“Friend”

When Lovely and I first got together, or were in the process of getting together (as you know, this took some time), good friends of mine would ask, “Where’s your friend? How’s your friend?” and they would mean her. I would answer and we would proceed with our evening. Usually, I was under some sort of stress because of something going on with her family or I was frustrated and confused about whether or not I should be dating her (we broke up, like, 5 times in the first three months). Having her called my friend wasn’t too problematic.

At one point, though, I said to one particular person who was making a little light fun of me and us, “Lovely. Her name is Lovely.” And possibly I said this a little sharply because he stopped dead and said, “I know.” And I said, “Yeah, okay.”

Some of my friends also called variants of ‘whatsername’ at the beginning, and then asked for the fourteenth time what her name was. It’s a common Pakistani name and hard to forget, but okay. With him also I eventually enunciated: LOVE-LEE. And then he remembered forever after.

Again, it was  time of ambiguity, my ambiguity about the relationship, so while these were minor annoyances, I was okay.

But I’m finding that it is wretchedly common for people to use “friend” about someone they know is your partner/girlfriend. It betrays discomfort with ones sexuality and choices. So, for example, when I was getting this apartment, I told the landlord that my partner or my girlfriend (using both at several occasions) would be joining me a bit later, he would always say, “And when is your friend coming? Is your friend coming for sure?”

Is this an attempt at politeness? If I’ve used girlfriend and partner, are you confused that I’m talking about my female best friend or my business partner? Is it a subtle protest against your characterization of yourself as being in a homosexual union, suggesting, ‘Well, you can do what you want, of course, and I’ll take your money, drink with you, be your friend, but I’m not sure I condone this relationship of yours by calling it what you call it.’ Is it a misguided attempt to include all possible permutations of the relationship? Is it doubt about whether, when you heard both girlfriend and partner, when you knew that snogging and sex were involved in this relationship, when you know that one person left a marriage to be romantically with the other, you’re not sure yet what the acceptable term for the relationship is?

How about the one I use, asshole?

That is what I am annoyed about today.

Anthropology

Check this out at The Lesbian Said What? Boobies on American TV.

You Trendy Lez, You

Lately, I’ve been reading online about feminism (particularly radical feminism) and its enthusiasm for women as superior beings. Way back when I learned about radical feminism, about 10 years ago, I learned about it being body-focused, body-centered, the liberation of the body. I read some Andrea Dworkin talking about penetration as a violent act and read it as a kind of drama piece, a monologue or something, rather than a treatise on the reality of human relationships. That’s not what she intended, probably, but who cares, I can read things how I like. The rest of radical feminism I read as being a woman-centred look at the universe. And I was certainly on board with that.

It occurs to me that I possibly missed some key texts in radical feminism. Otherwise, it would have hit me earlier that there’s a strong separatist trend in radical feminism, a desire to get these male buggers out of our hairs for good and just be women-on-women action all the time.

Speaking as a bisexual woman, I would like to say, ein minuten bitte.

First, the obvious: my dad’s a man, my best friend’s a man, my other best friend’s a man, my academic mentor is a man. My mom is married to a man, whom she loves and without whom she would be very unhappy. My mom, additionally, does not like sex with women and would not survive in a lezzie world. These are just some of the people I care about who would fall victim to a radical feminist holocaust of men. (Remember, please: I’m referring to a separatist strand of radical feminism, not all radical feminism everywhere for all time. Untwist knickers now.)

Second and quoting Philomela:

But…surely part of feminism is upholding women’s rights to have relationships with whoever they want, It also makes me think that many heterosexual feminists have no idea how power struggles and infighting play out in lesbian communities and relationships. It seems some heterosexual women don’t know that lots of lesbians are not feminists, that lots of lesbians perceive themselves and express themselves through certain sorts of masculinities, (in fact almost all of the women that make me go ooohh her! do  this)  that are often  seen as the antithesis of radical feminism.

When I was in university, it was possible to be a BUG – Bi Until Graduation – and I was lumped in with the BUG category because a) bi women are untrustworthy in their allegiance to queerness and b) I was Pakistani so for sure I’d go back in the closet when I went home (which I did, for a while, and I don’t apologize to anyone but myself for it). And if you were feeling BUGish, you would feel guilty about desiring men, doubt your own ability to stay the course of your beliefs as well as your feelings and belief yourself to be easily swayed by the cool factor. I thought I’d been easily swayed by the cool factor and that’s why my insides were turning to jelly at the sight, sound, smell, suhbat of certain women. This would not happen once I was out of this hellish den of hellish sinful sodomitic hell!

Quite.

Reading Philomela reminded me of all this just now. Of the sheer stupidity of thinking that bisexuality is a changeable state of being. Talk about self-oppression! “I am bi and with a man therefore I must be the enemy.” Meanwhile, straight women are going about saying they would be lesbian for the wo-man cause if only they could get up the guts to actually desire women. I know girls. Pussy smells funny. And you’d miss that lovely cock taste so much.

Being Bi is really fucking hard. It takes ages for your partner to feel secure that you’re not going to leave them for a different gender, that you’re not desiring the other parts in your sex life. And then there’s people constantly asking you, “Are you sure you are into men? Are you sure you’re into women? Are you sure? It doesn’t seem lke it, sometimes, that’s all. You’re not really the type.”

Kiss my ass. No bi person needs to feel guilty for desiring someone. There’s no superiority in partnering with a woman over a man. Love is love. Love may be political, but politics doesn’t dictate who you love; who you love explains your politics to you. Shows you your power and your privilege.

Asshattery. Making people feel like they’re not fighting the good fight because there’s a friendly penis in the vicinity. People are NICE. Some people are MEN. Get the fuck over it.

Safaee Pesh Karna

Many things have happened in the past months that have caused me to pause and wonder about writing in public. Also, some major live events have caused me to take a break because I have other, more pressing concerns.

But I realized today as Lovely and I were having dinner with a fantastic lesbian couple we met recently, that at some point I will have to explain some things, in public or in private, to some people. Please forgive how cryptic this is – I’m a private person, in some ways, and I like talking about issues in public, but I don’t, as such, like talking about my life in public. The issues might be relevant in a public sort of space – I don’t know that individual details in my life are relevant. Anyway. I was talking about explanation.

The entire process of loving a woman who was in a straight relationship and having that love catalyze a change in her status – these are things that have drawn recrimination. Lovely’s relationship with me might have started out as a dalliance; now we’re long-term exclusive monogamous partners.  And all the people around us that were affected by our decision to be together have grievances, some legitimate and some not, against us.

But some of us are more discrete than others, and some more forgiving. I am not forgiving, as such, but I am discrete where I need to be.  Others are not. As a result, Lovely and I have gone through some shit, and will go through more. And some of that shit is about who will take sides with whom. I personally don’t believe that Lovely should eschew anyone I have a problem with, or vice versa. Other people have different ideas about loyalty. And so we come to the situation I find myself in now.

I love a woman who used to be married. She is no longer married. She and I are together.

I make no apology for these simple facts, though I am sorry about certain things that have happened, certain hurt feelings that have occurred.

My partner was in a marriage that was very bad for her. She left that marriage honourably. Now both she and I are being painted as villains in the lives of people who made adult decisions and now refuse to take responsibility.

I require no apology for any of this. I wish it would stop. I wish people would take responsibility for their own part in a bad situation. I wish her husband would. I know her family does. I wish some of our friends would.

But people speak ill of each other. And people like to gossip. This is Pakistan. It happens. I am not particularly interested in explaining myself apologetically to anyone. I think that, on balance, if everyone takes responsibility for their own part, the discomfort and unhappiness left in the middle can be attributed to chance and circumstance. Shit happens. You live the best life you can.

Since the day-to-day drama and trauma of living toghether and coming out to her family has stopped, Lovely and I have been focusing on the future, and the happiness of the present. Today, friends asked us how we met, what went on, how we felt. And we couldn’t stop talking. Now that we’re home, Lovely has turned to me and said, “We’ve been keeping this in so long. We don’t talk about it. The more we talk, the sooner we’ll get over it.” And that’s really true. That’s why I haven’t written here in a while. One out of ten comments questions me and us, and I couldn’t handle that for a little bit. When you get questioned daily in your real life, your online existence needs to be rosier.

But I think I’m back now. A lot of stuff has happened. If you have questions or challenges, please remember to be kind.

Reflux

Same fucking arguments over and over again. Same fight. Same questions. And we get excited for a day or two about us and all that we want to do together – and then again, the same arguments, the same anger, the same shit.

We’re going to have to leave the country. I’m afraid of that. The uncertainty of the future makes my belly bubble unpleasantly.

My girlfriend read my blog the other day and said I was colicky and complainy. Well, yeah, I am. I could write out what’s really going on with us, but that’s revealing details and the circles in which we move make up a tiny world. I want to say something else, but all I can do is sit with my family at Eid and miss her, wishing that when I said I was doing Eid with family, I meant her.

Some detachment would be … not nice exactly, but would bring ease. And detachment is impossible. Also, I’m just watching her deal with her family. When it comes to mine, it’ll be worse for me. Maybe. Different seat at the Bad Parade anyway.

There was a question embedded in a lot of comments to the Fear post a while ago: Why tell at all? Well, because we live those kinds of lives and have those kinds of relationships that not telling doesn’t work. Our family’s wouldn’t deal well with a lie. It wouldn’t survive long, and then things would be worse. Secondly, we’re raised in a time and mindset when “marriages of convenience” are anathema and we really do  think that we can have a better life than that. I pray we don’t get fucked over by that  hope, but honestly, I don’t think we will be. Which is to say, I don’t think our lives are in danger. I don’t think anyone will hurt us unless we attempt a pride march or go to a maulvi for a nikah. All the concerns are in a different layer: must we leave, can we ever come home again, how will we live when we do? Will Mom still love me, will Dad still respect me, can we ever sit together and talk about something else? Please can we talk about something else for a while?

Lovely’s dealing with a lot of shit right now and I’m not with her, because of Eid.  I feel like there’s a pendulum with a bowling ball at the end of it, whoomphing into my stomach every little while. It will be so until she calls.

Waiting for the day when this angst and hiding and fear won’t be necessary.