I never really “came out of the closet”, because I was never in any closet to begin with. And yet, my whole life, people have ascribed to me a sexuality I don’t have — and then told me I was betraying it.
Growing up in 1960s Chicago, I sensed that I was not like many of the girls around me. As a teenager, I experienced an intense intimacy with my close female friends that I never felt or desired as much from boys my age. Though not yet romantic or sexual, these adolescent friendships often ran deeper than what was encouraged between girls at the time.
As an adult, I had two parallel careers. I always saw myself first and foremost as a poet and a feminist activist. But you can’t really make a living doing those things. I fell into teaching, which led to an academic career, and though these two pursuits often overlapped and fed one another, I stayed in academia mostly out of necessity. It was during these years of my 20s when I felt confident enough to fully explore my sexuality, and began having serious, loving relationships with people of both sexes.
Among family, my bisexuality was something that was observed and acknowledged but never spoken of. Under the circumstances, that was the best you could hope for. My parents weren’t thrilled that I dated women, but they were also very confused and unhappy with who I was in general. They wanted a very traditional Mexican daughter who would get married and become a mother and housewife. My father would tell me “The only thing I want from you is five grandchildren.” They weren’t impressed that I went to college, got a master’s degree from the University of Chicago, or earned a doctorate. They didn’t understand what my poetry or books were about. And they shared none of my passion for feminist activism. So, their attitudes toward my bisexuality were wrapped up in their overall sense of “Who is this person and what has she done with my daughter?” They did get one grandchild, my son who was born in 1983, but they couldn’t wrap their heads around my choice to raise him as a single mother and not depend on a man.
Through all of this, I never put a label on my sexuality. I was simply living my life, and loving the people I loved. Then, in my early 30s, I started dating a lesbian writer and public figure. All of a sudden, I became known as a public lesbian and “radical woman of color”. To this day, I’m still often misdescribed by writers, academics, and journalists as a lesbian because of that particular relationship.
In those days (the 1980s), any woman involved in the kinds of feminist activist circles in which I moved was presumed to be lesbian. If you were an outspoken feminist, folks assumed you had to hate men, which, people imagined, meant you had to be a lesbian. Where things got turbulent for me is when it became obvious that I was also attracted to and had relationships with men. People began regarding me with confusion, frustration, and even hostility. You had to be “one of the other” (straight or gay). Rather than seeing me for the bisexual woman I was, a lot of people viewed me as a kind of traitor to the lesbian (and by extension, feminist) cause.
Bisexuality, in these circles, was regarded with a great deal of suspicion. They treated my bisexuality as though it was a calculated scheme to curate my public image by dating whomever would make me look better or help me get ahead. Any in-betweenness was perceived pejoratively as “liberal” instead of radical — as a kind of sexual centrism that is anathema to radical “all or nothing” sensibilities. They didn’t believe that bisexuality was a real orientation, but that it was just a way for unprincipled opportunists to get ahead by conning both the straight and gay worlds into accepting them at the same time. The constant attitude I faced was “well is she or isn’t she?!” There were venues and campuses I was not invited to, and faculty positions I could not get, anthologies I was never included in, and literary awards I was snubbed for because I was bisexual and not lesbian.
That said, I’ve been lucky to have a distinguished career as a poet and writer. Being bi caused some extra friction at times, but it also gave me the crucial ability to see many issues from multiple perspectives, which has informed a lot of my work and given it an added depth and nuance it might not otherwise have had.
Only in the past 10 or so years have I begun using the term “bisexual” to describe myself. New generations with less rigid thinking have made it easier for bisexuality to be accepted and understood, which has been so wonderful to see. I’ve always believed that most people are bi. Society dictates that we must “choose a side”, but given the option to follow wherever their attractions may lead, free from punishment or ostracization, I feel many more people would be openly bi. I’m so happy to have pushed against the currents of the times when I was younger, and I couldn’t be more grateful to the younger generations for carrying the torch further.
Ana Castillo is an American poet, novelist, author, scholar, and celebrated Chicana feminist. If you'd like to share your own bi story, please email us at [email protected].