continue. “Gerald and I added value to the trip by contributing our lived experience,” I say, resisting the urge to look pointedly at her. “But Gerald isn’t the only out queer person on staff at this university.”
Every time this school wants LGBTQ staff representation on some committee or a limited program, they ask Gerald. He told me this when we were sitting in the van together, waiting for the group to finish its volunteer task for the day. Despite the fact that he’s exhausted by these duties, and that other queer staff would love to be offered such opportunities, the phenomenon persists.
I’m not sure where (if?) this gig was advertised, but it bears mentioning that my job includes maintaining the university events listserv. As for marketing to the queer community here, Gerald and I recently formed an LGBTQ staff social group that has had one event so far. It follows that I should have been among the first people to hear of the need for staff to attend a queer spring break trip.
So why hadn’t I?
It’s not Eric’s fault; this has been going on for years. I’ve seen people at posts higher than his show little care for DEI beyond tokenism. It’s easier for them to find one person who fits the bill and keep riding that wagon until the wheels fall off. And what does “fitting the bill” constitute? I don’t believe it’s by chance that Gerald is gay, white, and mildly effeminate—that is, enough to be clocked as gay but not overly so.
There’s one more factor…and this is where I get irked. It’s the implication that the reason some university employees don’t know I’m bi is because I don’t want them to. I have always been out at work, threading the needle by proactively revealing my sexual orientation but not discussing sex in the office. It’s an effort.
Let me be clear: passing is an intentional act, and implying in word or in deed that I am passing is an accusation that I am misrepresenting myself. There is no such thing as “passing privilege” among out bisexuals. I am not benefitting from being excluded from the queer community against my will.
When people describe bisexuals as passing, what they’re really describing is being closeted. I’ve been out as bisexual since I was 18, and I’m in my 40s; my work with the queer community has been on my resume for my entire adult life. Five months prior to spring break, I self-published a book on bisexuality, copies of which could be seen in my office. I literally wrote the book on bisexuality. And I’ll tell anyone who will listen.
Isn’t the problem that these folks have no idea what bisexuality looks like, and aren’t looking for us anyway? To paraphrase bicon Desiree Akhavan in the video series The Slope, “You’re trying to make me feel bad because you don’t think I’m as gay as [Gerald]. And it really hurts my feelings that you’re saying this because how much gayer can I get?”
Here’s some hard-won wisdom that I am pleased to offer: when people “in” you at the office—the opposite of “outing” someone—that is their failing, not yours. Coworkers who assume I’m straight despite all signs to the contrary are fooling themselves. I don’t have to do anything to fix it; in fact, I can’t, because it’s about them.
Around this time, I’m at another meeting on the working board of a grant-making foundation. It is important for us to know that our grant recipients have a staff/board that mirrors the demographics of those most affected by their issue. We ask that each applicant list the numbers of those involved by race, age, gender, and sexuality.
I remark that as far as sexuality and gender identity goes, maybe the applicant does have queer folks on their staff/board but they are not out. A fellow board member replies that that also indicates a failure of the organization. After all, maybe the LGBTQ people there don’t feel like they can be out in
that environment. This is a thought-provoking answer to the question, “Why don’t I know who the queer people are in my
workplace?”
Another answer is that maybe they are out and you’re so oblivious to bi+ folks that you don’t see us.
Boston, U.S.-based Jen Bonardi is a frequent BWQ contributor and loves all things bi+.