Bianca, 18, Pittsburgh, PA—"college student and blogger, activist, waitress, and other stuff."
I’m into labels. But probably not the ones you’re used to. Senegal. Guinea-Bissau, Mauritius. Labels are points on a map. A big, rainbow map with Africa smack dab in the middle of it.
Ok, enough abstract (it’s the writer in me, I can’t help it!)—I’m almost 19, going to be a junior at my undergrad university, majoring in International Studies. That’s the brief I give to most people I meet. If you poke around a little further, you’ll find that I’m also queer (in my case, attracted to men and women romantically, but only women sexually) and in a long-term, committed relationship with the most beautiful woman in the world- whom I am moving in with in exactly 1 month, 8 days, 6 hours and 49 minutes (but who’s counting?).
Look even deeper and you’ll find that I am hopelessly in love with the continent of Africa—the distinctive red dirt, the incredibly friendly, giving people, the intense, spicy food, and the rich and complex history of a continent I’ve never been to. I’m headed to Kenya this coming January and I am scared out of my mind. I don’t know about all of you, but the last time I checked, Africa wasn’t terribly fond of queers. It is one of the most religious areas of the world, and that religious influence has imbedded a strong distaste for same-sex relations. So here I am, caught between two things I really love: rainbows and Africa.
When I first “figured out” that I was gay, I was about to enter 10th grade- it was July and I was at a student leadership conference for Family, Career, and Community Leaders of America, fulfilling my presidential duties. Over the course of that week, I wrote successive [journal] entries detailing my progression into gayness- “I’m 20% sure I’m bisexual, I’m 50% sure…” Of course, this identity has evolved over the years as I figured out that I didn’t really feel attracted sexually to men, but process was a good one in my opinion. It let me gradually come to accept myself and my identity. And when I wasn’t sure, I could always hang on to that last 10% or so.
But anyways…. I came out 3 months later to my mom and only a short while after that to all of my friends. I pretty much haven’t looked back. I am one of those people who wants everyone to see the whole me, the genuine me—the often crazy, impulsive, and not completely rational me. I am obsessed with authenticity, and the idea of hiding an integral part of myself, whether that’s my love of sushi or my sexual orientation (and trust me, they’re both integral), is almost completely intolerable. It hurts my soul.
So what worries me is the prospect of living my entire “Africa life” as a closeted queer. I know in my head that I can never be out in Africa if I want to be safe. There are beatings, curative rapes, and even murders across the continent for being gay. You do not walk down the streets of Mombasa with your rainbow beads on. But what is more worrisome…I’m not sure I can even pretend to be straight anymore.
I have life pretty easy. I have a very feminine figure and a strong, but classical womanly face. If I grow my hair out, the impression only grows stronger that I am a typical, straight female. (I do not, however, know if this translates in Africa, where women often shave their heads to combat the heat and have very different facial structures than in the US) Nonetheless, my mannerisms, my vocabulary, and my typical conversational topics have a distinctly queer spin to them. I write a blog about LGBT teen issues—http://www.foreverthequeerestkids.wordpress.com/—which I talk about obsessively; I am heavily involved in LGBT groups on my college campus, and I am relatively up-to-date on the latest developments in gay news and politics. These things are integral to how I conduct my every day life. I don’t know if I am CAPABLE of erasing them from my everyday functioning.
Right now, I’m choosing not to worry about it. My bigger issues are finding a Swahili tutor and an apartment for the coming year. I’m certain that no matter the price, I have to be in Africa, and heck, I’ve put my study abroad deposit down, so there’s no turning back. I’ll figure it out. And maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a place in Africa for a queer undergrad who just wants to understand and be understood. But I’ll never know unless I look for it.
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