I am black. I use the less politically correct form of classification because it doesn’t imply that all of my ancestry goes back to Africa like African-American does. I also prefer the former label, because my more recent ancestry as a first-generation American comes from the Caribbean, not the United States. There are similarities beyond having slaves as ancestors between those identifying as black in the Caribbean and those in the United States; however, the differences are also substantial. Growing up, I had to accept that my life and upbringing would differ from what my white and black American friends would experience.

There is another major identity category to which I belong: gay. This category is much less visible than my race, unless you subscribe to various stereotypes about how gay men act, walk, talk or dress. When I understood and finally began to accept my sexuality around age 14 or 15, I began to understand that like my Afro-Caribbean heritage, this part of me would cause my life to be different than the majority of Americans.

There is not a day that passes that I am unaware of my sexuality or my race. I often find myself debating which facet of my identity will cause me the most difficulty over the course of my life.

Some days, I feel that it is my race because of its visibility. Others, I concede that many of the Americans who view discrimination based on race as wrong do not extend that consideration to sexuality; however, sexuality is something that one can mask if necessary or desired. I do feel more of a connection to my racial identity, but I feel that this comes about because I have accepted this facet of myself since birth whereas I have only accepted my sexuality during the past seven years.

Despite understanding how my race and sexuality can both hinder my progress because of others’ prejudices, I never dream about being different. I am the type of person who enjoys being different from those around me. A friend of mine once remarked, “Bernard, I can tell you like being that rare mix of things – it makes you unique.” He was correct – I do relish having these two varied identities. They are different from “normal” in America (white and heterosexual), and often there is a rift even between my own identities. Afro-Caribbean culture is very macho like Latino culture and similarly homophobic. However, I make my best efforts to reconcile any conflict present because I refuse to ignore either portion of my identity.
 

Although I have been labeled deaf all my life – being born profoundly deaf can do that to you – the gay label didn’t arrive until much later. As I grew older, I realized that I was somehow different from other people, both hearing and deaf, but I didn’t know exactly what that difference could be.

It wasn’t until after high school that I officially came out to everyone. It was a liberating rush in many ways. On the whole, people were accepting and not surprised at all – which was kind of an anticlimax. It’s a bit disappointing when you realize that everybody else had gotten the memo a long time before you.

The deaf community is accepting of LGBTIQ people because many members know what it’s like to experience alienation. Historically, the deaf community has rallied around people who need support. Every group has its bad apples, of course, and the deaf community is no exception. We have our own gay bashers and overzealous people who try to “convert” members of the LGBTIQ community to heterosexuality. Deaf people as a whole tend to be very accepting. Many of us are also very blunt and will tell you exactly what we think. It’s almost a given that nobody stays in the closet for long in the deaf community.

My experience as being deaf in the hearing gay culture has been quite interesting. Some people think deafness is such a novelty – sometimes I feel like I’m a zoo animal. I would make jokes with my friends about how I’m quite safe to pet, I’ve had my shots and I don’t bite. Usually it’s just, “Oh cool, so you’re deaf.” Most of the time, people outside the deaf community are friendly, but there is sometimes a sense of a barrier between myself and them. They perceive that since I can’t hear like they do, I must be missing some crucial component required for communication. I don’t always take it personally, but it is sometimes hard not to.

It’s really important to have a sense of humor – it does an amazing job of making things easier. If I strike up a friendship online and haven’t yet met him or her in person, I inform them in advance that I’m deaf because, well, that’s the truth. I can’t change that part of me and if hearing people have issues about it – it’s not my problem.

I feel very welcome in the gay community and I love it here. I’ve never felt ostracized for being gay. I’m fortunate to have wonderful parents and many great friends.
 

It was after my parents had their third child that they thought they might be bisexual. When I was about six years old, my dad divorced my mom. He moved into an apartment where he later introduced me to “C.” A year later, my dad bought a house and C moved in with him – it was done. This was just the way things were, and it was all right. Like my dad, my mom never told me outright that she was a lesbian until I was in high school.

In second grade, I experienced the first and only major ridicule that I would ever experience because of my parents’ sexuality. At that time, I played on a recreational soccer team. One afternoon I invited my teammate into my dad’s house. My dad’s then-partner, “J,” had hung pictures of himself wearing only a tool belt and standing next to my dad. My teammate saw the pictures and said, “I’m going to tell everyone at school your dad is gay!” After that, I was uncomfortable telling anyone my parents were LGBTIQ until I began my high school career, when I became more confident.

I’ve always felt more comfortable with my mother’s sexuality than my father’s. He’s much more open and fiery, with a huge gay pride flag hanging from the house and bumper stickers involving bears (gay males, often older and hairy). Hanging on the wall of his bedroom was a picture of a full-bearded, hairy man, spread-eagle. He also had a Greek statue of two brawny men grappling naked – one gripping the other’s penis. Graphic would be an understatement. They were both really inappropriate to have in a house with children. When I was twelve, I became so uncomfortable that I stopped going there entirely for about four months.

Even talking about partners, though, I’ve always felt more at ease at my mom’s house. My dad’s partner, C, was an alcoholic and later had problems with cocaine (though this happened after they broke up). My mother’s former partner, “L.A.,” was one of the greatest people I’ve ever known – loving, respectful, intelligent and deep. She connected to my mother on a profound level. Sadly, L.A. passed away in late 2001.

I think there are definite advantages to having untraditional parents. For one, I’m especially comfortable around LGBTIQ couples and very tolerant in general. Having LGBTIQ parents has also moved me to scrutinize myself, both because my horizon concerning sexual orientation was broadened and because some people believe that a genetic link exists between LGBTIQ parents and their children. What I’ve found is that I have no reservations about being straight myself, but I would have them about being gay. This could be because I’m straight, although I do sometimes wonder, because it was 35 years before my parents knew of their own sexual identities. The difference is that they were raised in households where being LGBTIQ wasn’t an option; in mine, it definitely is. I think the luckiest thing is that I know that because of my parents’ experiences, they’ll be happy for me no matter what life path I choose – a very comforting thought.
 

Early in my life I developed a stringent hate for the person I feared myself to be. Throughout grade school I felt a constant unrest within my mind and my heart – I believed my soul was tarnished, and I prayed everyday for God to lead me back to the path of salvation. Catholicism taught me to repent my evil thoughts so that I could be forgiven. I found myself in confession so often and for the same reason that I feared my religious leaders were tiring of forgiving me for the unrelenting thoughts consuming every facet of my emotions. My environment had and continued to condition me to believe my thoughts about other boys to be moral abominations. It was not until I was released from that oppressive environment that I was able to begin the long process of accepting myself and developing the self-confidence that I had previously lacked.

During my years of self-hatred so many aspects of my life were affected. I developed defenses – mistrust for others and a façade of happiness that allowed me to function in a society that continued to tell me I was despicable and that I could make those “horrid feelings” go away if I were diligent enough. To the outside world I was a bright, athletic, popular, friendly, happy and all-around good Christian boy. Inside I loathed every minute in which I had to continue to act as the person I knew everyone wanted me to be. I was deeply depressed and unable to feel even a semblance of comfort in social settings. Eventually, I became a hollow shell of the person I knew was the real me, not allowing anyone into my heart in any genuine way. My self-hatred of so many years left me with an anxiety disorder and difficulties trusting the intentions of my peers. I still struggle with inner demons, but the first step in overcoming them was ending the cycle of self-loathing.
 

In a culture that predominately assumes that everyone is straight, being attracted to someone of the same gender can produce both external and internal conflicts. However, LGBTIQ culture is not free from similar presumptuousness. I didn’t truly realize the problem in others or myself until I started dating my first girlfriend.

When I first confided to my friends, both gay and straight, that I was dating a girl, many were perplexed.

“So what are you?” one friend demanded. Seeing that I had already told her that I was bisexual, I was surprised by her reaction. “Oh I know, but I was so sure you were just gay,” she replied when I reminded her yet again that I was bisexual.

It turns out that she wasn’t alone – numerous other friends, my therapist and even my girlfriend thought that I was gay. At the beginning of the fall semester, I went to the first GLBT-SA meeting with my girlfriend. After the meeting, a new acquaintance asked of my girlfriend and me, “So, are you two best friends from high school or what?”

The next week, I went to another GLBT-SA function, this time alone. After the first incident, I was nervous to reveal to anyone that I was dating a girl. My fears were realized when we started generating ideas for queer activism on campus. Someone suggested we stand in the Pit and make fun of straight couples.

“How do you know they’re both straight?” I thought. I hate when people assume I’m straight. And just like most heterosexuals, I hate it when people assume I’m gay. Bottom line: people hate assumptions.

I have been an extremely active member of the GLBT-SA this year and people that unintentionally offended me are now wonderful friends of mine, as are the numerous other people who assumed I was gay for so long. My friends don’t resent me for being bisexual – it’s just that the lines between straight and gay are so rigidly drawn that people have trouble understanding and remembering the existence of a middle ground.

I never really understood my own presumptuous attitude until I started dating my girlfriend. When I was secretly dating other boys during high school, I recoiled whenever I saw straight people kissing and holding hands in public. Now that I have the privilege to show public affection to the one I love without fear of ridicule, not much has really changed. I still automatically sneer at people I assume to be heterosexual for their ignorance of this privilige. But I have no way of knowing if they are actually straight. I can’t count the times I have seen a cute guy and frowned when he takes the hand of a girl – I assume he is straight. You’d think I of all people would know not to assume such things but I’m just as guilty as the friends who assumed I was gay.

My relationship with my parents has drastically improved since I started dating my girlfriend. I can take my girlfriend on family outings and I no longer have to lie about where I’m going on a Saturday night.

I spent my high school days hiding my relationships and sexual feelings. I flinched every time someone assumed I was heterosexual. I hoped that when I finally got to college that I would no longer have that problem; yet I am still a victim of compulsive heterosexuality, in both the LGBTIQ and straight communities. If you don’t want others to assume your sexual orientation, the first step is to stop making assumptions of others. I had to learn the hard way.