In this post, Xan Nowakowski explores the importance of Queering Heterosexuality and “straight” as a heteroqueer (i.e., someone who identifies as primarily heterosexual and also Queer in other respects related to sexualities (i.e., kink, poly, mixed orientation relationships, etc.) and / or gender (i.e., trans, non-binary, genderqueer, agender, etc.) person existing between static notions of cisgender-monosexual-heterosexuality on the one hand and Queerness on the other. Specifically, as an agender person primarily attracted to different sexes, they discuss using access to “straight” spaces to Queer such spaces and advocate for Queer Kinship and Justice in daily life.
When I was in high school, my best friends and I were members of one of many “gay-straight alliance” groups formed throughout the US in the 1990s. I always found the group’s name sort of odd, because it reduced sexuality to a binary and suggested that people of different sexualities supporting each other was a matter of formal “alliance” rather than basic human decency. These days, I certainly feel glad to live in a society that is increasingly using inclusive language to craft and narrate queer spaces. But I also realize the wisdom—if inadvertent at the time—in a name that illustrates the possibility of complex interplay between queer and straight identities.
Referring to myself as “straight” was also something I avoided before I could really give voice to why it made me so uncomfortable. I was one of those kids who discovered at a pretty early age that they were interested in people with genitals different from their own. But even though I never felt attracted to people with similar anatomy to my own, I never ruled out the possibility of that happening in the future either, nor did I feel any anxiety about that possibility. I was fortunate to grow up in a home where my parents made clear that I would be loved equitably whether I were interested in males, females, intersex people, or all or none of the above. Over time, the painful realization set in that many of my peers did not have that freedom.
I feel some of this pain now as I reflect on high school—a time I very much enjoyed that made me feel free to be myself both in the classroom and outside of it. I did not realize at the time just how privileged I was. I also had the wonderful privilege of a close friendship with an out gay male, and although I cringed at how he had been non-consensually outed by someone who was angry at him the previous year, I celebrated his self-assurance in enjoying an openly out life, as well as the degree to which the school community seemed to embrace him as a gay man. It was only later, as my partners in more mature relationships gained a higher level of knowledge of their own sexuality and its social consequences, that I began to wonder if many of my peers had just ignored my friend, accepting him while at the same time erasing the core of who he was.
For reasons I have never really tried to unpack, I have generally felt most comfortable and happy in relationships with males who experience at least some degree of attraction to other male-looking people, even though I myself have never experienced attraction to a female-looking person. And in terms of gender presentation, my partners have run the gamut from very rugged-looking to very delicate-looking, but all have embraced at least some degree of fluidity in relation to established gender norms. Yet many did not understand what it meant to me to be agender, something I have known about myself with stunning clarity since long before I knew the technical term for it. This growing sense of alienation made me reflect anew on my experiences in high school, and how differently I probably experienced the social environment surrounding my friend’s openness about his sexuality than he did.
I came to the uncomfortable and inexorable conclusion that although my high school was queer-friendly in many ways, it was fundamentally a straight space. I would see this time and again in stories other friends told me about their own coming out—friends who had been so deeply closeted that not so much as a single rumor circulated about their sexuality when we were all in high school together. These stories drove home just how much we were *not* “all in it together”, because togetherness and feelings of such were a privileged space for students whose sexuality did not deviate from those deeply entrenched norms. Nobody questioned me for saying I did not feel threatened by the idea of one day being attracted to another female, because I was frequently seen in the company of males and it was well known that I had a history with several male students. I rejected the term “straight” pretty vocally, but was that really enough? Despite my openness about my gender identity, I also never considered the idea that I might myself be queer—that queer was more than just a double-edged term for “gay”.
In fact, the idea that I might be queer—and indeed, the very meaning of that term—did not register until I met my partner, the person I married just a few months ago. In zer wedding vows, ze spoke softly about how I always *saw* who ze really was, in a world that often ignores zer entirely. I could see my partner quite clearly—a bisexual, genderfluid person to whom I felt a pull like no other. I celebrated zer sexuality and gender identity and thought about how nice it was to be with someone who really *got* it about my experience as an agender person, even though ze was not agender zerself. But at the same time, I worried about not being “queer enough” to provide the kind of safe spaces that would truly nurture my partner. This was a source of constant anxiety for me and frustration for my partner until one day, ze looked me in the eye and said, “Xan, this is what I’ve been trying to tell you all along. You’re queer too. You just don’t see it because you’ve always been embraced in straight spaces as well as queer ones.”
That got my attention. I was still living with DID at the time, and looking back I wonder if this discussion might have been one of the events that led to my reintegration a few months later. I learned that I was something called “heteroqueer”—a person who is attracted only to members of other sex groups, but feels comfortable with the possibility they might one day feel attracted to members of their own sex group. Many heteroqueer people also queer gender and sexuality norms in other ways. For example, I have experienced attraction to transmasculine people after they have achieved their physical transition goals. I also queer gender every moment of every day by reminding people that there is no empirical relationship between what my body looks like, how I dress, how I behave, and whom I choose to invite into the most intimate spaces of my world.
Yet this was the first time I had ever come close to an integrated concept of what it meant to be both a “heterosexual” person and an agender person, or to prioritize spending my time in and enriching spaces for openly queer people, or to feel more fulfilled in relationships with bisexual partners, or any of those other things my high school activism had not remotely prepared me to address. I just knew that I was “doing me”, whatever that meant, and that I felt a constant sense of anger and frustration that was starting to boil over. Every time someone would use “straight” language or norms to describe my relationship with my partner, I would cringe and then start to go on the offensive. And when people asked me stupid questions about my relationship with J, I fought to hold on to my composure.
My favorite of these ridiculous questions was “So J is bi…does that mean you’re bi now too?” Yes, and being with a person who has a penis means that I have also magically grown a penis. No, I am not bi. As far as I know—and I have a fair amount of data to back up my suspicions at this point—I will never be bi. And that is incredibly important, because the very fact that I exist—and that in so doing I make people acknowledge the heretofore unexamined reality that people like my partner exist—is still, even in today’s world, an affront to heteronormative thinking about relationships. I have learned, with progressively greater degrees of discomfort and anger, that “straight” people are not supposed to want to date bisexual people, let alone marry them. We are supposed to feel threatened and overwhelmed by their rampant, teeming, uncontrollable sexuality. We are supposed to expect them to fuck anything that moves. We are supposed to expect them never to feel fully satisfied by us.
Of course, those of us who *do* have bisexual partners know none of that has anything to do with bisexuality. Nymphomania, hypersexuality, infidelity, ennui…these things all exist as well, and are worthy of attention. But what emerges from daring to love a bisexual person in a straight world is a deep and nuanced knowledge of what “queer kinship” really means—and the responsibility I have in creating it. I probably did some of these things unconsciously back in high school by affirming my friend and never erasing parts of his experience that broader norms and narratives could not seem to find spaces for—an example being the little-known attractions he had also experienced toward females, but generally those who exhibited aggressive and traditionally masculine behavior. I saw my friend back then the same way I see my partner now, but I could not give voice to that sight even with him, let alone with anyone else.
Those of us who identify as heteroqueer have a unique opportunity to create queer kinship in places where it is not usually found—and indeed, where such kinship can make a profound impact. We have a privilege reserved for few in our society, one that simultaneously grants us affirmation in both straight and queer spaces. We speak both languages, as it were, but often spend so long battling norms that suggest we need to “pick a side” that we become exhausted and tapped out. It is only since building a life with my partner that I have realized how much more freedom I have now, as an openly heteroqueer person whose partner and other loved ones see me and embrace me exactly as I am. I feel like a complete person for the first time in my life, and it makes me ache for all those who cannot experience that fulfillment because there are no safe spaces in which to do so outside of intentional ones that only other queer people can access.
For those of us who constantly straddle the boundaries between queer and straight spaces, queer kinship is a precious responsibility that too often goes unmet. We need to be more than allies who demur with phrases like “I’m not *really* queer”. We are absolutely queer, and we absolutely need to be here. But we also need to be *there*. We need to keep spending time in the straight spaces where we are privileged to be welcome, and we need to keep breaking down the walls that keep our fellow queer people out—or as is more often the case, electrocute them if they attempt to enter. In having the ear of both queer and straight communities simultaneously, we can challenge destructive norms about sexuality and gender and still escape to fight another day. The scars we receive in these battles are worth every knotted inch of flesh, every jagged piece of skin. We drink deeply from the nourishing well of queer kinship every day while also enjoying the continued embrace of our straight peers. We must now build those wells for others in places where they can be accessed safely, without navigating pit traps or minefields.
Heteroqueer identity is an important cornerstone of queer kinship because it dismantles the idea that queer kinship cannot exist and thrive within straight spaces. Embracing this identity, and taking the time to educate others about how queerness and straightness can intersect without destroying one another, offers more than just a means of liberating ourselves. Rather, this work is profoundly essential for the overall goal of queer liberation. Cultivating and nurturing queer kinship in straight spaces is worth doing at every opportunity, and at any cost. When we do so together, we build a world in which everyone can truly “do them” instead of parroting this empty mantra to avoid working for real change. Queer kinship is the path to a world in which closets exist only to hold clothing—a world in which every space is a safe one.
