my non-binary lesbian journey was a circle

when i was 10, i tweeted on a burner account that i was a lesbian. it took another twelve years before i finally believed myself.

in my youth, hang outs with girl friends quickly became hanging out with girlfriends. sneaking kisses in the backyard while our parents made us a snack. truth or dare–but always dare.

shame, however, quickly wrung its burly hands around my neck. so i started dating boys. that’s what i was groomed for. grown men in supermarkets would literally turn to my parents and say,

"she would be GREAT for my son." a son twice my age.

my family often talked about what type of mom i would be. type of wife. a mold was melded before i was born; i tried to make my family proud by fitting.

so bisexual was what i went with.

at least there was the possibility i could still fit my role as the nurturing latina caretaker with babies and a husband.

my first official date with a femme happened when i was in high school. i met her on Twitter because she went to a school near by. we decided to go see a movie. i don’t think we even kissed--maybe held hands? but i really liked her. she had an airy lightness to her that reminded me of a fairy. we ended things quickly, but she solidified what i already knew about myself.

a year later, a girl who looked like her messaged me on Instagram.

“hey,” she wrote.

this time, we did kiss--in a back stairwell. on one our first dates, we got pizza together. as we talked about our favorite foods, i looked up and saw my sister's boyfriend walk in.

"Jae! what’s up!?" he said.

my ears started to burn and my heart started beating faster. he knew.

"who's your friend?" he asked.

she quickly introduced herself and they laughed about something that escapes me. i breathed as i realized he had no idea. i was out at school, but not yet in my family.

that situationship ended within weeks, too. i heard something about how a myriad of guys had also received her “hey” on a messaging spree she went on to see who’d be interested. at the time, it made me feel like i was second best--just the first to bite.

shortly after her, i started dating a guy who had been into me. we were good friends, and i knew he liked me, so this was the next stage right? this was what was supposed to come next.

one night as we were texting he asked me,

do you still like girls?

no. i immediately responded. that was just a phase.

i became angry with him for even asking. defenses ran high. a part of me knew the truth, but here were the pieces for the mold i was given, so i felt like i had to make them fit.

but talking to him felt like watching paint dry. his hands were too sweaty in the movie theaters and he kissed with too much teeth. after a week or two of dating, he put my name in his Instagram bio and i immediately broke it off. something about him publicly announcing us “dating” made me nauseous.

he was so hurt, he moved his seat in our stats class to the other side of the room.

i reaccepted my identity as bisexual shortly after. but it was hard dating femmes in Newburgh. queerness wasn’t as acceptable at the time.

when people learned about my sexuality, they changed in the bathroom instead of the locker room. i was called the f word repeatedly.

rumors spread i was dating my straight best friend because we spent a lot of time together. another straight friend one day asked,

"so Jae, are you attracted to me?"

with a deadpan expression, i said "no."

her eyes became wide and her brows furrowed.

"well, w-what do you mean? you're bisexual right?"

"yeah, that doesn't mean I'm automatically attracted to every girl."

"but, i'm not every girl."

"sure, but you're not my type."

she rolled her eyes and walked away.

soon, i would get into NYU with a full ride. as i celebrated the huge accomplishment considering how little of my family has gone to college, a peer told me to,

"be careful. NYU might turn you into a gay liberal."

little did he know...

within my first few weeks of the semester though, i entered a shitty situationship with another guy. one so shitty i don’t care to write much about. but it highlighted the worst parts of myself. i don’t know if i developed an anxious attachment style as a result of it, or if i already had one and he exasperated it, but getting told,

“there’s a line of girls waiting to come over if you don’t get here fast enough Jae,” certainly didn’t help.

being made to feel replaceable, like a trophy only taken off the shelf to be shown to his friends, and having my sexual boundaries crossed repeatedly only deepened my internal belief that i was pretty much worthless.

i often think of the time in middle school when i was being bullied on the bus. the days i sat with my friend Devon, the bullying lessened. one day, the worst bully said to me,

“look, if you were Devon’s girl i wouldn’t mess with you so much.” he looked to Devon for confirmation. Devon’s head shook, so the ruthless bullying persisted.

i learned early on that my only value could be found in my proximity to a man.

so i was miserable whenever i was alone. if i wasn’t spending my time with another person, then what the fuck was i doing?

but when i saw the guy i was seeing sneak a girl into his dorm, and i realized his roommates had asked me to grab dinner to distract me from catching him, i ended it.

i was in shambles, crying in stairwells and succumbing to the waves of depression. but i could see how i was mirroring my mother and sister’s abusive relationships. i had to be the one to break the cycle. so i took a year off from dating. i started going to punk shows alone. explored museums, wrote in cafes. and as i entered this explorative, creative, healing state, i came back to my queerness.

my first NYC pride happened that year. i was an RA at a building on 5th Ave so i had a great view of the colorful parade. i danced in the streets, sang karaoke standing on a bar stool, and kissed a ginger.

it was the next day that i came out as a lesbian for the second time. i went on more tinder dates. started seeing a femme for a minute until she ghosted me. i also began exploring androgyny. when i mentioned wanting to get an undercut to a friend, she said,

“but that’s just not your style.”

the next day, i let one of the RA’s shave the bottom half of my head.

i studied abroad in Spain the following spring where i was lucky enough to be living in Chueca, commonly referred to as “the gayest city in all of Madrid.”

there, i shaved the side of my head. spun around clubs with girls i lost my nose rings to kissing. the mother of voguing hit on me. i felt free. i felt home.

it was in Spain where i first realized i might be non-binary.

it was a meme actually that did it. my friend, who was non-binary themself, showed it to me as we rode the metro one night. the image depicted an alien ironing a femme human suit. my stomach dropped.

i started reflecting on the fact that my feet were aching because i only packed heels to go to spain. everyday i put on my lipstick, hoops, and pencil skirt and yet i still felt naked.

as i played with she/they pronouns, i found my first queer love. she was so gentle and sweet. showed me what radical softness could look like in a way i’d never experienced before. she was brilliant, creative, understanding. an abolitionist.

she initiated our first hang out. took me through El Retiro, which became my version of Washington Square Park. then we got arepas.

“the white students are having such a good time here, meanwhile, Jalen and i got accused of stealing the other night in the club. he was the only Black person there... sometimes, i just feel like none of this matters. the world is burning… and we’re debating which bar to go to?” i said, exasperated.

“i feel exactly the same. it’s a hard balance doing the work though and still finding time for the the things we enjoy. that too, is an act of resistance,” she said.

i smiled and took another bite. the conversation shifted to Valentine’s Day which was quickly approaching.

“i never liked Valentine's Day growing up,” she paused, “ i was one of the only Black girls in my school and no one really found me attractive. so i never got the candy. no one asked me to be their Valentine.”

after we departed, i ran to a convenience store and bought her Kitkats and sour Spanish candy. i gave it to her at the beginning of our class the next day.

"i know you said no one ever got you candy for Valentines Day growing up, so i wanted to change that," i handed it to her.

her eyes immediately began to tear. "this is so sweet, t-thank you."

looking around the room, she nervously laughed. "hey, do you want some candy too? this was so sweet. look what Jae got me!" she handed it out. she didn’t realize that as much as i wanted to help heal that childhood wound for her, i also wanted her to actually be my Valentine. i quickly learned she identified as straight.

and then the pandemic hit. once again, i was left without a home. NYU closed their dorms so i lived in: the half of a room i shared with my titi in my cousin’s basement Bronx apartment, then my "best friend’s" air mattress upstate, my uncle's spare room who took me in when i was sixteen because home was no longer safe, and finally my predatory boss at the time, Madison Campbell's, AirBNB paid for by her boyfriend, Alexander Campbell.

when i was staying with my “best friend,” she became upset when i told her i unfollowed her friend, Liz, because she said gay people are going to hell. my "best friend" said it would make her birthdays uncomfortable in the future because she would want both of us there. my boundary regarding my life was an inconvenience for her.

while i was at my uncle’s i had a breakdown. i publicly called out one of the guys who had sexually assaulted me at NYU, Anthony Dowsett, and was brutally gaslighted.

like myyyyy bad, i didn’t realize having two moms and a sister makes you incapable of taking advantage of people sexually.

over seven femmes would later reach out and say they had similar experiences with him.

i was all alone upstate with no car and no community. i felt so out of control of my own body. and even more out of control being perceived as a woman. so i cut all my hair off. i stopped wearing makeup. went to Kohls and shopped in the men’s section. my uncle joked about my rage. wrote poetry in the book he asked me to help publish where he described my anger as a violent hurricane.

one day, i threw a glass down the stairs and stared at the shards, wondering how it would feel to slice them across my wrist.

i journaled this the following day:

i need to go. i need to get out. i gently slid glass across my wrist yesterday. i wanted to draw blood. i wanted to bleed. it was a piece of the broken glass that i had thrown down the stairs. i felt so satisfied hearing it shatter. shatter. shatter. like me. i am fucking shattered. everyday i put on my makeup and my wig and my cute outfit and i make it seem like i am so fucking happy and bubbly and put together but god damn i am in fucking pain and i looked at my uncle’s sword and i thought about what it would feel like to drive it through my stomach.

to fall on to my knees, and then the floor. to feel the cold from the tiles shoot up my body. the floor around me turns red. red like my jumper and my lips and my nails. it turns red. it turns red. i stare up at the ceiling until i am dead. my uncle finds me. he collapses to the ground. he blames himself. what could i have done better? he asks. how could i have saved her. her.

self-harm was a toxic habit i'd developed to cope from my mother's abandonment and father's abuse when i was younger; i stopped after my dad died. but as i stood at the top of the stairs, missing the feeling of drawing blood, i knew i needed to leave. so when Madison offered for me to stay with her in California and pay for my flight, i went.

while i was there, her boyfriend repeatedly told me she was allowed to sleep with girls. at this point, i had already come out as non-binary so not only did they still view me as a girl, but they viewed having sex with a femme as less valid than having sex with a man. she also took photos of me in lingerie that she kept on her phone for years after. i was nineteen.

and it was on that trip that i gave into my perceived attraction to men and had sex again. i wore purple hickies on my neck for days after from a man i had only known previously online. maybe i really am just bisexual, i thought.

NYU’s doors eventually reopened. so, after weeks of sexual innuendos from Madison and Alex, i returned to the city.

the day after i finished my mandated quarantine, i was sexually assaulted again; this time– by a very good friend.

i had been dating a femme who was so lovely, but it became too intense in the aftermath. one day as we sat at dinner, she told me about a song she had been writing.

flashbacks of the assault played on a loop in my head. my heart raced and i considered texting a friend to call about a fake emergency so i could have an excuse to leave.

"hey, you good?" she asked.

i sat up straight and laughed awkwardly.

"yes," i nodded my head fervently. "i'm great."

i went to my friend's apartment and cried after. i was barely holding my seams together and i didn't want her to get hurt when i eventually combusted.

to implode or explode, that was the question.

so i ended it. had two meaningless tinder hookups– one i ended early because i found out the guy was a 23 year old virgin.

shortly after, i started protesting regularly since George Floyd had been murdered. for an entire year, i marched with the Stonewall Protests. i dressed in drag and danced in the sacred circles we would open up at four way intersections that our bikers blocked off. we walked categories at our makeshift balls as we held space. Black queer joy as a form of resistance.

one of the protests i went to was on December 12th, 2021. it was being held in solidarity with ICE detainees that were being abused in Bergen County. as we marched, a white supremacist, Kathleen Casillo, drove her car through the protest hitting over seven people.

thankfully, no one died. but as we tended to our wounded comrades, police began to harass and arrest us. at one point, i saw an officer try to grab a tall, Black masc person they were arguing with. without thinking, i threw myself in between them, arms spread wide.

"ENOUGH! we were just fucking harmed! do you understand? she hurt US! and we're the ones being arrested!?" i screamed.

my friend, Maddy, held my outstretched hand as i prepared to be arrested next. the police officer looked me in the eyes, then backed up. him and the other pigs formed a barricade around our friends.

after the ambulances came and everyone had been taken to the hospital, i saw the person i had thrown myself in front of talking to Maddy. i walked over.

“my bike got fucked up, but thankfully i didn’t,” Maddy said.

"sana sana colita de rana" i said as i rubbed the bike. the person smiled.

"you're Dominican?" they asked.

i shook my head. "Puerto Rican." they smiled. we dated for two years after that.

i thought they were perfect. masc, but non-binary. a passionate artist and abolitionist. but even abandoning the notion of gender proved to not be enough for what i actually wanted. actually needed.

and the girl from Spain still held so much real estate in my brain. months after the pandemic sent us home, she came out as queer and started using she/they pronouns. our story became a long, drawn out one. she was in a relationship, then i was, and then my non-binary relationship opened. she lived in several states and countries throughout the years, but we still always found each other.

i attended NYC pride with her weeks before i moved to California after graduation. we grabbed Ethiopian food, and then went to a club where we sat on a stoop waiting for their friends to arrive.

as queer people came in waves waiting on the line to go in, we talked about life, art, their grief from losing their queer grandmother, how they wanted to tell her about me. i hugged them as we cried. i didn’t end up going into the club that night, but as we hugged goodbye in front of their friends who finally arrived, they whispered into my ear,

"i'm still in love with you."

i asked them to go on our first official date when i was scheduled to fly back to New York for work two months later. but days before my flight, Exene Avril, a good friend of mine, died of suicide. i became a shell of a person. we still went on the date though. had dinner as soon as i landed, went to the museum of sex, and stayed in a hotel where we spent the night holding each other. they knew i couldn’t show up fully, so they didn’t pressure me.

months later, i returned to New York again for a comedy show the nonprofit i cofounded in Exene's honor was having. as i checked people in at the front door, she walked in. i was completely shocked. she wasn't even living in New York anymore. she had flown in to surprise me. i spent the entire night glancing at them in the corner. smiling from the warmth.

the next day, we grabbed Cuban food and caught up. went to a jazz club where we were the only visibly queer people of color. for the last song, the lead cellist said,

"if this song doesn't end with everyone smooching, i'm doing something wrong. grab your special someone!"

i wrapped my around them. the white people stared. we didn't care.

later, we talked about growing old in Puerto Rico together as we sipped drinks with non-binary names in Henrietta’s.

there were so many moments i wanted to kiss her, but anxiety continued to creep in. as we stood on the street corner waiting for our taxi to arrive, i said,

"i can't let this night end without asking if i can kiss you. can i kiss you?"

they smiled, almost with shock and nodded. i pulled her in and we kissed a passionate, dizzying kiss.

“well, i can check that off my bucket list!” she laughed and grabbed my hand as we entered the taxi.

i’ve done lots of things with femmes and dated here and there, but i had yet to experience what i felt with her.

she ended up moving out of the country permanently months later, but the truth of what i needed became clearer and clearer. i downloaded Bumble, and swiped pretty mindlessly. i came across one person though, who brought me back to the present.

she/they. indigenous. concert goer. tattoos & piercings. and energy i could feel through the screen.

i swiped and we matched, but because of non-binary oppression, i wasn't able to message her first. the match expired, but i felt too drawn to them. so i deleted my profile, started again, selected "woman," as my gender, and swiped 'til they reappeared. and thankfully, they did. we matched, i messaged and we met.

after a pho date, a night grinding in weho, and playing at the arcade after chatting about what happens when we die in a speakeasy, we finally had sex. i broke up with my masc non-binary partner the next day.

because i realized the only way i could climax with a masc person was by visualizing violent sex scenarios in my head. torturing myself with the things that had happened to me while i received penetration i never enjoyed.

with femmes on the other hand, i get to actually be present. when i'm with the person i’ve been dating since, i feel like every inch of my body is on fire in the most beautiful way. each time, i let it swallow and am reborn. growing and changing into closer and closer versions of myself.

i feel so free walking down the street holding her hand. pillow talking with their dog in between us. finger painting in the park. discussing love languages and how we can meet each others. being with them feels like a coming home.

and androgyny still feels good for me. i know my soul has no gender, but femininity is where i lean; i’ve learned to accept that, too.

people often say queer people are just confused. what was confusing to me, was being raised straight when i knew at age 10 that i wasn’t. what was confusing was being jammed into a mold i broke pieces of my body to fit. my mom and brother telling me i would go to hell for being gay. my sister converting to christianity and telling me the same.

my “confusion” was NEVER in my attraction to femmes. it was always in my perceived attraction to men. that, is what i had to figure out. that, is what i had to unlearn.

the best way i can explain it, which most BIPOC individuals will understand, is that a lot of us go through a phase when we’re younger where we almost exclusively are attracted to and date white people. and a big part of that has to do with the standard of beauty we are taught by society and the media. but as we grow older, we often expand our palettes. and maybe white people stay on them, but they aren’t the only ones we are attracted to. and maybe we lose attraction to them altogether.

as much as i could have sex with masculine people, date them, be in a two year long relationship with them, i could never achieve the sacred intimacy i’ve known from sapphic love. when i imaged what the end of my life looked like, it was always a femme who i saw growing old at my side. i often tried to adjust these visions to include masculine people, but it was like trying to re-code a permanent dream. any time i attempted to build it, it’d rip apart at the seams.

so i've abandoned the adjusting to paint my own sunsets now. here’s to being queer as fuck.