Transporting ourselves back to 2005, a time filled with limited television options, I sat in the living room, channel surfing through the early 2000s offerings. Restricted from watching MTV, I turned to movie channels like FX or ABC to fill my screen time. On this particular day, The Amazing Spiderman graced the airwaves, starring Tobey Maguire and Kristen Dunst. As a five or 6-year-old, I was captivated by the high-flying acrobatics and the thrilling crime-fighting escapades of Spiderman, although I hadn't yet developed into the dedicated Marvel fan I am today. However, one scene left an indelible mark on my memory—this would be the first of many experiences shaping my understanding of my bisexuality.
In that iconic scene, Spiderman (played by Tobey) had just rescued MJ (portrayed by Kristen) and now found himself hanging upside down from a balcony in the alley where he had left her. MJ gazed at him and expressed her desire to kiss him, a sentiment to which Spiderman readily agreed. As their lips met, I noticed something peculiar—I wasn't just captivated by MJ; my gaze also lingered on Peter Parker. Being so young, I didn't grasp the implications or recognize that these were clues to my bisexuality. Initially, I felt a sense of happiness, but it quickly dissipated, replaced by waves of shame and guilt. Thanks to my family, church, and community, even at that tender age, I was well aware that being gay was deemed unacceptable, and identifying as bisexual was even more heavily stigmatized.
I was moving forward to 2008-2012; my life was confusing. I was beginning to learn about my autonomy and being my person without my mom, but many external things were also changing in my life. My mom got a new job, we moved to Florida, then back to Kentucky, and I was moving from different schools in Kentucky and Florida. When I moved to Florida, 6th grade was considered middle school, so I was in middle school for half a year, then moved back to Kentucky, where 6th grade was still elementary school. Even within all these different structures in academia and cultures that were within Florida and Kentucky, there was a constant feature: the homophobia that was not only directed towards me but other LGBTQ+ youth. I remember sitting in the cafeteria of Central Elementary School in the Graves County School District, where the words faggot, and queer were thrown around before I would get the breakfast they served that day. There was one time that I was told that I should just cut my penis off because I wasn’t a man to my peers. Growing up with a single mother, I wasn’t introduced to the “normal” father-son activities that my other friends had the privilege to experience, and we certainly didn’t have the money at the time to support anything sports-related. Even towards women, I was suspicious. After all, I didn’t fit their tv image of the “gay best friend” because I wasn’t interested in clothes, makeup, or anything traditionally feminine at the time. Through all this bullying of me and towards others at Central Elementary, I was never scared for my safety because the abuse was almost always verbal. When I moved to Florida, the script completely flipped for me. I remember being genuinely scared to leave the teacher’s sight during our breaks, lunch, or even at some point in the bathroom because I had a higher pitch voice, and I knew people were already suspicious. The self-hate started when I realized I was less than expected, and no one seemed to notice or care that I was struggling.
The year is 2013, and I just started my 8th-grade year at Graves County Middle School. I was 13, starting puberty, and beginning my first relationship with a woman. I was later broken up because I was friends with both boys and girls. Since dating was all new to us, there were no absolute judgments on how the relationship should be or what we were looking for in a relationship. The only thing we knew about relationships was from the media, were shown on tv/movies, or the made-up stories that were told at lunchtime. It was always a man and a woman. During lunch, we mostly talked about some sexual conquest that one of the guys had (wish they had), or if I had sat with the girls, they would talk about the need to do something or look a sure way to fit some guy’s image. Nothing and no one ever taught us about sex, love, support, and happiness that is typically expected in a relationship; the most we knew about anything was the constant warnings from our health teacher that we would get an STD and get pregnant—nothing about sex, safe sex, what consent is, gender identity, or sexuality.
This was also when I got my first smartphone, the iPhone 3GS. A popular app at the time was called Tumblr. This anonymous blogging website allowed you to discuss anything you wanted; nothing was off the table. Not an app that anyone my age should be on, let alone anyone under 18 on some subjects, but this is where I started looking more at LGBTQ+ stories, poems, and artwork, especially at those blogs about bisexuality. I would read stories of those who had great coming-out experiences, but mostly there were testimonies of kids whose parents had kicked them out and are now homeless. Some were sent to Conversion Therapy, which was notorious in the LGBTQ+ community for both verbal and physical abuse, to “get the gay out of them.” Finally, at this point in my life, I found a name for what or who I was. That I wasn’t gay and that I wasn’t straight, that I was bisexual. However, this was more of a way for me to concentrate on my self-hate at the time. So, instead of being mad at who I was, I would direct that toward my sexuality. I learned quickly that a perk of being bisexual was that I would only really have to show one side of myself. This would later be the fuel that my depression needed to take over during my high school years.
I am now in high school, Graves County High School, where childhood is left at the door, and the teenager began in 2014. In the years between 2014-2015, I started to concentrate on being the image that my family, church, friends, and community wanted me to be. I started to become involved with FBLA, Future Business Leaders of America, where I would become the Kentucky State President and started becoming more involved in sports like Cross Country and Track. I started becoming involved in church and with their youth group there. If I wasn’t alone, I was putting up a front trying to fit the image those groups wanted me to be. I knew that if anyone found out or held a suspicion, you would be shunned and told you were going to hell. I didn’t want that part of me to define me, mainly because I was so young and knew that the opportunities that I would have had would be taken away. If I had come out of high school, rumors would have started about me. About how I am sexually deviant, that I am a possible molester or pedophile, that the devil possesses me, that I am going to burn in hell, etc. I know this because this is what was said within my high school and churches about those few courageous LGBTQ+ youths that did come out during that time. I knew that if I did come out to my family that I would no longer be loved; if I came out to my church that I would be shunned; if I came out to my friends that they would be embarrassed by me, and I knew that if I came out to the community that I could not be able to get a job later in high school or life.
In 2015, there was hope for equality or at least some respect. In 2015, gay marriage was finally legalized by the Supreme Court. I remember the exact day, where I was, and what I was doing. It was something that I thought would never happen, especially in Kentucky. Though this hope was crushed quickly and swiftly, I have been hopeful about coming out like many others. I was at summer camp as a camper, and since we were not allowed to have our phones at camp, those of us who still had ours had to keep it a secret. That meant we could only check our phones when eating or on breaks. We had just finished breakfast and were about to go to the outside chapel for mass. So, some of us who had our phones (including myself) went to check them before we started the activities for the day.
The first thing I saw on Twitter was that the Supreme Court had legalized gay marriage and that every state had to comply with the new law of the land! I was ecstatic, though I had to keep my joy and happiness to a minimum because the next thing I heard from across the bunks was, “How could they do this?” “Have you seen this shit?” “That’s it; this country is done for.” “Fucking faggots!” Thank God that was all that those boys could get in because the camp counselor was rounding everyone up for mass. Throughout the day, all I could think about was how monumental this was for some couples who, for years, had been denied marriage, could finally be recognized by the state. I ended that day in my bunk, with my brightness turned to the lowest setting, because I didn’t want a counselor to catch me, so no one could see what I was reading and watching. I watched videos of people in the streets celebrating, waving pride flags, and same-sex couples holding hands or kissing and being proud of who they were. I sleep thinking about those people, knowing I may never know that pride.
The year 2016 marks a significant turning point in my journey of self-discovery, particularly during that eventful summer. It was when I could finally delve deeper into understanding my sexuality and summon the courage to come out to my first-ever high school best friend, Julianna Sims. To this day, Julianna remains my closest confidante, who witnessed the first utterance of those powerful words: "I am bisexual." The memories of that scorching July weather and the tranquil river stretching beyond the dock are etched in my mind. While I hadn't meticulously planned the moment, I knew it had to happen. Trembling with fear, I worried about losing my cherished friend and the life I had painstakingly built for myself.
Julianna's response reverberated as I mustered the strength to speak my truth. At that time, it took me by surprise, but as I reflect on it while writing this post, I find it to be one of the qualities I admire most about her. She said, "Okay." In that instant, a weight lifted off my shoulders, and for a fleeting moment, I could breathe. However, hope and relief were temporary, as I realized there were more people in my life to whom I still had to remain a secret.
Yet, in that particular moment, I experienced happiness, a taste of freedom. It was a glimpse into the boundless potential that being true to oneself can bring.
Fast forward nearly three years, and it was in 2018 that I found myself repeating those words once more. After graduating high school, and embarked on a new chapter at the University of Louisville. During that fall semester 2018, I found myself in another relationship with a woman. By this point, I had gained confidence about my sexuality, recognizing that only a select few individuals knew the truth about who I was. I had devised a way of living where I would publicly embrace my heterosexual identity while privately acknowledging and exploring my gay identity.
In my mind, I rationalized that I would date and eventually marry women. If I happened to be single, I could freely delve into exploring my sexuality. However, as I continued to mature and navigate the complexities of adulthood, I realized that I couldn't sustain the facade of my current relationship while simultaneously living a lie about my true self.
It became increasingly clear that I could no longer bear the weight of this duplicity. The relationship I was in demanded authenticity and honesty, not just for myself but also for the person I was sharing my life with. It was a pivotal moment of self-reflection, where I acknowledged that true fulfillment could only be achieved by embracing my genuine identity and living an honest life.
I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.
–Maya Angelou
Coming to this realization was not without its challenges and difficult decisions. It meant confronting my fears, dismantling the walls of secrecy, and accepting that living true to myself required the courage to be vulnerable and open. The path forward was uncertain, but I knew deep down that I had to make a change.
In 2019, on March 19, I would call my mom. The fear is what I remember most. The thought of my mother disowning me for who I am or her no longer loving me or wanting me in her life. I had to tell her who I was. I remember her answering, I was shaking on the other end of the phone, and she immediately knew something was wrong. She asked me, “What’s wrong?” I then responded, “Would you love me no matter what?” “Of course, Jacob. What’s wrong?” “I have something to tell you. I am bisexual. I mean, I like men and women.” She then pauses, which to me felt like hours, but were mere seconds. She responds, “I love you and will always support you.”
The onset of the pandemic catalyzed deep introspection, leading me to contemplate my identity and aspirations. It was during this time, as I began to voice my support for the LGBTQ+ community and actively engage in advocacy, that I discovered a vibrant network of individuals. These were not celebrities or prominent influencers but ordinary people like myself grappling with similar challenges. Together, we embarked on a self-acceptance journey, realizing there was no reason to be ashamed of who we were. We united in the belief that we possessed the capacity for love and deserved to give and receive it. We recognized our inherent worthiness of respect, acknowledging that we were valid and indispensable. In this community, we celebrated our uniqueness, drawing strength from our collective courage and resilience.
Amid the pandemic's uncertainties, a profound sense of purpose emerged. As I met others who shared my experiences, I realized that our voices, stories, and unwavering determination were essential for fostering understanding and driving positive change. Together, we shattered societal barriers, pushing boundaries and challenging the status quo. Our collective strength was a beacon of hope, inspiring others to embrace their authentic selves without fear.
In this realization, I discovered the power of unity, the strength of solidarity, and the transformative impact that emerges when individuals join forces to champion a cause. We were no longer confined by isolation or silenced by societal expectations. Instead, we harnessed our shared experiences to rewrite the narrative, spreading the message that love knows no boundaries and that our diverse identities should be celebrated.
As I continue to navigate this journey of self-discovery, one thing remains abundantly clear: we are resilient. We can create a world that embraces and uplifts every individual, regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity. Together, we are rewriting the story, ensuring that every voice is heard, every love is cherished, and every person is valued.
I am sick of closeted gays. ... Every gay man who was unable to come forward now and fight to save his own life is truly helping to kill the rest of us. ... Unless we can generate visible numbers and masses, we are going to die.
Larry Kramer, the Founder of ACT UP, or AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power
