The Capsizing
I’ve been reading about icebergs more lately.
Icebergs are pieces of ice banks or glaciers that float off into the ocean, but not all broken off bits of glaciers are icebergs. Scientists classify “true” icebergs as ones that stick at least 16 feet above sea level and 98 feet wide. About 80 to 90% of an iceberg, on average, is underwater and moved by currents. If my math is right, you can assume that every “true” iceberg burrows at least 80 feet deep into the ocean.
Calving is the process that makes icebergs. A chunk of ice slides off a bank and into the water, often swaying in the water in slow motion and sending literal shockwaves through the water. It’s mainly caused by changes in the currents, either the momentum, or temperature. There are a ton of clips on YouTube. It needs to be seen to be believed.
It looks like the skyscrapers in Atlantis are being pushed out to the surface, only to fall back into the ocean with a thud. You never know how big that hidden bit of the iceberg is going to be, and you probably get only a moment to see it before it just becomes flipped upside down again.
I’m no scientist, but I spend a lot of time in my head. For years, I’ve felt like part of me was an iceberg, peaking above the surface while hiding a large part of me under the surface.
In the last few weeks, I’ve finally capsized. The currents changed quickly and now the deepest point of the iceberg has worked its way to the surface.
Hi. My name is James and I’m bisexual.
I don’t know when I really first felt like I was bisexual. Not even entirely sure when I understood it was a thing to be something other than straight, let alone like two genders.
I do know that the first time I remember telling someone I was bicurious was in high school and it was usually limited to my inner circle.
I never, ever considered being out publicly. For every instance in high school and college where I felt like I might start to embrace my sexuality openly, there were 10 instances that caused me to bury it deeper.
In high school, I had to grit my teeth as one of my classmates got on their soapbox to tell everyone how he would disown his son if they were straight. In college, I sat quietly through friends and co-workers throwing around “faggot” like it was nothing. They weren’t the only ones.
I remember the 2016 Pulse nightclub shooting in Orlando really got to me, not just because of the harm done to people but the mental harm it had on myself and other young people in the LGBTQ community. I saw countless gay and lesbian friends panicking as they realized in unison that there’s people out there who would kill them if it meant they didn’t get to love the same-sex.
It may have been hidden but it never felt dormant. I went to gay-straight alliance meetings throughout high school. I’ve been to the Chicago Pride Parade twice. It’s been a long time since I questioned if I was bisexual.
It had been equally long since I ever considered coming out. That’s when the capsizing ultimately started.
A passing conversation. I mentioned in passing to friends that I was probably going to have to take down my bisexual flag that was hanging up in my apartment before my grandma came and visited. I bought it for Chicago’s pride parade and honestly, I just didn’t have much else for decor in my apartment.
Why take it down? Ah, I feel like it’s okay if we go a while without having that conversation.
“Nah, be who you are, man,” a friend, who is also bisexual, said. “Let your freak flag fly.”
“You’re calling me a freak?” I jabbed back jokingly.
The next morning, I got on Twitter and learned about a shooting at an LGBTQ-club in Colorado Springs where five were killed and 25 were injured. For a few hours, the cloud of the Pulse nightclub shooting six years prior looms over me again.
Later that week, I opened up Twitter again and I saw a clip from Tucker Carlson where he interviewed the founder of “Gays Against Groomers”. The guest was talking about Colorado Springs and how mass shootings shouldn’t stop “until we end this evil agenda that is attacking children.” Then, I read the lower-third.
“Let Your Freak Flag Fly: Adults Should Do What They Want. Just Leave The Kids Out Of It” There’s that word again. Freak.
It’s not nearly as bad as “faggot”, more like a substitute you’d hear from an after-school special version of the Westboro Baptist Church. It is still, however, literally dehumanizing to anyone to be called a freak, let alone a faggot.
Suddenly, moments where I felt at my lowest confidence-wise in my sexuality played out again on my phone over two days. Messages to television stations in Colorado asking them to, as one put it, “stop talking about the stupid gay club shooting.”
The father of the shooter expressed relief after learning his son wasn’t at the club because he was gay. He was just there to murder people.
I broke.
It’s the night before Thanksgiving. I’m driving to see my mom and grandma for the first time in about four months and I made a phone call. I tell my mom I’m coming out to grandma and whatever family is there.
I told my grandma on that night. Then, I told the rest of my immediate family on Christmas Eve. Anxiety kept me awake for a few hours the night before I told my dad. I think all these instances in high school and college had most manifested itself into fear of what they would think.
I’m relieved to say they have taken the news as well as I could imagine. It’s a nonfactor to them and they love me regardless. My brother actually thought I was out and was more surprised that not everyone knew since he knew in high school.
Knowing my family and friends have my back is all I need. Now, I really don’t give a damn what anybody else thinks. I won’t be dehumanized to my face anymore. I won’t shield this part of myself away anymore.
When I got home from my Christmas vacation, I’m took down the Christmas decorations around my house and put my flag back up. I don’t think it’ll ever come down.
In 2023, I’m going to try and do a lot for myself. I want to grow into my role in sports journalism more. I’m going to try reading and writing more outside of work. I want to discover (and rediscover) things that I enjoy.
The most important thing I’m doing for myself is being myself. To my full capacity. I’m a mix-and-match of all these different elements of things that drive me, entertain me and build me up. I’m embracing it. All of it.
