Queer people aren’t strangers to shame, or to reclaiming one of the darkest feelings a person can carry deep in their gut. Shame is distinct from guilt in that shame is about doing something nonnormative, whereas guilt implies a breach of morality. Still, the consequences of shame can be profound — isolation, stress, secrets. Shame is relative to our surroundings, to the people who have power over us or to the communities we try to find homes in. For this A+ personal essay series, writers wrote about things they can barely whisper to aloud, things they thought was once a blemish that they’ve turned into crown, things that make them feel like a “bad queer”, or the ways that other peoples’ shame has woven itself into their life and existence. Answers to nagging questions, positive conclusions from difficult times and happy endings are not necessary, and you might not find them in every essay in the SHAME series. But I do hope you fill find something that challenges some shame you might be feeling, that is too relatable, that leaves you questioning whether it is actually serving you to hide whatever it is you’re hiding. As always, thank you for the support that allows Autostraddle to publish the breadth of pieces that we do, whether we’re celebrating the bright spots or descending into the basements of our psyches — this is a space where queer people can pitch, write and publish work like nowhere else.

xoxo,

Nico

I hear “boyfriend” from femme-presenting folks and assume they’re straight. I openly admit it’s a problem, but a problem not uncommon within both the straight and queer communities. Most of us have fallen victim to biphobia (e.g., Alice and The L Word), but grouping myself in the community doesn’t give me any more of an excuse. It’s something I’ve always worked on, but feel even more shame about now that I’m on the other side.

The reality — or even option — of bisexuality, let alone lesbian relationships, was completely masked by Midwestern middle school boyfriend culture. My little suburban hometown was a microcosm of heternormative relationships at large. From the moment AFAB folks are born, some aunt or peer or person of influence in your life asks you if you have a boyfriend. People socialized as girls are conditioned into this, and I thrived in this little bubble of boys, crushes, lip gloss, and everything Barbiecore. Middle school boyfriend culture led me right into the hands of a new country artist with only one single released to the public. She was opening for Keith Urban in Toledo, Ohio, and I begged my parents to go. I wanted to cry about my 8th grade crush while my favorite artist, Taylor Swift, sang “Teardrops On My Guitar.” She was the only person who understood what I was going through.

In fact, she was the person I wanted to be while going through the pains of puberty. Only 15 at the time, she wasn’t yet a worldwide sensation, but she represented everything acceptable and praiseworthy. She was the straight, white, Christian girl who was so picture perfect no one could dislike her. She was the all-American girl who wasn’t afraid to cry over a boy and let people know about it. Growing up Asian and “obese” for my age, this wasn’t something I was given permission to do. Feelings for boys were “stupid” and “pointless.” I shouldn’t be filling my head with emotional garbage when I could be doing math homework. Even if I did spill my heart out to all the boys in 8th grade, there’s no way they would ever like me. I wasn’t skinny, blonde, or outgoing like Taylor. I was that weird, dark, chubby, shy kid in the corner who wasn’t even the smartest person in the class. Even though Taylor was the quintessential 15-year old, she still somehow seemed to understand the agony of having a secret yearning.

Her sophomore album, Fearless was released in the midst of my own highschool agony. It was all too perfect that tunes like “Love Story” and “You Belong With Me” made the charts just as I was first reading Romeo and Juliet and developing many crushes on the “it” guy, and eventually, “it” girl. My version of the popular jock was actually a series of closeted gay men, two very nerdy valedictorians, and the most beautiful, smart, talented girl in my school two grades above me. I never quite labeled this girl crush as a real crush, and yet I found myself thinking about her non-stop. When I wasn’t thinking about the boys I wanted to date, I was thinking about her.

Thankfully, Taylor released Speak Now, as I was getting acquainted with the idea that I was a Hopeless Romantic. I screamed about how “Sparks Fly” when I see that guy smile at me at the football game, or how I punched my pillow to “Better Than Revenge” when my ex-best friend started dating the guy I took to the winter formal. It’s like Taylor was there with me. Better yet, it was like I was her, the girl I always wanted to be.

When Red was released my senior year, I was caught up in many different love triangles, all while trying to stay thin, attract boys, look the best at prom, get straight A’s, run for student government, become team captain, and get the lead in the musical. It was a messy year for me, and Red was a messy album of breakups and transition. When I eventually secured a boyfriend for most of the year, I cried about my “Sad Beautiful Tragic” love affair even though I was fully responsible for leaving him for his best friend. Instead of studying for anatomy, I stared out the window singing about how my love for his best friend was “Treacherous” and so bad it was good. The fate of that fling fulfilled the breakup song’s prophecy when he eventually kissed me and I felt utterly confused. Out under the stars on a fleeting August night I wanted nothing more than to be with him, and there I was, shocked to learn that I felt no sexual attraction towards him. Angry with myself for not wanting to have sex with him, let alone kiss him, I would soon be comforted by the release of 1989.

Her first track, “Welcome to New York,” talked about boys liking boys and girls liking girls. At this point I was getting acquainted with big-city college life, learning that queerness was actually in fact a thing. Girls could actually like girls? More importantly, Taylor was okay with it?! I went to a Catholic school, so it wasn’t like I was running into queer folks left and right, but I was certainly exposed to other people navigating questions of gender and sexuality in the same ways Taylor was discovering the world of pop, sex, and more adult-like fantasies.

The three year gap between 1989 and Reputation settled stirring thoughts into silence. During this period I quietly flirted with the idea of religious life. I went to a high school partially run by nuns, and eventually in college I befriended many folks who went on to become nuns or priests. It was a very socially acceptable and commendable thing to do in my college culture. Plus, most of these folks genuinely seemed happy and well-respected. I wanted that. I wanted to feel the warmth of approval and the security of being cherished forever, especially if I couldn’t be Taylor Swift.

I was indoctrinated to believe I could only be called to one of three vocations: celibacy, marriage (with a man), or religious life. Many women I knew rest assured they were called to go into the Catholic sisterhood. I was jealous. I felt behind. Everyone else was happily engaged or married. I should already have this figured out just like my friends did, just like Taylor did in every one of her songs.

The messiest part of the silence was that I couldn’t visualize getting married to a man — or a man even liking me. The white wedding, the babies, the approval from so many people about doing “a beautiful thing for the church” was never something I could have. It wasn’t in the cards for me like it was for a straight, white, conventionally attractive woman. A celibate, single life by default seemed pointless when I could choose to opt and do the same thing around a bunch of lovely women. Conflicted but hopeful, I accepted my fate. I would become a nun. I pictured an end credit scene: me surrounded by a bunch of women knitting. It seemed quite satisfactory.

The summer before Reputation I thrust myself into pursuing this new calling. I consulted nun friends, attended discernment retreats, prayed a certain set of prayers regularly, and pretty much ran every Catholic religious event on campus. When studying abroad in Rome for a semester, instead of visiting historic landmarks, going to Italian bars and clubs, or even enjoying the sexy Italian culture, I spent my free time convent-hopping for prayer evenings or community meals. It felt good to be included, and even better to know that I would spend my entire life surrounded by women.

Sometime between praying the rosary and eating gelato I realized I could date women. It seems fairly obvious that a queer woman would be drawn to a life with other women, but at the time it didn’t make sense. Taylor hadn’t addressed this topic yet. Who was I supposed to model my life after? It felt like I was computing impossible math. It wasn’t even the church telling me I couldn’t be with women, but rather, the pressure to work towards achieving the American Dream of a husband with kids. If I had that, I had approval, resources, and a reason to be celebrated. I would have the wedding I always wanted. I wouldn’t have to be jealous.
Months later I found myself sitting in a weekly evening prayer night, kneeling in a pew, crying to Jesus and asking in desperation if I was gay. I didn’t even necessarily care that I was, I just wanted a clear answer. Steeped in my own shame, I felt paralyzed by the weight of what I should want versus what I actually wanted. I wanted the happiness all my white Christian friends seemed to have. I wanted to be adored like all the protagonists in Taylor’s music. If I was gay, none of it would apply to me. I would have to start from scratch, which was even more terrifying than complying with a life that was already mapped out for me.

The release of Reputation coincided with a full-blown attempt to explore my gayness. Despite the badass nature and high praise it instantly received, I actually hated the album at first. It was too bold, too risky, and too…different from her past stuff. It blended too many feelings, experiences, and genres together. I stopped listening to Taylor altogether, intimidated by all the straight cis women this new era of Taylor seemed to attract. I didn’t want to be seen as one of them. I wasn’t one of them. Freshly out of college and living in an intentional community in Tucson, Arizona I leaned into the many, many, many crushes I had on girls I worked with. During this time, I was still coming to terms with an unrequited girl crush from senior year and desperately sent her physical love letters confessing my stupidity for not acting sooner. It felt like I was paying for the time I lost in the three years of silence.

Vowing to never let the many girl crushes I had go unexplored, I eventually found my way into the arms of a woman I fell so hard for that I nearly broke myself. After our year-long relationship crashed and burned, Taylor released the ultimate album of love and heartbreak. Lover offered me mostly genderless love ballads and heart-wrenching lyrics like “saying goodbye is death by a thousand cuts” that, I don’t know, felt oddly sapphic? The album held the fun careless nature of a summer fling and the devastating ending to a lifelong romance all in the span of an hour or so. It also offered me an outlet for getting rid of the crush I had on an engaged woman. I changed the lyrics from “I Think He Knows” to “I Think She Knows” (I have a crush on her). It felt radical and exhilarating, the way Taylor would always talk about her crushes.

When the next phase of life brought me to Los Angeles, I rid myself of Taylor Swift altogether. I was gay, and while Taylor had recently become a public ally with “You Need to Calm Down,” I felt Taylor Swift wasn’t actually for gay women. She was for straight folks just like her. Moving to LA was the personal justification I needed to swing the pendulum from hella straight to hella gay. The LA queer culture was so much more expansive than any version of this fantasy I never fit into. Queers were out on the streets being queer, refusing to fit into social norms, and finding different versions of their happy ending. The only difference is, they were all so much cooler than me.

Lesbians didn’t like Taylor Swift. They liked politics and science. The first girl I slept with in LA loved weed and Ruth Bader Ginsburg, not some straight girl singing about her man problems. So, I assimilated. I needed to be seen as a part of the community. No lesbian I followed ever expressed interest in the whole heteronormative happy ending thing, let alone Taylor Swift’s music. Instead, I felt like I should deeply care about things in the world that actually mattered. Without the context of heteronormative culture around me, I felt much more equipped to rid myself of her music altogether, just like I got rid of all the past parts who liked men, the parts I was ashamed to admit were mine. None of these hot women liked men, so I couldn’t either. There was simply no space for someone who didn’t know what or who they wanted.

When I officially found my way into a relationship with a trans guy, I was forced to confront all the new labels I placed on myself. It was very harmful to call myself a lesbian, and bisexuality wasn’t a thing anyone I knew in LA would approve of, so I defaulted to “queer.” I didn’t want to deal with any further confusion or re-labeling. Taylor hadn’t released anything that explicitly gay and I never really followed her personal drama since the Reputation era got out of hand, so Gaylor culture was never really on my radar (even though I definitely think she’s had a few wlw flings). Instead, I anticipated her next album with the hope that I would find some solid ground. Folklore and then Evermore brought a depth I wasn’t ready for. Even though these albums brought even more straight women into the fandom, the whole thing felt like it was written by a queer person. Its quiet, intimate storytelling and gentle reflections on love and life were so new for her. When my ex and I eventually broke up, I was thrown into the mix of this new reflective territory. I was forced to accept a gentle change in pace. These albums invited folks to dream up lives they didn’t have, or maybe wanted to experiment with. It’s what I needed and certainly not what I wanted. Above all, these albums welcomed the kind of nostalgia I needed to get through COVID-19 and forget about who I was or how I identified, with or without a boyfriend.

When I eventually moved to Florida because I couldn’t afford LA, Midnights was just around the corner. I was desperately yearning for something bold, edgy, and gay. We knew it had a track labeled “Lavender Haze.” How could it not be gay? If this album confirmed the kind of fluid queerness tabloids were suggesting, maybe I could embrace a title like this, too. If she came out as queer, maybe that would justify my entire straight-passing childhood. If she were even a little gay, it would confirm that I, too, was a little gay even when I was 12 years old.

When the Midnights release proved to be not explicitly gay, I was angry, upset, and once again confused. I needed her to come out so that I could reconcile all these experiences I had with people of different genders. With nowhere left to turn about my own messy feelings about gender and sexuality, I spent the last few months of my LA years and an entire four day road trip considering what it might look like to intentionally date cis men…again. It felt like a reverse coming out. I called straight friends to ask about the dating culture, sex tips, and for general cis man education. I determined that — similar to discovering my attraction to other genders — I had to try it to actually figure it out.

Within a few months, I met a guy I really liked and started very seriously dating him. Never would I have thought that at 28 I would be dating a straight cis man I actually liked, but here I am, and he’s so wonderful. Yet, I’m still afraid to show him off or tell people I have a boyfriend. This isn’t because of anything to do with him, but because I’m afraid people will see me differently. People who know me may think I was just going through a gay phase. The old religious friends may think I “came back to God,” which makes me want to throw up. My family could think that I’m just confused and naive. Even more frightening, if people everywhere still think Taylor is straight, then it could mean I was straight all along. The irony is that bisexuality is queer to its core. It’s saying there’s no black and white, sexuality is fluid, and being queer is no one thing.

Now that I’ve worked through my religious trauma and have fully accepted Taylor’s sexuality for how she’s publicly identified, I’m starting to understand how my fixation on Taylor Swift was so much deeper than who I’m attracted to. It’s a product of so many intersectional identities and generational conflict between my Eastern and Western values. The shame rests in the dichotomy between white or POC, straight or gay, religious or secular. It’s a shame based in fear that if I’m not one thing or the other, I’m nonexistent. It means my whole life’s experiences are invalidated. If Taylor actually came out as bisexual, the general public would view her whole life as bisexual. So, when looking at the life I tried to model after hers, I, too, could count all my experiences as queer and not just straight with a brief identity crisis. I wanted — and in some ways still want — public permission.

Almost a year out from Midnights and in the midst of many Taylor’s Version releases, I’m attempting to re-integrate my genuine love for her music without connecting it to my own sexuality. As I leaned into going on dates with cis men, I leaned into the inner-child-Em singing “Picture to Burn” while glaring at her crush’s yearbook photo. Instead of keeping my best friends (and verified swifties) at arms length whenever they bring her up, I fully embrace the conversation, letting myself fawn over her new music. I tell people I like Taylor Swift, and I even post pictures from the Eras Tour without feeling the weight of shame. Now that I’m in a loving, healthy relationship with a cis man, I continue to express my love for Taylor while still working at my very gay job, hanging out with my very gay friends, and educating folks who are confused by my “sudden” change in interests.

Taylor Swift isn’t bisexual (as far as we know), but that doesn’t really matter to me anymore. I claim the things I like, as “straight” as they might seem to others, and also claim my bisexual identity. Queerness is as unique as the person who uses the label, and I am no exception. No matter how I was and continue to be perceived by others, I am the sum of all my bisexual eras.

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