Posted on 03/23/2017 6:46:46 AM PDT by pabianice
As a man, I want all the things that men are supposed to want. I want to be a gym-rat, eat steak for every meal, drink a raw egg, crack open a beer on a Sunday and watch the Patriots with my guy friends, etcetera, etcetera.
Except, I hate all the things that men are supposed want; all of them.
Growing up, I was always a little overweight. I’m pretty sure the last sport I played was tee-ball, which I quit before I even entered the second grade, and my middle and high-school careers were full of the arts and theater. My voice was high pitched, I sang in the school choir and nearly every single one of my friends were girls.
I remember in fifth grade, I invited all the “cool guys” over for my birthday party. You know, the coolest kids who played pee-wee football and farted on each other because they thought it was the funniest thing to have ever happened.
And even in high school, while my male classmates were hitting the gym, making the varsity sports teams or dating the prettiest girls in school, I was swimming in the pool with my t-shirt on.
My whole life I’ve felt like I’ve tried to fit into this mold of being a “typical guy,” even though I’ve never felt totally in-tune with my own masculinity or physical appearance. Shrouded in a storm of pubescent angst and confusion, I spent much of my childhood being angry because I just wasn’t “one of the guys.”
I remember always trying to speak in a lower tone of voice, avoiding saying “s” words because of my lisp and remaining explicitly aware of any flamboyant motions that I made with body. I consciously reminded myself not to move my wrists, cross my legs or do any other things men “didn’t usually do” out of fear that people would think I was, dare I say it, gay.
Because I’m not gay, I’m bisexual.
The other day I was having a conversation with a few people who I’ve known for a while, but was never super close with personally. We began speaking on the topic of relationships and heartburn immediately set in, as all I could think was, “just act straight.” But my plans were foiled when someone asked if I was gay.
The fear that I have always had of being perceived as gay is rooted in the systemic societal norms that label queerness as negative. No one ever makes fun of or accuses someone of being straight.
But it was within this fear that I saw the naïveté, the blatant insecurity and the unfairness to myself and others for being shameful for a piece of my identity that I did not choose or would ever want to change.
So when they asked, I responded, “I’m bisexual,” to which they responded, “I knew it.”
Why did they know it? What was wrong with me? How could I have hidden it better? I came out to a few of my friends and my then-girlfriend during the fall semester of my junior year, and they were all accepting and supportive of what I had shared.
But this felt different.
In this instance, I felt forced to share a piece of myself. A piece that is so personal, so important and so fundamental in how I act, what I wear, how I think, how I lead, how I work and how I build my relationships, that I felt it was all wrong.
I asked them, “How did you know?” to which they said, “I could just tell. I mean, do you see your hair in that picture?” as they pointed to a photo of myself from freshman year that was hanging on the wall.
I’m big enough to admit that the haircut was bad, but how was that one thing so representative of such a large piece of my identity? Most, if not all people have hair at some point in their life, so what made mine gay? Or bisexual? What makes anyone’s hair gay? Hair has no gender and no sexual orientation. As far as I know, it’s just keratin.
This incident was not meant to be hurtful, but I still walked away feeling hurt. “People are so sensitive nowadays,” they claimed. Was I being sensitive or a “snowflake?” I came to the conclusion that the answer, undoubtedly, was no.
For as long as I can remember, people have questioned my identity. The way I talked, with every pronunciation of a word beginning with an “s” slithering into their consciousness, planted some sort of seed of femininity into their perception of me. The way I dressed did the same, as my pants were supposedly too tight, even though the last time I checked those people weren’t the ones wearing, buying or feeling comfortable in them. The way I lead has also been questioned, because maybe if I had been taller with a deeper voice, and maybe if I wasn’t so “confrontational” or “pushy,” then I could lead how a man is supposed to lead.
To all this I have one thing to say: get over it, get over yourself and adjust.
No one has the right to police a piece of your identity, nevertheless call you out and plant a seed in your head, making you think that there is a single thing wrong with the way you are. We do not choose how we enter the earth. We do not choose our biological sex, our skin color, our eye color, our hair color, our gender, our sexuality, our economic status or our perception of what it means to be a man or woman.
But what we can choose is how we act, react and educate ourselves regarding issues such as identity. I label myself as bisexual because I feel the need to identify as something, but that by no means is to say that gender and sexuality should have limits, and they should certainly never have expectations.
So don’t believe for one second that you have to masquerade as something you’re not. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for who you are. How you choose to identify is your choice, and who you disclose that information to is your business.
And for those looking for a secret formula on what you need to do in order to guess or learn about someone’s identity, here it is: don’t be an asshole.
Robert Rigo is the Collegian Editor in Chief and can be reached at editor@dailycollegian.com.
With or without ketchup.
Toughen up buttercup.
I’m cooking a Cajun Chicken Sandwich for breakfast.
We do not choose our biological sex”
apparently now, in fact, we do. at least if you go tran.
I'm so sick of this. Queers should have stopped at "Stay out of my bedroom" - which I am more than happy to do, by the way.
But nooooo...
Sad man. Very unhappy person. As usual he blames his misery on others not himself.
And there you go, the template is set.
I would say he also needed a dad in his life which he did not have.
He has no idea what masculinity is so he thinks it is liking group sports and eating steak. If you don't care for those things you must not be a "man."
just reading this made me want to eat a raw beef plate just to cleanse myself
This clown will have a degree.
A degree on absolutely nothing.
It’s long past time to divorce the real university departments from the toy ones.
And we all know which ones are toy departments.
he sounds more try-sexual than bi-sexual...
as in, he’ll try anything to get him off...
deviant behavior looking for acceptance.
perhaps he should try a little more steak, than tube steak...
How about he responds that ‘I am a child of God, trying to figure out who He is calling me to be.”
The Gods of the Copybook Headings
AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.
We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “Stick to the Devil you know.”
On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “The Wages of Sin is Death.”
In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “If you don’t work you die.”
Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!
What a faggot....
When CWII gets hot this human is safe. He poses a threat to no one.
Pffft... fag.
Robert Rigo is the Collegian Editor in Chief
Me thinks that he has tasted penis and liked it. A lot!
Just like losing your virginity...
Editor In Chief...but such a poor writer that he invalidates his vast expanse of boilerplate with a simple-minded cliche and a vulgarity.
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