Ever since I was laid off, I have spent most of my Saturdays with my friend Majed. Normally, this entails some sort of road trip and a great deal of musing on the nature of life. During our jaunt this past Saturday, I was telling him about how my late father was a guidance counselor and also the family cook. When I was a child, I used to do homework at the kitchen table while my father prepared dinner. I come from a family of four children. My two sisters shared one bedroom, my brother and I another. Since there was only one desk in each bedroom, someone had to use the kitchen table. Perhaps someone used the dining room table, although that is a bit hazy. The main point though is that no one was holed up in a bedroom with the door closed. And none of us children had our own bedroom. The house was small and we were always together in some way or another.
By now, some of you may be screaming, “What, no privacy?” Well, not really. Although it may sound like a terrible upbringing, I knew I was loved. I had no doubt whatsoever about that. I also knew that my family had ambitions for me. It was expected that I would go to college and pursue a career. As the son and grandson of immigrants, I was expected to make their trip across the Atlantic worth it.
Once I hit adolescence and really became of aware of my bisexuality, something which did not fit into either my family’s culture or my family’s plans for me, I thought I was living in Jean-Paul Sartre’s No Exit, whose famous line “Hell is other people” seemed to fit appropriately. It wasn’t until much later that I realized there was quite a different meaning to that phrase for me.
When I got to college, I thought I could breathe a sigh of relief and really be myself. I could study what I wanted. I could listen to the music I wanted. I could have the friends I wanted. I could love who I wanted and no one would care.
No one would care, which is exactly the problem. It seemed the alternative to what I termed at the time my suffocating family was utter indifference. I was on my own and it was everyone for themselves. Convention be damned! Live your life! Make your own destiny! I heard these messages, but I didn’t think about who would be there to pick up the pieces when the crises came.
Thus I felt conflicted, bouncing between the safety of my family and the need to be my own person. After all in these United States, being your own person often means being alone and toughing it out, which is what I did. I have spent a good portion of my life just surviving emotionally because I felt I had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. Hell, as far as I’m concerned, is other people who tell you it’s OK to be who you are, but won’t be there for you when things get ugly.
I realized I had really grown up and made peace with my family when my mother and brother reminded me last month that I have a home and I could accept it. I am very fortunate that if I need to, because of my unemployment, I can indeed go home. Yes, my family still struggles with my bisexuality or perhaps tries not to deal with it.. But they care. Caring, as far as I am concerned, is more important than being liberal or tolerant.
In fact, let’s consider how we ‘liberals’ talk about difference. Usually we say something along the lines of, “I don’t care if you’re bi” or “It doesn’t matter to me if you’re Asian.”
To the contrary, it matters very much. When we say, “I don’t care” and “It doesn’t matter,” we are expressing our complete indifference. Well, the last thing we need more of in our society is indifference. If you think it’s OK that I’m bisexual but you aren’t there for me, then your tolerance is meaningless.
Relationships are everything for us humans. We need people who care about us, help us out when times are tough, and share our joys. The difference between the more traditional way I was raised and modernity is the difference between a valuing of human relationships and a valuing of the self alone and above all other things.
I’m not for that, and how could I be? As a bisexual activist, my work revolves around human relationships. My very aim is to live in a society which recognizes and supports loving relationships so I count myself lucky to have a family that is willing to make sure I still have a roof over my head and food on the table in spite of their struggles with my bisexuality. Right now, their love matters more than ‘cold’ tolerance.