The roommate relationship contains multitudes, from passive-aggressive pantry politics to contractually obligated cordiality; sharing a space with other people can be hard. On the rare occasion that the relationship is less than hostile, roommates resemble something closer to family, a relationship I’ve been lucky to experience in my apartment. To celebrate Queer History Month, I interviewed my roommates, all three of whom identify as queer.
Queer History Month is celebrated in October. Originally conceived in 1994, Missouri high school teacher Rodney Wilson believed that a month dedicated to queer history during the school year was important, independent of Pride Month. Thus, in 1995, the General Assembly of the National Education Association moved to include Queer History Month among the pre-existing list of national commemorative months.
“Queerness is anything against the norm. I think every identity is queer because it’s a spectrum,” said Hope Dela Cruz, third-year creative writing major.
Dela Cruz identifies as queer and uses all pronouns. Their perception of queerness is, as they readily admit, quite unique.
“My mom said that, growing up, she could not tell me what I was because I knew who I was right out of the womb. She would say, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if you were more interested in princesses or pink or girly things?’ and I would outright say, ‘No! I’m an animal!’ and stomp around like a T. rex,” Dela Cruz said.
Their identity as a queer person of color, as well as their unique approach to LGBTQ+ identities, has complicated their relationship with the queer community. As diverse gender identities and sexual orientations grew more normalized in the 2010s, Dela Cruz grew up and into their queer identity. Over time, they saw the language of division become more extensive.
“As a brown, queer person, I think it’s interesting that people use labels to describe queerness,” Dela Cruz said. “I’m not really a fan of labels because they divide people, and I think queerness should be an umbrella thing that everyone is.”
Dela Cruz has never been a fan of binary identity or labels.
“When I introduce myself, I use queer, gender queer. People ask, specifically, do you have a label? I’ve had friends who introduce me as their asexual, pansexual, or bisexual friend. They really need that label in order to understand what I am.” Dela Cruz said.
Katie Wills, a third-year elementary education has similar issues with binary, strictly defined sexualities.
“I jumped on the bandwagon of labeling myself as bisexual because that’s the simplest explanation of it. As humans, we like words that categorize things, it’s easiest to explain,” Wills said.
This simplification is ultimately misrepresentative of Wills’ identity.
“Why do we have to label things when we could just love who we love?” Wills said.
Jocelynn Brown, a third-year animal science major, faced early stigmatization of queer identities, which would lead to years of denial.
“I would, like, kiss my dog, Lady. My older brother’s friend would say, ‘Oh, you’re kissing a woman, you’re kissing a female dog, you’re a lesbian,” Brown said. “For a while, I don’t want to be like that. He gave it the sense that it was bad.”
All three occupants of the cheekily named ‘B*tch Bunker’ have faced similar challenges with their identities not being taken seriously, being insecure in the validity of their identity, and alienation from the queer community.
“Being bisexual is very hard, especially in the queer community, it feels very black and white. If you like women, you are gay. If you like men, you are straight,” Brown said.
The stigma against bisexuality as a stepping stone to either homosexuality or heterosexuality has affected Wills’ romantic relationships.
“I have had people tell me I’m not gay because I’ve been with my boyfriend for almost two years,” Wills said. “People say I need to prove it. Why should I have to prove it?”
The consensus among the roommates is that queer identities are not concrete pillars that one must choose between.
“I never had a solid identity,” Dela Cruz said. “I knew what I wanted to be, then I grew out of the label, over and over again. Now, I am what I am and it doesn’t matter.”
In the face of stigma from heterosexual and queer spaces, these three have carved out a place of their own. A domestic queer space absolutely free of judgment and always open to conversation.
“I am very gender blind. I don’t really process that you guys are women. I’m like, ‘That’s Ella, that’s Jocelynn, and that’s Katie.’ To me, there isn’t much more to that,” Dela Cruz said.
The apartment is full of queer, gender non-conforming identities that, outside the thin walls, would be considered minorities. Inside our over-decorated den, however, queer is more than normal; it’s the majority.
“It’s so fun. It’s so fun and it’s so chill and it’s so freeing,” Brown said.
Beyond creating an individual space for themselves, Brown, Dela Cruz and Wills are all strong advocates for platonic, queer domestic spaces.
“It’s important to live with gay people and allies because they let me know that I’m not losing my mind,” Dela Cruz said.
In these ideologically open spaces, queer people have opportunities to explore what it means to be queer as individuals, with the support of non-judgmental queer folks. Past self-reflection, self-questioning and the challenges outside of the bubble, love is the guiding force of queerness.
Wills said, “Honestly, I just think people should just love each other. Who cares? Who cares if you love? Who cares what they are, who cares?”
In the B*tch Bunker, we love, and we certainly don’t care who, why or how.
