Pride | thesil.ca

I’ll admit that Hamilton’s Pride festivities have never been particularly impressive and I’d never been inclined to attend any before this year. But the quality of Pride celebrations in Hamilton this year pointed to the lackluster state of LGBTQ+ affairs in the city.

It’s understandable that Pride events in Hamilton gain less attention and have lower attendance than those in larger cities like Toronto, but for the city’s queer community, their existence is equally, if not more, important.

However, this year’s events were even more disheartening than usual. At the Pride flag raising event at City hall, a group of Hamilton queer activists left angered by the choice of speakers made by the LGBTQ+ advisory committee— all white, cisgender queer community members, as reported by the outlet Daily Xtra.

This is bad news for a city that has a human rights complaint underway about a case involving a trans woman being denied access to a women’s washroom by an HSR guard. On a larger scale, Hamilton also doesn’t have any functional services directed at meeting the needs of its LGBTQ+ community.

Two of the advisory committee members, Chris Erl, a recent McMaster graduate, and Marlon Picken apologized for the lack of diversity. Chris Erl also publicly announced his resignation from the committee in his response to activist Poe Liberado’s social media post regarding the controversy, and stated that the small size of the committee made it hard to ensure quality and due diligence.

Everything from the number of events, to the fact that many events were held by the Rainbow Health-funded initiative Space Between, to the quality and lack of diversity at the flag raising event, points to a city that is not taking the needs of its LGBTQ+ community and especially marginalized communities within that community (such as people of colour, with disabilities, indigenous people) as seriously as it should be.

Aside from the obvious appeal to social equality and dignity, this issue is important to Hamiltonians of all identities. Celebrating its marginalized communities and investing in service provision for LGBTQ+ people is paramount to Hamilton’s development, as well as its retention of graduating students like myself. I know that I would be more willing to stick around if Hamilton’s queer community was vibrant and its marginalized groups weren’t suffering. And I imagine I am not alone in holding this conviction.

Happy Pride, Hamilton! You’ve probably seen colourful posters all around the city that read “We Are Here,” and this month in Hamilton, that’s truer than ever. With some 40 or so events that ran on local partnerships and a zero dollar budget, this year’s Pride itinerary was arguably the most diverse and inclusive than it’s ever been.

Events ranged from the annual Pride flag raising, a dinner for newcomers and people of colour, to a panel discussion on the (in)visibility of disability. All in all, Hamilton Pride and everyone involved, including co-chairs Poe Liberado and Paul Hawkins, local businesses, and countless volunteers, have accomplished something that is no small feat, but humbling nonetheless as it recognized and created spaces for LGBTQ+ people from all walks of life.

At their surface, many Pride festivities in North America are heavily centered on white gay men, rather than the entire LGBTQ+ acronym. Of course, it goes without saying that for gay communities to be able to exist without any repercussions is extremely important, and we have come such a long way from the Stonewall Riots that started this movement 45 years ago considering we’re able to take our pride to the streets.

The importance of all that is completely unchallenged, and I personally love Pride celebrations, but what becomes of people who exist in the sidelines of an already marginalized community? For me and many that I have spoken to, attending events at Hamilton Pride served as a reminder that people have a multitude of intersecting identities, including their race, gender, age, ability, sexuality, class, and/or religion. Not only do these multidimensional identities need to be recognized, we need to accordingly re-evaluate how our events, initiatives, and spaces are beneficial to some, but also how they are harmful and isolating to others. The festivities evoked thoughtful conversations on anything and everything, including how Pride bar-culture excludes people with alcohol addiction, how Pride marches forget people with disability, or how white-dominance creates racist environments for LGBTQ+ people of colour. This is precisely why we need to also look at the bigger picture rather than ourselves as individuals, and sometimes just listen when someone tells us that our actions are hurting them and their community. Listen to the voices of people who have been here longer than us, or face oppression of a variety that we never have. Until we recognize that, it is impossible to understand each other’s struggles, our determination and achievements, the root of so many ideas and how we can unify through them. One of the most dangerous things is to forget the people who make it possible for us to simply exist today. We need to remember the history of where our communities have come from to understand where we are now.

These are not my ideas. There are all things many before me have said and raised concerns over countless times in the past. These are things that people from marginalized communities, including my own, that aren’t recognized until they’re voiced by someone with power. Pride festivals are fantastic because after so many years of oppression, we can finally celebrate who we are. But we mustn’t forget that being able to fill the streets with rainbows and glitter does not mean that the struggles of all LGBTQ+ people are over. As a minority, Hamilton Pride was able to evoke a sense of community that is integral to being seen for your entire self, whether you are genderqueer and poor, a transwoman with autism, or Pakistani and pansexual.

The festivities this year remind us that Pride is and should be so much more than parties, rainbows, loud sound systems, and an astronomical budget. It is a way to remember where we have come from, but not forget where we still have to go.

I recently reached out to an Albanian queer activist who has been at the forefront of the fight since its beginning in the late 2000’s.

I told her that I’d love to help, however I can, even though I know I can’t. I would help if I could, or at least I think I would. I really don’t know – I’ve never had to do what they do.

I left the country at the impressionable age of 13 and just in time. Knowing that I’ve left behind a culture so homophobic it didn’t even acknowledge the existence of queer people until last decade is, for the most part, confusing.

My memories of Albania aren’t tainted with homophobia, but my experiences with the Albanian community here are.

As someone living in the West, I’m often quick to judge other cultures for their discrimination or abuse of people in the queer community. Yet, my attitude towards this culture in my own country of origin remains ambiguous. There are times when I will call them out on their ignorance and times when I don’t have the heart to label my relatives as homophobic because of all the weight that this word carries for so many people.

I don’t imagine that I’m alone in this, and I know that there are people with greater conflicts than my theoretical dilemma.

Still, there is a sense of guilt that comes with celebrating World Pride in a country where I feel safe when I know what people are going through in a place so close to me.

Even as we celebrate here, I find myself confused about why and what we’re celebrating.

Queer issues in Canada have been normalized. The spokespeople for our community, predominantly middle-class people, are no longer treating it as a movement. Spending a few hours at Pride will give you the impression that there is no longer a fight for queer rights and we’re celebrating past victories. The largest queer event of the year is corporate-sponsored and corporate-censored serving mainly those who are financially able to participate.

Queer immigrants will often find themselves in these situations, faced with the reality of their home country and the normalized “movements” of their new one.

The choice is clear as one comes with safety and the other with fear, but being so connected to the struggles of your community in another country, with Pride comes a great deal of shame.

Whether the responsibility of creating an accepting society lies in the hands of the queer individuals is a theoretical question about oppressive societies and the duties of its individuals. But does someone who is no longer a member of this society have a responsibility to the people they’ve left behind? Will shaping the perspective of our immigrant communities in Canada affect the mindset back home or do we as queer diasporas have to abandon the hope that our actions here will have any positive impact on the people back “home”?

I’ve went through the last three Pride parades wondering how to reconcile life here and what could have been somewhere else. I don’t have all the answers – or any of them – and once again I’m here at the height of Pride celebrations in Toronto feeling the same uncomfortable sense of guilt.

I want to say that when I participate this year, I do it for all those who would never imagine being here, but I know that’s only a self-indulgent attitude and a way to rid myself of this guilt. And faced with it all, I can only hope that if I could help, I would.

Bahar Orang
ANDY Editor

I remember when I was sixteen years old, I heard “I Kissed a Girl” on the radio for the first time. As I danced around my room, I felt confused. Katy Perry sings, “I kissed a girl and I liked it, I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.” Katy’s voice was a little raspy, a little deep. It could potentially pass as a male’s voice. I tried to piece together this love triangle between the singer, the boyfriend, and the girl who had been kissed. I instinctively tried to neatly fit the song into a heteronormative storyline. I eventually gave up and thought, maybe I’m missing something. Maybe I’ve heard the lyrics wrong. Maybe it’s like that time I thought generic viagra cheap Wyclef was singing, “she make a man wanna see spandex” to Shakira, when he was actually singing, “she make a man wanna speak Spanish.”

Looking back now, well – what in the actual fuck? The fact that I had a very liberal family, that I was quite open-minded, that I hated when people said, “that’s so gay,” that I had gone to the Toronto pride parade since I was a little girl – none of this meant anything in that moment of truth when the song came on. I did not resist, nor was I even aware of, the sheer oppressiveness of heteronormative culture that still permeates pop music.

I can now recognize this grossly problematic oversight on my part, but I am no less confused about “I Kissed a Girl.”

On the one hand, it does offer something alternative to the love stories of mainstream music. Most of the he’s sing about the she’s and most of the she’s sing about the he’s. And even when people do covers of different songs, they’ll be thoroughly committed to every last note of the original song – except for those pesky pronouns. They’ll adjust them so that the he’s and the she’s still “match up.”

But the song describes an extremely sexualized encounter. It is sensual and erotic and focused entirely on her lips and her soft skin and her cherry chap stick. There is no depth, she even admits that she doesn’t know her name and it doesn’t even matter. She describes their kiss as wrong and naughty and dirty. Was this just Katy’s attempt to tantalize a male fantasy? Does this then just perpetuate the eroticization or exoticisation of queer relationships? Was it just an attention stunt on Katy’s part?

And yet – can we ignore or discount the broad and blurred spectrum of human sexuality? Maybe Katy simply does prefer a long-term relationship with her boyfriend, and just likes feeling up other girls. Should we deny her the right to feel this way and express this perspective? Is it helpful in a broader cultural context that eliminates, and subjugates queer identities? Or does the song just propagate stereotypes? And does it make any difference that the song is fun and catchy and I still like dancing around to it in my room?

And if we move away from the content of the lyrics – what about the singer? A white, presumably “straight,” Katy Perry playfully singing about a lesbian experience – is that okay?

And to that end – what position do I have in this discourse, as someone who has never kissed a girl – do I have any position at all?

This idea of who can speak for whom only gets more complicated as we move forwards a few years in the pop music timeline and think about Macklemore. I firmly believe that “Same Love” is a beautiful song and I find it more moving every time I listen to it, but it still begs the question: what does it mean to have three white people (Amy lambert, Macklemore, and Ryan Lewis) – two of whom are straight – be the voice and the rallying point of gay rights in hip-hop? Is it unfair that white people get mainstream recognition for talking about homophobia in hip-hop, when queer hip-hop artists of colour are routinely ignored? And all that being said, is it still nonetheless helpful that these ideas are actually present in the billboard charts?

Maybe all these things can be true at the same time. Maybe we can answer ‘yes’ to all these questions even when the answers directly contradict each other. Either way, I’m still waiting for a pop song that somehow manages to address all these issues.

I write this as a cisgender, heterosexual, white woman who has never known what it is like to face hate for what I look like, how I identify, and who I love. I acknowledge that I’m writing from a position of privilege, and do not claim to speak for or represent McMaster’s queer community.

Recently, I went to an LGBTQ+ focused event for the first time. Never before had I been in an environment where my sexuality was a minority, and where I couldn’t identify with the lived experience of most of the people in the room. I felt awkward about it. I was uncomfortable with occupying queer space. It reminded me that this, in the tiniest possible way, is the daily experience of marginalized queer folk. And I think being reminded of my own privilege in this way was a really healthy thing for a straight white girl.

Learning to be an ally to and within the queer community can start with being present and acknowledging and reflecting upon one’s own privileged awkwardness in order to show support and solidarity. And there’s no better week than next week to start that journey.

From Nov. 4-8, 2013, McMaster will be celebrating MacPride, the week-long celebration of the Mac LGBTQ+ and trans* community put on by the Queer Students Community Centre.

Major events include Tuesday’s MacPride March at 2 p.m. outside of Commons, Wednesday’s Steel Cut Queer Movie Night at The Factory Media Centre (228 James St. North) at 7 p.m., and Thursday’s Drag Show (time and place T.B.A.).

If you’re a tentative ally, know that you’re encouraged to participate. Anyone and everyone is welcome to attend. There are some things you can keep in mind over the course of next week (and beyond), though, in order to be a particularly effective ally.

Make a point to consistently check your privilege and be aware of the bias and perspective it gives you. Don’t try and speak for the community you’re advocating for; this week is about celebrating their voice, not yours. Own up to your mistakes as you make them, and don’t be defensive if others point out your shortcomings. Try your best to create community and support systems by speaking out against oppression when it’s the right time for that, but more often just being quiet and listening to oft-suppressed queer voices.

There’s even Ally Training happening on Wednesday at 1:30 p.m. in MUSC 213 (registration required) to aid in this process.

I am not trying to make Pride week about viagra pfizer canada allies. It’s not. It’s about celebrating the LGBTQ+ community at McMaster. Allies can be part of creating space and platforms for LGBTQ+ voices, but they’re not the focus and by outlining positive allyship I’m not trying to make them out to be.

I am by no means particularly good at being an ally. I don’t know that anyone would claim to be. Rather, I would say that I am constantly learning, trying, supporting, and growing. And really, that’s what I’m encouraging in others.

I’ll see you at the march.

By: SJ Jany

As you’re enjoying the festivities of MacPride this week, you might be wondering about the folks at Mac’s QSCC (Queer Students’ Community Centre) who’ve made it all happen. Look no further!

The official Mac queer and trans* community has its roots in the March 1973 founding of the McMaster Gay Liberation Movement (GLM), which held meetings on alternating Tuesdays as well as various social events (partially covered by an annual $4.00 membership fee) throughout the year. From these humble beginnings, the movement grew in size to encompass a community with a wide range of gender and sexual identities. It has also grown from bi-weekly meetings to a physical space, phoneline, Facebook page, Twitter feed, and more.

The QSCC today is a service of the McMaster Students Union for gender and sexual minority students. We have an office space on the second floor of the Students’ Centre with a hang-out area and a library of queer and trans*-related literature, movies, etc. Not to brag or anything, but it’s the largest (and, incidentally, only) such library in Hamilton!

In addition to providing a safe space for students, the QSCC works to advocate for gender and sexual minority students in the Mac community, organizes fun events and activities (like Gayzer tag, movie nights, intramural sports teams, and of course MacPride), and hosts weekly “Newcomers” meetings for students. There is always a volunteer (or volunteers) present at the front desk, so feel free to stop by, say hi, and peruse our extensive supply of informative leaflets.

By: SJ Jany

As we approach McMaster’s annual Pride Week (November 5th-9th), you might be curious about what you can do to show your love and support for your queer and trans* friends. Good intentions are half the battle: here are some pointers on the ways in which you can be an ally to this fabulous and diverse community.

Tip 1: The golden rule The absolute number one tip to keep in mind here is this: be nice. Seriously, it’s often that simple! It’s okay if you don’t know all of the lingo and the history and the bajillion fancy flags; if you try your hardest to be kind and respectful to the people around you, you can’t go too far wrong!

Tip 2: Don’t assume It’s very common to assume that everyone around us is heterosexual and cisgender, since that’s what we’ve been told for a very long time! Part of being an ally is refraining from making these assumptions

Tip 3: Pronouns! Quick grammar lesson… Pronouns are those words we use (e.g. I, it, he, we, they) to take the place of nouns. Most of the time, we judge someone’s gender from their appearance and use the pronouns we think fit. However, in conjunction with Tip 2, to be an ally to those with diverse gender identities and expressions, it is important to find out someone’s preferred pronouns. Ask people (politely!) which pronouns they prefer and make sure you use them.

Tip 4: Respect privacy Although it’s totally cool to ask questions when you’re confused or uncertain about something, there are some topic areas that should be avoided unless you’ve specifically been given the green light by the individual with whom you’re chatting. For example it’s invasive and rude to ask people about their genitals (including genital surgeries) or about how they have sex.

Now you know a little bit more about being an ally to the queer/trans* community. Remember that part of being an ally to any group is taking the time to learn new things, so always keep your mind open to new information!

Making the case for why kink, leather and BDSM belong at Pride

If you have ever attended a Pride parade, you may have experienced the vibrant festivities featuring an endless stream of colourful floats, merchandise and ecstatic music. This is, as cisgender, heterosexual and white-dominant society deems it, a palatable celebration of 2SLGBTQIA+ community.

In conflict with this “ideal” representation of the community is the supposedly distasteful involvement and attendance of the kink/leather community at Pride. Consider the following controversial, now deleted, viral tweet: “Please don’t bring your k*nks/fet*shes to Pride, there are minors at Pride and this can sexualize the event.”

Although it is understandable that parents have a desire to specifically curate an ideal environment for their children, this unfortunately manifests as a relentlessly regressive attempt to hide any semblance of sex and kinks from youth. This rhetoric is harmful on innumerable levels, emphasizing that sex and sexual desire is inherently gross — that sex is taboo.

As such, attempting to eradicate any mention of sex and kink from Pride both serves to appease the cishet, white and able-bodied world. It connotes that queer sex specifically is dirty and shameful. In essence, stigmatizing sex and kink at Pride contradicts Pride’s intent: a protest spearheaded by sex workers and various intersectional subcultures within the 2SLGBTQIA+ community aiming for consensual queer sexual and cultural liberation. Queer sex, in itself, is inherently an act of rebellion.

This distaste towards kink and leather at Pride is also based on a fundamental misunderstanding on what the subcommunities themselves stand for. While it is easy to categorize them as being simply overtly sexual, it is important to emphasize that these were, above all, communities by and for queer and trans individuals to find family and the sex-positive empowerment that they were denied. For countless individuals who were rejected by friends and family, leather bars and clubs became safe spaces for them.

The Stonewall Uprising itself additionally has connections to kink, considering that numerous patrons of the bar were Black and Latinx trans women of colour, drag queens —which at the time, were considered cross dressers by cishet police officers and were policed — and leather daddies. Essentially, the kink and leather community, a notable number of which are Black and Latinx Trans folks, laid major groundwork for queer rights.

During the height of the AIDS epidemic, when cishet political figures, including Ronald Reagan, the then-President of the United States, were dismissive towards the so-called “gay plague,” patients with AIDS were estranged from society and effectively othered. It was the kink and leather community who stepped up, dedicating their time to embrace AIDS patients when disease transmission mechanisms were unknown. Such AIDS patients and Leather caregivers lived in “leather families,” communities of individuals who would unconditionally care for one another when biological relations refused to. In addition, the Kink and Leather community began hosting parties and BDSM events to fundraise for patients' costly care funds.

The Kink and Leather communities’ contributions during the AIDS epidemic and to the 2SLGBTQIA+ community were so great that the city of San Francisco recently openly commended them for their work, some appreciation long overdue.

No one has any right to litigate how individuals should identify, behave and express themselves to be valid within the 2SLGBTQIA+ community. Yet, unfortunately, we see this narrative occurring frequently, both from cishet society and the 2SLGBTQIA+ community. We witness society expressing transphobic rhetoric, questioning as to whether or not asexual and aromatic folks really belong and debating the validity of the leather and kink community, even considering their immense contributions to queer rights. However, it is essential to note that nobody should need to contribute to 2SLGBTQIA+ advocacy in order to prove their validity. They are valid simply for being them. To uphold such an expectation is to aid in reinforcing the homophobic and transphobic narrative created by dominant white, cisgender, heterosexual and able-bodied society.

We cannot abandon community members without reinforcing our oppression by cishet society's homogenized and “pristine” ideal of what the 2SLGBTQIA+ should look like. Kink and leather belong at Pride because above all, they are woven into it’s foundations: queer joy and sexual liberation for all.

I remember the first time I went to the Student Wellness Centre to get tested for sexually transmitted infections. I took my best friend with me because I was nervous; I had this weird fear that somehow my tests would get shared with my family doctor and that my family doctor would tell my parents. My parents would not have been cool with that.

They were extremely nice and non-judgemental, reassuring me that no news would be good news and encouraged me to check out some of the pamphlets at the front of the office. When I left, I briefly scanned them, seeing some titled “Sex for Lesbians”. I remember looking away quickly, in case someone caught me and would know my secret.

The next time I was asked about my sexual activity, I told the doctor “yes, I was sexually active” and they asked me if I used protection. I said “no” and I got a look of mild disapproval. They went on to recommend that two forms of birth control should be used at all times. I nodded knowingly and then finally said, “I’m gay.” For a moment they looked a bit taken aback before saying, “Oh, okay” and the conversation continued.

These two encounters happened five years apart. During the first I was scared and nervous. I was waiting for judgement to come my way. In the second, I was a lot more confident in my sexuality and even though it was mildly annoying to have to correct the assumptions made about me, I wasn’t afraid to do it.

For some people who identify as 2SLGBTQIA+, these types of encounters can be nerve wracking. It sucks to have people assume who you’re sleeping with and what genitals your partner (or partners) may have. While healthcare providers are getting better at being non-assuming, disclosing sexuality and sexual preferences in these encounters can be terrifying, especially because you never really know how someone can react.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a doctor. I remember my grandma watching over me as I played doctor with my stuffed animals, preparing to listen to their heartbeats and sew them back together. Pretty cliché, I know. This past year, my childhood dreams came true as I started medical school at the Michael G. DeGroote School of Medicine here at McMaster University.

I’ll give McMaster some credit for making sure that we have some education around 2SLGBQIA+ health. We were taught to ask for pronouns in encounters, though no one really ever reinforces it. We had a session in our professional competencies class in which we talked about how to be more inclusive. There are efforts being made and I appreciate it. I hope that it means less people will have to feel as though heterosexuality is assumed when they go to the doctor’s office.

I want to demonstrate that asking for pronouns in medical encounters shouldn’t be awkward or weird. I want there to be more education on how to best talk to and treat 2SLGBTQIA+ patients. This isn’t just about who I am anymore, it’s about the future patients I and my colleagues will have.

In our session around 2SLGBTQIA+ health, I remember another student said that they’ve never thought about these topics before. I was baffled to hear that because thinking about these topics is a very common part of my life. Due to my own lived experiences, I could share with my classmates that feeling of apprehension about going to the doctor’s office. I shared that for me, the rainbow flags were important to see in an office, as it eased my mind a bit. For myself and others in the community, this is the reality of our world, but it’s not reality for others. I feel poised in my position to bridge those two worlds in an attempt to make medical visits less daunting for this community.

I’ve become more open about my sexuality over this past year. I’ve been trying to incorporate non-judgemental and non-assuming phrases into clinical history taking to avoid the heterosexuality norms that are taught in medical school. I still have a lot more to learn and more work to do, but I know that to live up to my full potential as a doctor, it will include highlighting the health of the 2SLGBTQIA+ community.

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I remember the first time I went to the Student Wellness Centre to get tested for STIs. I took my best friend with me because I was nervous; I had this weird fear that somehow my tests would get shared with my family doctor and that my family doctor would tell my parents. My parents would not have been cool with that.

When the doctor asked me why I wanted to get tested, I shyly explained that I had sex with someone whom I didn’t know the status of and I just wanted to be safe. The doctor asked if I thought I might be pregnant. I paused and then said I had slept only with women. I waited, scanned the doctor’s face for a hint of disapproval, disgust or a scowl. It never came. They were extremely nice and non-judgemental, reassuring me that no news would be good news and encouraged me to check out some of the pamphlets at the front of the office. When I left, I briefly scanned them, seeing some titled “Sex for Lesbians”. I remember looking away quickly, in case someone caught me and would know my secret.

The next time I was asked about my sexual activity, I told the doctor yes, I was sexually active and they asked me if I used protection. I said no and I got a look of mild disapproval. They went on to recommend that two forms of birth control should be used at all times. I nodded knowingly and then finally said, “I’m gay.” For a moment they looked a bit taken aback before saying, “Oh, okay” and the conversation continued.

However, for some people who identify as 2SLGBTQIA+, these types of encounters can be nerve wracking. It sucks to have people assume who you’re sleeping with and what genitals your partner (or partners) may have. While healthcare providers are getting better at being non-assuming, disclosing sexuality and sexual preferences in these encounters can be terrifying, especially because you never really know how someone can react.

Now, for as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a doctor. I remember my grandma watching over me as I played doctor with my stuffed animals, preparing to listen to their heartbeats and sew them back together. Pretty cliché, I know. This past year, my childhood dreams came true as I started medical school at the Michael G. DeGroote School of Medicine here at McMaster University.

I grew up in a religious household in a pretty conservative town. Unsurprisingly, a family member told me not tell people I was gay for fear of what harm may fall on me. I know they were just trying to look out for me in their own way, but it was disheartening to hear. I pushed that aside because I had more pressing matters like figuring out my career, not failing medical school and trying to learn anatomy without the chance to go to an anatomy lab (thank you, COVID). Having been in the closet for much of my life, coming out to people still stresses me out and will probably stress me out for the rest of my life.

I came out in my last year of high school to my best friends and since then, I’m pretty open around the people I meet. I’ve been meaning to come out publicly for a while but there was never any timeline I had in mind. That was until I started medical school.

It is not lost on me the privilege that I have as a soon-to-be doctor. I remember how easy it was for me to get a loan from the bank, just based on the fact that I’ll make money someday. Doctors are held in high regard in our society and while that is probably warranted most of the time given their role as healers and helpers, I am also acutely aware that the medical profession has hurt a number of communities. Healthcare for marginalized individuals is not always so amazing and for some, there is mistrust in the healthcare field. People can get left on the sidelines when they don’t fit the mold of the average patient.

In medical school, we are encouraged to reflect on our privilege. Part of my reflection has been that to be the best doctor I want to be, it will include advocating for 2SLGBTQIA+ patients. I want to be a role model for students that want to become doctors as a queer person of colour. Just like the way my queerness guides the way I dress, it also guides where my passion for advocacy lies. I want to demonstrate that asking for pronouns in medical encounters shouldn’t be awkward or weird. I want there to be more education on how to best talk to and treat 2SLGBTQIA+ patients. This isn’t just about who I am anymore, it’s about the future patients I and my colleagues will have.

In our session around 2SLGBTQIA+ health, I remember another student saying that they’ve, “never thought of these topics before”. I was baffled to hear that, because thinking about these topics is a very common part of my life. Because of my own lived experiences, I could share with my classmates that feeling of apprehension about going to the doctor’s office. I shared that for me, the rainbow flags were important to see in an office, as it eased my mind a bit. For myself and others in the community, this is the reality of our world, but it’s not reality for others. I feel poised in my position to bridge those two worlds in an attempt to make medical visits less daunting for this community.

Examining stigma on bisexuality from both ends of the sexuality spectrum

Biphobia: let’s talk about it. Loosely defined as an aversion towards bisexuality and bisexual people as individuals, biphobia is a concept that’s not too well understood, nor talked about enough. In recent years, the topic of sexuality has been a highly discussed topic, with the idea of free love becoming more and more accepted in the world today.

The introduction of 2SLGBTQIA+ characters in books, television and film has led to an increase in representation of the community, making it a lot easier for the community to live than it has been in the past. Though some people think that the entirety of the 2SLGBTQIA+ community is fully integrated, it’s still not an equal place for all members and among one of the more misunderstood members of this community are the individuals within the “B”; Bisexuals.

Though in recent years the population has gained a higher understanding for homosexuality, popular culture has fed into the idea that sexuality is a binary choice, essentially meaning that a person can only be attracted to one gender at once. Historically, bisexuality was dismissed as a “secondary sexuality”, implying that bisexual people were either closeted gay/lesbian individuals trying to appear “heterosexual”, or a heterosexual person “going through a phase”.

Contrary to popular belief, biphobia can be experienced within the 2SLGBTQIA+ community just as much as within the heterosexual community. Oftentimes, bisexuals are labelled as trying to escape oppression by conforming to social expectations of sexuality and love, leaving them to be viewed as “not real” members of the 2SLGBTQIA+ community, because they are “straight-passing”.

A substantial issue is that bisexual men are either assumed to be gay or homophobic, increasing the want to conform to being either hetero or homosexual. This is pretty substantial and is supported through research, as a 2013 report by the Pew Research Center confirmed that only 12% of bisexual American males are ‘out’.

Along with this, bisexual women are fetishised, or said to be attention-seeking. This can be heavily seen through the experience of Megan Barton-Hansen, a bisexual competitor on Love Island. Instead of allowing her to freely explore and publicize her sexuality, internet users were quick to announce their beliefs that she was just “playing” her bisexuality and would ultimately end up with a man.

This bi-erasure is also seen in other celebrities, namely pop icon Lady Gaga. Lady Gaga is an openly bisexual woman. She’s spoken out about her sexuality more than once and revealed that her song ‘Poker Face’ is about her own personal experience with her sexuality. But through this, her sexuality is often ignored and she’s been accused of lying more than once about it. The Grammy Awards have even named Sam Smith as “the first [2SLGBTQIA+] person to win Best Pop Vocal Album”, even though Lady Gaga has already previously won that title.

“I may not, to some people, be considered a part of [the 2SLGBTQIA+] community, even though I like girls sometimes,” said Gaga to a group of people at 2019 World Pride in New York.

Pop singer Halsey has had similar experiences, with critics of her music video for her song ‘Strangers’ stating that the video was not queer enough. “It literally is a bisexual story . . . [Luna’s] relationship with a man doesn’t nullify her bisexuality. Not in an imaginary music video universe and not in real life either,” said Halsey on Twitter.

Bisexual representation in film and television is something that we need to discuss too. In 2018, the British Film Institute argued that bisexuals aren’t often explored in film and this is something that must be amended. Though television has had a better run with representation with characters such as Oberyn Martell (Game of Thrones), Callie Torres (Grey’s Anatomy), Frank Underwood (House of Cards), Rosa Diaz (Brooklyn Nine-Nine) and Annalise Keating (How to Get Away with Murder). There is still a lot of work to be done in ensuring that bisexuality is represented in the media and it is done without propagating any further stigma.

It’s been found that the constant marginalization that bisexual individuals face has had negative impacts on their physical health. A 2013 Pew Research Center report found that bisexuals have higher rates of anxiety and depressive disorders than straight and gay people; are at a higher likelihood for youth risk behavior; are more likely to develop eating disorders; heart disease and take up drinking or smoking and are less likely to feel very accepted in the workplace. Biphobia and bi-erasure is real and it can lead to serious physical harm of people within this community.

Bisexuality cannot be ignored when same-sex couples are not featured. Being with someone of the opposite gender does not make a person ‘straight’ and featuring a bisexual person in a relationship with the opposite sex does not make them any less queer. Given that a lot of people cannot come out to their families as bisexual without being told that it is simply a phase, we need to fight for ensuring that bisexuality, alongside all other sexualities and gender identities within the 2SLGBTQIA+ community, is treated with the respect and acceptance that it deserves.