coming of age: Newfound Nonbinary Lesbian

My coming-of-age story has been quite the journey and (honestly) hadn’t been solidified until my mid-twenties. I had always considered myself a late bloomer until I realized I was queer and didn’t have the accurate guidance and support I needed to accept and love my sexuality. Navigating the world as a newfound nonbinary lesbian has been a liberating experience. Finally, it feels like coming home to myself. “How do we bring attention to these issues? How do we do so in ways that will actually be heard? How do we find the necessary language for talking about the inequalities and injustices women face, both great and small? As I’ve gotten older, feminism has answered these questions, at least in part.” (Gay 6) I come from an extremely loving and understanding family, so coming out as gay has never been a concern of mine.

One of my youngest siblings is also queer and has known about their sexuality since they were younger. However, in my family’s eyes, only one of us “seemed” to be gay. And that assumption stemmed from my sibling taking an interest in activities that aren’t gendered towards a female assigned at birth. They gave off stereotypical tomboy vibes, so my parents figured that they would be the (only) sibling to identify as lesbian. As for me, I had been pushed into a box. Everyone impressed the idea upon me that I would be cis-hetero. That I had to like the color pink and that I would have crushes on boys, which was far from the truth.

​When I was about eleven years old, my mom read a book to me about sex. It had been the first time I had ever heard of the act, and I felt like the entire time she kept reiterating to me that I shouldn’t have sex unless I am ready to have children. Taking in all of this information was a bit much for eleven-year-old me. I had so many questions that I didn’t feel comfortable enough to ask. Plus, all of the information that I consumed about sex was less about being informative and more about scaring the youth. “As we get older, we know more and more about our inner self, which includes what we call gender. Gender is a part of our connection to nature. In a sense, it is how nature connects to our hearts and dances through our bodies.” (Gonzalez 23) At this age, I had already been self-exploring, and out of shame, I decided to shove down any feelings I had about sex and sexuality altogether. 

​Growing up a dancer made unpacking all of this extremely challenging. I didn’t realize this at the time, but I often found myself feeling uneasy around my dance friends the majority of the time. I had always felt like I never fit in. Not only was I queer and unaware, but I was also always the only Black Latinx person in a sea of white girls. I never wanted to trade my skin color for theirs, but I couldn’t help but find myself attracted to them. I thought they were pretty. I loved their skin and the color of their eyes. And these thoughts made me feel uneasy because I had no idea what they meant. I’d often confuse these feelings with us just being super close. I figured that it was because I admired them and had always been told that assimilating to whiteness was the ideal beauty standard. “In high school, I marveled at how white women strutted around the locker room, nude as pearls, as unashamed of their brilliant bodies as the Nike of Samothrace. Maybe they were hiding terrible secrets like bulimia or anorexia, but to my naive eye then, I thought of them as women comfortable in their skin.” (Cisneros 1) There were a lot of components that contributed to my truth getting lost in translation. It hadn’t dawned on me that dance was a pivotal part of my quest to come into my sexuality. 

​Dance culture also explores the body a great deal. I was always having to quickly change costumes in front of other girls. While all the other girls felt normal, I was always left crawling in my skin. I feel like dance has helped me cultivate positive ideas about my body, which I am thankful for. However, I feel like I’ve been conditioned to believe that hyper-sexualizing my body was normal. Wearing bras and booty shorts as costumes at the ripe age of nine years old. And even being subjected to wearing thongs. “As she untangles, she calls for Papi/Amor! Come see how well this bra fits Celi!/She shakes her head like she doesn’t believe it/It’s amazing, just look at this muchachita, está floreciendo/I hear Juju’s and Papi’s steps approach/their footfalls, a growing, heated/pounding in my head/I contort into a pretzel/inside that shrinking closet/Mima! No!/Quieta, there’s nothing to be ashamed of,” (Salazar 17). Not only did I have no agency over who got to see my body or what articles of clothing made me feel out of my body at a young age, but I felt embarrassed about changing around other girls because I was gay. And in moments like these, when I would have appreciated the privacy, I didn’t know it was something I could even ask for. 

​Fast forward to adulthood, and I am well-seasoned in my identity and queerness. It took the entire first half of my twenties to come to terms with the fact that I was never meant to be straight. It was never in my cards to abide by gender norms or to be stuck in a category. I kept finding myself trying to act out untraditional relationship dynamics with men who only saw me as female, as a woman. I had only ever been allowed to be feminine and to act one way. They hated that my hair was short and buzzed on the sides. I got tired of being scrutinized for not being a strong Black woman when I wasn’t feeling my best. I was always subjected to being a pillow princess, and I was shamed when I desired to have sex. I realized that I never (not once) enjoyed having sex with men and only did it because I thought it was what I was supposed to do. I hated having to be submissive. I didn’t like having my voice silenced. And most important of all, I was never valued as a human being, which I so desperately wanted. 

​After taking the time to unpack all of this in therapy, I have come to realize that my queerness has always been valid. It’s always been okay. Reflecting on my experiences, I know things would have been different had I also been given the space to explore my sexuality earlier on. This goes to show how crucial it is for the youth to have solid support and advocacy during their developmental years. I’ve learned that there is power in the way things are described and explained. Had the narrative I was given about sex been less of a scare tactic and more of a teaching moment, maybe I wouldn’t have been as scared to ask more questions about it. Perhaps, had I not been socialized to believe that I had to like boys, I would have accepted that I had the option to choose. I would have embraced my queerness sooner. Nonetheless, I am proud of the way my coming-of-age story has unfolded.

​I feel the most rooted in my identity, and I wouldn’t have gotten here had I done it any other way. Now, at last, let the adventures of the newfound nonbinary lesbian prevail.

Works Cited:

Salazar, Aida. The Moon Within. Scholastic Inc, 2020. 

Gonzalez, Maya Christina. The Gender Wheel. Reflection Press, 2018. 

Cisneros, Sandra. Guadalupe the Sex Goddess. 

Gay, Roxane. Bad Feminist.  2016.