Personal Stories of Members Involved in DIAM

Story 1 - Female Filipino lesbian experience

Story 2 - Male Muslim gay experience

Story 3 - Female Muslim lesbian experience

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Long ago, I believed in conforming to social scripts as it was a norm to acquiesce especially in a Filipino culture among women.  My upbringing stemmed from a conservative rural worldview, raised in a family where discussion of feelings was restricted, subservience towards men was heavily emphasized and the family’s status was the utmost priority to sustain and improve throughout our daily lives.  It was looked on with such scorn and disdain to express any ounce of individuality as that was counter-intuitive to the goal of improving the family’s welfare.  Like an eager child, I gobbled up the world that my parents, or at least my father gave to me without understanding the ramifications.   I bought into those old folk tales of the quest for love, getting the highest paid job, finding the right man, having children and a house with a picket fence. 

I willed myself to believe in these ideals even while I was exchanging love letters and deeper feelings with a girl best friend as a teenager.  There were moments where I thought it silly to ever love a woman as more than just being a friend.  I rationalized the relationship as being characteristic of women and their ability to be deeply intimate with each other compared to men.   Such gender-based reasoning alleviated me from any dissonance that I felt about the intense bond we shared amongst each other.  The more we expressed our love to each other, the more the bond became more distinctive and special to me.  Perhaps we were just two different women who could extend the boundaries of friendship without ever stepping on the threshold of a relationship?  Perhaps we were just two women with a heightened sense of love that needed no categorizing to exist in this world? In my eyes, we had an uncategorized relationship, similar to what Gabrielle and Xena had.

At that time, I did not know the jargon until I was in university where exposure to a wider population led me to re-examine and scrutinize my identity.  I was 20 years old when I uttered the words to myself, “Omigosh, am I gay?”  I remember sitting on the bus going to a classmate’s house to practice art therapy, Sarah Harmer was in-between my ears and I felt so shocked yet liberated by my self-outing.  Feelings of disillusionment percolated within me and I vacillated in-between the terms, lesbian and bisexuality, focusing on the latter as I was still malleable to societal norms.  I believed that bisexuality would still retain some semblance of the heterosexual lifestyle that I thought I had as I did not lose my connection with men.  As silly as it sounds, in hindsight, I know that I was not ready at that moment to accept my lesbian identity as it strayed further from the traditional nuclear Filipino family. 

As I was beginning to be aware of my new revelation, I experienced feelings of vertigo and it was difficult for me to focus because I understood and feared for the negative ramifications, at least those that were sanctioned by the culture my family lived in.  In the world that I emerged from as a child, relationship scripts focused heavily between a man and a woman and not between the same genders.  How could I have same-sex feelings when it was not socially sanctioned?  The idea of having feelings for another woman was akin to family incest and had grave moral consequences on the soul, as my father was quick to attest to.  Being a lesbian meant that I had placed my family’s name in shame, an objective that I never wanted to attain.  I never wanted to tarnish my family’s name and there were moments in accepting who I am led me to distance myself from my family. 

Being a lesbian in a conservative ethnic family was unheard of, I heard the stereotypes, the mocking tone of my father as he uttered the word, “faggots”, with such disgust.  Yet in his denigrating tone, he felt empowered, backed by a Christian and conservative culture that denounced homosexuality.  My culture understood that the antecedents of homosexuality were traced back to the Canadian culture, or more specifically to the disease that comes from being Caucasian.  I never understood when my father rambled on about being gay as stemming from wanting to be White or that I was tarnished by the White man’s influence as I was a second-generation immigrant.  In his eyes, the white culture, especially one that I grew up in was perceived as being rebellious.  In his worldview, Filipinos were never gay by decree of the principles stated by Catholicism.  The more I ascribed to the value systems of the Canadian Caucasian community, the more I distanced myself from my ethnic identity. 

I was irked by my father’s statements as my lesbian identity never had any interaction with the Caucasian community.  I never wanted to be white.  I never wanted to lose my Filipino culture.  I was not a lesbian to enrage or rebel against my father.  My lesbian identity did not grant me autonomy from my family or my community.  Confusion added more fodder to my internal conflict within myself as I did not know why being a lesbian denounced me as a Filipina and as a human being. 

In my moments to cope with my sexual orientation, I felt disbelief and shame.  I remember the sudden vertigo when I stood near to gay-themed magazines, hoping to peruse through the pages so that I may know about my own world.  Yet, fear of retribution from the public in their lengthy wide-eyed stares held me back.  It took me years to feel comfortable holding onto the pages of the magazine for more than a minute.  I remember that first touch against the glossy paper released a little bit tension but in those earlier times, I was certain to be quick in flipping through the magazine, hoping that no one would see me with it.  I skipped school to view lesbian films continuously.  In those initial years of my own revelation, my self-worth as a lesbian was still very fragile and susceptible.  I remember the mortification in the disfigured face of a bystander Filipina who overheard my conversation I had with a friend about my lesbian experiences.  I felt so much disgrace by that reaction that I wanted nothing more than to hide my face.  Future public discussions about my lesbian experiences were always whispered as I became paranoid about the reactions of others. 

I wanted to immerse myself in the lesbian media culture and to discuss my lesbian experiences openly.  I wanted to have some semblance of comprehension of these feelings percolating within me.  Yet there was always an inner conflict resonating within me, the sheer shame that I would get if anyone were to see me viewing these films.  What would be discussed about me?  What if word came back to my family?  I remember feeling pangs of guilt ricochet in my head as I contended with my familial duty to live a heterosexual life, knowing that I never could have the stamina to have a false life.  Each time I felt sexual feelings towards a girl, I could feel the mixture of shame and confusion reverberates through my veins, its frustration seen in the tears that fell down my face.

When I wanted to dismantle my confusion, I sought for aid through my friends and through gay organizations.  Unfortunately, my friends diverted me elsewhere, telling me that I would be better handled by someone who can share the same experience.  There is nothing worse than having your friends stopping you and admitting that they cannot help you in the midst of opening up your heart to them.  Being turned away, I felt abandoned and sought solace elsewhere.  Those who were part of gay organizations preached about the goodness of being true to oneself like an informercial.  Or, they threw labels at me (queer, lesbian or bisexual) that added more confusion, as I was just in the midst of dealing with sexual feelings for another woman. Or worse, they minimalized me to a statistic.   As I was in tears begging for the inner knot to be alleviated, the facilitator from the PFLAG organization gave me the advice, “Sexuality is on a continuum.  A small percentage in this world is truly gay and so you may or may not be gay.”  I was not a number amongst a large group of people; I was a human being who needed to be listened to.  Unfortunately these avenues for aid were not hopeful for me as it did not ameliorate the inner tensions I felt.  Secondly, in my confused and dismantled state, I was not capable of understanding this new culture with all the labels.  If anything, I was appending to these labels to myself just so that someone could take a minute and listen to me. 

            When I decided to acculturate myself to the queer community, I ventured to different realms.  My first stops were at lesbian bars but I was quickly sneered at by the patrons as my outward appearance and mannerisms were not similar to their own.  I can still remember my good friend, comforting me as she massaged my shoulders and told me that it would only be a matter of time when I could find my match.  I remember those nights when I stood in the background, watching from a distance following my failed attempts to converse with others, alone in a chair, my legs and arms crossed watching the buoyancy of the crowd yet not being able to participate; it almost felt too distant as if I was in my living room watching a television program.  I remember feeling dismayed and lost; perturbed by the reaction as this is not what I certainly hoped for when I came out.  I wanted to be amongst others who are lesbians but did not know that I had to pass through a system of social norms defined by the clique to attain validation. 

I tried alternative venues, joining social groups that appealed to my ethnic identity or to my hobbies.  Yet, in these pursuits for understanding and companionship, I was only met with more confusion as I could not identify with others who were part of my community.  Those who were ethnic minorities were too young and pursued sexual conquests. Those who had similar hobbies were too old for me and treated me as a kid but discussed social issues.  I wanted a blend of both worlds as grappling with my own sexual feelings for another woman was difficult for me. 

My search for a social outlet was based on my desire to comprehend my own personal battle with social norms that I lived by for so long.  At that moment in my life, I would never fathom that I would ever love a woman.  It had gone against a social script that I lived by for so long: a docile daughter who cared about her family’s welfare.  I would never marry a man, I would never fit into those traditional stereotypes that had been discussed in my household.  Conversely, my education in my home environment and in the queer community consisted of polar stereotypes that others insisted were the sole descriptors of being queer: an effeminate man or a masculine appearance for a woman.  I could not fit into any of these worlds.  If anything, these social outlets I searched for was to appease my need to see the lesbian identity to be normal and not in a hyper sexed or satirized perspective, a view created by a misinformed media.   I did not want to talk about trivial topics about sexual feelings as I was not ready, instead discussion of social issues with others who were part of my community made me feel at ease and normal. 

It was only in solitude; in quiet reflection did I begin to cope with my feelings.  I remember moments when I hid a movie of Ashley Judd, one I lusted after, in my treasured box, wrapped in a soft textile fabric.  In those times that I was able to be alone, only then did I gently peeled back the covers of the wrapped object and grazed along the contours of the video, eventually centering on her face.  I fondly remember of a movie, Lost and Delirious that I watched repeatedly in theatres, four times to be exact and in the dim light, I sat there hidden but happy.  I started journalizing my thoughts, my feelings, and my resistance in accepting my lesbian identity.  I meandered through my little neighbourhood, walking and letting those emotions sit in the air, releasing the tension into the air.  If anything, amongst those trees, judgment was non-existent and I could block out all the noise that restricted me from being attuned to myself.  It was slow and there were so many walks that I did but eventually, time aided me in peeling away the state of confusion into one of my own acceptance.

When I came to Edmonton and continued with the acculturation process in the queer community, I was met with similar resistance as others could not fathom that I am a lesbian as I do not fit some physical criteria.  Yet again, the quest for acceptance became a redundant task as I was tired of validating myself to others.  Instead of being submissive, I have chosen to be my own self, to be androgynous in my attire and in my mannerisms.  I am quick to don a fedora as I am quick to wear a sash around my neck.  Frankly, I am having fun with my wardrobe when I go to social outings and acting as silly as I want to amongst my friends.  I do not know what or how it happened but my tolerance of following social scripts within my family, queer and ethnic community reached its limits.  Before, I opted to live in a world with labels, restricting my exploratory grounds to what everyone defined me for.  This choice has brought more and more fatigue seeping into my skin as I continue to placate the majority, those who designate me as a lesbian in the community.  A similar battle rages on as I continue to satisfy the wishes of my family, my ethnic community or even my academic community. 

            Nowadays, I am slowly being cognizant of the ramifications of living for others and not for myself.  I am taxed from donning on so many masks for the welfare of others but not for myself.  It is a never ending battle to placate the wishes of others and each time I do so, I lose myself.  Can emancipation of self be achieved if I live through someone else?  What is my self-worth if I am forever allowing others to define it for me?  I uttered such thoughts when I was 21 years old, realizing that I would never be able to wholly satisfy my father’s expectations, not only as a lesbian but in other facets of my life. 

I have grown and learned much along the way.  Perhaps I have been blessed by meeting others, co-workers who became friends and told me never to be ashamed of my lesbian identity.  Or, it has been those lengthy years of reflecting and understanding that I have the choice to be assimilated so readily for others or to let others adapt to my own being, as I have to adapt to their own reality.  Regardless, I do have a choice to direct my life.  It is just the ramifications of a given decision that I must contend with.  I cannot continue hiding the being that I am.  Those in my community who would suggest that choosing to lie about my lesbian identity to uphold the status of my family could not understand the barren feelings of seeing one’s reflection in the mirror and not recognizing it as one’s own.  I still have room to grow and I made a vow that the remaining years of my life, I want to be able to look at my reflection and smile. 

The stereotype of South Asian and Asian cultures in general about parents emphasizing the need for higher education for their children to have better opportunities than they themselves had is perhaps true to an extent, at least as far as my story is concerned. My father’s relentless struggle to ensure my proper education, his unconditional love and immense patience propelled me to excel in academics. While some of my fellow students were relatively sharper, my passion and indefatigable efforts allowed me to be on par and beyond in the great exam race. Flying colors at high school secured me a place in one of the finest universities of my home town, and continued success ensured my arrival in Canada. My life had a narrow, specific objective – do well on the next exam, the next assignment, the next grade.

However, this academic excellence had come at a great personal cost. Neither did I have much of a social life and nor did I have time to think over much beyond academia. While my routine had served me well, when all my doctoral comprehensive exams were finally completed and I had eventually reached the station where I could breathe and reflect a little, something seemed wrong. My mind raised a quintessential question that many of us are confronted with at one point or another in time – What am I doing and whither am I headed? I was a bespectacled 27 beginning to think myself about my own life.

I’m not sure how much truth lies in the statement of my friend that in the absence of a structured framework, the first place the mind wanders on is the primal need inherent within man. Though, I do know at least in my case I had begun to carefully listen to my instincts and eventually identified a territory I had never charted before. It was an exciting phase in my life, one that took me to the first of the many psychologists I would gradually interact with. I was paradoxically overjoyed and overwhelmed at my discovery. I was happy as now I understood better, but I was also saddened given the obsolescence of the structured framework of my life, one that had served me so far so well.

It took me a considerable time to postulate a new framework for my life and its direction. A framework that I myself created, and despite that I longed for a dictation from my father, I realized I was no longer a child and as such must find my own way. Besides, this one was beyond him. I suffered. I stood alone.

My strong religious tradition had me hanging by the noose; the alternative social groups were cliché. I could neither buy the “test” explanations of the fathers of faith and nor could I stand the self centered behavior of the “liberated”. Both sides pronounced judgments.

Alone, I summoned the friends of my solitude. I reached deep within and called for my warriors. I embarked on a dialogue with the rigorous critic within and have never stopped since then. To date my quest for answers drives me. While I don’t know much, I do know that I am myself.

I will not be put down. I will never surrender.

Story 3

I’ve tried writing this story several times and always run into walls of what to share and what not to.  What facts/events risk outing me? How much can I share without actually revealing very little personal information?  An instinctive reaction from someone used to hiding details of their life.  And that I think is the whole crux of the issue.

I realized at around age 13 that I was different, and shortly thereafter learned that the main difference was an attraction to the same gender. Growing up in a religious house, neighbourhood and private schools gave me a fairly morally sheltered youth.  It wasn’t until I was watching television, a cops and robber type show, with the criminal masterminds being a pair of lesbians that I actually learned of the term lesbian. As I was watching the show with my parents, their adverse reaction to the television show gave me a pretty clear idea that my being a lesbian wouldn’t be a good thing.  Further lessons in Sunday school helped reinforce that idea.  Realizing at that age there wasn’t much I could do to deal with this, I set out to make myself as independent as possible. 

At 25 years old, finally finished University, mostly independent, I decided it was about time to come out.  So I tried, first going to the online world, not finding much in terms of support for religious minorities proceeded on to the bar scene.  For someone who has grown up with strict moral guidelines concerning everything from how to greet someone to when to bathe, the gay/lesbian scene was a shock.   Possibly not different from any other bar scene, with a primal focus on sex, when all I was really looking for was friends and answers it didn’t quite suit me, yet as far as I knew there was no real other place where I could be me.  The first time in a gay bar was also one of the first times I felt truly like myself, no lies, no masks…yet not quite truly either.  I considered the University GLBT group, but stories of the politics and cliques scared me, as did the potential to be outted in my academic and work life.  I think in fact, that that fear, of being found out has formed the basis of a lot of my friendships.  At the first sign that a person could not tolerate queerness of any form, I was basically gone.

In a strange way though that fear of being outted exists in both sides of my life.  As a Muslim, being a lesbian a sin, punishable by death, and a fear existed as well of how the gay and lesbian community would view a lesbian Muslim.  To date, I haven’t seen any negative reactions along the GLBT side, though a few times I’ve crossed lines I’m not sure I’m comfortable with, such as drinking alcohol (a prohibition in Islam).  Walking that line between being lesbian, being a Muslim, being partly out, but not yet fully made it extremely difficult to be in a relationship for me. It was also difficult to accept who I was to some degree, and yet still do.   I consider it an evolving portion of my identity and deal with issues as they come up.

Yet somehow with all of that, I still consider myself extremely lucky to have parents who’ve cared for me, a partner that is supportive of me, and I have the extreme luck to have been born in Canada, where its not illegal to be gay and even legal to be married.