Back when I was 16, a long list of "nevers" clung to me wherever I went, like a loose thread I could never shake. I had never been kissed. I had never had sex. I had never even been on a real date. It felt like a glaring label hanging over my head that exposed my inexperience with sex, love and relationships — some of the most defining aspects of adolescence — to my peers, who seemed to date and find love with ease.
I watched, disillusioned, as my closest friends bonded over their various flings with boys in conversations I could never understand. Try as I might to decode this seemingly secret language, I was perpetually shut out. I assumed the problem was external. Maybe high school boys were too immature to meet my standards. Maybe falling in love was overrated. Maybe I watched one too many seasons of "Gilmore Girls."
In reality, the call was coming from inside the house.
By the time graduation rolled around, I knew I identified as queer. Even though this world-shaking realization answered many of the nagging questions that plagued me growing up, it also opened up a new, terrifying world of uncertainty.
I learned very quickly that it was up to me to chart my own path in this strange new world. There’s no "how-to" video on being queer, nor is there a list of surefire steps to succeed in being gay. And what did I even know of such success anyway? Heterosexuality had been a constant in my life — others had spoken about my future as a doting wife to a husband and mother to his children for as long as I could remember, as they do for many girls.
My Catholic school upbringing had planted the seeds of a deeply rooted internalized homophobia that tormented me as I came to realize my queer identity, even though I had rejected Catholicism years earlier. It felt like I was in an endless battle with my identity, and there were no winners. The proposition of dating or loving someone of the same gender was unfathomable.
But college made things easier. I was a fish in a brand new sea, far away from my hometown and its homogeneously straight community. It was an entirely fresh start, and I was determined to not waste my one opportunity to explore my sexuality alongside individuals in the same boat.
While my list of "nevers" is far behind me and I have since embraced my queer identity, nothing could have prepared me for the complex journey that I embarked on — and it’s still ongoing.
Along the way, I learned that everyone in the LGBTQ+ community — whether you identify as queer, gay or something else entirely — is unique and constantly evolving, just like our journeys to finding acceptance.
Finding yourself
"I was a freshman in 2020, so I had a lot of time to myself," said Emma Martinez, a senior studying fashion. "One day I thought, 'Maybe I’m not straight? Maybe I like guys?'"
This was just the beginning of her journey toward realizing she was a transgender woman, Martinez said Martinez. She was new on campus, having recently moved to downtown Phoenix from Chandler, Arizona, for college.
"I didn't have any friends at the time," Martinez said. "I would go down to the dining hall, and since I had a mask and a big hoodie on, everyone thought I was a girl. That was really nice."
As the president of TransFam at ASU, Martinez said she noticed downtown Phoenix's political climate is drastically different than that of her hometown even though they're only a couple dozen miles apart.
"Chandler is super conservative," Martinez said. "It's where all the red-blooded, middle-class Americans settle down to have families. … At fashion school, it seems like a lot of the girls are lesbians or bisexual."
Before Martinez met her current partner, she frequented a range of dating apps to find connections, an avenue many in the queer community use to meet one another.
"Back in the day, I was hella on the apps," Martinez said. "Grindr was my favorite. It has no false pretenses, and it’s purely sexual. All the guys are horny and desperate for me, so it’s a great ego boost."
Lesbian, gay and bisexual adults were roughly two times more likely than their straight counterparts to report that they'd used dating sites or apps, according to a 2020 study by the Pew Research Center. Online platforms not only make it convenient for LGBTQ+ people to meet each other in areas where they're a minority, but they also allow these users to avoid the violence and lack of acceptance that might come along with dating face to face as a queer person, according to Business Insider.
Even though Martinez was able to interact with plenty of other users, however, she noticed she was treated differently once she indicated on her page that she was transgender.
"I used to go on Tinder and get tons of swipes, specifically from guys," Martinez said. "Then I only wanted to match with women. … As soon as I put 'transgender' in my bio, they all got up and ran."
Martinez's experience is common among those in the transgender community on dating apps. Many trans Tinder users have reported receiving threats and defamatory messages as well as being blocked and reported by other users simply because of their identity, according to CBS News. Even on platforms meant for the queer community, Martinez said she still faces dangers as a trans woman.
"There's also Taimi, (which is a dating app that) says it's for queer people," Martinez said. "But in any queer space, there's going to be 'chasers.'"
A "chaser" is a person who is only attracted to a certain type of person — like those in the trans community — and is unable to "recognize (their) humanity," often fetishizing their sexual and romantic partners, according to the Trans Language Primer, an online resource that compiles terms important to the queer community.
Ultimately, Martinez found love outside the apps, meeting her partner of 10 months through an ASU club. As a result, she no longer participates in the online dating scene.
"We did see each other on the apps beforehand, though, (but never interacted)," Martinez said.
Combating stereotypes
When Rosemary, a geological sciences graduate student, left Arkansas to study geology in Arizona, they found themselves missing their tight knit queer community back home.
"Growing up in Arkansas as a queer person was really difficult," said Rosemary, whose name was changed for privacy. "But it was also very good. Because it's so dangerous to be queer there or transgender there, people stick together."
Prior to Rosemary's move to Arizona, they were active in their community, as they were heavily involved in protests regarding racial and queer injustices.
"When I came to Arizona, I felt really disconnected because I hadn't (found my community) yet," Rosemary said. "Even though the legal conditions were better, and I can use whatever bathroom I want, I felt more isolated from the queer community here."
Because they have been at ASU for only six months, their queer journey at ASU has just begun. Most of their experience with LGBTQ+ dating culture took place in the small environment of their hometown.
"The queer community is very small," Rosemary said. "My ex and I have 'exes-in-laws,' so it's definitely the stereotype of everybody knows everyone else and everybody's dated each other's exes."
In Phoenix's much larger queer community, however, Rosemary said they're thankful this phenomenon seems less common.
"You can always meet new folks and be exposed to new circles of friends, and that's really not the case in a small town," Rosemary said.
"I'm trans, and when I date, it's usually 'T4T,' (a term that refers to a romantic relationship between trans people), but that's less possible in a small community because there's less people to interact with."
Rosemary is now more involved with Phoenix's queer community, but their outlook on ASU shifted when two members of right-wing group Turning Point USA were accused of assaulting a queer instructor on campus in October.
"When I was still getting my roots established, there was violence against Dr. David Boyles on the Tempe campus, and while it wasn't surprising, it was horrifying," Rosemary said. "That really changed my relationship with ASU. Suddenly everything (within the queer community) became more urgent."
Beyond outright violence, Rosemary said that queer people face other challenges on campus. A major stereotype that still affects intimate relationships among queer people is the false narrative that LGBTQ+ individuals exclusively engage in sexual activity with many people, they said.
"There's a stereotype of queer folks being promiscuous in a way that's morally negative," Rosemary said. "That was used to delegitimize efforts to mitigate the AIDS pandemic and the promotion of gay marriage. … I think that's still really pervasive and harmful."
Jacoby Geenen, who graduated from ASU in December with a degree in counseling and applied psychology, said the queer community on the Polytechnic campus was especially different than those on other ASU campuses.
"It's a very unique community," Geenen said. "I've never had a one-night stand or anything, but I don't think hookups are necessarily bad — just as long as there's safety precautions."
Geenen, who is genderfluid, said their unique way of expressing themself became a major roadblock as they began to navigate queer relationships on campus.
"I think it was harder because not everyone understood and not everyone got it right away," Geenen said. "I can sometimes express myself very uniquely, and that can get a lot of mixed reactions, but I feel more confident to be able to handle when people don't like me or don't like how I'm dressing. … I know I'll find people who accept me for who I am."
While attending ASU, Geenen and their partner of four years engaged in a polyamorous relationship.
"So even though I have my partner who I intend to stay with, I was trying stuff with new people as well," Geenan said.
Geenen felt that engaging in a polyamorous relationship taught them about community in a way they otherwise would never have understood in a monogamous relationship.
"Polyamory isn't for everyone, but it can be for a lot of people," Geenen said. "It is a sense of community and openness to relationships that some people truly enjoy or feel (is) a big part of themselves."
Although many in the LGBTQ+ community engage in polyamorous relationships, Geenan said harrowing stereotypes wrongfully categorize polyamorous individuals as "cheaters," which could not be further from the truth.
"I think those stereotypes are deducing and harmful," Geenen said. "When you de-emphasize those negative correlations, it can be very unique and beautiful. That's when you can create relationships — not because society says it's what you have to do, but because you truly are looking for what could create happiness in your life."
Edited by Camila Pedrosa, Savannah Dagupion and Madeline Nguyen.
Reach the reporter at lmesqui2@asu.edu and follow @leahmesquitaa on Twitter.
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