Gay Survival
I think a lot about gayness and choice and survival. People don't choose to be gay, obviously. People are born a certain way and those base characteristics manifest over time and the soft animal of their body loves what it loves. There is literally no denying that basic fact and people have waxed poetic about this fact for decades, or made it into a gay anthem via Gaga. But I do want to ramble about the choices that I, as a gay person, have done to come out to myself, and hide at the same time.
I'll start first with maybe the worst moment I've experienced: coming out to my dad as bisexual. I was already nonbinary and medically transitioning during this time post-college, but I had also gone on a date or two with a guy in high school, so the gayness had sort of happened before any gender epiphanies. It made coming out to my mom and stepdad easy enough thought, since they reminded me that I told them I was going on a date with a guy in high school, and that coming out as bi like 5 years later wasn't groundbreaking news to them.
But for my dad, it was huge. I sat on a park bench in downtown Winter Park, FL, on the phone, and stumbled through explaining how I "liked both men and women." and he proceeded to have a screaming fit. Like nothing I had ever heard, but one I imagined in the back of my head as an anxiety-riddled worse-case. I might have remembered this level of yelling with him and my mom growing up, so I knew something had gone wrong. Even in this moment of having the bravery to come out was marked by me assuming that me being bisexual would be a softball to get him on board to telling him I'm also trans later, that I perceived bisexuality as a baby step to a bigger and seemingly harder thing to get him to accept. I mean in my head I figured his reaction would be "fine but marry a woman." or something I could work with, and not outright screaming and citing the quaran like a christian cherry-picking the bible. So this "softball" of a coming out ended up hitting like a brick to the face.
The thing that I remember so clearly in that moment of rejection, in being strong and vulnerable enough to admit a part of my identity to him, was that in that rejection, I could feel my brain walling up that part of myself, like the literal synapses responsible for me liking guys was shriveling up due to a lack of acceptance. It was weird, and kind of scary. Like my very DNA was being rewrote to fit in, some sort of primal survival instinct kicking in. I'm used to keeping up appearances to my dad's side of the family to not rock the boat, but I always assumed I could leave and decompress back to my own identity, but if the shame and rejection could actually force me to not wanna explore that part of myself, who is to say what is truly me and what is influenced by the current overton window of what is acceptable? Am I a coward, am I making an active choice to hide?
I think that feeling became more nuanced adding gender into the equation, but the same question still comes up: Am I presenting in a way that is right for me, or am I doing this for some sort of survival?
My recent outfits in Chicago have been based on the cold. Many layers, masked up, and hair hiding from the freezing snow in a hat or beanie. More or less an amorphous blob but one that people ascribe masculinity to. I think there's a dyke-ness to my outfits that wasn't there before I transitioned, which gives me some sense of pervasive womanly identity despite wearing these bulky outfits. Maybe when it's summer I can show off more of my curves I've been cultivating. But for literal survival, I dress warm and (seemingly) masculine.
Adding onto that, I also haven't ever come out to anyone at any jobs. I definitely didn't when I was nonbinary in Florida and don't really care to now that I'm working a work from home job. I think even in my voluntary paperwork I said I was nonbinary, again thinking there was somehow a softer version of being queer than getting someone to say She/Her. But I don't even have my camera on for the most part, so as long as they hear my voice they just assume male, and I don't correct them. "It's my worksona!" I tell myself. Maybe in an office I'd prefer the right pronouns, but for me at least the whole endeavor just seems like an exhausting chase for something that I'm not even sure if I want or need. Misgendering isn't gonna remove my long hair or C cup boobs or growing hips, and it's still a nice source of comfort to look at my 3 month supply of estrodiol pills on my desk while I'm at work.
Being outside is a different issue. I don't usually wear makeup, and I accept that my stubble and height and voice make strangers sir me or bossman me pretty consistently when I'm walking around Chicago. Shaving, wearing tighter clothes, wearing clear frames instead of turtleshells, and wearing my hair down all seem to be part of a magic trick to get gendered right, like some sorta nerdy girl into sexy woman cliche. But when I'm wearing more masculine clothes, or I haven't shaved recently, it doesn't work as well, which is fine because trans people will still lock onto my vibe and know that we're the same, so who care if a guy on the bus says sir? Sometimes it annoys me when they say it multiple times, like they're trying to convince themselves, or to hurt me, or both. And I can't (and shouldn't!) ask my gay friends if I "pass" because of course they see me as a woman, and of course I AM a woman.
I hate to admit my most genuine euphoria recently was when a girl I was introduced to at a party hugged me instead of giving me a handshake. Like WHY am I getting so bogged down by stupid shit like "is a handshake them gendering me wrong? Should I keep doing a limp-wristed handshake back to PROVE i'm at least a little faggy to them?" The desire for passing is a rabbit hole that has no end and can result in psychic damage. But it can also be for survival for some, and I understand some people's "stealth" means presenting as a cis woman, but I'm on the other side of that spectrum in passively pretending I'm a cis guy. If you squint I probably could still give it a good shot. I could tie my hair up, tape my tits back, monitor my laugh or reflexive little gasps when I drop something. But It can feel exhausting thinking about this, and I would prefer to not think about it, but because of how I grew up I cannot stop thinking about my appearances and how I come across, in all aspects of my life.
Currently, I'm growing out my beard (what I can grow on estrogen lol) to look more "manly" for my family. Recently, my grandma fell, and it was a fall intense enough to make my dad upset when I spoke to him. I wanted to be there for Eid this year, to see my Teta again before she passes, not that she's dying currently but I think the fall made me realize I should visit. And I still wanna see the rest of family despite their issues and dysfunction and pettiness that doesn't even fully have to do with their homophobia. I genuinely think that if I wasn't queer, part of my family would be still really annoying to be around at times. But, this desire to keep up with family is so culturally ingrained in me that my choice to still be with them seems common sense; that my hiding seems almost proud, as a thing I'm happy to disregard in favor of continued time with my family.
It would be some sort of cruel joke to me personally if western imperialism's homophobia imposed on palestinians caused my palestinian family to disown me, at a moment when palestine is being actively genocided by western imperialism. I mean I don't know when it started specifically, but I feel like any small gripes I had with random trans ppl I've encountered online or irl have kinda melted away, because at a time where Queerness is being attacked nationwide, shouldn't we band together no matter what? Stand side by side with people who'd we otherwise not hang with? Why can't my palestinian family feel the same, instead of ramping up their problems and secluding themselves further in the goals of public image? Is their pettiness also stemming from some inherited survival? That being a model in the community meant safety? I guess that's why I don't fault them as much for it anymore. There's a lot of things left unsaid in the family, and only passingly mentioned like how much the family fled wars and terror.
It's weird to have two different aspects of my life, of my identity, be so quickly rushed into full on genocide within a couple of years, while I'm still trying to understand my palestinian heritage, and my queer heritage, and especially my queer arab heritage, because queer arabs have always existed!! Even if people made a choice to not be as outward with it, therefore making my family assume that "no one was gay like that back home." No one chooses to be gay. The only choice is what I do with the revelation. And my choice is going on a train this Saturday to vist my family, and I'm planning on taping my tits up and growing out my facial hair and wearing my hair up.
There now exists such a strong urge to exist and continue existing amidst everything going on in the US and overseas. Survival is more crucial than being able to tell my family I'm queer, I've decided. If I can tell me and my chosen loved ones who I am and be accepted, then I can survive another period where I could maybe come out to more of my family (Or maybe accept I won't ever come out to them!)
Survival instincts do not mean my identity is shattered, but that I can choose who my loved ones are by who I share my identity with. I can let the soft animal of my body love what it loves, and can go easier on myself when that same soft animal does what it needs to protect itself.