Letters for the Future, pt. 2

Meditations on the management of being human.

Dear Young Friend,

We met in Malden. It was a hundred degrees that day. I got a sunburn in the shade. My partner and I were tabling for one of two LGBTQ+ organizations there for a Pride event. By the time you arrived, we were holding onto the last thread of our patience. We’d spent a day answering questions, selling buttons, and trying not to take the side-eye from people who visited every booth but ours personally.

You paused on the sidewalk, took stock of our sign, and tilted your head as if tuning into a new frequency. You approached and asked what we had to offer. Your gaze met my partner’s and did not waver; it was direct and unflinching, the way truth looks before it learns to hide. You said, “I thought I was ace but now I think I’m bisexual. Do you have a support group?”

I wanted to shout and hand you a torch, but sensed that such enthusiasm would do more harm than good. After all, you gravitated to the gentleness of my partner and not my sharpness. He told you that he’d also resonated with the demisexual label for many years until our relationship had allowed him the freedom he needed to claim the B. “I guess my bullies were right about something,” he said, chuckling now. Your mouth was open when you nodded, almost disbelieving that someone else could resonate with your experience.

As we chatted, you spotted our donation jar. You told us about your sibling’s preferred pronouns as you took out all the coins you had. You were looking for a reason to stay. And in that, you reminded me of all the times I wished I’d been able to stand before a bi+ resource table as you did: half-certain, half-terrified, afraid the wrong word might exile me from a future I hadn’t fully imagined.

Now, I’m thinking about the heat, too. God, it was hot. It wrapped around us like a warning: belonging can sometimes scorch before it heals. Pride, especially for bi+ people, isn’t always a grandstand; sometimes, it’s two plastic chairs under a pop-up tent with dry rot, trying not to pass out while strangers decide whether or not you’re worth their time. But you did. You walked straight into the swelter to ask, “Is there a place for me?”

And though I didn’t say it to your face, I need you to know that there is. Of course there is. Even if the only evidence of community is two tired and thirsty people waving at you from behind a table that’s seen better days. Yes, there is room.

Later, when I was in the car and lamenting how much sun I’d gotten, I pressed my palm to my scorched shoulder and thought of you. Your question followed me home and sat on the edge of the bed like an unopened letter:

Where do I go when the identities I tried on no longer fit? Who will be with me while I figure it out?

I don’t pretend to have perfect answers (I am human, after all), but I can tell you that labels are not meant to be cages. If you were ace yesterday but bisexual today, it’s valid. I can tell you that there’s no shame in any identity being transitory. It doesn’t make those identities less real. Nature is transitory. Nothing is fixed. If a mountain is changed with time, why is it realistic to think that our attractions are forever? To be unchanged by experiences sounds like a sad life, indeed.

If you read this, young friend, know that your question mattered. It revived two wilted advocates who were counting down the minutes to the tear-down. It reminded us why we keep hauling tents and buttons into relentless sun: somewhere, a young person is reaching for a community.

Until our paths cross again, hold fast to your questions. They are already guiding you home.

Now and then,
Bailey