1 Bisexual College Students' Identity Negotiation Narratives Dissertation

Home , Homonationalism, Lesbian erasure

Bisexual College Students’ Identity Negotiation Narratives

Dissertation

Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree Doctor of Philosophy

in the Graduate School of The Ohio State University

Kaitlin Ann Prieto Godoy, M.A.

Graduate Program in Educational Studies

The Ohio State University

2020

Dissertation Committee

Dr. Susan R. Jones, Advisor

Dr. Marc Johnston-Guerrero

Dr. Shannon Winnubst

Copyrighted by

Kaitlin Ann Prieto Godoy

2020

Abstract

The purpose of this narrative study was to understand the experiences of bisexual students relative to their sexual identities and how they negotiate their bisexuality on the college campus. This study employed a critical poststructural epistemology (Sarup, 1993;

Tierney, 1993), a queer theoretical framework (Abes & Kasch, 2007; Butler, 1990; Jones,

Abes, & Kasch, 2013), and was guided by the following four research questions: (1)What narratives of identity negotiation are told by bisexual college students?, (2) How do systems of power influence bisexual students' narratives of identity negotiation?, (3)

What is the perceived significance of identity negotiation for bisexual college students?, and (4) How do bisexual students understand their bisexuality as a result of having to employ identity negotiation strategies?

Sixteen participants with differing definitions of bisexuality, preferred identity labels, gender identities, races, ethnicities, and worldviews served as the sample for this dissertation research. Data were collected through two semi-structured interviews, the second of which was informed by a drawing activity. Thematic and dialogic/performance analyses resulted in two contextual themes: Pervasive Binegativity and Hegemony of

Binaries. Thematic analysis further revealed five themes characterizing identity negotiation strategies: Settling for Simplicity, Transgressing Normativity, Downplaying

Bisexuality, Subtly Signaling Sexuality, and Outness as Advocacy. In addition to the

ii emergent themes, individual participant narratives were also provided to highlight the variety of identities and experiences within the bisexual student community.

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Dedication

To my family. Thank you for allowing me to be every part of who I am.

Acknowledgments

This dissertation was nothing if not a group effort. It belongs to me as much as it does to the countless scholars, administrators, family, and friends who have given their time, energy, and unwavering support to make this work possible. Your insights and encouragement have shaped me and this document in ways I will never be able to fully express.

To the 16 students who shared their time, their heartache, and their pride with me—thank you for trusting me to tell your stories. To the students who read the recruitment email or saw the flier and did not feel as though they could share those parts of themselves, this dissertation is for you as well. I hope this scholarship helps to create college campuses where you do not feel as though you have to hide any piece of who you are.

To Dr. Shanna Smith Jaggars, thank you for providing me with an opportunity to hone my qualitative research skills and to think more deeply and more critically about higher education research. And to Dr. David Graham, thank you for allowing me to continue this work.

To my candidacy and dissertation committee members, none of this would have been possible without you. Dr. Antoinette Errante, thank you for helping me approach participants’ narratives with the care they deserve. Dr. Shannon Winnubst, thank you for

v pushing me outside of my disciplinary comfort zone; this dissertation is stronger for your contributions. Dr. Marc Johnston-Guerrero, thank you for your guidance and support both through the dissertation process and beyond. I am forever grateful for the opportunity to travel with you and to think about identity in new contexts and in more nuanced ways.

Dr. Susan R. Jones—it is hard to believe it has been over four years since I received an email from you with the subject line “Good News!” Since you first welcomed me to the HESA program, you have been there to offer encouragement and to provide opportunities for me to grow as a scholar and as a person. Teaching alongside you has built my confidence and informed my dissertation work in innumerable ways. When students joke that I am a mini version of you, I cannot think of a greater compliment because it means they see me as a caring instructor and a thoughtful researcher. Thank you.

Countless peers and colleagues shaped my doctoral journey and it would take a second dissertation to thank them all. From Christopher Perlongo giving me my first full- time job in higher education to Dr. Shawn Abbott mentoring me along the way, I am forever indebted to the entire NYU Office of Undergraduate Admissions for setting me on the path that has led here. To Trish, Meghan, Becca, Annie, and Kellie—from you I learned that surrounding myself with brilliant and kind women makes me more brilliant and kind. You let me rant over text, offered encouragement, and shipped me bagels fresh from New Jersey. Your friendship over the years has given me a sense of home and has kept me going. I also owe a most special thank you to Alexis Scalese for guiding my thinking about queerness and indigeneity.

To the HESA community, I think we all know I would never have made it through four years of doctoral school without you. I am incredibly appreciative to Drs.

Amy Barnes and Tiffany Polite for your mentorship in teaching 2571. To Dr. Matthew

Mayhew, thank you for your encouragement during my masters program at NYU and your continued support at Ohio State. I am also grateful to the students I have met during my time here. There are too many to name individually, but Jessica, Victoria, and

Rebecca, you have been instrumental in making me feel supported. To my cohort,

Antonio, Ashley, Courtney, Lane, Laura, Shannon, and Tiffany, thank you for the countless hours spent writing together, the backyard cookouts, and lunches at Sloopy’s.

And thank you for the inside jokes (Lane, what’s a lit review again?) that made this process a whole lot more fun.

To Marcos Rivera, this dissertation would not have been possible without you.

You understood that for growth to occur, I needed a balanced amount of challenge and support and snacks. You were there for me in so many ways and you never shied away from questioning my choices and pushing me to produce my best possible work. You believed in me in the moments I struggled to believe in myself. You were patient and kind (in your own way) and I am beyond fortunate to call you a colleague and one of my very best friends.

To my family, thank you for believing in me. To my aunts, uncles, and cousins who encouraged me. To Vilma and Johanna, who I am lucky to call my sisters. To mi suegra, Ro, for welcoming me into your family and for understanding that all the missed holidays had everything to do with getting this dissertation finished! To my

vii brother Dan and his wonderful partner Stephanie, for listening to me complain about graduate school and keeping me outfitted in all the best east coast Dunkin’ attire. I love you all, and I am so grateful. To my Nan and Poppop, Grandma and Grandpa—I carry with me your care, your quiet fortitude, your creativity, and your intellectual curiosity. I would have loved nothing more than to share this work with you. I know you would be proud.

Dad, at my wedding we danced to Bruce Springsteen’s “When You Need Me.” I chose that song because Bruce sang about a promise that you made to me without ever having to say the words. I'll be there to guide you when trouble walks beside you. If you need me, I'll be there. Completing doctoral school has been one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. And every day you were there to make it easier in any way you possibly could. I do not know where I would be in this world without the love and support you have given me over the last three decades, but it would certainly not be here.

To my mom, this dissertation is over 100,000 words. I know you know that because you have proofread most of them. Yet somehow, I cannot find the words to thank you for everything you have given me. I doubt I ever will. From making sure my freezer was stocked with homemade meals during my candidacy exams, to driving to

Columbus with me so I would not have to make the trip alone, to making sure that my counselor, my safety blanket, my best friend was never more than a phone call away, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I am who I am because you and dad made sure my dreams were always within reach. I love you both.

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A Mik, por enseñarme el amor sin condiciones. You put my dreams before your own; I will never be able to give back what you have made possible for me. I know none of this has been easy. This dissertation belongs to you as much as it does to me. Most importantly, I want to thank you for never asking me to hide who I am and for reminding me of all that I have to be proud. I am so fortunate to have you as a partner because no matter how uneven the road, with you I will never have to walk it alone. Thank you for caring for me and going above and beyond for Masha. We both love you so much.

Lastly, to Masha. You were there for me on my worst days. There is so much I wish I could tell you about how you have made me a more patient and empathetic person, but you can’t read, so I’ll just give you a peanut butter kong and a long ride in the c-a-r and hope that you understand. You are my best friend.

Vita

June 2007……………………………..…………………………Wayne Hills High School

May 2011……………………………………………...B.A. Self-Designed Honors Major, New York University

August 2011 to July 2016………………………….……………Senior Assistant Director, Undergraduate Admissions, New York University

May 2015…………………………………....M.A. Higher Education and Student Affairs, New York University

August 2016 to July 2017……………...…………...Distinguished University Fellowship, The Ohio State University

August 2017 to May 2018………………………..…….…..Graduate Teaching Associate, Department of Educational Studies, The Ohio State University

May 2018 to March 2020………………...... Graduate Research Associate, Office of Student Academic Success, The Ohio State University

August 2019 to July 2020…………………………...Distinguished University Fellowship The Ohio State University

March 2020 to present………………………….....University Innovation Alliance Fellow, The Ohio State University

Fields of Study

Major Field: Educational Studies Specialization: Higher Education & Student Affairs

Table of Contents

Abstract ...... ii Dedication ...... iv Acknowledgments...... v Vita ...... x List of Tables ...... xvii Chapter 1. Introduction ...... 1 Statement of the Problem ...... 2 Purpose of the Study and Research Questions ...... 9 Research Design...... 11 Bisexuality: Definitional (Im)Possibilities ...... 12 Definition of Terms...... 15 Delimitations ...... 23 Significance of the Study ...... 26 Summary ...... 28 Chapter 2. Literature Review ...... 29 Theoretical Framework: Queer Theory ...... 30 Homo-, Hetero-, and Mononormativity ...... 34 Performativity ...... 37 Liminality ...... 38 Systemic Oppression ...... 41 Heterosexism and Homophobia ...... 41 Monosexism and Binegativity ...... 42 Invisibility and Bisexual Erasure ...... 46 Locating Bisexuality in Identity Research ...... 55 LGBTQ+ Identity Development ...... 58 xi

Bisexuality and Bisexual Identity ...... 63 Bisexuality’s Historical Roots ...... 64 Contemporary Bisexuality and Plurisexual Identity Research ...... 68 Identity Negotiation ...... 78 Negotiation Strategies ...... 80 Identity Negotiation and Bisexual College Students ...... 83 Identity Enactment ...... 86 Bisexual Identity Enactment ...... 86 Passing ...... 88 Covering ...... 90 A Queerer Approach to Enactment ...... 91 Marginalization ...... 92 Negative Impacts on Well-being ...... 93 Pre-College Experiences ...... 94 Bisexuality and Religion ...... 96 Campus Climate ...... 98 Finding Space...... 100 LGBTQ+ Resource Centers ...... 101 Counseling Services ...... 103 Curricular Contexts ...... 105 Summary ...... 106 Chapter 3. Research Methods ...... 107 Epistemological Perspective ...... 108 Critical Theory ...... 108 Poststructuralism ...... 109 Critical Poststructuralism ...... 109 Narrative Inquiry Methodology ...... 113 Themes in Narrative Inquiry ...... 114 Narratives as Contextually and Culturally Situated ...... 115 Narratives as Interactive Performance ...... 119 Narratives as Drivers of Social Change ...... 120 Rationale for Narrative Inquiry in Critical Poststructural Identity Research ...... 121

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Research Methods ...... 126 Research Context ...... 126 Sampling Criteria ...... 127 Sampling Strategies ...... 131 Data Collection and Methods...... 134 Queering the Interview ...... 136 Data Analysis ...... 140 Trustworthiness ...... 146 Positionality ...... 147 Additional Trustworthiness Strategies ...... 151 Ethical Issues ...... 153 Summary ...... 155 Chapter 4. Findings ...... 156 Participant Narratives...... 157 Alex ...... 161 Cecile Sawtelle...... 164 Deen ...... 166 Gadiel ...... 167 Jessica ...... 169 Katrina...... 171 Kyra Kerr ...... 173 Liam ...... 176 Lydia ...... 178 M ...... 180 Rachel ...... 182 Remus ...... 183 Sarah ...... 185 Sharon ...... 188 Sofia ...... 190 Summer ...... 192 Summary ...... 194 Pervasive Binegativity ...... 194

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Pressing for Proof ...... 195 There’s No Such Thing ...... 198 The Presumption of Monosexuality ...... 199 Not Gay Enough ...... 200 Binary Assumptions ...... 202 Attention-Seeking ...... 203 Nonmonogamy and Promiscuity...... 204 Homophobia and Religion ...... 206 Hegemony of Binaries ...... 208 Settling for Simplicity ...... 211 Making Themselves Understood ...... 212 Not Having to Deal with It...... 216 Transgressing Normativity...... 217 Family Dynamics ...... 218 Socialization in Schools ...... 220 Religious Institutions ...... 221 Downplaying Bisexuality...... 224 Bisexuality’s (Ir)Relevance on Campus ...... 228 Not Revealing and Concealing ...... 234 Seeking Relevance, Finding Support ...... 241 Subtly Signaling Sexuality ...... 248 Stylizing the Body...... 249 Social Media and Visual Cues ...... 252 Verbally Hinting ...... 253 Outness as Advocacy ...... 255 Outness in Support of Others ...... 255 Personal Empowerment ...... 264 Summary ...... 267 Chapter 5. Discussion ...... 268 Interpretation of Findings in Relation to Research Questions ...... 269 What Narratives of Identity Negotiation are Told by Bisexual College Students? 269 How do Systems of Power Influence Bisexual Students' Narratives Of Identity Negotiation? ...... 270 xiv

What is the Perceived Significance of Identity Negotiation for Bisexual College Students? ...... 272 How do Bisexual Students Understand Their Bisexuality as a Result of Having to Employ Identity Negotiation Strategies? ...... 273 Relationship of Themes to Existing Literature ...... 274 Pervasive Binegativity ...... 274 Hegemony of Binaries ...... 278 Settling for Simplicity ...... 280 Transgressing Normativity...... 282 Downplaying Bisexuality...... 284 Subtly Signaling Sexuality ...... 291 Outness as Advocacy ...... 293 Research, Theoretical, and Practical Implications ...... 295 Recommendations for Future Research ...... 295 Theoretical Implications ...... 299 Implications for Practice ...... 302 Limitations and Strengths ...... 310 Limitations ...... 310 Strengths ...... 313 Concluding Thoughts ...... 314 References ...... 317 Appendix A. Expert Nominator Letter ...... 377 Appendix B. Participant Recruitment Letter ...... 379 Appendix C. Participant Interest Form ...... 381 Appendix D. Recruitment Flier...... 382 Appendix E. Correspondence with Selected and Prospective Participants ...... 383 Email to Selected Participants ...... 383 Interview Confirmation Email to Participants (First Interview) ...... 384 Interview Reminder Email (First & Second Interview) ...... 385 Interview Reminder Text Message (First & Second Interview) ...... 385 Email to Individuals Not Selected to Participate ...... 386 Appendix F. Interview Protocols ...... 387 Interview Protocol 1 ...... 387 xv

Interview Protocol 2 ...... 389 Appendix G. Reflective Drawing Activity ...... 391 Appendix H. Interview Summary Sheet ...... 393 Appendix I. Informed Consent Form ...... 394

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List of Tables

Table 1...... 81 Table 2...... 159

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Chapter 1. Introduction

Despite constituting the largest segment of the LGBTQ+ community (Gates,

2011), there is limited research on the experiences of bisexual people (Kaestle & Ivory,

2012; Monro, Hines & Osborne, 2017). Prior to the 1990s, gender and sexuality research tended to privilege the identities and experiences of lesbian and gay individuals (Rankin,

Garvey, & Duran, 2019). Extant studies examining bisexual identity and bisexual experiences have tended not to center college student experiences. Throughout the 1990s, higher education research began to include bisexuals along with lesbian and gay students

(Rankin et al., 2019). Yet when bisexual students are represented in the literature, they are often included in aggregated samples of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer

(LGBTQ) or LGB people (e.g., Dunbar, Sontag-Padilla, Ramchand, Seelam, & Stein,

2017; Woodford et al., 2018). As a result, little is known about the specific experiences of bisexual students on college campuses (for notable exceptions see King, 2011; Klein &

Dudley, 2014; Lowy, 2017; Sheets & Mohr, 2009). The existing research thus provides little information on how bisexual students might face unique challenges or how campus services may fail to support them.

Within the collegiate setting, bisexual people encounter a variety of systemic forms of oppression, as they do in the larger society. This includes heterosexism (Cramer,

2011), monosexism (Eisner, 2013), and bisexual erasure (Jones & Hillier, 2014; Yoshino,

2000), where bisexual people do not see their identities and their experiences represented.

Worse yet, bisexuals often have their identities disaffirmed or the existence of bisexuality denied (Bleiberg, Fertmann, Todhunter Friedman, & Godino, 2005; Bradford, 2004).

Consequently, if bisexual students are unable to identify role models among their faculty and administrators (Lowy, 2017; Rodríguez Rust, 2002), perhaps due to pressure on faculty to conceal their sexual identity (Bilimoria & Stewart, 2009), or access campus programming tailored to meet their needs (Fine, 2012; Wright & McKinley, 2010), they may not know how to make themselves seen or advocate for themselves. Further,

“institutional-level monosexism leads to an absence of bi-inclusive resources…which sends a message to bisexual students that they don’t matter” (Lowy, 2017, p. 7). When students are marginalized and made to feel as though they do not matter (France &

Finney, 2009), their psychosocial well-being suffers (Marshall, 2001) and they experience greater levels of academic stress (Rayle & Chung, 2007). This study focused on bisexual students’ identity negotiation experiences and the ways in which they are informed by systems of power and oppression. An adequate understanding of bisexual student experiences is necessary for administrators, faculty, and other members of the campus community to adjust their behaviors and services to better meet bisexual students’ needs.

Statement of the Problem

It is difficult, if not impossible, to ascertain the number of LGBTQ+ students on college campuses given existing data sets (Marine, 2011; Rankin et al., 2019), let alone the number of bisexual students. Of the 10 most used higher education and student affairs

2 survey instruments, only four included sexual identity (Garvey, 2014). Rankin and

Garvey (2015) observed this may be because survey developers are hesitant to include social identities such as sexuality and gender given these populations are under- researched. This results in a “catch-22” where, because of a lack of reliable data, scholars are challenged to conduct empirical research on these identities (Rankin & Garvey, 2015, p. 78). Fortunately, this is slowly changing—in 2015 the Higher Education Research

Institute (HERI) added sexual orientation to their Freshman Survey—yet methodological challenges in quantifying sexual identity persist (Garvey, 2017; Rankin & Garvey, 2015).

For example, survey designers must decide which response options to include and whether to ask only about identity or behavior and attraction as well (Garvey, 2017).

Additionally, given the fluid nature of identity (Jones, Abes, & Kasch, 2013; Valocchi,

2005; Whitney, 2001), students may prefer to select more than one option, and their responses may change over time (Garvey, 2017).

Not only are national surveys such as HERI’s Freshman Survey, the Multi-

Institutional Study of Leadership (Dugan & Yurman, 2011), and the National Survey of

Student Engagement (NSSE, n. d.) becoming more inclusive (Garvey, 2017), higher education institutions have also begun collecting gender identity and sexuality demographics on their admissions applications (Vaccaro, Russel, & Koob, 2015).

Unfortunately, this practice remains contentious (Garvey, 2012) and only a small number of institutions gather this data (Vaccaro et al., 2015). Those that do often ask several general questions about membership in the LGBT community (Vaccaro et al., 2015).

This type of data, though useful for understanding enrollment, retention, and student

3 academic success, does not allow campuses to distinguish between lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans, and queer students, and it is not yet clear how this disaggregated data can best be used to support LGBTQ+ students (Vaccaro et al., 2015).

Given the current landscape, the best means of estimating the number of bisexual students on college campuses is to examine other national surveys. Data from the Fall

2018 National College Health Assessment Undergraduate Reference Group Report (N=

19,664) published by the American College Health Association (ACHA) suggests 18.1% of undergraduate students identify as asexual, bisexual, gay, lesbian, pansexual, queer, questioning, or as another identity other than straight/heterosexual. When students selected multiple identity labels, however, their responses were treated as invalid. This is problematic given individuals may adopt multiple identity labels dependent on context

(Callis, 2014; Rust, 2000, Tillman-Kelly, 2015).

National College Health Assessment survey responses also indicated bisexual students constituted 8.6% of respondents, with an additional 1.8 and 0.9% identifying as pansexual and queer, respectively. Respondents had to select a single identity label, but because bisexuals often use more than one label (Callis, 2014), it is possible the number of bisexual students is higher when these other identity labels are included. Further, pansexual and queer are often included under the bisexual+ umbrella (Bisexual Resource

Center, 2019a). This mirrors national data that suggests bisexual people make up the largest segment of the LGBTQ+ community (Gates, 2011). National data collected by the

Williams Institute further suggested “those who report any lifetime same-sex sexual behavior and any same-sex sexual attraction are substantially higher than estimates of

4 those who identify as LGB,” and women are more likely to identify as bisexual than men

(Gates, 2011, p. 1). This suggests the number of students who have bisexual attractions or engage sexually with members of more than one gender is larger than the number of students who identify specifically as bisexual. As such, national and campus-level data likely underestimates the number of students who would benefit from bisexuality- inclusive resources.

On the other hand, bisexuality research tends to overrepresent white, middle- class, cisgender women (e.g., Bleiberg et al., 2005; Diamond, 2008; Hartman, 2013).

Less is known about how many bisexuals identify as members of other marginalized groups and how bisexuals at the intersections of marginalized identities experience their bisexuality (Caldwell, 2010; Collins, 2004; King, 2011).

Despite challenges in identifying numbers and demographics, ACHA data demonstrating bisexual students may make up over 8% of undergraduate college students means higher education researchers, practitioners, and policymakers should devote attention to understanding their experiences and needs. Given the dearth of higher education literature exploring the specific experiences of bisexual students, much of the information available comes from other fields including psychology (e.g., Diamond 2005,

2008; Rust, 2003), counseling and mental health (e.g. Flanders, Dobinson, & Logie,

2017; Li, Dobinson, Scheim, & Ross, 2013), and sexuality studies (e.g., Alarie & Gaudet,

2013; Eisner, 2013; Knous, 2006; Monro, 2015); a great deal of the interdisciplinary literature is concentrated in the Journal of Bisexuality.

Typically, when bisexual students do appear in the literature, they are included in aggregated samples of LGBTQ or LGB people (e.g., Dunbar et al., 2017; Woodford et al., 2018). Notable exceptions do exist, yet they are not without limitations. For example,

Sheets and Mohr (2009) used survey data to examine social support and psychosocial functioning in bisexual collegians, highlighting the need for both general and sexuality- specific support, as well as campus programming designed to facilitate support networks for bisexual students. However, generalizability was limited by the largely white, female sample.

Both King (2011) and Lowy (2017) used phenomenological approaches to explore the collegiate experiences of bisexuals, but both studies included only women, further contributing to the overrepresentation of women in bisexuality research. Despite this limitation, and the need to address calls for more men in bisexuality research

(Steinman, 2011), these studies advanced an understanding of bisexuality on college campuses. King’s (2011) research also contributed to the field’s understanding of identity development through her focus on the influence of campus environment and the inclusion of multiracial and biracial students, a subset of the bisexual student population that is little discussed. These studies revealed bisexual students must grapple with identity exploration (King, 2011; Lowy, 2017), a lack of bisexual role models (Lowy, 2017), and a struggle to find a sense of belonging and campus resources (King, 2011; Lowy, 2017).

Findings suggested colleges and universities must do more to create spaces for exploration and belonging, as well as offer counseling resources. This aligns with

Oswalt’s (2009) plea that practitioners not “forget the ‘B’” when providing college health

6 resources (p. 557). Oswalt’s (2009) suggestions, however, resulted from a robust review of the literature; she did not contribute original, empirical research, more of which is needed.

Despite a lack of higher education research centering bisexual student experiences, the campus climate literature has suggested LGBTQ+ students continue to experience an unwelcoming campus environment (Blumenfeld, Weber, & Rankin, 2016;

Rankin, Weber, Blumenfeld, & Frazer, 2010; Tetreault, Fette, Meidlinger, & Hope, 2013;

Vaccaro, 2012), although conditions are slowly improving (Beemyn & Rankin, 2011).

This is due to the impact of various forms of oppression. As Blumenfeld et al. (2016) explained:

Under the force of heteronormativity and cissexism, minoritized sexual and

gender identities are forced to struggle constantly against their own invisibility,

and make it difficult for them to integrate a positive sexual and gender identity.

Within society at large, and specifically on college and university campuses, they

often find themselves as strangers in their own country. (pp. 206-207)

The majority of the campus climate research on LGBTQ+ students has similarly found these students perceive their campus environments more negatively than their straight peers (e.g., Garvey et al., 2017). Oppressive campus contexts and negative collegiate experiences are related to adverse psychosocial and academic outcomes for LGBTQ+ students (McAleavey, Castonguay, & Locke, 2011; Woodford & Kulick, 2015).

Researchers have also suggested a need to consider multiple perspectives when studying campus climate for LGBTQ+ students because differences exist within groups

(Brown, Clarke, Gortmaker, & Robinson-Keilig, 2004). For example, Klein and Dudley

(2014) explored health-related barriers to bisexual students’ academic performance using survey data from the American College Health Association–National College Health

Assessment and found distinct threats to bisexual students’ academic success. In comparison to gay and lesbian students, bisexual students reported experiences such as drug use, chronic pain, anxiety, depression, stress, and sexual assault had similar or greater negative effects on their academic outcomes (Klein & Dudley, 2014). A single variable—discrimination—had less of an effect on bisexual students’ academic performance than it did for gay and lesbian respondents, however (Klein & Dudley,

2014). This study advanced the understanding of bisexual students’ wellbeing and academic outcomes and demonstrated the importance of disaggregating samples of

LGBTQ+ students, but it also relied on problematic conceptualizations of bisexuality. In the limitations section, the researchers suggested:

It is possible that some individuals who are more accurately gay or lesbian felt

more comfortable identifying as bisexual for the purposes of this study, perhaps

feeling this categorization was less stigmatizing than the other nonheterosexual

options. (Klein & Dudley, 2014, p. 404)

Such a statement fuels the inaccurate assumption that bisexuality is a less stigmatized identity (Balsam & Mohr, 2007; Herek, 2002) or that bisexuality is a placeholder for students on their way to claiming a lesbian or gay identity (Dyar, Feinstein, & London,

2014; Fahs, 2009). In fact, bisexuals often feel pressured to describe themselves in terms of their current, same-gender partner (Rust, 1993).

In summary, without a robust body of literature on bisexual college student experiences, practitioners seeking to support bisexual students have had to draw on what is known about bisexuality broadly. Unfortunately, this research is itself limited in numerous ways (Kaestle & Ivory, 2012; Monro et al., 2017). Populations of LGBTQ+,

LGBQ, or bisexual, pansexual, and fluid students are often aggregated, and few studies have allowed students to identify their sexuality in multiple ways. Further, some studies have been limited by inaccurate understandings of bisexuality (e.g., Klein & Dudley,

2014). An overrepresentation of white, middle-class, cisgender women has been exacerbated by the lack of scholarship on bisexual students with multiple marginalized identities. Studies have also been constrained by a narrow conceptualization of bisexuality (e.g., King, 2011) and a failure to grapple with the complexity of identity, behavior, and desire. Finally, a focus on challenges (e.g., sexual victimization, anxiety and depression, drug use) paints a deficit perspective of bisexual students, whereas their resilience should be highlighted.

Purpose of the Study and Research Questions

I sought to fill these gaps in the higher education and bisexuality literature through this study. The purpose of this narrative study was to understand the experiences of bisexual students relative to their sexual identities and how they negotiate their bisexuality on the college campus. LGBTQ+ campus experiences are “informed by localized socio-spatial environments, or microclimates” (Vaccaro, 2012, p. 429). In other words, a student’s perception of their campus is context dependent; some environments might be perceived as more affirming than others. Identity negotiation refers to the

9 identity work in which individuals engage in response to shifting contextual demands

(Deaux & Ethier, 1998). Identity negotiation involves maintaining existing identities and adapting to changing circumstances, often in response to prejudice (Deaux & Ethier,

1998). This study examined bisexual students’ perceptions of identity negotiation as it relates to the collegiate environment. Campuses, and the microclimates that comprise them, are often hostile for students with marginalized sexual identities (Rankin et al.,

2010; Tetreault et al., 2013; Vaccaro, 2012). College campuses, as institutions within a larger social context, are sites of heteronormativity and heterosexism (Cramer, 2011); the prejudice and oppression resulting from heteronormative assumptions and heterosexist attitudes and social structures can lead to identity negotiation. Further, bisexual students must also contend with bisexual erasure and feelings of invisibility (Yoshino, 2000), monosexism (Eisner, 2013), and binegativity (Weiss, 2011; Eliason, 2000) as they navigate these campus environments. In this study, I employed a queer sociological understanding of identity to highlight the way identity is performative and informed by social institutions. Queer theory (Abes & Kasch, 2007; Butler, 1990; Jones et al., 2013) as a theoretical framework provided a lens through which to examine the social forces, including heteronormativity and monosexism, shaping bisexual student experiences, and the negotiation strategies they employ in response. The research questions guiding this study were:

1. What narratives of identity negotiation are told by bisexual college students?

2. How do systems of power influence bisexual students' narratives of identity

negotiation?

3. What is the perceived significance of identity negotiation for bisexual college

students?

4. How do bisexual students understand their bisexuality as a result of having to

employ identity negotiation strategies?

Research Design

I employed a critical poststructural narrative methodological approach to answer these research questions. Narrative inquiry allows the researcher to understand participants’ experiences (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000) and is appropriate for the study of the perception of these experiences because it facilitates “retrospective meaning making” (Chase, 2010, p. 214). As noted, this study was grounded in critical (Tierney,

1993) and poststructural (Sarup, 1993) epistemologies. Participants’ narratives function as a response to oppression and disrupt grand, totalizing narratives. Critical theory’s desire to highlight and challenge oppressive societal structures, and poststructuralism’s ability to deconstruct normalized categories align well with the queer theoretical framework grounding this study.

I conducted two semi-structured interviews with a diverse sample of bisexual participants at a large, public Midwestern university. Students were also asked to complete an activity where they described how they perceive their identity performance in four different campus contexts. Data was analyzed using thematic and dialogic/performance analysis (Riessman, 2008), with an eye towards disrupting binaries

(e.g., heterosexual/homosexual, male/female) through deconstruction (Czarniawska,

2004; Martin, 1990). Challenging binary thinking around sexuality and gender through research and practice epistemologically creates space for bisexuality.

Bisexuality: Definitional (Im)Possibilities

To understand identity negotiation for bisexual college students, it is first necessary to clarify the terminology used throughout this study. As I will show, there is considerable disagreement surrounding the meaning of some of these terms. Before I provide definitions for the terms as I employ them, I begin by discussing definitional challenges surrounding bisexuality.

Drawing on Galupo, Mitchell, Grynkiewics, and Davis (2014), I reject the use of nonmonosexual as a definitional category as “it linguistically constructs bisexuality and pansexuality as existing between two binary poles, which always positions bisexuality in relationship to being between hetero/homosexuality” (p. 420). There are many labels with which a person might identify, and multiple definitions for the same term. For instance, in a study of non-binary sexual identities, Callis (2014) found nearly as many participants identified as queer as they did bisexual, and pansexual was commonly used as well. The term “bisexual” appears most frequently throughout this dissertation because much of the cited literature relies on this label.

It is difficult to reach an agreed upon definition of bisexuality, as “there is considerable disagreement among bisexuals and bisexual theorists themselves…This unresolved definitional uncertainty points to a larger uncertainty about what sexuality is and how it should be understood” (Halperin, 2012, p. 259). A review of the sexual identity literature indicated a lack of shared understanding, if not outright disagreement,

12 of sexual orientation and identity terms (Rankin et al., 2019; Sell, 2007). To address this challenge, Sell and Petrulio (1996) had previously suggested a need to “standardize population definitions and sampling methodologies” (p. 32). This type of standardization, however, strips researchers of their agency in allowing epistemological and axiological beliefs to drive their work and denies respondents their ability to self-identify. The landscape has only become increasingly complex as additional terms gain popularity

(e.g., omnisexual, pansexual, pomosexual; see Elizabeth, 2013; Obradors-Campos, 2011;

Rankin et al., 2019). Rather than seeking standardization, next I explore the ways in which sexual identity is differently understood and defined by researchers. I then provide a working definition of bisexuality and demonstrate how this definition inevitably excludes numerous groups.

In her scholarship on multiracial/biracial-bisexual/pansexual female college students, King (2011) indicated that “the complexities of bisexuality” were a limitation in her study, because “bisexuality can be considered a behavior, lifestyle, or overall identity” (p. 452). This quote speaks to the complexities of sexuality and the challenges inherent in sexuality research. As Denton (2016) noted:

Poststructural and some critical scholars distinguish between the way people

socially position themselves, sexual cultural practices, and sexual feelings and

dispositions. A person might identify as heterosexual but engage in same-sex

sexual practices sometimes. Such feelings or behaviors do not indicate that such a

person is “actually” bisexual or “in denial,” but rather demonstrate the inadequacy

of sexual identity categories to describe the constellation of individual’s erotic

attachments, desires, and practices. (p. 58)

This understanding of sexuality—a complex interplay of identity, practice, and desire— gestures towards the constraints imposed by heterosexism and cissexism. Due to social and cultural influences, sexual attraction and behavior may not always align (Sell, 2007).

It is thus important to recognize that an individual’s circumstances may not allow for a full exploration of their sexual desires. This is particularly true of bisexual people who may feel pressured to describe themselves in terms of their current partner and for whom self-identity may change over time (Rust, 1993). For example, a woman dating a man may feel compelled to identify as heterosexual despite prior intimacy with women. This pressure stems from the belief that bisexuality is not a socially acceptable option (Rust,

1993), itself a consequence of monosexism (Eisner, 2013).

As noted in the sections that follow, I employ bisexual as an umbrella term for people who recognize their potential for sexual and emotional attraction to more than one gender, as well as to individuals who may identify in other ways, including as more than one gender or as agender (i.e. as not having any gender; Ballou, 2015). This expansive definition is complicated by the inclusion of both sexual and romantic attraction. The label bisexual, for instance, may not resonate with biromantic asexuals who do not experience sexual attraction and/or engage in sexual activity but who experience romantic attraction to people of more than one gender.

In addition to the definitional ambiguities surrounding the term bisexual, social identities such as ethnicity and gender further complicate the discussion of bisexuality.

The terms students use to describe their identities vary across race, culture, and geographic region (Bilodeau & Renn, 2005; Stewart & Howard-Hamilton, 2015). For example, some students, particularly Students of Color, may prefer terms such as “same- gender loving (SGL), queer, ‘people-loving,’ and pansexual” because of the white, racialized history of terms like bisexual, lesbian, and gay (Stewart & Howard-Hamilton,

2015, p. 122). In a study of 125 non-heterosexual women students, half of whom were white and half of whom were Students of Color, white women were most likely to identify as bisexual whereas Women of Color were most likely to call themselves queer

(Rupp, Taylor, & Miller, 2016). Further, individuals adopting the labels pansexual and queer were more likely to be younger and trans (Morandini, Blaszczynski, & Dar-

Nimrod, 2016). While this definitional uncertainty poses a challenge for researchers, it also opens queer possibilities for the understanding of identity, as I explore in this study.

Definition of Terms

The following terms appear throughout the study. My objective here is not to provide definitional certainty, particularly given the “fluid and evolving” nature of sexuality and gender-related terms (Rankin et al., 2019, p. 437). Rather, I aim to offer a brief introduction to how these terms will be used in the present study; many are discussed in greater detail in the following chapter.

Bisexuality: The Bisexual Resource Center “uses bisexual as an umbrella term for people who recognize and honor their potential for sexual and emotional attraction to more than one gender” (2019a, para. 2). I include the sexual and/or romantic attraction to individuals who may identify in other ways, including as more than one gender or as

15 agender. This is important because the well-intentioned phrase “all genders” marginalizes those who do not identify with a gender, making the inclusion of “no gender” necessary

(Robbins & McGowan, 2016, p. 73). A similar way of conceptualizing bisexuality is as attraction to one’s own gender and to other genders, including no genders. This definition of bisexuality overlaps considerably with that of terms like pansexual, which refers to the attraction to people regardless of their gender identity. While some believe pansexuality is more inclusive of trans identities (Callis, 2014; Elizabeth, 2013), this view is based on a limited understanding which views bisexuality as only the attraction to cisgender men and women. Bisexuality is often used as an umbrella term for all non-monosexual identities, including pansexuality and omnisexuality (Flanders, 2016). In addition to having the capacity for sexual and/or romantic attraction to more than one gender, bisexuality “is a sexual identity that describes an individual who…self-identifies as bisexual,” acknowledging:

it is important to recognize that self-identification is a necessary component of

bisexuality, as identity is not always congruent with behavior…Second, it is also

important not only to consider behavior, but also attraction, in the definition of

bisexuality. It is entirely possible for a person to have engaged in sexual or

romantic behavior with one gender while still experiencing attraction to more than

one gender. (Flanders, 2016, p. 131)

As noted, this may be due to social and cultural pressures which limit available partners or opportunities (Sell, 2007).

Binegativity: Also referred to as biphobia, binegativity refers to prejudiced attitudes about bisexuality and bisexual people, and the discrimination they face as a result.

Binegativity manifests as harmful stereotypes about bisexuality and can be internalized by bisexuals themselves (Hoang, Holloway, & Mendoza, 2011). I use the term binegativity rather than biphobia as it linguistically shifts the focus from an irrational fear of bisexuality to a question of power (Weiss, 2011).

Bisexual Erasure: Bisexual erasure refers to the process through which bisexual invisibility occurs. Bisexual erasure results from class erasure, individual erasure, and delegitimation carried out by some lesbian, gay, and heterosexual people (Yoshino,

2000).

Bisexual Invisibility: Bisexual invisibility is a type of social invisibility affecting bisexual people (Yoshino, 2000). Social invisibility refers to the imperceptibility of nonphysical traits (e.g., sexual identity) and is related to political visibility, “[which] arises when a person claims group membership as a central and constitutive feature of her identity” (Abrams as cited in Yoshino, 2000, p. 364). In practice, “bisexual invisibility manifests itself in the studied omission of bisexuality in discussions of sexual orientation” (Yoshino, 2000, p. 367). Bisexual invisibility is the product of bisexual erasure (Yoshino, 2000).

Cissexism: Refers to prejudice or discrimination against trans and nonbinary people

(Serano, 2016). Cissexism stems from genderism, or the belief that there are only two genders (Jourian, 2015).

Heteronormativity: Heteronormativity refers to the assumption that most people are straight, and thus queer sexualities deviate from this hegemonic norm (Butler, 1990;

Seidman, 1993). Heteronormativity is thus “the dominant sexual model of social, cultural, political, and economic organization, including the way it organizes identities, experiences, regimes of truth and knowledge, and ideologies of gender and sex”

(Jeppesen, 2016, p. 492).

Heterosexism: Heterosexism includes “the belief that only heterosexual behavior and sexuality are of value,” as well as “the significant and systemic social and cultural ethos that structures our social arrangements and shapes our views of [non-dominant sexual identities]” (Spaulding, 1999, p. 12).

Homonormativity: The term homonormativity was initially coined by Stryker in the early 1990s to capture the way LGBT rights movements centered gay and lesbian identities at the expense of transgender individuals (Bolen, 2016; Stryker, 2008b).

Duggan (2003) has more recently used the term in reference to a “new homonormativity that does not challenge heterosexist institutions and values, but rather upholds, sustains, and seeks inclusion within them” (p. 50). I use Duggan’s definition throughout this study.

Identity Enactment: Enactments refer to “a performance or way of acting, and members of socially ascribed groups are taught to enact-perform identity in ways that match the demand characteristics of different situations” (Cross, 2012, p. 194). Cross’s (2012) model of the enactment of LGBT identity is central to this study and includes individual and collective buffering, code-switching (including passing), bridging, and attachment-

18 bonding. These strategies highlight the various ways a bisexual person might respond to identity threat and discrimination. I elaborate on this model in Chapter 2.

Identity Negotiation: Deaux and Ethier (1998) defined identity negotiation as “agentic identity work carried out in response to contextual demands. Identity negotiation is an ongoing process, best conceived as continual efforts directed at maintaining existing identities as well as adapting to changing circumstances,” which may or may not be supportive and conducive to identity exploration (p. 301). It consists of several strategies that fall into two broad categories—identity negation and identity enhancement (Deaux &

Ethier, 1998). Negation strategies are used when an individual prefers to distance themselves from an identity which they find unpleasant, whereas enhancement strategies are employed when an individual wishes to assert their identity. Identity negotiation is central to this study and is described in detail in Chapter 2.

Liminality: The term liminality was originally used in anthropological work on rites of passage to denote an ambiguous, transitional state between a given identity or social status (Turner, 1967; Van Gennep, 1909/2013). As a queer theoretical concept, liminality refers to a transitory state between two distinct ways of being, namely heterosexuality and nonheterosexuality (Abes & Kasch, 2007). Liminality resists binary notions of sexuality and gender while highlighting the instability of both (Abes & Kasch, 2007;

Halberstam, 2005). Further, liminality functions as an analytic strategy that emphasizes the incoherent nature of sexuality and gender and illuminates the way individuals and texts resist normativity (LeMaster, 2011).

Mononormativity: A form of normativity related to “the institutionalized arrangements and cultural narratives that situate the monogamous dyad as the only legitimate, natural, or desirable relationship form, thereby systematically conferring privileges on those who are or appear to be in monogamous couples” (Schippers, 2016, p. 14). This concept is relevant to the study of bisexuality because bisexuals, whether non-monogamous or stereotyped to be, are subjected to mononormativity.

Monosexual: Individuals who experience romantic or sexual attraction to only one sex or gender. Typically, heterosexuals, lesbians, and gay men are considered monosexual, though the adoption of identity labels such as “bisexual lesbian” or “heterosexual- identified-bisexual” (Rust, 2000) complicates this labeling convention. For the purpose of this study, I do not consider individuals adopting compound identities to be monosexual.

Monosexism: Monosexism refers to the social structures that privilege monosexual identities and presumes everyone should be gay or straight (Eisner, 2013). Gays and lesbians can be complicit in monosexist oppression against bisexuals, but because monosexism originates from and upholds heterosexism, they can also share in this experience of oppression (Eisner, 2013).

Omnisexuality: Omnisexuality refers to “attraction to anyone despite their gender, meaning [an omnisexual] could also date a man, a woman, someone identifying as nonbinary or anyone else, while noticing their gender but not caring how they identify”

(Lacey, n.d., para. 2).

Pansexuality: A pansexual person is “sexually, emotionally, romantically, or spiritually attracted to others, regardless of biological sex, gender expression (of masculine or

20 feminine characteristics), or sexual orientation” (Rice, 2015, n.p.). According to Rice

(2015), “pansexuality may be used by someone to describe their sexual identity, particularly if they do not wish to classify themselves as exclusively heterosexual, bisexual or a specific gender, or to take a stand against binaries of sex and gender” (n.p.).

Performativity: Distinct from Goffman’s (1959) conceptualization of dramaturgy, performativity as employed in this study is based on the work of Jacques Derrida

(1972/1991, 1987/1991) and Judith Butler (1990, 1993). In queer theory, performativity refers to the idea that “identity is performatively constituted by the very ‘expressions’ that are said to be its results” (Butler, 1990, p. 25). Identity is constructed when an individual performs actions associated with dominant conceptualizations of gender. The production of hegemonic gender norms, themselves a function of white normativity, through performative action is the foundation upon which heterosexuality rests (Butler,

1993). Butler clarifies that performativity is not about style; it is not voluntary or deliberate. Rather, “performativity has to do with repetition, very often the repetition of oppressive and painful gender norms to force them to resignify. This is not freedom, but a question of how to work the trap that one is inevitably in” (Butler, 1992, p. 84).

Plurisexuality: Sexual identities that do not fall under the monosexual (i.e. straight, lesbian, gay) umbrella. This includes, but is not limited to, bisexuality, pansexuality, and omnisexuality.

Queer: Queer is a label “used by some—but not all—LGBT people as an identity category including sexualities and gender identities that are outside heterosexual and

21 binary gender categories” (Renn, 2010, p. 132). The term “queer” has been, and is still understood by some, as highly offensive. Yet as Love (2014) wrote:

by reclaiming a homophobic slur as the name for a movement and, soon after, a

field of study, queer activists and scholars indicated the significance of violence

and stigma in the experience of gender and sexual outsiders. Queer, with its

valences of strange, odd, and perplexing, was also meant to indicate a range of

nonnormative sexual practices and gender identifications beyond gay and lesbian.

(p. 172)

In keeping with this definition, some bisexuals also adopt the queer label (Rust, 2000).

It is also important to note gays and lesbians may also identify with the term because of its connection to radical politics (Levy & Johnson, 2011). Cohen (1997) explained:

If there is any truly radical potential to be found in the idea of queerness and the

practice of queer politics, it would seem to be located in its ability to create a

space in opposition to dominant norms, a space where transformational political

work can begin. (p. 438)

Queer is thus an inherently political term, although its meaning varies among those claiming the label (Levy & Johnson, 2011).

Transgender: Although there is no singular definition, Stryker (2008a) used transgender to describe “people who move away from the gender they were assigned as birth, people who cross over (trans-) the boundaries constructed by their culture to define and contain that gender” (p. 1). The terms trans, transgender, or trans-spectrum encompass a range of

22 gender identities and presentations including transsexual people, cross-dressers, genderqueer, gender nonbinary, and agender individuals (Jourian, 2015; Marine, 2011).

As mentioned, I have selected these terms and their accompanying definitions for use in this study. Yet the choice to center certain definitions and identities delimits the scope of the study, as I will explain. First, however, I make note of several linguistic choices employed throughout the dissertation. I have chosen to capitalize “People of

Color,” “Students of Color,” and related terms, but not “white” in a small attempt to challenge power differentials across these groups (Pérez Huber, 2010). I also use the term

“homosexual” throughout this dissertation because much of the pre-1990s literature on lesbian, gay, and bisexual identity utilized this term. Although it is uncommon for individuals to identify with this label today as it is often used to communicate disapproval

(Jourian, 2015) and is associated with the medicalization of queerness (Eckhert, 2016), I use the term when referencing these early texts so as not to obscure their original meaning. For example, Troiden (1979) differentiated between a homosexual and gay identity, arguing the latter required an emotional commitment. Substituting the term gay for homosexual when discussing this text would erase this theoretical distinction.

Delimitations

Delimitations are choices that limit the boundaries of a study. In essence, they detail what the researcher has chosen not to do (Leedy & Ormrod, 2015). In this section, I describe the delimitations of the present study and the rationale for the choices I have made. These include the way in which I define bisexuality, the selection of queer theory

23 as the theoretical framework, and the choice of narrative inquiry as the methodology for the study.

First, the way that I have chosen to define bisexuality was meant to be as broad as possible to represent the current thinking about bisexuality. While some (e.g., Albo,

2015; Rice, 2015) have contrasted bisexuality with pansexuality, suggesting bisexuality refers to a binary attraction to men and women as opposed to a range of genders, researchers have found many bisexuals do not endorse this distinction (Flanders,

LeBreton, Robinson, Bian, & Caravaca-Morera, 2017; Galupo, Ramirez, & Pulice-

Farrow, 2017). In fact, a recent study (Flanders et al., 2017) suggested many pansexual and bisexual people define bisexuality in similar ways, though definitions of both terms differ by individual and context. In defining bisexuality as I do, students who identify as pansexual or omnisexual might see themselves represented in that definition and choose to respond to a call for participants. On the other hand, Callis (2014) found some individuals who seemingly fit my operational definition of bisexuality felt terms like queer were more appropriate. Several participants in her study identified as queer

“because of the problem with fitting attraction to transpeople into labels like bisexual”

(Callis, 2014, p. 72). Because the present study was not designed to explicitly explore pansexuality, omnisexuality, or other plurisexual (i.e. nonmonosexual) identities, the experiences of those who adopt those labels, but for whom the term bisexual does not resonate, may not be represented. Further, I have chosen not to use queer, often considered an umbrella term, to capture plurisexual identities, because there are

24 monosexuals, namely gays and lesbians, who might also identify as queer because of the politics behind the term (Levy & Johnson, 2011).

Second, I have chosen a queer theoretical framework to center experiences with sexual identity. I am not employing the framework of intersectionality, which would more fully allow for the exploration of overlapping axes of oppression (Crenshaw, 1989,

1991). I have made this decision because my sample will not be comprised exclusively of

Bisexuals of Color, and scholars have rightfully questioned the appropriateness of using intersectionality to study individuals with privileged identities (Nash, 2008). That said, it would be impossible to deny that race/ethnicity (Jeffries, Dodge, & Sandfort, 2008; King,

2011), gender (Brown, 2002), ability (Caldwell, 2010, Coffman, 2007), and other identities across which an individual is privileged or marginalized, shape the experiences of bisexual people. For instance, queer Students of Color must contend with collegiate environments that are both heterosexist and racist (Harris, 2003; Miller & Vaccaro,

2016). Further, queer Students of Color may have difficulty finding affirmation in siloed identity spaces (e.g. white LGBTQ+ spaces and Student of Color spaces; Duran, 2017).

The presentation of participants’ narratives will ensure these experiences are represented.

Finally, I have selected narrative inquiry because it allows for the exploration of lived experience (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000) and the way in which participants understand those experiences (Chase, 2010). This decision, however, means that the emphasis of the study is less on the process of bisexual college student identity negotiation. Had I selected grounded theory (Charmaz, 2014; Glaser & Strauss, 1967) as the methodology for this study, for instance, I would have been able to generate a theory

25 of how students negotiate their bisexuality. Despite this delimitation, the narrative methodology framing this study will allow participant narratives to be brought into focus and a diversity of experiences to be highlighted.

Significance of the Study

This study contributes to the literature on bisexual students and identity negotiation, and calls attention to the way heterosexism and monosexism operate in the collegiate context. Recognizing the ways in which bisexual students negotiate their identity and navigate the college campus has implications for the higher education professionals and scholars who seek to understand and support this student population.

As mentioned, limited research exists on bisexual college student experiences.

That which does exist has largely focused on women and utilized phenomenological approaches (e.g., King, 2011; Lowy, 2017). Except for Lowy’s (2017) work, which employed a critical postmodern epistemology, the extant literature on bisexual college students has not critically examined the systemic factors shaping student experiences. By combining critical poststructuralism with a narrative inquiry approach, this study contributes to the research on bisexual students of different genders (i.e. not just cisgender women). It rejects a deficit view of bisexuality by highlighting not only how systemic forms of oppression influence bisexual students, but the ways in which they resist these forces.

Second, this study adds to the literature on identity negotiation by using a queer theoretical framework. The research that has explored how bisexuals narrate and negotiate their identities has again tended to center women (e.g., Hartman, 2008, 2013;

Hartman-Linck, 2014; Tabatabai & Linders, 2011). This scholarship has drawn on sociological theory, namely Goffman’s (1959, 1974) work on identity as performance and the “frames” used in constructing stories. Instead, I used the queer construct of performativity as a sensitizing concept as I explored the ways in which identity is constituted. I also leveraged queer theory to analyze inequitable power structures and sources of oppression. To a similar end, Miller (2006) applied a feminist sociological approach to a study of “doing bisexuality” (p. iii). Her grounded theory incorporated queer theoretical concepts and examined the role of heterosexism, heteronormativity, and invisibility in the social construction of sexuality. The present study connects Miller’s

(2006) scholarship to the field of higher education by exploring how identity negotiation strategies are employed within the college context. Miller (2006) also discussed “bisexual resistance,” or the ways in which bisexuality could be used to address social inequality

(p. 222). I further seek to highlight this concept, rather than taking a deficit approach to the study of bisexuality.

Third, this study contributes to an understanding of social inequalities—namely those resulting from heterosexism and monosexism. Narrative inquiry was selected as the methodological approach for this study in part because narratives have the power to mobilize people towards social change (Riessman, 2008). The narratives shared by participants may thus challenge hetero- and homonormative conceptualizations of sexuality, themselves functioning as a form of bisexual resistance. By contributing to an increased understanding of bisexual college student experiences, this study generated suggestions for improved student affairs practice.

Summary

The objective of this chapter was to provide an overview of this study’s purpose, methodology, methods, and significance. I argue that the definition of bisexuality remains contested, and the experience of bisexuals is under-researched relative to their monosexual peers. In order to better understand bisexual students’ experiences on college campuses, and in their lives more generally, I examined their perception of identity negotiation and how they understood their bisexuality as a result. By grounding this study in a critical poststructural epistemology and using queer theory as an analytic theoretical framework, this study sheds light on systems of power and oppression, namely heterosexism and monosexism. Further, by centering bisexual individuals, this research has a liberatory potential for those whose sexualities are marginalized within these oppressive systems. I do recognize that claiming liberation as the goal of this research may be overconfident and the desired outcome unattainable. That said, approaching this study with an orientation towards emancipation has allowed me to focus on inequitable power structures and making small improvements in the quotidian lives of bisexual college students (Jones, 2019). This study has implications for higher education professionals interested in creating more affirming environments for bisexual collegians and for researchers seeking to more thoroughly understand the experiences of bisexual people.

Chapter 2. Literature Review

The purpose of this chapter is to provide an overview of the literature and theoretical constructs that inform the present study. I begin with an overview of the theoretical framework utilized in this study—queer theory—with a focus on homo- and heteronormativity, performativity, and liminality. I then elaborate upon the systems of oppression shaping LGBTQ+ identities and experiences. In particular, I focus on the detrimental impacts various forms of structural oppression, including heterosexism and homophobia, monosexism and binegativity, and invisibility and bisexual erasure, can have on bisexual students. I next offer a synopsis of LGBTQ+ identity research broadly before focusing on bisexual identity. I expand on how bisexual students might negotiate their identity as they navigate campus spaces, followed by a discussion of identity enactment strategies. I then discuss marginalization as a lens through which bisexual identity negotiation and general well-being can be further understood. Finally, I detail the sources of support that may be present on college campuses but note that campus climates for LGBTQ+ students are often negative. LGBTQ+ resource centers, counseling services, and curricular contexts all have the potential to offer bisexual students affirmation but are often sites of bisexual erasure.

Theoretical Framework: Queer Theory

In this study, a queer theoretical lens problematized existing scholarship on the

LGBTQ+ community that essentializes LGBTQ+ student experiences and views sexuality and gender as binary. Queer theory was heavily influenced by Foucault’s

(1978) work, particularly History of Sexuality, Volume I, and emerged in the 1990s as a more radical alternative to gay and lesbian identity politics (Winnubst & Sawicki, 2012).

With epistemological roots in poststructuralism, queer theory “can be described as a critical standpoint for tearing apart dominant ways of knowing about sex, gender, and sexualities” (Willis, 2007, p. 183). Queer theorists view sexuality as socially constructed

(Callis, 2012) and problematize essentialist conceptualizations of identity (Levy &

Johnson, 2011). Queer theorists have argued that identities are multiple, arbitrary, and unstable (Seidman, 1994). The notion of a stable, essentialist identity, in contrast with both constructionist and queer theoretical approaches, at one time seemed necessary for gay liberation and political organizing (Gammon & Isgro, 2006). Butler (1993) acknowledged the need for political identity categories and the ability to name oneself, although she also suggested doing so is risky because it is “impossible to sustain that kind of mastery over the trajectory of those categories within discourse” (p. 227). Further, it would be a mistake to treat queer identity and queer politics as inherently transgressive or liberating (Cohen, 1997; Winnubst, 2012).

The question of identity politics on the one hand, and queer deconstruction on the other, gets at what Gamson (1995) termed the “queer dilemma” (p. 403). At the heart of this dilemma is “the simultaneity of cultural sources of oppression (which make

30 loosening categories a smart strategy) and the institutional sources of oppression (which make tightening categories a smart strategy)” (Gamson, 1995, p. 403). In practice, queer politics has, “instead of destabilizing the assumed categories and binaries of sex and gender” actually “served to reinforce simple dichotomies between heterosexual and everything ‘queer’” (Cohen, 1997, p. 438). In this lumping together of “everything queer,” bisexuality, along with other nonnormative sexualities, gets lost (Cohen, 1997).

And although bisexuality cannot resolve this dilemma, it does offer a lens through which to view the epistemological construction of the sexual subject (Gammon & Isgro, 2006).

I appreciate that this study contributed to this dilemma insofar as it allowed for an expansive definition of bisexuality and encouraged thinking beyond rigid categories, yet it also identified bisexuality as the phenomenon of interest. Although I could not fully avoid this dilemma, I can name it explicitly. Further, because bisexuality “plays with categories of sexuality and gender…an inclusion of bisexuality into works of queer theory would allow a more historically and culturally accurate view of sexuality, while providing another argument for the deconstruction of the gay/straight binary” (Callis,

2012, p. 37).

Within queer theory, affirmations of identity have typically been considered

“disciplinary and regulatory structures. Identity constructions function… as templates defining selves and behaviors and therefore as excluding a range of possible ways to frame one's self, body, desires, actions, and social relations” (Seidman, 1994, p. 173). By deconstructing the discourses that constrain both sexuality and gender, queer theorists

31 and researchers can explore the potentially detrimental impact these discourses have on

LGBTQ+ students (Robbins & McGowan, 2016).

When I refer to queer theory as deconstructive, I have in mind Seidman’s (1994) assertion that queer theory:

make[s] strange or “queer” what is considered known, familiar, and

commonplace, what is assumed to be the order of things, the natural way, the

normal, the healthy, and so on. In the spirit of deconstruction, queering does not

mean improving upon or substituting one set of foundational assumptions and

narratives for another, but leaving permanently open and contestable the

assumptions and narratives that guide social analysis. (p. xi)

At the same time, researchers must be careful in how they discuss sexuality and gender binaries (i.e. gay/straight, male/female), as a critique of this binary logic presupposes a binary. As Willey (2016) cautioned, “when we talk about the reproduction of ‘the gender binary,’ we always risk reproducing whiteness, because gender was never binary, never just two” (Willey, 2016, p. 13). This is because sex and gender dimorphism has been racialized in such a way that denies Women of Color their femininity (Markowitz, 2001).

Given the legacy of scientific racism, the binary opposition between the masculine male and the feminine female can only exist for European “races” (Markowitz, 2001). Further, for Native Two-Spirit people, gender has never been binary (Driskill, 2010; Hunt, 2018;

Thomas, 1997). Early biological and psychological formulations of bisexuality were predicated on a sex and gender binary. Yet even current, queer notions of (bi)sexuality

32 may marginalize Students of Color by reinforcing colonialist notions of identity and reifying whiteness.

Though it may appear as though bisexuality would thrive within an epistemology that does not view sex or gender binary, as never just two, queer theory has at times

“sidestepped, marginalized or even arguably erased bisexuality” (Gurevich et al., 2012, p.

44). Queer theory’s “refusal to anchor experience in identifications ends up, ironically, denying differences by either submerging them in an undifferentiated oppositional mass or by blocking the development of individual and social differences through the disciplining compulsory imperative to remain undifferentiated” (Seidman, 1997, p. 135).

Gammon and Isgro (2006) suggested “a more sustained interrogation of bisexuality, its scholarship, sexual practices, and identities, might reveal certain inert configurations and absences within contemporary sexual theory while also contributing to a larger reconsideration of sexuality” (p. 176). Despite challenges with using queer theory and deconstruction to study bisexuality, Monro (2015) has argued queer theory holds promise for the “analysis of transgressive identities, and multiple fluid desires” (p. 47). In this way, queer theory is useful for theorizing bisexuality. This dissertation study foregrounded bisexuality in queer scholarship, as well as the higher education literature, with the aim of realizing this potential. I elaborate upon several queer theoretical concepts including performativity, liminality, and various iterations of normativity

(Weigman & Wilson, 2015), as well as the way they inform the present study.

Homo-, Hetero-, and Mononormativity

Situated within a heteronormative college culture, bisexual students are constrained by “the bias of compulsory heterosexuality” (Rich, 1980, p. 632), the assumption of monosexuality (Eisner, 2013), and cissexism (Serano, 2016). In other words, bisexual students are socialized to believe there are only two genders—male and female—and that heterosexual pairings are the only valid form of relationship. Further, because of the pressures of monosexism, bisexuals are assumed to be gay or straight dependent upon the perceived gender of their partner (Flanders et al., 2017). College practices reinforce these messages. For example, queer topics are not typically represented in the curricula and heterosexist language is often used (Evans, 2000; Linley

& Nguyen, 2015).

In addition to navigating a heteronormative context, bisexual students are also situated within homonormativity. Duggan (2002) defined homonormativity as:

a politics that does not contest dominant heteronormative assumptions and

institutions — such as marriage, and its call for monogamy and reproduction —

but upholds and sustains them while promising the possibility of a demobilized

gay constituency and a privatized, depoliticized gay culture anchored in

domesticity and consumption. (p. 197)

Puar (2007) grappled with the notion of illegitimate queerness versus queerness that can be folded into a liberal multicultural framework. Bisexual, pansexual, and queer people, as well as gays and lesbians who do not fit neatly within the homonormative ideal, potentially threaten non-transgressive liberal notions of diversity. Yet as Winnubst (2012)

34 argued, the logics of neoliberalism are such that even non-conformity cannot effectively function as a form of resistance.

While some bisexuals may comfortably adhere to a homonormative ideal, others embrace behaviors that challenge dominant institutions. For instance, while some bisexuals thrive within monogamous relationships, others embrace polyamorous relationship structures at odds with the logics of neoliberalism and the “cultural idealization of monogamy” (Rust, 2003, p. 478). This nonnormative queerness thus threatens the ability of some members of the LGBQ community to comfortably integrate into heteronormative society.

Understanding of both hetero and homonormativity helps explain the contexts bisexuals navigate, particularly when the racialized dynamics of normativity are acknowledged. One way in which heteronormativity is racialized is through the discourse of promiscuity. A discussion of bisexuality as it relates to normativity is incomplete without a mention of (non)monogamy, not because bisexuals cannot be monogamous, but because they are often stereotypically associated with nonmonogamy and sexual promiscuity (Israel & Mohr, 2004; Klesse, 2005). Further, research has shown bisexuals do engage in a variety of non-monogomous relationship structures at a relatively high rate (Klesse, 2005). Bisexuals, whether non-monogamous or assumed to be, are thus constrained by institutionalized monogamy and mononormativity.1 Schippers (2016) argued “institutionalized monogamy is, in a contemporary U.S. context, constitutive of

1 In this context, mononormativity refers to the privileging of monogamy. I clarify this point because bisexuals are also subject to a different kind of mononormativity, that associated with monosexism, or the privileging of monosexuality (i.e. the attraction to one gender). 35 the discursive construction and social institutionalization of gender and race hierarchies”

(p. 12). As such, “mononormativity is partially defined by both the racialized and the gendered context of contemporary U.S. society, necessitating a consideration of mononormativity—and all other manifestations of heteronormativity—in context” (Allen

& Mendez, 2018, p. 77). The discourse surrounding promiscuity has particular relevance for those who have been historically marginalized (Cohen, 1996). Promiscuity discourses:

have historically been most frequently used against particular groups of women.

Material power relationships and the interplay of discourses on gender,

race/ethnicity and class in the construction of sexualities have led to a

particular[ly] strong sexualization of black and other racialized femininities.

(Klesse, 2005, p. 450)

This has been true for Jewish and working-class women as well (Klesse, 2005). The notion of Women of Color as promiscuous is historically situated in racist, colonialist discourse (Gould, 1996). Shortly after emancipation:

The racialization of blacks as pathologically nonheteronormative tightened the

link between citizenship and a racialized heteronormativity. Those newly freed

African-Americans who rejected marriage and monogamy were imprisoned

and/or denied pension payments. (Ferguson, 2000, p. 422)

In the 1940s, these racialized discourses of sexual transgression were wielded against

Black Americans to preserve a segregated workforce (Ferguson, 2000). The legacy of this history is evident in the discourse surrounding promiscuity and (non)monogamy in the

36 present day. Attention to the ways in which Participants of Color discuss their bisexuality relative to this discourse is thus important in the present study of bisexual college students. Performativity is one theoretical construct through which I sought to understand how participants “do” their bisexuality.

Performativity

Gender is “always doing” (Butler, 1990, p. 25). It is from this point of departure that the notion of performativity emerges. Performativity in queer theory refers to the idea that “identity is performatively constituted by the very ‘expressions’ that are said to be its results” (Butler, 1990, p. 25). Identity is thus fluid, and is expressed as well as enacted (Jones et al., 2013). The physical body is central to Butler’s (1990) theorizing of performativity. Borrowing from Beauvoir’s claim that one becomes, rather than is born, a woman, Butler (1990) wrote, “gender is the repeated stylization of the body, a set of repeated acts within a highly rigid regulatory frame that congeal over time to produce the appearance of substance, of a natural sort of being” (p. 33). The performativity of gender is important to an understanding of sexuality because “acts and gestures, articulated and enacted desires create the illusion of an interior and organizing gender core, an illusion discursively maintained for the purposes of the regulation of sexuality within the obligatory frame of reproductive heterosexuality” (Butler, 1990, p. 136).

The concept of performativity as the “stylization of the body” is one strategy bisexual individuals use to make their sexuality visible to others and signal their membership in a shared community. The question of how one performs bisexuality specifically is an interesting one. Sedgwick (1994) suggested, “most of us now correctly

37 understand a question about our ‘sexual orientation’ to be a demand that we classify ourselves as a heterosexual or a homosexual, regardless of whether we may or may not individually be able or willing to perform that blank, binarized act of category assignment” (p. 117). Further, “due to the dominant binary categorization of sexual identities, bisexual identities are almost always rendered invisible. Thus, one’s perceived sexuality is never bisexuality” (Hartman, 2013, p. 42). How one performs a sexuality that belies the binary logic inherent in a monosexist and cisexist society is addressed in the present study.

Hartman’s (2008, 2013) aforementioned work, although drawing on Goffman

(1959) rather than Butler (1990), provided some insight by illustrating how bisexuals perform their identity through a bisexual display. Nevertheless, participants did struggle with a lack of stereotypes regarding a bisexual “look.” In other words, participants did not have models for how a bisexual “should” look upon which to draw. Although

Hartman (2013) argued “this lack of a stereotype permits a wide variety of cues and signals to be deployed” (p. 49), the fact that participants described the bisexual “look” as

“part straight and part lesbian” speaks to the stronghold that binary thinking has even on some bisexual individuals. The concept of liminality allows for the further exploration of heteronormativity and performativity.

Liminality

Liminality refers to “an in-between positionality where the margins of difference are blurred and manipulated in ways that scripted interactions are rendered seemingly unstable or inarticulate” (LeMaster, 2011, p. 107). In other words, liminality represents

38 that which lies between heterosexuality and nonheterosexuality, or between other distinct identity groups (Abes & Kasch, 2007). Liminality functions as both a resistance strategy

(Abes & Kasch, 2007) and as a queer analytic tool of resistance (LeMaster, 2011). In both cases, it offers a lens through which to understand heteronormativity and the performance of identity.

Liminality as resistance. As a resistance strategy, liminality is a state of becoming (Grosz as cited in Abes & Kasch, 2007), congruent with an understanding of identity as unstable and fluid (Whitney, 2001). It incorporates heterosexuality and nonheterosexuality into a single identity and rejects normative conceptualizations of both

(Abes & Kasch, 2007). As such, liminality “facilitates flexible genders and sexualities and reflects how an individual may perform a seemingly contradictory performative in ever-changing ways,” in resistance to and constrained by heteronormativity (Abes &

Kasch, 2007, pp. 621-622).

As a tool of literary analysis, liminality allows the reader to identify the ways in which texts and characters resist normalization by creating a queer heterotopia

(LeMaster, 2011). A queer heterotopia dislocates “the normative configurations of sex, gender, and sexuality through daily exploration and experimentation with crafting a queer identity” (Jones, 2009, p. 2). Liminality thus allows the reader to envision opposition to heteronormativity, assimilation, and essentialism (LeMaster, 2011). Liminality also creates space for a queer critique of prevailing categories of gender and sexuality

(LeMaster, 2011). The study of bisexuality, which necessitates a challenge to binary understandings of sex and gender, can thus be situated within this space.

Liminality and bisexuality. Whitney (2001) argued individuals who do not neatly fit into categories of heterosexuality, homosexuality, and even normative definitions of bisexuality, exist in a state of liminality. Cyborg theory (Haraway, 1985;

Whitney, 2001) is one way of conceptualizing this rejection of traditional dualisms and envisioning a more fluid understanding of identity. In this liminal, “cyborgian space of fluid sexual being” there resides “a concept which begins with bisexuality; freedom of choice without rigid classifications” (Whitney, 2001, p. 123). Whitney (2001) went on to address the challenges associated with this potentially liberatory fluidity; bisexuals are often accused of passing as straight and taking advantage of heterosexual privilege

(Miller, 2006) and will eventually desire a partner of a different gender than their current partner (Whitney, 2001). In response to these accusations, Whitney (2001) asked questions that have guided my exploration of identity negotiation and enactment: “How can I performatively prove my bisexuality? What is the means of authenticity and visibility?” (p. 123). These questions get at the tension between the pressure to “prove” an invisible and maligned identity, the difficulty of making visible a liminal identity caught between the more socially intelligible categories of gay and straight, and the challenge of doing so without reifying existing categories of sexuality and gender. As I detail in Chapter 3, I employed a narrative inquiry methodology grounded in a critical poststructural epistemology to explore which strategies are used in the pursuit of this visibility, and more importantly, what it means for bisexual students to have to navigate these decisions while also navigating systemic oppression in higher education more broadly.

Systemic Oppression

An analysis of the systems of oppression constraining and informing LGBTQ+ identities broadly, and bisexuality in particular, is necessary to understand bisexual students’ collegiate experiences and identity negotiation strategies, create supportive and affirming campus spaces, programming, and policies, and work to systematically disrupt oppression. In this section I address the systemic roots of this marginalization including heterosexism and homophobia, monosexism and binegativity, and invisibility and bisexual erasure. I also discuss the way whiteness functions to bolster the binary systems

(e.g., gender) which contribute to these forms of marginalization. Although the focus of this section is on sexuality and gender-based oppressions, it is necessary to remember

“these systems interact with and are informed by others such as sexism, racism, ethnocentrism, classism, ableism, and xenophobia,” among others (Jourian, 2015, p. 15).

I begin with a discussion of heterosexism and homophobia, which impact all members of the LGBTQ+ community.

Heterosexism and Homophobia

Heterosexism refers to “the belief that only heterosexual behavior and identity are of value,” as well as “the significant and systemic social and cultural ethos that structures our social arrangements and shapes our views of [non-dominant sexual identities]”

(Spaulding, 1999, p. 12). As a result, society—and higher education institutions—are constructed in heteronormative ways; heterosexuality becomes “the dominant sexual model of social, cultural, political, and economic organization, including the way it organizes identities, experiences, regimes of truth and knowledge, and ideologies of

41 gender and sex” (Jeppesen, 2016, p. 492). Within this system, people are assumed straight, and all others are seen as deviating from an agreed-upon norm (Butler, 1990;

Seidman, 1993). Homophobia refers to prejudiced attitudes and discrimination towards

LGBTQ+ people. On college campuses, heterosexism and homophobia manifest in the presumption of heterosexuality, microaggressions, overtly derogatory remarks, and even physical violence, resulting in psychological distress (Woodford, Kulick, Sinco, & Hong,

2014). Although seemingly specific to sexual orientation, heterosexism also polices the gender binary, and students with a gender expression that falls outside the “norm” are more likely to experience heterosexist victimization (Woodford et al., 2014).

Monosexism and Binegativity

Bisexual people also experience oppression due to monosexism and binegativity.

The view that gender and sexuality are binary produces monosexism, or the social structures that privilege monosexual identities and presume everyone should be gay or straight (Eisner, 2013). The resultant binegativity (i.e. the prejudiced attitudes about bisexuality and bisexual people) informs bisexual students’ collegiate experiences

(Armstrong & Reissing, 2014). A lack of bisexuality-inclusive resources on college campuses communicates to bisexual students that they don’t belong (Lowy, 2017). In addition to the institutional-level effects of monosexism, bisexual college students also experience binegativity from their peers, with heterosexual college students displaying a high degree of binegativity, particularly towards bisexual men as I discuss at the conclusion of this section (Eliason, 2000).

Bisexuals experience binegativity in the form of pervasive stereotypes about their sexuality, including beliefs they themselves may have internalized. The stereotype of the

“greedy” bisexual can refer to an assumed propensity for nonmonogomy (Flanders,

Robinson, Legge, & Tarasoff, 2016; Rust, 2003) or the notion that bisexuals “wanted to have their cake (the pleasure of the same-sex encounters and membership within the

LGBT communities) and eat it (through maintaining their heterosexual privilege and avoiding the stigma of being out)” (Hayfield, Clarke, & Halliwell, 2014, p. 364).

Negative assumptions about bisexuals also include the belief that they are attention- seeking (Alarie & Gaudet, 2013) and unfaithful (Flanders et al., 2016; Hayfield at al.,

2014), among others.

Further, because of the supposition that the assumed gender of one’s partner determines an individual’s sexual identity, bisexuals are often incorrectly assumed to be gay or straight (Flanders et al., 2017). This results in the belief that bisexuals must simultaneously be involved with people of different genders to maintain their identity

(Flanders et al., 2017). These stereotypes place “a structural burden of proof on bisexual people that does not exist for monosexual[s]” (Flanders et al., 2017, p. 76). The pressure to prove one’s sexuality may result in bisexual people engaging in unwanted sexual behavior (Flanders et al., 2017). For example, survey data from 84 lesbian, gay, bisexual, and queer young adults suggested LGBQ people are often asked to engage in public, performative sexual behavior to prove their sexual identity (Boyer & Galupo, 2015).

When bisexuals, particularly young women, engage publicly with other women, it is assumed they are doing so for the benefit of others (Fahs, 2009). As Flanders et al. (2017)

43 concluded, “young bisexual women must navigate competing sexual stereotypes: they are expected to engage in sexual behavior with more than one gender to prove their sexual identity, yet this behavior may be written off as insincere and an attempt for male attention or negatively judged as sexually promiscuous” (p. 77). Consequently, bisexuality is often seen as illegitimate.

The pressure to prove oneself, along with the assumption of promiscuity, leads to the hypersexualization of bisexuals (Rust, 2003). As a result, bisexuals may struggle with feelings of objectification. Bisexual women reported feeling objectified by male partners

(Li et al., 2013). These feelings resulted from comments made about the female partner’s sexuality (Li et al., 2013), as well as the male partner’s desire to engage in group sex, especially in less committed or casual relationships (Armstrong & Reissing, 2014). Yet while some men may seek out bisexual women because of their perceived promiscuity, Li et al. (2013) also found male and female bisexuals reported being turned down by potential partners due to prejudiced assumptions and misconceptions about their bisexual identity. Bisexuals may feel the need to emphasize the stability of their identity, in contrast to an exploratory phase, to help put prospective partners at ease (Li et al., 2013).

Armstrong and Reissing (2014) studied individuals who are attracted to people of a different gender to understand their attitudes towards casually sleeping with, dating, and forming long-term relationships with bisexual partners. Male and female participants reported negative attitudes towards relationships with bisexuals, and these negative attitudes became more pronounced as the commitment level of the relationship increased.

Prospective partners expressed feelings of jealousy and insecurity (Armstrong &

Reissing, 2014). The participants did not necessarily subscribe to stereotypes about bisexuality, suggesting the presence of implicit binegativity, even absent conscious bias

(Armstrong & Reissing, 2014). Zivony and Lobel (2014) similarly found “stereotypical beliefs regarding bisexual men are prevalent, but often not acknowledged as stereotypes”

(p. 1165). These stereotypical beliefs can also be internalized by bisexuals (Hoang et al.,

2011; Li et al., 2013; Paul, Smith, Mohr, & Ross, 2014; Sheets & Mohr, 2009), potentially resulting in confusion, self-loathing, and feelings of isolation (Boccone,

2016), as well as feelings of invisibility and erasure.

Before I discuss this erasure, I first emphasize the unique experiences of bisexual men which have been understudied relative to those of women, to say nothing of the virtual absence of trans and nonbinary experiences (Steinman, 2011). Bisexual men are largely invisible in public spaces, yet are nevertheless subject to prejudice (Zivony &

Lobel, 2014). This may be because limited knowledge about a particular social group can encourage prejudice (Zivony & Lobel, 2014). Although some research indicated shifting attitudes towards male homosexuality may have a positive influence on bisexual men,

(Zivony & Lobel, 2014), perceptions of bisexual men as “secretly gay” persist (Matsick

& Rubin, 2018). Generally, bisexual men are viewed less favorably than bisexual women

(Helms & Waters, 2016; Yost & Thomas, 2012). Yost and Thomas (2012) suggested this may be because bisexual men are viewed as gender-nonconforming whereas bisexual women are regarded as sexy and “really heterosexual” (p. 693).

In order to gain a deeper understanding of bisexual men’s identity and experience, it is thus necessary to theorize not just bisexuality and homosexuality, but also

45 masculinity more broadly (McCormack, Anderson, & Adams, 2014). Behaviorally bisexual men at times chose not to share their sexuality with others for fear of upsetting their wives or families or of being seen differently, particularly as gay (Schrimshaw,

Downing, & Cohn, 2018). Cultural and religious background further contributed to men’s choice not to disclose. Findings suggested the choice not to share one’s bisexuality was a stigma management strategy rather than an indication that bisexual men were uncertain about their identity (Schrimshaw et al., 2018). The decision not to disclose was thus a way for bisexual men to maintain agency over their identity, but it also contributed to bisexuality’s invisibility, particularly in bisexual men.

Invisibility and Bisexual Erasure

Gurevich, Bailey, and Bower (2012) called on scholars to “extend theory and politics beyond quests for visibility and inclusivity, and to explore bisexuality’s capacity to expose the inevitable contradictions, ambiguities, and conflicts of all adopted identities” (pp. 43-44). Nevertheless, the significance of invisibility in the lives of bisexual people cannot be ignored as it can have a profoundly negative effect, as detailed throughout this chapter.

Generally, social invisibility refers to the imperceptibility of nonphysical traits

(e.g. many religious identities, sexual identity, invisible disabilities, among others) and is related to political visibility, which occurs when an individual’s group membership is a central facet of their identity (Abrams as cited in Yoshino, 2000). Bisexual invisibility is a type of social invisibility affecting bisexual people, which “manifests itself in the studied omission of bisexuality in discussions of sexual orientation” (Yoshino, 2000, p.

367). There are three causes of bisexual invisibility, nested within one another (Yoshino,

2000). The first two kinds of invisibility, though not unique to bisexuals, nevertheless contribute to their erasure. The first effects all individuals, regardless of identity, and arises from a societal desire to keep sex private, resulting in an erasure of all sexualities.

The second type of invisibility affects anyone exhibiting same-sex desire, arising from the legal and religious tendency to prohibit homosexuality. In this instance, bisexuals are rendered invisible alongside gays and lesbians, but their bisexuality is uniquely erased as it is subsumed under homosexuality. The last kind of invisibility solely affects bisexuals and results from bisexuality’s exclusion from discussions of sexual identity. Even when bisexuality is discussed, it is rendered invisible in subtle—and not-so-subtle—ways. For example, when researchers compare heterosexual and lesbian/gay populations, they often combine bisexual women with lesbian participants or bisexual men with gay male participants; at times, bisexuals are included in heterosexual samples (Barker et al.,

2012). Bisexuality is again subsumed into the categories of gay and lesbian.

Yoshino (2000) argued this omission of bisexuality is due to the “mutual investments in the erasure of bisexuals” on the part of monosexual individuals (i.e. lesbians, gays, and heterosexuals; p. 388). He referred to this as the “epistemic contract of bisexual erasure” (Yoshino, 2000, p. 388). Bisexual erasure, the process through which bisexual invisibility occurs, results from three strategies—class erasure, individual erasure, and delegitimation (Yoshino, 2000). Class erasure involves the unequivocal denial of bisexuality, a belief that has been well-documented in the literature (Barker et al., 2012; Bleiberg et al., 2005; Bradford, 2004). Yoshino, a legal scholar, uses the term

47 class here to refer to a category of identity (e.g., a protected class). The second form of erasure, individual erasure, recognizes the existence of bisexuality, but argues some individuals identifying as bisexual are in fact not bisexual or are going through a phase that will result in a gay or straight identity. Examples of this form of erasure include the claim that bisexuals may be acting as such for attention (Alarie & Gaudet, 2013; Fahs,

2009); this is particularly true of women engaging in erotic behavior with other women, typically in front of heterosexual men (Fahs, 2009). The final form of erasure, delegitimiation, occurs when bisexuality is stigmatized or denigrated. Deligitimation can look like a person treating bisexuals as manipulative, objects for sexual gratification, incapable of monogamy, or spreaders of disease (for additional examples of denigrating beliefs and behaviors, see Barker et al., 2012). Bisexuals who have internalized binegative thoughts can also delegitimize the bisexuality of others, rejecting those they see as less bisexual than themselves (Blasingame, 1992).

The “epistemic contract” Yoshino (2000) identified results from three overlapping investments that monosexuals seek to preserve through the erasure of bisexuality. First, bisexuality has the potential to destabilize sexual identity as it is currently understood.

Identity stabilization provides the structure for membership in a community and releases monosexuals from the work of interrogating their own identities (Yoshino, 2000). In challenging the stability of heterosexuality, bisexuality also challenges heterosexual privilege, which rests on the notion that heterosexuality is good and anything else is deviant (Yoshino, 2000). Gays and lesbians are similarly invested in the stabilization of identity because it allows them to claim gayness as an immutable trait. At the same time

48 straight people seek to maintain heterosexual privilege, some gays and lesbians strive to maintain the minimal privileges they have secured in a liberal, multicultural society

(Duggan, 2002, Puar, 2007). Weiss (2004) suggested that some lesbian and gay individuals view bisexuals, along with pansexuals, trans, and genderqueer people, as

“radically unconventional” and a threat to the gay community’s acceptance by middle- class U.S. culture (p. 29). These tensions are due to power relations, “in which the discursive formations of gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, transsexual, GLBT, LGBT, and queer are vying for hegemony” (Weiss, 2011, p. 501). With limited power and privilege at stake, it would appear in the best interest of the most well-accepted members of the LGBTQ+ community to distance themselves from the more maligned.

The second shared investment in the erasure of bisexuality is related and involves an interest in preserving the primacy of sex as a diacritical trait, which allows both gays and heterosexuals to claim their sexual identity (Yoshino, 2000). For heterosexuals, if the distinction between man and woman falls away, so too does the distinction between their privileged straight identity and a marginalized gay identity. Yet gay people also have an investment in preserving this distinction. To some lesbians and gay men, bisexuality threatens safe, sex-segregated spaces (Yoshino, 2000). For instance, some lesbians view bisexual women as a threat to lesbian liberation given their association with men (Stone,

1996).

The third shared investment entails a commitment to preserving the norms of monogamy, which Yoshino (2000) argued arises from the sexual jealousy both heterosexuals and gay and lesbian people experience in nonmonogamous relationships, or

49 relationships they fear will become nonmonogamous. Yoshino’s (2000) conceptualization of sexual jealousy is limited in that it fails to consider how ethical, consensual nonmonogamy (Klesse, 2005) or a queerer notion of antimonogamy built on friendship and other forms of intimacy (Willey, 2016) might be practiced by gays, lesbians, and heterosexuals as well as bisexuals. However, Yoshino’s (2000) analysis of this investment brings to light the problematic assumption that bisexuals are unable or unwilling to commit to a monogamous relationship, engage in sexually risky behavior, and are more likely to spread sexually transmitted infections (Barker et al., 2012).

Sites of erasure. The three investments in erasure detailed above show up in a variety of contexts, including theory, societal institutions, and research. Queer theory, the theoretical framework which shaped this present study, is useful in the study of bisexual erasure because it offers an analysis of the “modern homo/heterosexual definition”

(Sedgwick, 1990, p. 1) and the binary framing of homosexuality/heterosexuality in which bisexuality is erased. At the same time, queer theory has contributed to the erasure of bisexuality by failing to consider the role bisexuality has played in the construction of that binary (Angelides, 2006). Thus, the application of a queer theoretical framework to the study of bisexual student identity negotiation requires taking care not to reify this binary logic and perpetuate this erasure.

Along with theory, the media (Alexander, 2007; Diamond, 2005; Magrath,

Cleland, & Anderson, 2017), law (Marcus, 2015; Rehaag, 2009; Yoshino, 2000), immigration policy (See & Hunt, 2011), and education (Elia, 2014; Jones & Hillier,

2014; Pallotta-Chiarolli, 2014) have been complicit in the erasure of bisexuality. Within

50 educational settings, this erasure manifests as minimal attention to addressing binegativity, limited representation and affirmation of bisexuality in the curricula and in school policy, and a lack of care for bisexual student welfare (Pallotta-Chiarolli, 2014).

This erasure, within institutions broadly, and particularly in education as discussed here, is attributable to several reinforcing factors—prejudiced attitudes towards bisexuals and bisexuality, the relative newness of an organized bisexual movement (Ka’ahumanu &

Hutchins, 2015; Monro, 2005), and a tendency to treat sexuality and gender as binary

(Elia, 2010, Pallotta-Chiarolli, 2014). Bisexuality’s absence is evident in the curriculum and classroom discussion (Elia, 2010, 2014; Jones & Hillier, 2014), education policy

(Jones & Hillier, 2014) and extracurricular programming (Elia, 2010). This has worrisome implications for bisexual students given an inability to fully participate in curricular contexts can undermine students’ academic performance (Rankin, 2005).

In addition to being erased within society at large, subpopulations of bisexuals also experience erasure within the bisexuality literature. Steinman (2011) critiqued the invisibility of males in the research and theorizing on bisexuality. Others have called for a more intersectional approach to the study of bisexuality, noting the invisibility of individuals at the intersections of bisexuality and disability (Caldwell, 2010), religion/spirituality (Rodriguez, Lytle, & Vaughan, 2013), and race (Collins, 2004).

Further, while both bisexuality and transgender identity are often held up as boundary- crossing identities which destabilize hetero/homo, male/female binaries (Alexander &

Yescavage, 2003; Lucal, 2008), little is known about individuals who identify as both transgender and bisexual (Embaye, 2006). The complex ways in which these various

51 identities are interconstituted suggest bisexuals must not only negotiate their bisexual identity, but their other identities as well, particularly those marginalized identities around which they experience identity threat (Deaux & Ethier, 1998).

Responses to erasure. Identity negotiation strategies can be used to understand how bisexual students combat invisibility and erasure, as I explore in greater detail throughout this chapter. For example, both intensified group contact and social change strategies can mitigate feelings of isolation (Deaux & Ethier, 1998). Sexual minority youth are “othered” and made to feel invisible (DiFulvio, 2011). As a result,

sexual minority youth, therefore, may negotiate one’s identity without access to

others who share similar constructions of identity—an isolating experience. For

this reason, connection to individuals or a larger social group with shared

experiences may be particularly important. (DiFulvio, 2011, p. 1612)

Findings from a study of sexual minority youth, social connection, and resilience suggested group affiliation both affirmed identity and provided an opportunity for collective action (DiFulvio, 2011), illustrating the way in which identity negotiation strategies can counter feelings of invisibility and disconnection.

Some bisexuals respond to erasure and invisibility by adopting a “lesbian look”

(Hayfield, Clarke, Halliwell, & Malson, 2013) or creating a bisexual display, using a variety of cues, signs, and affect to signal their sexuality (Hartman, 2013; Hartman-

Linck, 2014). These displays included wearing pride pins or jewelry and adopting androgynous or masculine gender markers. They were often missed or misunderstood by others, but were nevertheless meaningful for the individual (Hartman, 2013). Hartman-

Linck (2014) explained, “being visible as a bisexual woman was important not in terms of being recognized by potential sexual partners, but rather to be recognized for who they

‘are,’ for their authentic selves” (p. 190). Yet women struggled to make their bisexuality visible given the absence of a distinct bisexual look (Hayfield et al., 2013; Huxley,

Clarke, & Halliwell, 2013).

As such, bisexuals also negotiated their identity by employing a “strategy of narrative, including narratives of attraction, choice of men and challenging homophobia”

(Tabatabai & Linders, 2011, p. 583). Bisexual women in relationships with men, for instance, continued to emphasize their attraction to women. These affirmations were not necessarily public. Like the bisexual displays described by Hartman (2013) and Hartman-

Linck (2014), this can be an invisible strategy meant to privately affirm their own identity rather than validate their identity for the benefit of others (Tabatabai & Linders, 2011).

The women in Tabatabai and Linders’ (2011) study also emphasized the queerness of the men they were dating as a means of rejecting heterosexuality. They did this by stressing the ways in which their male partners were not traditionally masculine and by highlighting their partner’s feminine characteristics (Tabatabai & Linders, 2011). These women also politicized their identities, challenging homophobia as a means of affirming their membership in the LGBTQ+ community and advocating for the lesbian community of which they may have at times been a part (Tabatabai & Linders, 2011).

Not all bisexuals seek to attain greater visibility, however, and bisexuals are less likely than their lesbian and gay peers to present their actual sexuality to others (Mohr,

Jackson, & Sheets, 2017). Further, they are more likely to present themselves as

53 identifying as something other than bisexual (Mohr et al., 2017). Results of a recent mixed-methods study of 397 bisexual+ individuals revealed only 58% attempted to make themselves more visible as bisexuals (Davila, Jabbour, Dyar, & Feinstein, 2019).

Participants engaged a variety of strategies including direct and indirect communication, public behavioral displays, visual displays, and involvement in LGBTQ+ events and organizations. The authors found notable differences between those who made attempts at visibility and those who did not. Namely, cisgender men were least likely to attempt visibility and those in current relationships were more likely (Davila et al., 2019).

Additionally, participants identifying as transgender, genderqueer, or another gender other than cisgender were more likely to attempt bi+ visibility (Davila et al., 2019).

Additional research is needed to further explore these differences, as well as how these attempts at visibility were received. It is possible, however, that making attempts at visibility is related to striving for belonging and staking one’s claim to membership in a community.

Conversely, there are numerous reasons why some bisexuals might wish to conceal their sexuality. Whereas some research has suggested hiding a stigmatized identity can result in a lowered sense of belonging (Newheiser & Barreto, 2014), selective or nondisclosure can function as an agentic, protective practice (Brockenbrough,

2015). Treating coming out as a normative, emancipatory experience centers a white middle-class perspective and fails to consider the specific needs and experiences of queer

People of Color (Ross, 2005). For example, keeping their queerness silent or treating it as

54 tacit allowed queer Black and Latinx people to maintain familial relationships (Acosta,

2010; Decena, 2011; Johnson, 2008).

Despite engaging in a variety of agentic strategies meant to foster visibility, however, bisexuals continue to report poorer physical health than heterosexual, lesbian, and gay individuals (Gorman, Denney, Dowdy, & Medeiros, 2015). These poorer health outcomes are associated with bisexuals’ experiences of marginalization (Gorman et al.,

2015). Not only are bisexuals marginalized in their daily lives, but in the scholarly literature as well (Dugan & Yurman, 2011; Kaestle & Ivory, 2012; Monro et al., 2017).

Locating Bisexuality in Identity Research

Historically, approaches to identity have been psychological, with a focus on cognitive and psychosocial development (e.g., Johnston-Guerrero & Pizzolato, 2016;

Jones & McEwen, 2000), or sociological, with an emphasis on process and interaction

(e.g., Renn, 2000). Many of the foundational theories in college student development have been grounded in a psychological perspective, but with an assumed singular self and a tendency towards stage-based models (Savin-Williams, 1998; Winkle-Wagner, 2012), they are less appropriate for the study of sexuality because they imply a developmental endpoint. Further, psychological perspectives have tended to pathologize queer people

(Denton, 2016) and locate identity within the individual (Côté & Levine, 2002).

Sociological and psychosocial approaches, on the other hand, recognize the reciprocal relationship between person and context (Kroger, 2004) and view identity “in terms of the meanings individuals construct amidst their location in social interactions and structures” (Winkle-Wagner, 2012, p. 46). While sociological perspectives

55 acknowledge the fluidity of identity and the role of social structures, poststructural and some critical approaches advance the study of sexuality by drawing a distinction between sexual identity, practice, and feelings (Dilley, 2005), denaturalizing heterosexuality, resisting universal understandings of sexuality generally, and acknowledging interconnected forms of oppression (Denton, 2016, 2019).

Sociological approaches to sex, gender, and sexuality can further benefit from a queer theoretical lens—as this dissertation will demonstrate—which would push an understanding of these constructs beyond the binaries of male/female, masculine/feminine, and gay/straight (Valocchi, 2005). Such a deconstruction of existing binaries opens up space for an understanding of bisexuality which, like all sexual and gender identities, is “fraught with incoherence and instability” (Valocchi, 2005, p. 753).

It also creates opportunities for theoretical and empirical exploration, such as “what happens to the study of heterosexuality when sexuality and gender are understood queerly and used to analyze subjectivities, practices, and subcultural formations?” (Valocchi,

2005, p. 753). Conversely, queer theoretical analyses can incorporate sociology’s concern with the materiality of sex, gender, and sexuality, as well as its understanding of power in the construction of identity (Valocchi, 2005). As Jagose (1996) explained, “Foucault’s argument that sexuality is a discursive production rather than a natural condition is part of his larger contention that modern subjectivity is an effect of networks of power” (p. 80).

This power can be negative or repressive, but it can also be productive and enabling

(Jagose, 1996). For example, Seidman’s (2002) historical analysis showed the conceptualization of gay and lesbian identity has shifted as both the material conditions

56 and discourse that informs it have changed (Valocchi, 2005). Ultimately, while more queer people live openly, they must still do so in a heterosexist society (Seidman, 2002).

An analysis of power (i.e. the material power of the state) allows for an examination of how sexual identity gets defined and how sexual autonomy is limited (Valocchi, 2005).

In this study, I employed a queer sociological understanding of identity as unstable and shaped by social institutions. An interdisciplinary perspective was necessary to achieve a multidimensional understanding of identity (Côté & Levine, 2002). Within the critical and poststructural literature:

to claim a sexual identity means to associate oneself with a particular term (such

as gay or straight) that has a certain meaning within a particular historical, social,

and political context that may not be associated with one’s inner life. (Denton,

2016, p. 58)

The meanings assigned to particular identities can be understood through the lens of performativity (Butler, 1990). Identity is constructed when an individual performs actions associated with dominant constructions of gender; “performative acts are stylized gestures, behaviors—generally any cultural pattern—which become naturalized daily performances” (Whitney, 2001, p. 116). As such, “many people experience these identities as fixed and stable with a fairly predictable relationship between the subjective awareness of one’s identity, the behaviors that correspond to or enact the identity, and the social institutions that enforce the identity” (Valocchi, 2005, p. 754). Cultural patterns are what allow for a relatively stable experience of identity, even though identity is itself fluid, because individuals know what behaviors, mannerisms, and interactions are

57 expected within society. Additionally, although bisexuals exhibit fluidity in their attractions, behaviors, and identities (Diamond, 2008), bisexuality is not a transitional stage or phase. For instance, while bisexual women’s attractions fluctuated over time:

these variations centered around a relatively stable set point…[bisexuality] may

best be interpreted as a stable pattern of attraction to both sexes in which the

specific balance of same-sex to other-sex desires necessarily varies according to

interpersonal or situational factors. (Diamond, 2008, p. 12)

Throughout this chapter, I elaborate on the fluid nature of identity, the way in which social factors inform the meaning others assign to sexual identities, and the strategies bisexual people use to negotiate their identities, attractions, and experiences within this social context. To begin, I first discuss the foundational research on LGBTQ+ identity. I then explore the specifics of bisexual identity and the historical basis for contemporary understandings of bisexuality.

LGBTQ+ Identity Development

Much of the literature on LGBTQ+ students has focused on questions of their identity development. Foundational student development theories (e.g. Chickering, 1968;

Perry, 1970; Kohlberg, 1971) viewed gender in binary terms and presumed students were heterosexual (Marine, 2011). Though troubling, this is unsurprising given the American

Psychiatric Association did not remove homosexuality as a diagnostic category until

1973 (Fox, 2003). In the late 1970s, scholars began studying the unique developmental processes of lesbian, gay, and to a lesser extent, bisexual people (e.g. Cass, 1979;

D’Augelli, 1994; Troiden, 1979). These models privileged “universal experiences” over

58 complexity (Rhoads, 1997, p. 477), neglected the intersections of identities (Denton,

2016; Jones & McEwen, 2000; Renn, 2010), and treated heterosexuality as the norm

(Denton, 2016). By failing to account for the role of heterosexism, the foundational models paid inadequate attention to the historical, cultural, and social forces that influence sexual identity (Abes & Kasch, 2007; Denton, 2016). Lastly, many of these early models conceptualized identity as static, with a singular, core self, unaffected by sociocultural forces or contextual demands (Denton, 2016; Winkle-Wagner, 2012).

Further, early models of LGBQ identity development have ignored or mischaracterized bisexuality; these misconceptions and erasures remain pervasive. Cass

(1979), for example, situated her model within the framework of interpersonal congruency theory (Secord & Backman, 1961, 1964) which is “based on the assumption that stability and change in human behavior are dependent on the congruency or incongruency that exists within an individual’s interpersonal environment” (Cass, 1979, p. 220). Incongruency has the potential to move an individual from one stage of development to the next, but at each stage identity foreclosure, where a person prematurely commits to an identity without thorough exploration, is also possible. In

Cass’s model, one strategy for reducing incongruency entails adopting an ambisexual strategy in which an individual sees themself as both homosexual and heterosexual. This occurs when a person accepts that their behavior is homosexual, but they find a homosexual self-image undesirable. This conceptualization of the self as both homosexual and heterosexual was, in Cass’s view, a form of identity foreclosure. This mischaracterization of bisexuality is a significant limitation of the model, however Cass

(1990) later recognized bisexuality as a valid identity with its own developmental processes.

Troiden’s (1979) four-stage model was similarly based on a favorable understanding of homosexual identity. Troiden (1979) recognized the multidimensional nature of sexuality; he borrowed from Warren’s concept of gay identity, which involved

“same-sex sexual activity, same-sex sexual attraction, self-identification as homosexual, involvement in the homosexual subculture, and same-sex romantic attachments” (p. 362).

Troiden (1979) did not explicitly address bisexual identity development, but bisexuality was mentioned throughout his work. First, some of his interviewees responded in ways that might indicate bisexuality. One noted, “I was as strongly attracted to men as I was to women” (Troiden, 1979, p. 365). Another responded, “I had enough experiences with girls to realize that while I was aroused by them, I was also aroused by males” (Troiden,

1979, p. 365). Without access to the complete interview transcript, the reader cannot fully understand how these men came to view themselves as gay rather than bisexual; these comments, however, appear uninterrogated.

Second, some men saw heterosexuality or bisexuality as a more viable and rewarding lifestyle than homosexuality. Men in the final stage of development “believe nothing is to be gained by choosing bisexuality or heterosexuality” (Troiden, 1979, p.

370). Bisexuality thus appeared in this model as a form of identity foreclosure, although

Troiden did not explicitly describe it as such. Troiden’s (1988) later work recognized the validity of a bisexual identity while at the same time recognizing the lack of legitimacy afforded to bisexuality by society. Morales’s (1989) model for ethnic minority gays and

60 lesbians approached bisexuality in similarly problematic ways. Individuals in the second of five stages “may identify with being bisexual yet live an exclusively lesbian/gay lifestyle” and “identify as bisexual in reaction to the lack of support they feel in the gay and lesbian community due to [racial/ethnic] discrimination and prejudice” (Morales,

1989, p. 232). Here, Morales (1989) had inadequately theorized the role of binegativity in identity development or the process of identification.

D’Augelli’s (1994) model of lesbian, gay, and bisexual development represented an important advancement as it included bisexuals. It also departed from the stage-based approach to identity development. D’Augelli (1994) broke with “traditional notions of psychological identity,” which “stress the ontogenesis of personal coherence, with individuals moving slowly, if not always surely, toward a particular developmental end- state” (p. 312). Rather, he understood identity as socially constructed and context dependent. D’Augelli’s (1994) model also differed from earlier models in that it was based on a developmental view of identity, in contrast with an essentialist view where sexuality is static. Built on these assumptions, the model considered personal subjectivities and actions (how individuals think, feel, and act), interactive intimacies

(how individuals are shaped by intimate partnerships), and sociohistorical connections

(how individuals are shaped by social norms, policies, laws, customs, and expectations;

D’Augelli, 1994). These three factors influenced one another in such a way that allowed for the complex differences between individuals to emerge. Identities were not treated as monolithic and heterosexist forces were recognized. In accordance with this perspective, individuals develop over the entirety of their lifespan, sexual identities are fluid, and

61 individuals vary in their development (D’Augelli, 1994). According to D’Augelli (1994),

“the human development perspective suggests a continuum of sexual feelings and experiences” (p. 321).

While this way of thinking opened up space for bisexuality, D’Augelli (1994) did not address the nuances of bisexual identity development. Notably, he titled the section in which the developmental processes are presented “steps toward a model of lesbian and gay male development” (D’Augelli, 1994, p. 324). These subtle omissions contribute to bisexual erasure, as previously discussed. Further, this model, along with McCarn and

Fassinger’s (1996) model of lesbian identity development, recognized the role of inequitable power structures such as heterosexism and genderism but, because these models were not grounded in critical epistemologies, they did not actively seek to disrupt these structures.

Jones et al. (2013) applied queer theory to the Model of Multiple Dimensions of

Identity (MMDI; Jones & McEwen, 2000) to queer the model. The resulting Queered

Model of Multiple Dimensions of Identity (Q-MMDI) is applicable to all students, not just queer students. It challenged “power relationships promoted by heteronormativity” and recognized the intersection of identities (Jones et al., 2013, p. 204). Though the model was not specific to bisexuality, nor did the authors explicitly mention bisexuality, the Q-MMDI can be used to shed light on bisexual identity development. It recognized that identity is experienced within a heteronormative context (Jones et al., 2013). Further, the Q-MMDI provided a lens through which to study the fluidity of identity. This is in keeping with research that shows bisexuality can be flexible (e.g. Diamond, 2008; Ross,

Daneback, & Månsson, 2012; Rust, 2000). The Q-MMDI’s inclusion of performativity is also useful when discussing bisexuality given the extant literature on the performative nature of bisexuality (e.g. Fahs, 2009; Hartman, 2008; Hartman, 2013; Hartman-Linck,

2014). This model allows for the examination of how heteronormativity shapes the way gender, sexuality, and other identities are enacted. The model, however, did not recognize the contextual influence of monosexism, nor was it based on a bisexual sample. Despite the significant advancements made by models such as the Q-MMDI, there is a need for an understanding of identity that focuses on the specific experiences of bisexual people.

Bisexuality and Bisexual Identity

A queer sociological conceptualization of identity introduces a tension inherent in studying identity through a queer theoretical lens. How does one approach the study of identity when identity is itself unstable? To address this tension as it pertains to the study of bisexuality, it is first necessary to understand how bisexuality and bisexual identity have historically been understood. I begin this section with a discussion of the historical roots of contemporary bisexuality, starting with bisexuality as a biological category then tracing its genealogy through sexology, psychology, and its current usage. I also include a discussion of pansexual and queer identities, and how they relate to bisexuality.

Throughout the following subsections, I discuss the way in which bisexuality has been been—and continues to be—racialized, in order to contextualize the dearth of research on bisexual People of Color (Duran, 2019b; Ghabrial & Ross, 2018; Huang et al., 2010).

Finally, I conclude with the possibilities of approaching bisexuality from a queer perspective.

Bisexuality’s Historical Roots

In this section I trace the historical roots of contemporary bisexuality. What follows is an examination of how bisexuality as an epistemological category came to be rather than an exposition of bisexual desire and behavior throughout history. Others have chronicled bisexuality in classical antiquity (Cantarella, 2002) or representations of bisexuality in cultural, historical, and literary texts (Garber, 2000). Such projects have contributed to the representation and visibility of bisexuality, but they do not explain how the category of bisexuality has been constructed (MacDowall, 2009).

I begin with a discussion of bisexuality as a biological term. Next, I show how bisexuality was later used, not just in a physiological sense, but as a psychological concept, to reify social hierarchies, particularly on the basis of race. Both as biological cause and psychological effect, “bisexuality can be seen as an important historical and epistemological regulator of the axis of sex/gender and sexuality” (Angelides, 2006, p.

132). Finally, I discuss the distinction between bisexual identity and bisexual practice in the understanding of contemporary bisexuality.

Biology and evolutionary theory. Bisexuality as a sexual and emotional practice dates back millennia (Cantarella, 2002) and the related terms “bisexed” and “bisexous” had been used as early as the 17th century to describe Ancient Greek and Near Eastern mythological ideas about primordial androgyny (Monro, 2015, p.11). The first use of the term “bisexuality” as a means of anatomical classification, however, dates to 1859. It was first used by Irish physician Robert Bentley Todd to describe human male and female reproductive structures (MacDowall, 2009). Within this 19th century conceptualization,

“the term bisexuality grouped together two distinct categories: organisms in which sex is undifferentiated, often at an early developmental stage, and hermaphroditic organisms, which display characteristics of both sexes” (MacDowall, 2009, p. 10). In this sense, bisexuality was initially a synonym for what today is called intersex, where a person’s reproductive or sexual anatomy does not align with generally accepted definitions of male or female (Callis, 2012; Intersex Society of North America, 2008).

MacDowall (2009) situated this “discovery” of bisexuality within a distinct historical and cultural context—“Western modernity, an historical epoch associated with the development of capitalism in the West” (p. 9). Bisexuality was thus an object of scientific study at home in the scientific disciplines of Western Europe, which were themselves linked to colonialism and imperialist expansion (MacDowall, 2009). To that end, bisexuality was first used in evolutionary biology to describe a state of arrested or maldevelopment. Following Darwin’s supposition that individuals retain reproductive elements of the opposite sex, bisexuality became the link between the fully evolved human (i.e. the heterosexual male) and “lower” forms of life (Angelides, 2006).

Evolutionary biologists thus employed bisexuality “as a rhetorical concept to explain and justify, in scientific terms, the social order in which women and blacks (not to mention those of ‘ambiguous sex’) were rendered not only subaltern but subhuman” (Angelides,

2001, p. 34).

Racial prejudice is not a modern phenomenon, and the employment of the biological sciences in arguments for white racial superiority predates the intervention of bisexuality. Early biological justifications for a racial hierarchy were based on the idea

65 that different races represented distinct biological species (Gould, 1996). This theory was bolstered by sexual anxieties over miscegenation and the dilution of the white race

(Gould, 1996). The way in which bisexuality was eventually used to bolster scientific racist arguments, however, is evident in this passage from Krafft-Ebing’s (1906)

Psychopathia Sexualis: “The secondary sexual characteristics differentiate the two sexes; they present the specific male and female types. The higher the anthropological development of the race, the stronger these contrasts between man and woman, and vice versa” (p. 42). This passage highlights the connection between biological understandings of sex and race as they were conceptualized by late-19th and early-20th century sexology, and the way in which the historic notion of bisexuality mediated that connection.

Sexology and psychological bisexuality. Sexology, or the scientific (as opposed to sociological) study of sexuality, was intimately connected to scientific racism as I have begun to demonstrate (Somerville, 2000). As a field, sexology “attempt[ed] to wrest authority for diagnosing and defining sexual ‘abnormalities’ away from juridical discourse and to place it firmly within the purview of medical science” (Somerville,

2000, p. 18). Early sexology texts were methodologically situated between comparative anatomy and the burgeoning field of psychology (Somerville, 2000). Foucault (1978) argued the fields of biology and psychology medicalized sex, in effect creating categories of sexuality; “where once a sex act could stand on its own, the new medical discourse morphed this act into a type of person and a medical identity” (Callis, 2012, p. 30).

Whereas previously one could speak of same-sex acts, it was now possible to define the homosexual individual (Foucault, 1978).

As the field of sexology was emerging during the second half of the 19th century,

“movements for racial and sexual equality and the proliferation of categories of

‘effeminate’ men, ‘masculine’ women, and New Women, served to challenge patriarchal boundaries of race, gender, and sexuality” (Angelides, 2006, p. 130). During this period, a distinction was drawn between sex role (e.g. active/passive, masculine/feminine) and the gender of a person’s sexual partner. Sexuality now joined with sex and gender in the ordering of society. Scientists used evolutionary development to explain deviations in

“normal” behavior; homosexuals and Black people were considered most deviant and were thus positioned at the bottom of this social order (Angelides, 2006). As suggested above, bisexuality played a role in this social structuring. This is because it served as the evolutionary link between lower life forms, which were physically hermaphroditic, and the supposedly fully evolved.

The field of sexology did not seem to know quite what to make of bisexuality as a form of “psychical hermaphrodism,” however (Krafft-Ebbing, 1906, p. 352). The term bisexuality was not applied to sexuality, as distinct from sex and gender, until the late

19th century. Yet even then, it was largely ignored as any same-sex behavior was typically sufficient to categorize the individual as homosexual (Angelides, 2001).

Bisexuality was treated as a stage of development rather than a category of person

(Callis, 2012), a practice which continued through foundational lesbian and gay identity development models (e.g. Cass, 1979, Troiden, 1979).

Psychology took up where sexology left off but had similar challenges accounting for bisexuality. Bisexuality was understood in two ways; first, as “feminine” and

“masculine” psychological traits within a single person, and second, as attraction to men and women (Bowie, 1992). Although these psychological and affective conceptualizations may seem completely unrelated to the biological use of the term bisexuality, this perspective overlooks the significant influence of biology on psychoanalytic theory and the understanding of sexual difference (Bowie, 1992). The following passage from psychoanalyst Edmund Bergler’s (1956/1962) work demonstrates the way in which bisexuality was, and continues to be, denied a place in society:

BISEXUALITY—a state that has no existence beyond the word itself—is an out-

and-out fraud, involuntarily maintained by some naïve homosexuals, and

voluntarily perpetrated by some who are not so naïve. The theory claims that a

man can be—alternatively or concomitantly—homo and heterosexual. The

statement is as rational as one declaring that a man can at the same time have

cancer and perfect health. (p. 80)

This categorical denial of bisexuality has implications for bisexuality’s place in contemporary society and its erasure in institutions of higher education, as I demonstrate throughout this chapter.

Contemporary Bisexuality and Plurisexual Identity Research

Bisexuality has largely been understudied relative to the literature on gay and lesbian identities (Rodríguez Rust, 2002) and research on bisexual identity development is particularly lacking (Dugan & Yurman, 2011). Historically, the earliest research on identities that deviated from heterosexuality conceptualized these non-heterosexual identities as pathological (Paul, 1984). Even as researchers began taking a more

68 affirmative view of lesbian and gay identities, bisexuality remained deviant (Fox, 2003).

Early theorizing on bisexuality treated bisexual attraction as a normal part of human nature, but pathologized those who acted on their bisexual feelings (e.g., Stekel, 1922).

Bisexuality was only normal until the age of puberty, at which point a healthy individual will suppress either their heterosexual or same-sex feelings, resulting in individuals who are exclusively homosexual or heterosexual (Stekel, 1922).

In the post-War period, the folding of bisexuality into the homosexual category functioned to reify the heterosexual (universal, normative) and homosexual (deviant) divide (Angelides, 2001). The work of scholars like Alfred Kinsey began to trouble this pathologizing of homosexuality and prompted a rethinking about the assumptions commonly held about sexuality (Bullough, 1998). Kinsey was hesitant to use the term bisexuality in reference to human sexuality given its historical association with undifferentiated anatomical sex and the general confusion surrounding the term (Kinsey,

Pomeroy, & Martin, 1948/1998). This is illustrative of the potentially damaging legacy of early evolutionary theory, which is itself deeply connected to the project of scientific racism, on contemporary theorizations of bisexuality. Scholars have had to work intentionally to combat this legacy (MacDowall, 2009).

Kinsey’s research, however, helped normalize bisexuality by providing evidence of bisexual behavior, but it did not similarly discuss a bisexual identity (Fairyington, 2008).

Kinsey’s 0-6-point scale ranged from “exclusively heterosexual” to “exclusively homosexual” and accounted for both sexual experience and psychosexual reaction, demonstrating the multifaceted nature of human sexuality (Kinsey et al., 1948/1998).

Klein, Sepekoff, and Wolf (1985) critiqued Kisney’s scale for failing to “[take] into consideration the dimensions of time or the multivariable aspects of sexual orientation” (p. 38). Klein et al. (1985) introduced a categorization scheme that included attraction, behavior, fantasy, lifestyle, emotional preference, social preference, and self- identification. Additionally, the Klein Sexual Orientation Grid (KSOG) measured these seven dimensions in the past, present, and as an ideal (Klein et al., 1985). Doing so recognized an individual’s sexuality as a process which can differ over time and context.

Nevertheless, Galupo et al. (2014) critiqued both the Kinsey Scale and KSOG for their binary conceptualization of homosexuality and heterosexuality, inability to fully capture the fluidity of human sexuality, and erasure of transgender identities.

Unfortunately, Galupo et al.’s (2014) critique could be applied to contemporary sexuality research more generally. Rodríguez Rust (2000) summarized much of the pre-

1980s sexual identity research:

Many researchers had, in fact, recognized the existence of bisexual experience,

but they had generally conceptualized it as a lesser degree of “homosexual”

experience, as the intermediate range on a heterosexual-homosexual continuum,

or as a matter of “diversity among homosexuals.” (p. 5)

Although several scholars have more recently proposed identity development models that specifically address bisexuality, they often continued to treat sex and gender like the foundational models did—that is, as binary.

Bisexual identity development. One such model of bisexual identity development was a layer cake model based on a grounded theory study of eight bisexual

70 participants (Bleiberg, et al., 2005). The model is troubling in that it suggests all bisexuals identify as heterosexual prior to identifying as bisexual. In actuality, research has shown some bisexuals initially identify as lesbian or gay, others identify bisexual feelings from childhood, and still others do not become aware of their bisexuality until later in life (Bilodeau & Renn, 2005). The creators of the layer cake model, none of whom identify as bisexual or gay, also referenced an “integration and assimilation of heterosexual and homosexual identities” (Bleiberg et al., 2005, p. 57). This language incorrectly implied bisexuality is not a standalone identity, illustrative of Burrill’s (2009) critique of bisexuality literature in which “bisexuality is repeatedly…understood to be a combination of heterosexuality and homosexuality without maintaining a unique identity of its own” (p. 491). The authors did, however, acknowledge participants did not see themselves as gay or straight, and many viewed their sexuality as a continuum.

Several stage models of bisexual identity development advanced the bisexuality research by highlighting challenges bisexuals face because of prejudiced assumptions

(e.g., Bradford, 2004; Knous, 2006; Weinberg, Williams, & Pryor, 1995). Weinberg et al.

(1995) identified four stages of bisexual identity development—initial confusion, finding and applying the label, settling into the identity, and continued uncertainty. Sources of confusion included feeling frightened or disoriented by sexual feelings towards both sexes, fearing an end to their heterosexuality, an inability to characterize their feelings and/or behaviors, and homophobia. Weinberg et al. (1995) thus described the experiences of monosexism and internalized binegativity without naming them as such. The authors acknowledged this continued uncertainty is a developmental stage unique to bisexuality

71 but differentiated it from the assumption that bisexuals are simply confused about their sexuality. Rather, this continued uncertainty comes from lack of validation, dearth of support, and a doubt about how to engage in certain sexual behaviors.

Bradford (2004) also advanced a four-stage theory drawing on feminist gender theory and deconstruction to challenge existing binaries. She found bisexual identity influenced self-concept, noting participants were more self-reliant, open, and empathetic; they found their bisexuality to be personally enriching. At the same time, coming to terms with their bisexuality was an ongoing process. One participant reflected, “There is always a battle with shame and self-doubt and work to do” (Bradford, 2004, p. 18). Further, although Bradford (2004) recognized that gender, racial, ethnic, and class oppression influenced how participants experienced their bisexuality, she did not take a critical, intersectional approach.

In this model, bisexual identity development did not end in continued confusion as was the case with Weinberg et al.’s (1995) model, but in establishing community and affirming one’s identity. Nevertheless, bisexuals continued to “struggle with isolation, prejudice, and invalidation” (Bradford, 2004, p. 21). The final stage involved transcending cultural prejudice and engaging in social action and leadership (Bradford,

2004). Missing from this model, however, was an acknowledgement of the burden bisexuals, especially those with multiple marginalized identities, face when expected to be responsible for their own liberation.

Rather than advancing a stage model, Rust (2000) explored the way in which bisexuals understood and experienced their bisexuality. This important contribution to the

72 literature on bisexual identity development was based on the study of 917 bisexual people using data from the International Bisexual Identities, Communities, Ideologies, and

Politics (IBICIP) Study (Rust, 2000). Though predominantly white and cisgender, this international sample did include individuals with a range of racial and gender identities, as well as ages and socioeconomic statuses. Respondents did not have to identify with the bisexual label; individuals included in the sample were “attracted to both women and men or have had sexual contact with both women and men” (Rust, 2000, p. 33). In addition to the findings presented, this study also provided a useful example of the expansive way researchers can conceptualize bisexuality.

The majority of respondents understood bisexuality as “their potential to be sexually, emotionally, and/or romantically attracted to members of both sexes and genders” (Rust, 2000, p. 41). Further, most bisexuals did not see having had sexual contact with both men and women as a prerequisite for identifying as bisexual (Rust,

2000). Rust (2000) thus concluded, “one is not bisexual because of the experiences one is having at any given moment, but because of the sum of one’s experiences over the course of one’s lifetime” (p. 44). This distinction between “erotic action and identity assertion” is “perhaps the most intriguing dimension of contemporary sexuality” (Alexander &

Anderlini-D’Onofrio, 2012, p. 15). As noted in Chapter 1, societal forces may constrain behavior (Sell, 2007).

Several respondents described their sexuality as flexible. For these individuals,

“the flexibility of bisexual identity allows [them] to maintain consistent sexual identities even as their sexual feelings and experiences change over time” (Rust, 2000, p. 50).

Relatedly, some individuals adopted multiple identity labels dependent upon context. Of note, some chose the term bisexual, as opposed to pansexual or queer, for instance, because it was most likely to be understood by others. Still others refused to identify with the term bisexual at all. In particular, some bisexual activists preferred to deconstruct existing categories (Rust, 2000). Similarly, many individuals who could be described as bisexual did not choose the label for themselves, either because it was too limited, felt inaccurate, or was associated with a disparaged or invisible group (Baumgardner, 2007).

This invisibility, both in the sexuality literature and in the LGBTQ+ community, contributed to feelings of marginalization (Eisner, 2013).

Pansexual and queer students. An understanding of plurisexual students who may identify with labels in addition to bisexual is important for this dissertation study, as several of these students responded to the call for bisexual student participants, and their experiences are thus represented among study findings. Except for King’s (2008, 2011) research on multiracial/biracial-bisexual/pansexual college students, Rupp et al.’s (2016) study of college women’s sexual fluidity, and Garvey et al.’s (2018) exploration of outness among bisexual, pansexual, and sexually fluid undergraduates, the literature on college student identity and experience has not centered pansexuality and other plurisexualities. That said, an increasing number of studies have included pansexual and queer students in their samples. Examples include studies on intimate partner violence

(Edwards & Sylaska, 2014; Edwards, Littleton, Sylaska, Crossman, & Craig, 2016) and the influence of campus experience on outness (Garvey & Rankin, 2015). Like much of the literature on LGBTQ+ students generally, findings are often not disaggregated (e.g.,

Garvey, Taylor, & Rankin, 2015), making it difficult to draw conclusions about students identifying with a particular identity label. Statistical challenges related to small sample sizes contribute to this difficulty, though scholars have tried to address these challenges.

For example, Edwards et al. (2016) reported rates of intimate partner victimization by sexuality and gender identity when sub-groups had at least five respondents; the highest rates of victimization were seen among bisexual men.

As is the case with bisexual students, student affairs practitioners can look to other disciplines for insight into plurisexual identities, although this research is also limited (Callis, 2014). General themes across this literature include a rejection of labels or the use of multiple labels, the rejection of binaries, and the fluidity of identity (Callis,

2014; Galupo et al., 2016).

Limited research has explored plurisexual experiences, although a recent special issue of the Journal of Bisexuality addressed both the benefits and costs associated with grouping these identities under the umbrella of bisexuality (Flanders, 2017). For instance,

Robinson (2017) highlighted the unique challenges faced by Two-Spirit people, including elevated rates of poverty, sexual violence, and the legacy of colonialism. At the same time, she emphasized the rich yet complicated nature of Two-Spirit identity and the unique role of spirituality, noting, “while bisexuality is an occasionally spiritual identity, two-spirit identity is a predominantly spiritual identity” (Robinson, 2017, p. 18). This finding highlights how sexual identification is a white phenomenon. Further, it underscores the importance of exploring differences among the bisexual+ community, as well as shared experiences of discrimination.

Much in the same way bisexual people experience bisexual erasure (Yoshino,

2000), pansexual people also encounter panerasure (Belous & Bauman, 2017). Yet panerasure is further complicated by pansexuality’s relationship with bisexuality and the tensions that at times exist between the two communities:

There is a feeling that pansexual people are simply avoiding the bisexual label

due to the

stigmas associated with it (that bisexual people are simply greedy and

promiscuous, and

spread among both the heterosexual and homosexual communities). Conversely,

many in the pansexual community feel as though these beliefs are forms of

prejudice and

pansexual erasure. (Belous & Bauman, 2017, pp. 64-65)

Pansexuals also report stigmatization, the minimization of pansexuality as a distinct sexual identity, and challenges associated with having their identity understood by others

(Belous & Bauman, 2017). Thus, while there is considerable overlap in the experiences of marginalization shared by pansexual and bisexual people, discussing them together runs the risk of perpetuating the erasure of both distinct communities. Additionally, conflating bisexuality, polysexuality, and pansexuality risks ignoring the way some transgender people “resist being written into discourses of bisexuality” (Cornwall, 2012, p. 358). That is not to say that there are not transgender people who embrace the bisexual label, although research suggested younger transgender people were more likely to

76 identify as pansexual while older transgender individuals seemed more comfortable with the term bisexual (Movement Advancement Project, 2017).

Discussing a singular bisexual and pansexual experience may obscure differences, such as those between bisexual and queer women (Mereish, Katz-Wise, & Woulfe,

2017). For example, women identifying as bisexual reported lower levels of identity centrality and affirmation than did queer women, perhaps due to experiences of biphobia

(Mereish et al., 2017). The literature reviewed in this section points to some of the ways people from multiply marginalized backgrounds identify or experience their sexuality in culturally-specific ways (e.g., Indigenous People; Robinson, 2017). This speaks to a need for scholarship specific to the experience of LGBTQ+ students at the margins of multiple social identities.

Despite numerous advancements, much of the research contributing to an accurate and nuanced understanding of identities falling under the bisexual umbrella has been constrained by the prevailing view that sexuality and gender are binary (Bradford, 2004;

Diamond, 2008; Tabatabai & Linders, 2011). The literature on college student development, and particularly LGBTQ+ development, has recently incorporated more critical and poststructural paradigms, including intersectional perspectives (e.g.,

Johnston-Guerrero, 2016; Jones & Abes, 2013; Jones et al., 2013; Narui, 2011; Patton &

Simmons, 2008). These approaches to identity challenge the notion of an essential, core self and highlight the influence of historical, cultural, social, and institutional forces

(Denton, 2016). Yet in pursuit of a more nuanced understanding of identity, these approaches also bring to light the practical and theoretical challenges of studying sexual

77 identity. This dissertation study on bisexual college student identity negotiation aimed to disrupt this treatment of gender and sexuality and embrace these challenges by exploring the performative and fluid nature of both.

Identity Negotiation

The negotiation of identity pertains to individuals’ multiple social identities, or those shared group identities that come with a set of associated meanings and assumptions (Deaux & Ethier, 1998; Jones, 1995). Scholars have approached identity negotiation in various ways through numerous disciplinary lenses (e.g., Deaux & Ethier

(1998) and Swann (1987) in psychology, Ting-Toomey (2005) in communication studies). In this section, I highlight one such theory, keeping in mind other approaches are possible and offer relevant insights into the phenomena of interest. For example,

Swann (1987) described the use of identity cues (e.g., clothing, posture) in laying claim to an identity, which aligns with strategies employed by bisexuals seeking visibility.

I begin this section by describing the process of identity negotiation as conceptualized by Deaux and Ethier (1998), then discuss the way in which identity negotiation can be applied to bisexual students. This theory of identity negotiation was selected because its focus on social identities (Deaux, 2001) allows for the exploration of social context. Further, Deaux’s work acknowledged a multidimensional understanding of identity (Jones & Abes, 2013). As Deaux (2001) noted, Deaux and Ethier’s (1998) theory of identity negotiation treats “fluctuations in identity, rather than evidence of instability or whimsy, [as] evidence of the ways people respond to their environment and… make choices that seem most appropriate to that setting” (p. 1068). This aligns

78 well with the performative nature of identity (Butler, 1990) and the notion that bisexuality, while fluid, is not a phase (Diamond, 2008).

Identity negotiation refers to the “agentic identity work carried out in response to contextual demands. Identity negotiation is an ongoing process, best conceived as continual efforts directed at maintaining existing identities as well as adapting to changing circumstances” (Deaux & Ethier, 1998, p. 301). Here, “agentic identity” refers not to a privileged identity (in contrast with a “target” or marginalized identity), but rather to the way an individual actively controls the way their identity is communicated to others. In response to changing goals, contexts, and circumstances, “people actively adjust their self-definitions, alter their reference groups, and modify their behaviors to deal with these changes” (Deaux & Ethier, 1998, p. 301). Although these contexts and circumstances can be affirming or neutral, they are often experienced as threatening

(Chatman, Eccles, & Malanchuk, 2005; Ethier & Deaux, 1994), particularly for individuals with marginalized racial, ethnic, gender, class, and sexual identities (Frable,

1997). The college campus provides an illustrative example. LGBTQ+ affinity groups and centers can be affirming contexts in which queer students feel comfortable sharing their identity and experiences (Vaccaro, 2012), yet they can also be sites of homonormative whiteness (Duran, 2017; Self & Hudson, 2015). Further, the college campus is often a site of racism (Patton, 2016; Washington, 2020). Students respond to oppressive campus climates in agentic ways, including through the desire to transform their campus in the interest of social justice (Abrica & Hatch-Tocaimaza, 2019).

Social identities derive their meaning in part from shared cultural understandings informed by stereotypes, media representations, and other assumptions (Deaux & Ethier,

1998; Deaux, 2001). These shared assumptions can result in stigmatization, prejudice, and constraints on an individual’s ability to self-identify (Deaux & Ethier, 1998). Others’ perceptions further influence how an individual experiences their identity— “others may, for example, assign a category that the person himself or herself [sic] does not claim”

(Deaux & Ethier, 1998, p. 305); this mislabeling is common for individuals from marginalized groups (Deaux & Ethier, 1998). In response, people purposefully seek out spaces in which they can present their identity or identities to others and have that identity understood. The negotiation strategies introduced in the following section can be used separately or in concert; they can also be used to negotiate a single identity or multiple identities. I follow the presentation of strategies with examples specific to bisexual identity.

Negotiation Strategies

Deaux and Ethier (1998) identified several strategies of identity negotiation which fall into two broad categories—identity negation and identity enhancement (see Table 1).

Both sets of strategies include cognitive and behavioral dimensions and can be used individually or in combination when the individual senses a need to adjust or refine their identity in response to social, psychological, or contextual demands (Deaux & Ethier,

1998).

Table 1. Identity Negotiation Strategies Identity Negation Identity Enhancement Elimination Reaffirmation Denial Remooring Lowered identification Intensified group contact Social change

Note: Adapted from Deaux & Ethier, 1998

The first set of identity negotiation strategies are negation strategies and are employed when an individual wants to distance themself from a social identity they find aversive or displeasing. At the most extreme, an individual might choose to eliminate an identity. This is only possible if the person believes the identity can be abandoned. A less extreme strategy involves denial of one’s identity. Deaux and Ethier (1998) used denial

“to refer to those cases in which some external source is applying a label with which the target does not identify” (p. 308). In the case of visually-marked identities such as age, race, or gender, both elimination and denial are challenging strategies because of social norms ascribed to how these identities should be enacted. Individuals will continue to be read as members of a group with which they may not wish to be identified and mislabeling is often unavoidable. Lastly, individuals can deemphasize the importance of an identity. This flexible identity negotiation strategy provides the means to address immediate threats without abandoning a salient aspect of one’s identity (Deaux & Ethier,

1998).

The second set of identity negotiation strategies are enhancement strategies, which assert or strengthen an existing identity (Deaux & Ethier, 1998). Reaffirmation

81 refers to the reassertion of an identity that an individual already holds. It occurs when an identity becomes more salient or when “some shift occurs in the meanings and connotations of an identity, which the person will then try to convey to others” (Deaux &

Ethier, 1998, p. 309). Reaffirmation can also occur when others in the social environment are unaware or unaccepting of the identity, and an individual responds by asserting the positive values associated with their identity.

Remooring is a similar strategy, though it is behavioral rather than cognitive or verbal; “the process of remooring involves developing new bases for supporting an identity when the context has changed, and at the same time detaching the identity from its supports in the former environment” (Deaux & Ethier, 1998, p. 310). Intensified group contact is a related strategy, but it does not require a shift in context. Deaux and Ethier

(1998) noted group contact can occur in both organized and informal settings and can counter discrimination, enhance self-esteem, and mitigate stigma.

The social change strategy is the final enhancement strategy, wherein an individual hopes “either to change the beliefs that others hold about one’s social category, or to change the social system in some way that will facilitate the expression and recognition of the identity” (Deaux & Ethier, 1998, pp. 311-312). Unlike the identity elimination strategy, the social change strategy is most often adopted when an individual recognizes their identity is unchangeable. This strategy is often employed by members of a marginalized group in response to discrimination or stigmatization.

Deaux and Ethier (1998) discussed identity negotiation in terms of stigmatization and threat, arguing how one perceives the threat informs their choice of an identity

82 negotiation strategy. Perceived threat to identity falls into one of two types—a negative evaluation of an identity group or a challenge to one’s claim to group membership

(Breakwell as cited in Deaux & Ethier, 1998). The way in which an individual responds to these threats depends on the protective strategies they have in place, perception of the threat, and the extent to which they identify with the stigmatized group. Because bisexuality has been highly stigmatized (Callis, 2013; Monro, 2015), the application of identity negotiation to the study of bisexual identity is fitting, as I now detail.

Identity Negotiation and Bisexual College Students

Much of the extant literature on identity negotiation has focused on racial or ethnic identity (Chatman et al., 2005; Deaux & Ethier, 1998; Ethier & Deaux, 1994), including bicultural identity (No, Wan, Chao, Rosner, & Hong, 2011). Identity negotiation is also relevant to the study of sexuality, and bisexual students in particular, given that heteronormative (Jeppesen, 2016), homonormative (Duggan, 2003) and monosexist (Eisner, 2013) campus contexts (Garvey et al., 2015) create the threatening and stigmatizing conditions under which identity negotiation often takes place. Further, scholars have explored the existence of supportive campus contexts in which a sense of belonging for LGBTQ+ students is fostered (Linley & Nguyen, 2015; Vaccaro, 2012).

Assuming binegativity is less prevalent as well, these contexts also provide an opportunity to examine identity negotiation strategies employed in the absence of overt prejudice or discrimination. To illustrate this point, I next provide examples of the prejudice and perceived threats facing bisexual college students along with potential identity negotiation strategies.

Bisexuals experience stigmatization from both heterosexual and gay communities

(Flanders et al., 2017; Gorman et al., 2015; Li et al., 2013) and research demonstrates both heterosexual and gay individuals may harbor prejudiced attitudes and beliefs about bisexuals (Armstrong & Reissing, 2014; Callis, 2013; Flanders et al., 2016; Hayfield et al., 2014). A bisexual who has internalized these negative beliefs and who believes sexual identity is mutable may employ the extreme identity negation strategy of identity elimination by undergoing conversion therapy. It should be noted, however, that this is a harmful practice shown to result in poor self-esteem, depression, and social withdrawal

(Haldeman, 2008). A bisexual who recognizes that others may hold negative assumptions about bisexuality might adopt the less extreme negation strategy of identity denial. In this circumstance, they might not correct a new acquaintance who assumes their heterosexuality based on their relationship with a partner of a different gender. The final negation strategy, decreasing the importance of an identity, might look like the rejection of an identity label (Owen, 2011) or being selective about how and to whom a bisexual student expresses their sexuality (Yon-Leau & Muñoz-Laboy, 2010). Yon-Leau and

Muñoz-Laboy (2010) described this strategy as “keeping your business to yourself,” and it helped study participants manage relationships within their families of origin (p. 111).

On the other hand, bisexuals might respond to identity threat by adopting identity enhancement strategies including reaffirmation, remooring, intensified group contact, and social change. Reaffirmation strategies could include a bisexual woman’s choice to engage publicly with other women, an identity assertion strategy that highlights the societal pressure to “prove” their sexual identity (Boyer & Galupo, 2015). Bisexuals may

84 also employ performative strategies meant to make visible their bisexual identity

(Hartman, 2013; Hartman-Linck, 2014; Tabatabai & Linders, 2011), such as wearing a bisexual pride pin. Remooring involves maintaining an identity in a new context and typically involves connecting with new group members and attending events related to that social identity (Deaux & Ethier, 1998). Intensified group contact does not require a substantial change in one’s environment, but still involves associating with others who share an (often stigmatized) identity (Deaux & Ethier, 1998). Joining a bisexual student club upon enrolling in college is an example of remooring whereas joining a bisexual organization in one’s hometown is an illustration of intensified group contact. Finally, the social change strategy could involve correcting a prospective partner’s inaccurate assumption about their fidelity (with the goal of changing beliefs) or advocating for more bisexuality-affirming mental health resources on campus (with the goal of more systemic change).

As mentioned, identity negotiation strategies interact with one another and one identity may be negated as another is enhanced. For instance, Watson (2014) described the way some bisexuals explored their sexual identity and the familial isolation that resulted. In this sense, identifying as bisexual may cause some to negate their roles as child or sibling. It is also possible for individuals to simultaneously enhance multiple identities, as may be the case for students who identify as multi-racial/biracial- bisexual/pansexual (King, 2011), or to negotiate numerous identities in various contextually-specific ways, as was the case for Black, bisexual, religious men (Jeffries et al., 2008). The identity negotiation strategies described above may be a response not only

85 to prejudice and discrimination, but also erasure and accompanying feelings of invisibility. The identity enactment strategies discussed next provide further insight into how a bisexual person might respond to prejudice and make their bisexuality visible.

Identity Enactment

Enactments refer to “a performance or way of acting, and members of socially ascribed groups are taught to enact-perform identity in ways that match the demand characteristics of different situations” (Cross, 2012, p. 194). Identities are thus enacted differently based on context. Although this conceptualization of identity enactment recognizes the fluidity and performative aspects of identity (Brekhus, 2003; Hartman,

2008; Pennington, 2009), it also suggests:

the stable aspects of identity help a person to be aware of and thus recognize and

even predict which predicaments, situations, and contexts are identity-related

(salient) and which are not…what changes, from situation to situation, is not

identity but the manner in which identity is expressed. (Cross, 2012, p. 194)

Identity enactment relates to identity negotiation as both function in response to identity threat, discrimination, and microaggressions.

Bisexual Identity Enactment

Cross (2012) applied the framework developed in the Black Enactment-

Transaction Model (BETM; Cross, Smith, & Payne, 2002) to a model of the enactment of

LGBT identity. Although it might at first appear appropriative to apply a race-based model to the study of another marginalized community, Cross (2012) argued “divergent social groups are more alike than different in the way social identity is enacted during

86 critical everyday interactions” (p. 194), and his intention was to demonstrate the initial model’s broad applicability. The resultant model of the enactment of LGBT identity included individual and collective buffering, code-switching, bridging, and attachment- bonding (Cross, 2012).

Buffering, both at the individual and group level, is a protectionist strategy that involves confrontation, passive, and avoidance behaviors and protects against microaggressions (Nadal et al., 2011) and outright hostility. At the individual level, this might look like a bisexual student choosing to ignore a heterosexual roommate’s binegative comment or joining a campus bisexual student organization. At the group- level, membership in a marginalized affinity group provides buffering from the hostile, normative environment. Within-group buffering specifically addresses tensions within the LGBTQ+ community (Cross, 2012); binegativity within the larger community necessitates that bisexuals practice within-group buffering in response to prejudice from some gays and lesbians (Cross, 2012; Tomassilli, 2007).

Bridging entails building connections across difference (e.g., with lesbian, gay, and straight peers), while within-group bridging involves forming relationships across intercultural divides within one’s own group. For a bisexual student, within-group bridging might mean making connections with pansexual, omnisexual, and sexually fluid students, or building relationships with bisexual peers of different cultural backgrounds.

Attachment-bonding refers to positive relationships and experiences with the

LGBTQ+ community; for bisexuals this would refer specifically to relationships with other bisexual people. This enactment strategy is particularly relevant for LGBTQ+

87 people who have been turned away by their families and communities of origin due to their sexuality (Cross, 2012), and for whom chosen family is particularly important

(Weston, 1991). Unfortunately, bisexual people may find building supportive relationships with other bisexuals challenging given internalized binegativity within the bisexual community. For example, bisexual people might also exhibit mistrust of other bisexuals, and express an unwillingness to form relationships with them (Li et al., 2013).

Additionally, because of the invisibility of bisexuality, it may be difficult for bisexuals to identify prospective friends, partners, or role models on campus (Lowy, 2017).

The final enactment strategy Cross (2012) detailed is code-switching, which entails performing one’s identity differently in majority and minoritized spaces. Passing and covering are two examples of code-switching accessible to bisexuals; passing is an available strategy because of the invisible nature of their identity.

Passing

Passing refers to “an identity enactment employed by marked individuals for the purpose of receiving particular benefits otherwise unavailable to them” (Verni, 2009, p.

67). As an enactment strategy, passing is most often discussed with regards to race, ethnicity, class, gender, sexuality, religion, citizenship, or disability status (Dawkins,

2012). Passing is not a modern phenomenon; people have passed for thousands of years, dating back to the earliest instances of intercultural and interracial contact (Dawkins,

2012). Like other enactment strategies, passing is both performative and shaped by context and audience (Verni, 2009). It can be done intentionally, or unconsciously (Verni,

2009). As an unconscious strategy, passing relates to identity negotiation strategies of negation and denial;

passing may be a deliberate effort to avoid discrimination or ostracism, or it may

be an almost unconscious, Herculean effort to deny to oneself the reality of one’s

racial history, sexual feelings, or bodily state. The attempt may be a deliberate act

to protect oneself from the loathing of society or may be an unchecked impulse

spurred by an internalized self-loathing. (Linton, 2006, p. 166)

Passing can thus manifest as an intentional identity negation strategy, or as an undesired consequence of bisexual erasure.

Though often discussed in terms of shame, harm, and deception, passing can also be understood as an “agentic tool” that recognizes the nonlinearity and multidimensionality of LGBQ identity (Verni, 2009, p. 67). Although passing can result in anger, annoyance, alienation, fear, and frustration for LGBQ people, it can also promote safety and afford individuals power over their own identity (Verni, 2009). Thus, while passing can be framed in a positive light, bisexuals who unintentionally pass as straight report feelings of invisibility and a frustration and resentment with the struggle to find space within the LGBQ community (Verni, 2009). Although some scholars have studied the ways in which bisexuals combat this invisibility and resist erasure (Hartman,

2013; Hartman-Linck, 2014, Miller, 2006), more research on which strategies are employed and how the experience of negotiating identity influences bisexual students is needed, particularly as these studies were not specific to higher education contexts.

Passing, like bisexuality itself, “undermines social categories, inciting cultural anxiety among protectors of social boundaries” (Verni, 2009, p. 68). As Lingel (2009) noted:

Bi identity can demonstrate a ﬂuency in (rather than a ﬂuidity between) polarized

sexuality identification. This fluency is exemplified [by] sexuality-based passing,

where bisexuals opt (or feel forced) to alternate between gay, straight and (where

available) bisexual communities. (p. 386)

This boundary-crossing produces the anxiety in monosexuals Yoshino (2000) identified as driving an investment in bisexual erasure.

Covering

Covering is less absolute than passing. Whereas passing involves leveraging the invisible nature of bisexuality, individuals who cover do not attempt to conceal their sexual identity or to pass as anything other than bisexual. Rather, “to cover is to tone down a disfavored identity to fit into the mainstream” (Yoshino, 2007, p. ix). Yoshino

(2007) extended Goffman’s (1963) work on the management of stigmatized identities to explore how covering manifests in the gay community. He explained, “Goffman distinguishes passing from covering by noting that passing pertains to the visibility of a particular trait, while covering pertains to its obtrusiveness” (Yoshino, 2007, p. 18).

Covering thus entails the toning down of queer traits and the adherence to heterosexual norms and functions as a form of assimilation. Yoshino (2007) identified four axes along which a queer person can cover:

Appearance concerns how an individual physically presents herself to the world.

Affiliation concerns her cultural identifications. Activism concerns how much she

politicizes her identity. Association concerns her choice of fellow travelers—

lovers, friends, colleagues. These are the dimensions along which gays decide

how gay we want to be. (p. 79)

These covering behaviors can look very similar to passing but how they are interpreted is dependent upon audience. For example, a bisexual person choosing not to publicly display affection with a seemingly same-gender partner might be a form of passing when done among strangers; at home among family, it may function as a form of covering meant to downplay the obtrusiveness of the identity for the comfort of more conservative parents. Ultimately, the choice to cover should be made freely yet in heterosexist society it is typically demanded of queer people (Yoshino, 20007).

A Queerer Approach to Enactment

As mentioned, Cross’s (2012) model of the enactment of LGBT identity has its roots in the BETM (Cross et al., 2002). Cross and colleagues based their work on identity on activity theory and the work of Vygotsky, and thus their understanding of enactment has a psychological basis (Cross et al., 2002). A queer approach to identity enactment more broadly would first introduce a sociological understanding of the interaction between structure and agency and its role in the production of gender and sexual identities (Valocchi, 2005). In this conceptualization of identity enactment, the social self

“is partly autonomous from the power structures that construct the self;” it is both constrained by and capable of pushing back against these forces (Valocchi, 2005, p. 755).

In other words, an individual’s identity is not determined by cultural context; rather the context provides a set of resources from which an individual can strategically choose

(Côté & Levine, 2002). A queer approach troubles the very notion of structure/agency, as it does all binaries, and sees agency itself as socially created. Valocchi (2005) introduced

Butler’s (1990, 1993) writing on performativity to explain the hold that social forces, namely heteronormativity, have on queer people. The way that identity can be enacted is both produced and constrained by “the conscious and unconscious adherence to the norms and cultural signifiers of sexuality and gender” (Valocchi, 2005, p. 756). The way in which these norms are understood and upheld is troubled by the notion of liminality.

Queer theory, the theoretical framework guiding this study, brings performativity, heteronormativity, and liminality to the fore. As a poststructural theory, it also sensitizes the analysis to systems of power and oppression. forces of oppression, both material and discursive, and their impact on bisexual college student identity negotiation. A deeper exploration of the marginalization bisexual students encounter as a result of these systems of oppression, and the campus environments in which they negotiate their identity, provides the necessary context for this study.

Marginalization

Bisexual identity has been called “an idea without social recognition,” meaning it has largely gone unacknowledged by society (Paul, 1984, p. 45). This lack of societal recognition results in feelings of marginalization, or the sense that one does not clearly belong to a particular group (Paul, 1984). Bisexuals experience a double stigmatization as they attempt to exist within both heterosexual and lesbian and gay communities. As Paul

(1984) noted over 30 years ago, “as they are not fully integrated into any one group, there is no group from which they are not to some extent deviant” (p. 53). Research suggests this remains true today (Eisner, 2013; Iacono, 2017; Lowy, 2017).

The negative consequences of such marginalization have been well documented

(Cacioppo & Cacioppo, 2014). In this section, I detail the detrimental impacts bisexuals face because of this marginalization and explore how it manifests prior to college enrollment as well as on college campuses. Last, I discuss how supportive relationships and resources, when available, can mitigate against the effects of marginalization.

Negative Impacts on Well-being

Gorman et al. (2015) applied an intercategorical intersectional (McCall, 2005) lens to the analysis of survey data from 10,128 sexual minority (bisexual, lesbian, and gay) and 405,145 heterosexual adults to explore the intersection of gender and sexuality, before and after accounting for health risk factors including socioeconomic status, health behaviors, and social supports. They found bisexual men and women are disadvantaged across several behavioral, social, and economic factors typically associated with health and well-being (Gorman et al., 2015). Socioeconomic status accounted for much of the differences in health outcomes between groups.

These findings are unsurprising given bisexuals have lower rates of college degree attainment and lower annual household income than monosexuals (Gorman et al.,

2015). They also have lower rates of insurance coverage and visited a doctor less frequently. These findings may be in part due to the relative age of the bisexuals in the sample; bisexuals were considerably younger than the gay, lesbian, and heterosexual

93 respondents. In addition to poor physical health, researchers documented worse mental health outcomes, including increased incidents of anxiety, depression, self-harming, and drug use (Flanders et al., 2017; Jorm, Korten, Rodgers, Jacomb, & Christensen, 2002; Li et al., 2013).

In a study of sexual assault victimization among college students, Ford and Soto-

Marquez (2016) analyzed 21,000 survey responses and found bisexual women were most vulnerable to sexual assault. Further, bisexuals experience a greater risk of suicide attempts and ideation than their monosexual peers (Pompili et al., 2014). This may be due to the double stigmatization bisexuals experience from both heterosexual and gay communities (Flanders et al., 2017; Gorman et al., 2015; Li et al., 2013). Further, bisexuals may encounter difficulty accessing physical and mental health service providers that are affirming of their identities; even gay or gay-positive providers may not have the disposition or expertise needed to work with bisexual clients (Li et al., 2013). For instance, mental health providers should be able to support their bisexual clients as they navigate rejection, coming out, and issues related to trust, insecurity, and invisibility, but are often unable to do so (Li et al., 2013). Many of these challenges manifest prior to college enrollment and continue on the college campus; they are thus worthy of further exploration.

Pre-College Experiences

As mentioned, identity negotiation involves upholding existing identities and adjusting to changing circumstances (Deaux & Ethier, 1998). The high school to college transition represents one such change in circumstances. For marginalized students, the

94 transition to college, and the academic and social adjustments that follow, may be particularly challenging (Ken, 2017; Schmidt, Miles, & Welsh, 2011). To fully understand bisexual students’ identity negotiation experiences, it is first necessary to identify the pre-college circumstances that inform them.

Research suggests most LGB people first become aware of their same-sex attraction between the ages of 10 and 15, although realization can take place at any point across a person’s lifetime (Martos, Nezhad, & Meyer, 2015; Peterson & Rischar, 2004;

Ryan, Legate, & Weinstein, 2015). The age of first disclosure (i.e. coming out) also varies widely, with bisexuals self-identifying as non-heterosexual at an older age than their gay and lesbian peers (Martos et al., 2015). Many young people use the Internet to access resources, explore their sexual identity, find validation, and practice coming out digitally prior to doing so off-line (Craig & McInroy, 2014). Because initial disclosure often takes place between 15 and 22 years old (Martos et al., 2015; Toomey, Ryan, Diaz,

Card, & Russell, 2013), participants in this study will likely have coming out experiences that inform their experiences of bisexuality. The reactions they receive because of this disclosure have been shown to have a lasting impact on well-being (Ryan et al., 2015).

Family acceptance and support, in particular, had a positive influence on self-acceptance

(Shilo & Savaya, 2011). Unfortunately, research indicated parent reactions were often unsupportive (Roe, 2017). Further, a participants’ real or perceived sexual or gender identity informs the way they are treated by peers.

Recent climate survey data revealed the majority of LGBTQ students feel unsafe in their middle and high schools and almost all had heard homophobic remarks (Kosciw,

Greytak, Zongrone, Clark, & Trying, 2018). Pansexual students notably experienced higher levels of victimization based on their gender expression than their LGB peers

(Kosciw et al., 2018). Of particular relevance to this study, LGBTQ+ students in the

Midwest were most likely to experience anti-LGBTQ discrimination and least likely to have access to supports in school (Kosciw et al., 2018). Adolescents who do not conform to heteronormative social values experience a greater risk for school victimization

(Oswald, Blume, & Marks, 2005; Russell, Ryan, Toomey, Diaz, & Sanchez, 2011) and negative psychosocial adjustment (Meyer, 2003; Toomey et al., 2013). The impacts of these negative experiences follow these students into young adulthood (Friedman,

Marshal, Stall, Cheong, & Wright, 2008; Toomey et al., 2013; Sandfort, Melendez, &

Diaz, 2007). As Meyer (2003) noted, “hiding and fear of being identified do not end with adolescence” (p. 681). This finding has relevance for the present study of bisexual identity negotiation, as it suggests students’ negotiation strategies are shaped by often discriminatory pre-college experiences. Unfortunately, discrimination and marginalization persist on the college campus as well.

Bisexuality and Religion

As indicated above, parental support can positively influence well-being and self- esteem for LGBT youth (McConnell, Birkett, & Mustanski, 2016) and these young people crave explicit support from families (Roe, 2017). Some LGBTQ youth, however, felt their religion acted as a barrier to this support (Roe, 2017). A limited body of research has begun to explore the experiences of LGBTQ people of faith (e.g., Abes,

2011; Means, 2017; Means, Collier, Bazemore-James, Williams, Coleman, & Wadley,

2018; Rahman & Valliani, 2017; Tillman-Kelly, 2011; Yip, 2008). Fewer studies have explored the specific experiences of bisexuals, however (Toft, 2016). What little research does exist has suggested bisexual Christians face discrimination and exclusion from heterosexual, lesbian and gay, and Christian communities (Toft, 2016). Toft (2014, 2016) suggested that the Christian Church views bisexuality as promiscuous but that bisexuals are capable of entering into an opposite sex, Church-approved relationship (i.e. that bisexuals can choose to be heterosexual).

Bisexuals must also contend with religiously sanctioned homophobia more broadly. The proliferation of homophobia, transphobia, and heterosexism within organized Abrahamic religion has been well-documented (Fone, 2000; Lomash, Brown,

& Paz Galupo, 2019; Lou, 2016). Though not specific to bisexuals, a study of Muslim lesbians found women experienced conflict between their sexuality and their faith, both of which were important to them (Siraj, 2012). The way the women negotiated their identity by reconceptualizing how they thought about Islam and by claiming the positive elements of their religion has potential implications for how bisexual Muslims might similarly grapple with their identities (Siraj, 2012).

Importantly, queer Muslim women should not be viewed as in need of liberation from an oppressive religion; rather, their experiences highlight the tensions between sexuality and Islam without reifying the Western tendency to treat them as oppositional, and the ability to proudly claim both (Al-Sayyad, 2010; Puar, 2007). Queer Christians have similarly exercised agency in challenging homophobia within the Church. For instance, lesbian, gay, and straight-but-affirming Christians moralized their sexuality,

97 seeing themselves as responsible for fighting homophobia within their religion

(McQueeney, 2009). Some lesbian and gay Christians also minimized their sexuality or normalized it through monogamy (McQueeny, 2009). Toft (2014) similarly found bisexual Christians reimagined their Christianity, often distancing themselves from a particular denomination and embracing an understanding of Christianity that differed from official Church doctrine. They also reconceptualized their bisexuality, at times reframing it as non-sexual or as less important than their faith (Toft, 2014). This reconceptualization was necessary to navigate potentially unwelcoming contexts.

Campus Climate

Schools tend to mirror the culture of the broader societal context and are thus sites of marginalization (Elia, 2010). For example, society is heteronormative, and that

“heteronormativity is promoted, reified and reproduced in schools” (Elia, 2010, p. 456).

To understand how this marginalization manifests in the collegiate context, it is necessary to begin with the campus climate research on LGBTQ+ students broadly. A major focus of the higher education literature on LGBTQ+ students has been campus experiences and campus climate. Campus climate has been shown to influence LGBTQ students’ college choice process, with LGBTQ students desiring to attend a campus with an LGBTQ- friendly environment (Burleson, 2010). Unfortunately, researchers have shown college campus climate is often negative for members of the LGBTQ+ community (Garvey et al.,

2015; Rankin et al., 2010; Tetreault et al., 2013; Vaccaro, 2012), which detrimentally influences their academic success (Garvey, Squire, Stachler, & Rankin, 2018). More recently scholars have devoted attention to issues of campus climate for LGBTQ+

Students of Color (e.g. Kemp-DeLisser, 2013; Lewis & Ericksen, 2016), and the way in which they navigate singular identity spaces (Duran, 2019b). To emphasize this challenge, Strayhorn (2014) noted:

Facing rejection, whether perceived or real, from both major identity groups,

students are left with few options for establishing meaningful relationships,

finding peers who affirm their experiences, or connecting with others who share

aspects of their identity, which are the fundamental ingredients of college

students’ sense of belonging. (p. 592)

In the quote above, Strayhorn (2014) described the rejection gay Korean men faced from both Asian American and queer communities. I recognize the potential dangers of identity analogies, which can essentialize, imply mutual exclusion, and conflate unrelated experiences of oppression (Tran & Johnston-Guerrero, 2016). With this in mind, there is utility in using examples like these to shed light on the experiences and needs of bisexual college students because they also face a kind of double rejection.

The literature on campus climate as it is unique to bisexual students is limited, hence the need to draw analogies and refer to research on LGBTQ+ populations as a whole. That said, scholars have demonstrated the double stigmatization bisexuals face as they seek belonging within both heterosexual and lesbian and gay communities (Lowy,

2017). For instance, a bisexual student interviewed in a recent study described feeling excluded from the LGBTQ community and being told, “You’re not one of us” (Evans

Nagoshi, Nagoshi, Wheeler, & Henderson, 2017, p. 434). It is important to emphasize the sources of marginalization described by Strayhorn (e.g., racism, homophobia) may be

99 different from those influencing bisexuals (e.g., heterosexism, monosexism, binegativity).

It is also critical to remember bisexual Students of Color exist at the intersections of these multiple forms of oppression, and for whom queer People of Color spaces may be particularly important for establishing community (Labor, 2012). That said, understanding the way students experience exclusion from multiple campus communities, and what institutions can do to address that exclusion, may be useful in thinking about bisexual experiences as well. It can also provide insight into where students seek support and belonging.

Finding Space

Erasure, negative attitudes from others, and both physical and mental health concerns can compromise bisexuals’ sense of belonging. Some bisexuals report feeling

“not queer enough” for the LGBTQ community (Flanders et al., 2017, p. 76) and out of place in lesbian or LGBTQ communities, as well as in heteronormative society as a whole (Hayfield et al., 2014). Lack of belonging has far-reaching consequences, as isolation has been linked to impaired executive functioning, sleep, and poor mental and physical well-being (Cacioppo & Cacioppo, 2014).

Given these feelings of marginalization and isolation, healthy interpersonal relationships are an important source of support for bisexuals (Li et al., 2013). On college campuses, affirming spaces and resources are also critical and can mitigate against the well-documented effects of a hostile campus climate (Rankin et al., 2010). In this section,

I introduce spaces with the potential to support bisexual students. LGBTQ+ resource centers, counseling centers, and curricular contexts can provide bisexual students space to

100 explore their identities. Unfortunately, campus resources designed to support LGBTQ+ students are limited in their ability to support all students; these spaces are often underresourced (Ecker, Rea, & Bassi, 2015), or staffed by well-meaning individuals who may not have the expertise to counsel bisexual students (Li et al., 2013). Further, bisexual erasure makes accessing affirming campus spaces particularly challenging for students with bisexual identities (Lowy, 2017).

LGBTQ+ Resource Centers

Identity centers, of which LGBTQ+ centers are one type, not only respond to negative campus climate, but serve to bridge academic and student affairs and symbolize the university’s commitment to diverse populations (Renn, 2013). Patton (2013) reframed the conversation around identity centers by calling for “a larger dialogue regarding institutional (ir)responsibility for historically and consistently promoting inequitable campus environments” (p. 255). She also argued identity centers have a role to play in disrupting privilege. In discussing multicultural centers, Patton (2013) remarked that

“given their history of serving as political and critical spaces of engagement, identity centers are appropriate for examining whiteness (and other forms of privilege) because they provide the venue for White students to engage in the complicated deconstruction of whiteness” (p. 258). Following this logic, LGBTQ+ centers may provide space to deconstruct privileged sexual and gender identities as well, including those identities which are privileged within the queer community (Harr & Kane, 2008). Unfortunately,

LGBTQ+ Students of Color may find it particularly challenging to find space on campus;

LGBTQ+ organizations and centers, which might offer a reprieve from heterosexism,

101 center white perspectives, whereas multicultural centers have been found to be heteronormative and cisnormative (Duran & Pérez, 2017; Johnson & Javier, 2017).

LGBTQ+ campus resource centers address the unique social, emotional, and developmental needs of LGBTQ+ students, as well as faculty, staff, and, at times, the larger community (Sanlo, 2000). LGBT students arrive on campus expecting “their voices heard, their concerns acknowledged, their needs met, and their educational environments welcoming” (Sanlo, 2000, p. 486). Although the campus climate literature discussed above indicates these expectations often go ignored or unmet, LGBTQ+ resource centers were formed to help address these needs. LGBTQ+ centers also provide counseling, support, education, climate assessment, and advocacy (Marine, 2011).

Unfortunately, such centers are rare. Marine and Nicolazzo (2014) found only 200 U.S. colleges and universities have a professionally staffed LGBTQ+ center. More often, resource centers are staffed by students, impermanent, and underfunded (Ecker et al.,

2015).

On most campuses, they simply do not exist, and religiously-affiliated institutions in conservative states are least likely to have an LGBTQ+ center (Fine, 2012).

Unfortunately, these institutions may serve students most in need of support. This lack of resources is exacerbated in geographic or cultural contexts where heteronormativity is especially prevalent. Bisexual students at rural colleges and universities, for example, may also struggle with the relative invisibility of any queer community or resources

(Stroup, Glass, & Cohn, 2014); bisexual support groups are particularly absent in these areas (Oswalt, 2009).

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Where identity centers do exist, they should attend to multiple and intersecting identities (Patton, 2013). As Patton (2013) suggested, “this is particularly true, for example, for biracial, multiracial, and transgender students who do not fit neatly into race, gender, and sexual orientation binaries” (p. 258). The needs of bisexual students, who also do not fit into sexual orientation binaries, are unmet for similar reasons; this is particularly true for those with multiply marginalized identities.

Counseling Services

Campus counseling services are another promising source of support for bisexual students, yet they can also be sites of further marginalization. Kelleher (2009) found experiences of heterosexism was the strongest individual predictor of psychological distress among LGBTQ youth. When young people anticipated rejection due to their sexuality or gender identity, they were more likely to report symptoms of poor mental health (Kelleher, 2009). Conversely, self-acceptance can mitigate against the effects of heterosexism on psychological distress (Woodford et al., 2014). Self-acceptance, however, is difficult when bisexuality is pervasively erased, and campus climate is not accepting. Nevertheless, counselors can assist these students as they contend with harassment and discrimination or negotiate newly emerging identities.

Counseling resources are of particular importance to bisexual students, as bisexual students are shown to have poorer mental health than their straight and lesbian and gay peers (Li et al., 2013). There are several unique challenges facing bisexuals that could be addressed by mental health practitioners, including confronting myths and stereotypes, lacking a sense of belonging, coming out, and forming and maintaining

103 relationships (Dobinson, MacDonnell, Hampson, Clipsham, and Chow, 2005). Further, for queer students who engage in campus activism, particularly Activists of Color, mental health resources can address burnout, and compassion fatigue, among other stressors

(Vaccaro & Mena, 2011). Encouragingly, researchers found sexual minority (i.e. LGBQ and questioning) students were more likely than their heterosexual peers to use mental health resources, but unfortunately findings also suggested they have high rates of unmet mental health treatment needs (Dunbar et al., 2017).

Like LGBTQ+ centers, counseling services targeted towards LGBTQ+ students in general, and bisexual students in particular, are limited (Wright & McKinley, 2010). A study of 203 four-year college counseling center websites led Wright and KcKinley

(2010) to conclude college counseling centers must do a better job communicating their services to LGBT students; “universities are in no position to assume that LGBT students will ‘read between the lines’ and infer support” (p. 146). Students may not know that campus counseling services exist or how to access them (Dunbar et al., 2017). They may also express concerns regarding cost, the length of wait for an appointment, or embarrassment (Dunbar et al., 2017). Counseling centers are also struggling to meet the needs of a diverse study body given high demand and limited resources (Center for

Collegiate Mental Health, 2020). In many instances, counseling resources meant to help bisexual students are simply not available. When they do exist, they are often not equipped to fully assist these students, leading to limited sources of space and support.

The same is true of academic spaces.

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Curricular Contexts

Curricular contexts are “academic experiences and interactions among lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer (LGBTQ) learners, instructors, and content as they are influenced by sociocultural external and internal forces” (Linley & Nguyen, 2015, p.

41). LGBTQ curricular contexts are influenced by sociocultural factors such as governmental policies, market forces, and academic discipline, as well as by institutional factors like mission, campus climate, campus policies, and campus resources (Linley &

Nguyen, 2015). As such, they can be sites of heterosexism, homophobia, and transphobia, but they can also be incredibly affirming if they promote inclusion, are free from microaggressions, and allow LGBTQ students to “bring their full selves” (Linley &

Nguyen, 2015, p. 44). Relatedly, in a study of high school students, an LGBTQ-inclusive curriculum allowed students to envision a positive future for themselves as LGBTQ people and helped reduce bullying (Snapp, Burdge, Licona, Moody, & Russell, 2015).

At the collegiate-level, faculty and staff can help create a positive curricular experience, as can student peers (Garvey et al., 2015; Linley & Nguyen, 2015; Linley et al, 2016). Faculty can also support LGBTQ students outside the classroom, including through advising relationships and informal interactions (Linley et al., 2016).

Unfortunately, bisexuality is often erased within the classroom (Evans, 2000;

O’Brien, 1998). This is not a benign omission; “these missing discourses tell queer youth that they are not worthy of inclusion, that they are and ought to remain invisible”

(Loutzenheiser & MacIntosh, 2004, p. 155). Additionally, bisexual students are largely invisible in the higher education scholarship or grouped together under the heading LGB

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(Stroup et al., 2014), which perpetuates their invisibility on campus because faculty and student affairs practitioners may remain unaware of their unique needs.

Summary

This chapter provided an overview of the scholarship that shaped this study of bisexual college student identity negotiation. I began by describing various forms of structural oppression, including heterosexism and homophobia, monosexism and binegativity, and invisibility and bisexual erasure, and their impact on the experiences of bisexual people. I then provided an overview of the concepts which informed the study, including identity, bisexuality, identity negotiation, and identity enactment. I next discussed marginalization as a lens through which bisexual experiences and well-being can be understood. Finally, I presented the way these forms of oppression manifest on college campuses and noted the sources of support that both marginalize and affirm bisexual students. These included LGBTQ+ resource centers, counseling services, and curricular contexts.

Ultimately, the existing research provides little information on how bisexual students might face unique challenges or how campus services may fail to support them.

Further, apart from Lowy’s (2017) dissertation research, the literature on bisexual college students has not examined the systemic factors (e.g. mononormativity, heterosexism) shaping student experiences. I address these limitations in the present study of bisexual college students. The critical poststructural narrative approach, described in the following chapter, allowed for the presentation of individual stories as well as the exploration of various forms of oppression.

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Chapter 3. Research Methods

The purpose of this research was to understand the identity negotiation experiences of bisexual students relative to their sexual identities. The research questions which guided this critical poststructural narrative study were:

1. What narratives of identity negotiation are told by bisexual college students?

2. How do systems of power influence bisexual students' narratives of identity

negotiation?

3. What is the perceived significance of identity negotiation for bisexual college

students?

4. How do bisexual students understand their bisexuality as a result of having to

employ identity negotiation strategies?

Throughout this chapter, I describe the epistemological and methodological approaches that guided this dissertation study. I begin with an overview of the critical and poststructural epistemologies that came together to shape the research. I then present narrative inquiry as the methodology employed. The chapter includes a discussion of research methods, and concludes with a consideration of trustworthiness, researcher positionality, and potential ethical issues.

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Epistemological Perspective

Epistemology refers to the philosophical assumptions about what counts as knowledge (Jones, Torres, & Arminio, 2014). In qualitative research, epistemology shapes every decision the researcher makes, including the theoretical perspective and, by extension, the methodology selected (Crotty, 1998). Jones et al. (2014) suggested situating a research study within a specific paradigm or worldview. I situated this study within a critical poststructural set of philosophical assumptions. Philosophers have debated the differences and virtues of critical theory and poststructuralism. Each tradition carries with it a distinct set of epistemological assumptions (Hanssen, 2000). Before presenting an argument for a blended critical poststructural epistemology, I begin by briefly explicating both epistemologies independent of one another.

Critical Theory

Critical theory is considered a school of Western Marxism; it has its foundations in the Institute of Social Research and the Frankfurt School, as well as in the work of

Jürgen Habermas (Held, 1980). According to Tierney (1993), “critical theorists want to determine the oppressive features of society; once they are understood, the intent is to develop the conditions under which those who are oppressed might liberate themselves”

(p. 4). As such, critical theory is fundamentally concerned with the social construction of knowledge and systems of power (Tierney, 1993). Researchers employing critical approaches acknowledge that knowledge is politicized and orient their work towards the transformation of inequitable power structures (Jones et al., 2014).

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Poststructuralism

Poststructuralism is associated with writers like Foucault and Derrida and is a philosophical response to both structuralism and phenomenology (Sarup, 1993).

Poststructural theories allow the researcher to question existing structures, as it is concerned with the deconstruction of the binaries that have been used to structure human reality (Sarup, 1993). Like postmodernism, with which it is closely related, poststructuralism rejects global theorizing and the idea of a grand narrative (Sarup, 1993).

Like critical theorists, poststructural scholars such as Foucault are “concerned with how knowledge is enmeshed in disciplinary power” (Sarup, 1993, p. 87). Yet Foucault’s theorization of power is not paired with a corresponding theory of emancipation (Sarup,

1993). That is not to say Foucault advocated political defeatism (Jagose, 1996). In fact, he famously argued “where there is power, there is resistance” (Foucault, 1978, p. 95).

That said, critical theory—and critical research—offer some hope for emancipatory action (Klincheloe & McLaren, 2011).

That each epistemology is limited is unsurprising given Abes’s (2009) assertion that “all theoretical perspectives that guide research are incomplete” (p. 141). The blending of these two distinct yet complementary epistemologies allowed for a richer and more nuanced understanding of bisexual college student identity negotiation.

Critical Poststructuralism

Despite their differences, both poststructuralism and critical theory offer

“reciprocal epistemological and political merits” (Hanssen, 2000, p. 2). As such, scholars have been able to:

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position themselves between poststructuralism and critical theory…[drawing] on

both traditions, not in an effort to side conclusively with the one or the other, or to

remain suspended in indecision, but to expose their fundamental differences as

well as the terms of which they might agree. (Hanssen, 2000, p. 14)

Others have taken up this idea of epistemological betweenness by borrowing from

Anzaldúa’s (1987) notion of the borderland (e.g., Abes, 2009; Tierney, 1993). For example, Tierney (1993) used the idea of theoretical borderland to argue for the pairing of critical theory and postmodernism. Such a pairing was possible because both frameworks “[shared] several key assumptions, such as the existence of multiple social realities and the role of power in structuring subjectivity” (Abes, 2009, p. 143). Abes

(2009) further explored the possibilities opened by using queer theory, which has been heavily influenced by poststructuralism, and constructivism to challenge inequitable power structures in student development theory. Her scholarship established a precedent for blending poststructuralism (in the form of queer theory) with another epistemology in higher education research.

A postmodern understanding of difference pairs well with critical theory’s promotion of empowerment (Tierney, 1993). In this borderland space, it is possible to recognize differences between people without comparing to a social norm. For example, an individual can be understood to be bisexual without being contrasted to a heterosexual person or viewed as representative of all bisexual people. The critical dimension allows for the questioning of these norms and an examination of the way in which social forces have established them. Additionally, the postmodern conceptualization of identity as

110 fluid, a conceptualization shared by poststructuralism, aligns with critical theory’s interest in creating change (Tierney, 1993).

Although postmodernism and poststructuralism are not perfectly synonymous (St.

Pierre, 2011), they are often used interchangeably, and the two epistemologies overlap considerably (Agger, 1991). As such, Tierney’s (1993) argument can be similarly applied to the pairing of critical theory and poststructuralism as in the present study of bisexual student identity negotiation. I use the term poststructuralism because of its critique of institutions and analysis of binary oppositions (Peters & Burbules, 2004). As applied to this study, I, like Tierney (1993):

see the individual as both object and subject in history, and locate action within a

sociohistorical realm that gets acted out on a cultural terrain that is contested,

redefined, and resisted. People are neither passive objects incapable of resistance,

nor are they unconstrained individuals able to determine their own histories. (p.

28)

A queer understanding of this dualism applied to sexual identity suggests resistance itself is shaped by social forces, with heteronormativity foremost among them (Valocchi,

2005).

Further, queer theory has been critiqued for its inattention to the racialized dynamics of heteronormativity (Allen & Mendez, 2018; Berkowitz, 2009; Johnson, 2001;

Johnson & Henderson, 2005). Grounding the present study in a critical poststructural epistemology addresses this critique. For instance, Johnson (2001) stressed the need to view ways of knowing “both as discursively mediated and as historically situated and

111 materially conditioned” (p. 3). Johnson’s (2001) critique, then, is not just of the inability of queer theory to fully consider race and other forms of difference, but of its failure to consider the material realities of queer People of Color. He asked:

What, for example, are the ethical and material implications of queer theory if its

project is to dismantle all notions of identity and agency? The deconstructive turn

in queer theory highlights the ways in which ideology functions to oppress and to

proscribe ways of knowing, but what is the utility of queer theory on the front

lines, in the trenches, on the street, or any place where the racialized and

sexualized body is beaten, starved, fired, cursed—indeed, where the body is the

site of trauma? (Johnson, 2001, p. 5)

In response to this critique, I chose to combine critical theory with poststructuralism because critical theory maintains the roots of Marx’s materialism while at the same time critiquing the positivism embedded in Marx’s work (Agger, 1991). Poststructuralism joins critical theory in this critique of positivism (Agger, 1991). The blending of critical theory with poststructuralism adds a “leftist political underpinning” to the study of discourse and a deconstructive approach to identity (Agger, 1991, p.121). This hybrid epistemology, paired with a queer theoretical framework, thus allows for deconstructive analytic strategies and the problematizing of binary gender, while at the same time keeping in mind the material reality of bisexual students, and particularly bisexual

Students of Color.

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Narrative Inquiry Methodology

Methodology refers to the approach to and design of a research study (Jones et al.,

2014). The choice of methodology informs the research plan, including the data collection methods selected (Crotty, 1998). A narrative methodological approach guided this study. Fundamentally, narrative inquiry engages participants’ stories as a way of understanding experience (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000). Narrative inquiry allows for

“the study of human lives conceived as a way of honoring lived experiences as a source of important knowledge and understanding” (Clandinin & Rosiek, 2007, p. 42). Of relevance to this study, all narratives are inherently identity narratives because they are the stories through which an individual communicates both how they see themselves and desire others to see them (Errante, 2000). Narrative researchers study these stories

(Pinnegar & Daynes, 2007).

It is unsurprising that scholars choose to study the world narratively because people tend to understand the world in this fashion — “for us, life is filled with narrative fragments, enacted in storied moments of time and space, and reflected upon and understood in terms of narrative unities and disunities” (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000, p.

17). The sharing of stories thus allows for “retrospective meaning making,” which makes narrative inquiry an appropriate methodological choice for a study centered on participants’ perception and understanding (Chase, 2010, p. 214).

In this section I discuss narrative inquiry as a distinct methodological approach and describe several elements of narrative inquiry of relevance to the study of bisexuality—narratives as culturally and contextually situated (Chase, 2010; Clandinin &

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Connelly, 2000; Cortazzi, 1993; Riessman, 2012), narratives as interactive performance

(Chase, 2010; Cortazzi, 1993), and narratives as drivers of social change (Riessman,

2008). I then discuss the rationale for pairing narrative inquiry with a critical poststructural epistemology in this study of bisexual college student identity negotiation.

Themes in Narrative Inquiry

In tracing the movement toward narrative inquiry, Pinnegar and Daynes (2007) identified four themes that help clarify what narrative inquiry is and how it is distinct from narrative research more broadly defined. First, the relationship between the researcher and the participant is relational, contextualized, and temporal; there is no claim to objectivity (Clandinin, 2013; Clandinin & Connelly, 2000; Pinnegar & Daynes, 2007).

Second, the researcher views words as data rather than as numbers because numbers limit the ways in which narrative findings can be represented (Pinnegar & Daynes, 2007). The privileging of participants’ narratives represents a break from the desire to use quantifiable data to create “‘grand theories’ in the human sciences” (Pinnegar & Daynes,

2007, p. 16). This second point is thus closely related to the third: narrative inquirers turn from the general and universal towards the particular. In narrative inquiry, as is generally the case in qualitative research, the goal is not generalizability, but rather an understanding of narrative reality in a localized context (Chase, 2011; Pinnegar &

Daynes, 2007). Finally, the turn toward narrative inquiry includes a growing acceptance of alternative epistemologies and multiple ways of knowing because it allows differing views and experiences to be presented within the research text (Clandinin & Connelly,

2000; Josselson, 2011; Pinnegar & Daynes, 2007).

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Narrative researchers use a range of methods and analytic tools and see narrative as both methodology and as the phenomena of study in which “both the stories and the humans are continuously visible” (Pinnegar & Daynes, 2007, p. 7). Because I study a population—bisexual students—that has been made to feel invisible (Purdie-Vaughns &

Eibach, 2008; Yoshino, 2000) and that has been largely absent from scholarly discourse

(Monro et al., 2017), the selection of a methodology that does not perpetuate this trend was particularly important. It was also vital to consider the way social and cultural structures shape bisexual students’ experiences and the ways they relay those experiences.

Narratives as Contextually and Culturally Situated

As noted above, the relationship between the narrative researcher and participant is relational and contextual (Clandinin, 2013; Clandinin & Connelly, 2000; Pinnegar &

Daynes, 2007). Further, narratives themselves are contextually situated and exist within a specific social and historical moment (Czarniawska, 2004). Gubrium and Holstein (2009) similarly argued “the contexts in which stories are told are as much a part of their reality as the text themselves” (p. 2). Narrative inquiry allows for a deeper understanding of social structures and dynamics because it allows for the exploration of individual experiences while also considering the institutional narratives that contextualize those experiences (Clandinin & Rosiek, 2007). Additionally, “reflecting the embedded nature of these stories within the larger social, cultural, familial, linguistic, and institutional dimensions allows [for] a more complex understanding” (Clandinin, 2013, p. 74).

Although narratives are common across most cultures, researchers employing narrative

115 methods must be cautious to avoid perpetuating an essentialist view of narrative wherein certain voices and modes of analyses—white, male, Western—are privileged (Scheurich,

1995). This has particular relevance to this study given the tendency for sexuality research to privilege binary notions of sexuality and gender, and elevate white perspectives (Diamond, 2008; Tabatabai & Linders, 2011).

Narratives are inherently social, and as such they vary across cultures (Elliot,

2012). Narratives are culturally specific in the way evaluative elements are communicated, the extent of collaboration between narrator and audience, the appropriate setting for different types of narratives, and the performative nature of narrative

(Cortazzi, 1993). Understanding the context allows for a more nuanced understanding of the narrative. Stories are:

both enabled and constrained by a range of social resources and circumstances.

These include the possibilities for self and reality construction that are intelligible

within the narrator’s community, local setting, organizational and social

memberships, and cultural and historical location. (Chase, 2010, p. 214)

Analyzing narratives through this lens allows the researcher to pick up on similarities and differences across narratives (Chase, 2010).

Context is “ever present” in narrative inquiry (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000, p.

32). Conceptualizing narrative inquiry as existing within a three-dimensional space provides a framework for thinking contextually (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000). The three dimensions include temporality, the personal and social, and place. Temporality recognizes that events have “a past, a present as it appears to us, and an implied future”

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(Clandinin & Connelly, 2000, p. 29). In other words, how one experiences and understands the past shapes current and future experiences. Clandinin and Connelly

(2000) referred to this as continuity.

The personal and social dimension refers to interaction and acknowledges that the relation between people shapes experiences. Further, people are always changing, making it necessary to narrate participants in process, rather than as static beings (Clandinin &

Connelly, 2000). These ideas relate to queer notions of liminality and performativity, both of which are theoretical concepts employed in this study; participants are not presented as inert beings, but rather as complex individuals with histories and futures. As

Clandinin and Connelly (2000) noted, there is a “need to write about people, places, and things as becoming rather than being” (p. 145). Finally, the place dimension refers to situational context. In this study, place refers to the campus environment as a whole, as well as the cultural centers, clubs and organizations, residence halls, and classrooms in which bisexual students find themselves.

Like context, the content of a narrative, as well as how it is told, is culturally specific (Cortazzi, 1993). Narratives have a social meaning, a “social, affective or moral value” (Cortazzi, 1993, p. 101). The way people speak, and what they speak about, is shaped by both context and audience (Barnlund as cited in Cortazzi, 1993). These differences are further informed by cultural norms, perceptions, and interpretations

(Cortazzi, 1993; Riessman, 2008). Additionally, the functions of narratives differ across cultures. Recognizing that students from dissimilar cultural traditions may structure their narratives differently, and share different information in various ways, is necessary to

117 avoid essentializing their stories. This is important to the present study given the tendency to highlight white, female, Western perspectives in bisexuality research

(Diamond, 2008).

An attempt to break with this trend must do so in culturally responsive ways.

Considering the racialized legacy of bisexuality, and the contemporary nuances in experience and identification, bisexuality researchers must take a racially and ethnically inclusive approach to their work (Muñoz-Laboy, 2019). Doing so allows for an analysis of the “historical, structural, and multi-level causes of observed racial/ethnic differences and disparities” among bisexuals of diverse racial and ethnic backgrounds (Muñoz-

Laboy, 2019, p. 320). It also illuminates the way bisexuality is experienced differently in terms of expression, practices, and desires, and how these variations might be racialized

(Muñoz-Laboy, 2019). In practice, this inclusive approach requires the consideration of other identities and social inequalities (e.g. class, religion, ability) as well (Muñoz-Laboy,

2019). Importantly, it also requires that race is always present, and in meaningful ways.

As Muñoz (1999) has rightfully pointed out, “A soft multicultural inclusion of race and ethnicity does not, on its own, lead to a progressive identity discourse” (p. 10). He goes on to quote Yarbro-Bejarano (1995) who suggested an inattention to race “reaffirms the belief that it is possible to talk about sexuality without talking about race, which in turn reaffirms the belief that it is necessary to talk about race and sexuality only when discussing people of color” (p. 128). As I have shown, bisexuality carries with it a racialized history, and that history is always present even when discussing white

118 bisexuals. In addition to understanding the context and culture in which narratives are produced, it is also important to explore narrative as performance.

Narratives as Interactive Performance

Narratives are enacted within a specific context. As such, “narrative researchers treat narratives as socially situated interactive performances—as produced in this particular setting for this particular audience, for these particular purposes” (Chase, 2010, p. 215). Stories are always incomplete, as well as shaped by the purpose for telling the story and the story’s audience (Gubrium & Holstein, 2009). Gubrium and Holstein (2009) drew on the scholarship of anthropologist Abu-Lughod, who argued that because stories are performative in nature, they never communicate an objective truth; rather, stories are socially situated. Again, the role of context cannot be overlooked.

Narratives reveal a great deal about social structures because “stories are social artifacts, telling as much about society and culture as they do about a person or group”

(Riessman, 2008, p. 105). This makes narratives a rich source of data for an analysis of both systems of power and of individual meaning. Narratives are also appropriate for the study of identity negotiation because “we are forever composing impressions of ourselves, projecting a definition of who we are, and making claims about ourselves and the world that we test out and negotiate with others” (Riessman, 2008, p. 106). Riessman

(2008) drew on Goffman’s (1959) work on symbolic interactionism and performance when noting that people use language and “bodily forms of communication” to stage dramas for an audience; narrators are not merely conveying information (p. 106). Further, these performances are polyvocal, meaning they contain multiple voices. Citing Bakhtin,

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Riessman (2008) explained words are ideological and carry with them “traces of other utterances, past and present, as words carry history on their backs” (p. 107). The construction and performance of identity are central to narrative inquiry (Riessman,

2008), again making it an appropriate methodological approach for this study.

Narratives as Drivers of Social Change

Narrative inquirers have debated whether the methodology is meant to describe or intervene (Clandinin, 2007). In other words, are narrative researchers engaged in a descriptive inquiry, or are they working alongside participants for social change? When qualitative researchers begin a study, one of the decisions they make entails situating their study within a particular worldview (Jones et al., 2014). A researcher’s epistemology informs how they choose between an interventionist or descriptive approach to narrative inquiry. For example, whereas constructivist scholars might seek understanding and improved practice, critical scholars see liberation as the purpose of their research (Jones et al., 2014). The critical poststructural epistemology I have selected likewise has an emancipatory goal. While not unique to this methodology, the potential for narratives to drive social change makes narrative inquiry an appropriate fit for a critical poststructural study of bisexual identity negotiation:

Groups use stories to mobilize others, and to foster a sense of belonging.

Narratives do political work. The social role of stories—how they are connected

to the flow of power in the wider world—is an important facet of narrative theory.

(Riessman, 2008, p. 8)

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Narratives inspire empathy and can mobilize people towards social change, as has been the case for numerous marginalized groups (Riessman, 2008), including LGBTQ+ individuals.

Rationale for Narrative Inquiry in Critical Poststructural Identity Research

The use of narrative inquiry, particularly in studies of identity, requires the researcher to grapple with several tensions. In the following sections, I introduce two such tensions as they relate to the present study of bisexual student identity negotiation.

The first tension arises from the nature of identity and the way in which people reconstruct their histories through narrative. The second tension relates to the nature of experience and, by extension, the phenomena of study. I then discuss the way I resolve these tensions and provide a rationale for paring narrative inquiry with a critical poststructural epistemology in this study.

The nature of identity. One challenge related to the study of identity through narrative inquiry hinges on the very nature of identity. As I have described in Chapters 1 and 2, identity is incoherent and unstable (Valocchi, 2005). Yet narratives are often presented as though they have a logical beginning, middle, and an end (Freeman, 2003).

This observation prompted Freeman (2003) to ask, “Does the notion of life being narratively structured entail the additional notion of coherence or connectedness?... And, to what extent can we, should we, speak of ‘identity’?” (pp. 337-338). The short answer is that both identity and narratives are messy (Freeman, 2003). How, then, can the narrative researcher embrace this messiness?

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First, it is necessary to remember that participants will not reconstruct their histories in perfectly “accurate” ways. Rather, “at any given time, [participants] may remember, forget, and re-invent certain aspects of [their] personal and collective pasts”

(Errante, 2000, p. 24). This is particularly true in times of transition (Errante, 2000). This has implications for the study of bisexuality because, while bisexuality is not itself a transitional identity or phase, it is contextual and fluid (Diamond, 2008). Additionally, because identity is unstable and shaped by cultural, social, and institutional relationships

(Namaste, 1996), the way(s) in which a student identifies can change over the course of the research project. For example, in a study of asexual student identity development,

Mollet (2018) found the words some participants used to describe their identity differed across interviews. Bisexual individuals have also been found to adopt multiple identity labels dependent on context (Callis, 2014). In embracing the messiness and incoherence of identity narratives, it was necessary to anticipate that the participants in this study may identify in different ways or adopt a range of labels as they begin sharing their stories.

This is congruent with a poststructural understanding of identity and the idea that:

certain identities are assigned to us by our society, and we assume them – or reject

them – by behaviours we adopt in daily life (performativity) and by identification

or counter-identification with a group or individual. Thus the individual has a

measure of choice in selecting from available competing discourses and identities

which go with them. (Weedon as cited in Johanson Botha, 2009, p. 465)

Johanson Botha (2009) successfully applied this conceptualization of identity to her life history—a form of narrative inquiry (Jones et al., 2014)—scholarship on trilingual white

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South African identity construction and negotiation. This was possible because, despite identity’s instability, “people seek constantly to ‘make sense’ of their experiences and give coherence and integrity to their lives: through the telling of stories” (Johanson

Botha, 2009, p. 466).

Not only do participants seek to make sense of their experiences, they also craft their narratives in intentional ways. A second consideration, then, is the acknowledgement that participants narrate their stories with a particular audience and purpose in mind. They are mindful of the impression they hope to give, the identity they wish to communicate, and how they believe their interlocutors will respond (Sikes &

Goodson, 2017). It does not ultimately matter that what the participant shares may not be representative of “reality;” the researcher addresses this by:

simply acknowledging what they are able to do with the stories they use as data:

namely, offer an interpretation through their writing and spell out the influences

that may have coloured both the teller’s story and their interpretation of it. (Sikes

& Goodson, 2017, p. 66)

I used a queer theoretical framework to guide my interpretation. Such a framework helped me identify the way in which identity constructions regulate self-definition and behavior (Seidman, 1994). A queer theoretical lens also brought into focus the monosexist, hetero- and homonormative college contexts in which bisexual students come to understand and negotiate their identity (Duggan, 2003; Eisner, 2013; Garvey et al., 2015; Jeppesen, 2016). In order to understand bisexual students’ collegiate experiences, it is necessary to first clarify how that experience is studied.

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The nature of experience. Another tension related to the use of narrative inquiry in the present study hinges on the nature of experience. Although narrative inquirers generally consider the methodology to be the study of experience, there are debates as to the phenomenon under study (Clandinin, 2007). This distinction is an “epistemological, ideological, and ontological” one, and it is closely related to the nature of experience

(Clandinin, 2007, p. xiv). Some narrative inquirers see themselves as studying lived experiences and situate narrative firmly within a Deweyan theory of experience (e.g.,

Clandinin, 2007; Clandinin & Connelly, 2000; Clandinin & Rosiek, 2007). Dewey’s theory of experience (1938/2007) stems from continuity, or the idea that each experience is shaped by past experiences and will shape future experiences, and interaction. In other words, continuity conveys the notion that people interact with personal and social conditions in any experience. As such, Clandinin and Rosiek (2007) claimed narrative inquiry, as they described it, is incompatible with poststructuralist theories of knowledge.

Despite this initial rejection, the authors went on to concede that philosophical orientations can overlap and that the “differences between narrative inquiry and poststructuralist analysis are more a matter of emphasis” (Clandinin & Rosiek, 2007, p. 57).

For example, poststructuralists tend to focus more on larger social patterns as opposed to a narrower focus on individual experience (Clandinin & Rosiek, 2007). Narrative can thus be a means of responding to oppression as is the aim of critical theory. Further,

Clandinin and Rosiek (2007) recognized the “productive power of stories” attractive to poststructural researchers (p. 65). In light of these points of overlap, narrative inquiry and critical poststructuralism are in fact compatible.

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Narrative inquiry and critical poststructuralism. Poststructuralism rejects grand, totalizing narratives about human nature, culture, or history (Patterson & Monroe,

1998). Counternarratives fulfill this function, challenging metanarratives, but they also offer oppositional responses to “official” narratives (Peters & Lankshear, 1996, p.1). For example, counternarratives challenge hegemonic cultural ideals (Peters & Lankshear,

1996). Within the context of this study, the (counter)narratives shared by participants may challenge hetero- and homonormative conceptualizations of sexuality. Further, poststructural narrative research has the power not to privilege “one true account,” but to consider the meaning which exists in the “contested space between authors and their audiences” (Sconiers & Rosiek, 2000, p. 400). In addition to rejecting the grand narrative, poststructuralism calls for the deconstruction of existing categories; deconstructive strategies in narrative research allow for this, as I later discuss (Czarniawska, 2004).

Further support for pairing of narrative inquiry and critical poststructuralism comes from Denzin’s (1995) work on the textual nature of narrative. Denzin (1995) suggested lived experience is shaped by textual representation and understandings, which are created within a social context. For those who see qualitative research texts as a form of cultural representation, such as Denzin (1995):

The worlds we study are created through the texts that we write. We do not study

lived experience; rather, we examine lived textuality…Lived textuality transforms

lived experience—that is, real, live experiences are shaped by prior textual

representations and understandings. (p. 9)

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This perspective aligns with the poststructural assumptions framing this study of bisexual student identity because it gestures to the way meaning is discursively created.

Additionally, the ontological tensions between narrative inquiry and poststructuralism can yield new possibilities for analysis (Clandinin & Rosiek, 2007). For instance, narrative provides poststructuralist researchers “a way to move beyond description of the formal qualities of social discourses to transformative intervention,” without reproducing a totalizing narrative (Clandinin & Rosiek, 2007, p. 65). In this dissertation study I sought to honor the stories participants have to share, but also to recognize that social structures shape their experiences—and the narratives themselves.

Research Methods

Above, I described the epistemologies and methodology guiding this study of bisexual college student identity negotiation. In this section I now discuss the research methods I used in the study. I begin with a discussion of the research context, a large, public research institution in the Midwest. Next, I elaborate on sampling criteria and strategies, followed by data collection and methods. I provide an explanation of the data analysis strategies I used along with a description of trustworthiness strategies, including a statement of my own positionality as researcher. Finally, I conclude with ethical considerations.

Research Context

Not all research problems require a specific research site (Glesne, 2016). The site for this study was selected because it afforded access to expert nominators who aided in the participant recruitment process. Further, my familiarity with the site provided the

126 foundation for building rapport with participants, an important consideration for qualitative research (Glesne, 2016).

This study was conducted at a large, public research institution in the Midwest,

Midwestern State University2 (MSU). About 20% of Midwestern State’s students identify as racial or ethnic “minority” students. The university gives students the option of self- reporting their sexual orientation and gender identity on their admissions application or through their online self-service portal once enrolled. Aggregate data is available by request to the appropriate gatekeeping offices, however I was unable to obtain this information.

Midwestern State does not have a dedicated LGBTQ+ center. Instead, the campus has a multicultural student center that provides programming in support of this community, including Bi Visibility Week programming. There are also a dozen LGBTQ+ student organizations and a counseling center provides several support and therapy groups for LGBTQ+ students. Although there is not currently an officially-recognized club for bisexual students, an informal student group does meet regularly. The university is located in an urban environment with a large LGBTQ+ population and vibrant cultural scene. These site characteristics allowed for access to a large number of students with a broad array of backgrounds and experiences.

Sampling Criteria

In this section I address the sampling criteria and the sampling strategies that were used in this narrative project. Jones et al. (2014) explained that sampling criteria are the

2 A pseudonym to protect participant confidentiality. 127 sample characteristics necessary to address a study’s purpose and research questions.

Criteria might include demographic variables and participants’ experiences (Jones et al.,

2014). For the purposes of this study, participants must:

1. Describe themselves as falling under the umbrella of “bisexuality”

2. Be an undergraduate student, regardless of age

3. Contribute to a diversity of identities including race, ethnicity, gender, class,

age, ability, and religion

Before discussing how I identified these participants (i.e. the sampling strategies employed), I provide a rationale for the chosen criteria.

Bisexual students. In writing about theorizing race and ethnicity, Johnston-

Guerrero (2016) called for both “embracing the messiness” and clarifying rather than conflating concepts (p. 43). I take a similar approach to the study of sexuality. The fact that bisexuality can be an identity, a behavior, or an attraction (King, 2011) contributes to the potential messiness of this study. With this nuanced understanding of bisexuality in mind, I did not recruit participants who “identified as” bisexual. Rather, I called for those who “describe themselves as falling under the umbrella of bisexuality;” any student for whom that resonates was welcome to share their experiences. This strategy has precedence in bisexuality research. For example, Ross, Dobinson, and Eady (2010) noted that, “in acknowledgment of the fluidity of sexual identities, we opted to use a broad definition of bisexuality that included self-identification, sexual behavior, and sexual attraction” (p. 501). Further, this approach to participant recruitment aligns with the

Bisexual Resource Center’s (2019b) use of “‘bi’ and ‘bi+’ as inclusive terms for those

128 who are non-monosexual/non-monoromantic and can include those who identify as bisexual, pansexual, omnisexual, fluid, queer, and asexual, among other free identifiers, including those who do not wish to use a label” (n.p.). Participants’ self-definitions and identifications are reflected in the research findings.

Further, students may identify with other sexuality labels as well. For example, while Rust (2000) studied bisexual individuals using data from the International Bisexual

Identities, Communities, Ideologies, and Politics (IBICIP) Study, she found some individuals adopted multiple identity labels dependent upon context, while others largely rejected the bisexual label. As discussed in Chapter 2, there are cultural and contextual reasons the term bisexual may not completely resonate with all students. Study participants were able to list their chosen labels, if any, on the participant interest form.

They were also provided with an opportunity to define bisexuality for themselves and update their chosen labels during their interviews. This approach added nuance to the findings by allowing me to explore how identity negotiation might look different across students’ various conceptualizations of bisexuality and identity. At the same time, I was able to highlight the shared experiences with heterosexism, monosexism, and trans oppression potentially affecting all participants.

Undergraduate students. Participants must have been undergraduate students because I was interested in how they navigate different college contexts and cultures (e.g. classrooms, residence halls, clubs and organizations, and work spaces, among others). I chose not to include graduate, professional, and non-degree students in the sample because they may not interact with as broad a range of campus contexts (e.g., residence

129 halls, fraternities and sororities, clubs and organizations catering to undergraduate students). Students could be enrolled in any year of undergraduate study, however. This allowed me to capture the perspectives of students who were perhaps more comfortable navigating campus as well as students who were just figuring it out. Although many studies specify undergraduate students must be traditionally college-aged (i.e., 18-24), I did not take this approach because I was not interested in identity development over time, but rather how participants negotiated their identity in the present. Rather than an indicator of development, age functions in this study as one of many aspects of a student’s identity, along with race, class, gender, and so on. Age functioned similarly in

Orbe’s (2008) study of multidimensional identity negotiation for first-generation college students.

Participant diversity. Lastly, I was interested in crafting a sample representative of a diversity of identities including race, ethnicity, gender, class, age, ability, and worldview. White, middle-class, cisgender women are overrepresented in the bisexuality literature, a limitation of numerous studies (e.g., Bleiberg et al., 2005; Diamond, 2008;

Hartman, 2013). To avoid the “tokenism inherent in the sampling process” that can result from seeking diversity for diversity’s sake, I emphasize the individual nature of students’ narratives; participant narratives are not presented as though they speak for all members of their identity group (Jones et al., 2014, p. 122). Additionally, I sought to avoid reifying the white, female bisexual subject by constructing a sample in which these perspectives are not centralized.

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Sampling Strategies

Sampling strategies are used to identify and select participants (Jones et al.,

2014). Jones and her colleagues (2014) noted it may be appropriate to use more than one strategy. I used purposeful sampling to identify information-rich cases that allow for in- depth understanding (Patton, 2002). I began by using expert nominators—campus administrators who work closely with LGBTQ+ students—to identify participants. I shared an expert nominator letter (See Appendix A: Expert Nominator Letter) detailing the study and desired participant criteria, and nominators then forwarded the study description to prospective participants (See Appendix B: Participant Recruitment Letter).

The description included a link where interested students could complete a demographic form (See Appendix C: Participant Interest Form). Duran (2019a) utilized a similar strategy in his dissertation research on identity exploration for queer Collegians of Color because of the sensitive nature of researching this population.

I also recruited students directly knowing that where I chose to target recruitment would have implications for the resultant population. Sampling students engaged in formal campus activities and organizations tends to overrepresent students who are “out”

(Diamond, 2008), for example. Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies courses may be a promising site of recruitment for queer men because they provide the LGBTQ+ course content that is often lacking in other academic contexts (Murphy, 2011). Further, research suggests academic settings provide an opportunity for students to explore their identities

(Chickering & Reisser, 1993; King, 2011; Renn, 2000). As such, students enrolled in gender and sexuality courses may have had a space to process their sexuality through an

131 academic lens. To decentralize the white, female subject, and to understand the experiences of students with varying degrees of “outness,” and familiarly with the formal study of sexuality, I selected participants in a variety of majors, workplaces, clubs, and organizations; this included spaces that center Students of Color in the interest of obtaining an initial, diverse sample. Maximum variation sampling, in which the researcher selects participants who share some criteria but are otherwise quite distinct

(Creswell & Poth, 2018), aided in this effort. I also hung fliers throughout campus, focusing on both spaces that center sexuality and those that do not (see Appendix D:

Participant Recruitment Flier). Because the resultant sample skewed heavily towards women students, I used a snowball, or network, sampling strategy to identify an additional man who was interested in participating (Stage & Manning, 2016). Stage and

Manning (2016) contended network sampling is advantageous when studying sensitive topics or students who may be reluctant to be identified. Citing Lee (1993), who argued network sampling is appropriate when researching vulnerable or stigmatized populations,

Gold and Stewart (2011) successfully applied this strategy to the study of lesbian, gay, and bisexual students.

I used the demographic form to construct a diverse sample of participants; diversity refers to social identities, political beliefs and worldview, and on- and off- campus involvement. In total, 28 students provided their names and email addresses on the participant interest form; 26 provided complete demographic information. As noted, an additional student was identified through network sampling and the demographic survey was re-opened so that he could express his interest, for a total of 27 usable entries.

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I made the decision to close the demographics form once interest was robust enough to craft a diverse sample. I reflected on the ethics of turning away a large number of students who may have had limited opportunity to openly share their bisexual identity and experiences and thus chose to keep the number of students who received the “not selected to participate” email as small as possible without compromising the final sample.

Given the lack of racial, ethnic, and gender representation within extant bisexuality research, I prioritized the selection of participants with minoritized racial, ethnic, and gender identities. One South Asian man who completed the interest form was contacted to participate but did not respond. Students who included additional information that indicated their submissions might have been in jest were not selected. The remaining group of students not selected to participate all identified as white women; while any interested students’ perspective would have been valued, this population was overrepresented in the pool of prospective participants.

Ultimately, I obtained a sample of 16 students, consistent with narrative inquiry methodology (Guetterman, 2015). The relatively small sample size allowed for an in- depth exploration of participants’ narratives with attention paid to the particulars of individual stories (Pinnegar & Daynes, 2007). Once the final sample was selected, participants were sent an email notifying them of their inclusion in the study and providing a link to schedule their first interview (see Appendix E: Correspondence with

Selected and Prospective Participants). Detailed participant information can be found in

Chapter 4 (see Table 2).

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Data Collection and Methods

In order to elicit students’ narratives of identity negotiation, I conducted one-on- one, semi-structured interviews with participants. Some scholars described interviews as speech events in which discourse is jointly constructed and meaning is contextually grounded (Mishler, 1986). Mishler (1986) even argued interviewers can redistribute power, thereby empowering their research participants (Mishler, 1998). Given the epistemological grounding of this study, a critical reconceptualization of the research interview and how results are reported was warranted. In conventional interviewing, the researcher is left with textual data; nonverbal aspects of the interview, along with speech patterns, are lost (Scheurich, 1995). Meaning cannot be jointly constructed, nor can an objective truth emerge from the data (Scheurich, 1995). Instead, meaning shifts and changes and is subjected to the researcher’s interpretation (Scheurich, 1995). As such, it is necessary for the researcher to make explicit their positionality and epistemological orientation, as I do in this chapter.

In addition to critically examining what the interview provides in terms of data, it is also necessary to question assumptions about what narrative is, as conventional descriptions have a cultural, racial, and gender bias (Scheurich, 1995). Critical poststructural researchers should also be critical of Mishler’s (1998) suggestion that the interviewer can empower the research subject, as though they have power to give. While narratives can arise from “the need and desire to have others hear one’s story” (Chase,

2010, p. 226), the researcher must be careful in how they tell that story. Riessman (1993)

134 reminded “we cannot give voice” because we do not have direct access to another’s experience (p. 8).

Instead of a focus on giving voice, Scheurich (1995) suggested a dominance-and- resistance view of power, complicated by a notion of chaos/freedom which escapes the dominance/resistance binary:

there is dominance of the interviewee by the researcher, resistance of the

interviewee to researcher dominance, and chaos/freedom enacted by both the

interviewer and the interviewee. Within this chaos/freedom, there are speech

enactments that cannot be encapsulated or captured by the dominance of the

researcher or the resistance of the interviewee. For instance…. The interviewee

may use the researcher to satisfy her or his [sic] need to communicate about some

issues related to the research. (Scheurich, 1995, p. 248)

Rethinking the research interview requires the researcher to be transparent about their positionality, including their identities and epistemological beliefs. Further, they should be honest about the “open indeterminacy” of the research interview which the researcher will fill with their own interpretation (Scheurich, 1995, p. 250).

Borer and Fontana (2012) presented a similar explanation of the influences of postmodernism on the research interview which has relevance to this study given the similarities between postmodernism and poststructuralism. They argued there is no postmodern interview, per se, but researchers embracing a postmodern epistemology must recognize the line between interviewer and interviewee is blurred. They advocated taking a dialogic approach to the interview, where attention is paid to both what is said

135 and how it is said. As I later discuss, Riessman (2008) provided suggestions for dialogic/performance analysis. This includes a recognition of the polyvocal nature of the interview, as well as the importance of audience.

Queering the Interview

Although interviews are a common method of data collection across qualitative research, a study’s methodology and epistemology should influence the purpose and style of the interview (Jones et al., 2014). In this critical poststructural narrative study, it was necessary to queer the research interview. Queer theory in particular informed the interview protocol and shaped the interview itself—if queer theory calls for the deconstruction of discourse, it must also require deconstructing the interview (Kong,

Mahoney, & Plummer, 2001). Queering the research interview also necessitates attention to questions of representation and legitimation. The researcher must take care to ensure that participant voices will not be essentialized as Other (Kong et al., 2001). To do so, the researcher can ask themself, “how often are [participant] voices mere reproductions of white, middle-class, Western gay men, as if there were indeed no other subjectivities to consider?” (Kong et al., 2001, p. 244).

Queer research is tasked with subverting “the unified notion of gay and lesbian identity and to paint a picture of multiple and conflicting sexual/gendered experiences…The queer interview can be composed discursively to cause trouble” (Kong et al., 2001, p. 248). Queering the interview requires the researcher to “begin by first constructing ethical identities in the communities they wish to study” in the interest of establishing trust (Kong et al., p. 252). Kong and colleagues (2001) also suggested

136 adopting a pragmatic ethical strategy. This process entails placing an “emphasis on the specific cultural meanings that gay people and their communities bring to their intimate arrangement and argues against any moral imperative that values one set of experiences over another” (Kong et al., 2001, p. 252). It also involves the construction of “an emphatic, emotional orientation” throughout the interview (Kong et al., 2001, p. 252).

Further, the researcher must be reflexive. I elaborate on these ethical considerations in the section on trustworthiness.

In any interview, but especially when interviewing historically marginalized populations, it is necessary to develop trust (Kong et al., 2001). Building and maintaining rapport and respect is an ongoing negotiation that involves active listening and a sensitivity to nonverbal cues (Fetterman, 1998; Glesne, 2016). The process of rapport building is also contextually specific; the researcher must utilize culturally appropriate means of establishing rapport (Glesne, 2016). This requires the researcher to reflect on their own behavior and to ensure they are not making participants uncomfortable (Glesne,

2016).

When conducted with respect and care, interviews allow the researcher to “learn about what you cannot see and to explore alternative explanations of what you do see”

(Glesne, 2016, p. 97). Interviews provide “descriptive data in the subjects’ own words so that the researcher can develop insights on how subjects interpret some piece of the world” (Bogdan & Bilken, 1992, p. 96). The use of queer theory as an analytical lens also allows for an exploration of how biphobia, heterosexism, and normativity shape participant narratives. Consistent with narrative inquiry, the interview protocol for this

137 study was written in everyday language designed to invite participants’ stories (Chase,

1995; Elliot, 2012). Elliot (2012) suggested conducting multiple interviews with the same participants to develop trust. She also recommended discussing specific events and situations with participants, and moving between different times in the participants’ life, rather than asking about an extensive period of time because it is often difficult for participants to provide a detailed narrative spanning many years (Elliot, 2012). Finally, the researcher should “ensure the material is recorded and then transcribed in enough detail to allow for the analysis of the discursive interaction, including interruptions, pauses, hesitations and overlapping speech” (Elliot, 2012, p. 294). As such, all interviews were audio-recorded and transcribed verbatim. The interview transcript was paired with detailed notes, written shortly after the conclusion of the interview, that captured participant behaviors not evident from the recording (e.g., fidgeting or silent crying; see

Appendix H for interview summary sheet).

In keeping with Elliot’s (2012) suggestion that a single interview should not attempt to cover a large portion of the participant’s lifetime, the first interview explored students’ pre-college experiences related to their sexuality. In addition to building rapport with participants prior to the second interview, which more explicitly addresses this study’s research questions, the inclusion of pre-college experiences aligns with the temporal nature of narrative (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000) and what Gubrium and

Holstein (2009) called narrative linkage. Narrative linkage refers to the idea that the meaning participants make of their experiences must be understood relative to their past experiences. To understand participants’ experiences with bisexuality and identity

138 negotiation on campus, it was first necessary to understand how they experienced their bisexuality prior to college. All 16 participants completed the first interview, which lasted between 20-60 minutes, with most lasting at least 30 minutes.

The second interview explored campus experiences related to identity negotiation.

Fourteen participants returned for the second interview. Interviews typically lasted on average 30-60 minutes, although most were 45 minutes or longer. Between the first and second interviews, students engaged in a drawing activity where they were asked to describe their identity performance in four spaces of their choosing. Drawings make

“parts of the self…visible” (Mitchell, Theron, Stuart, Smith, & Campbell, 2011, p. 19).

As a research method, drawings pair well with verbal methods (e.g., interviews) and can be used to stimulate conversation (Mitchell et al., 2011).

The drawing activity was presented at the end of the first interview. Introducing the activity in person allowed me to reassure the participants that the activity did not require artistic skill; rather, the focus is on the content of their drawing. This reassurance was an important step towards putting participants at ease (Mitchell et al., 2011). I also took this time to answer any questions students had. Further, students were able to complete the activity on their own time, as “participants need enough time to visualise and to draw—making the drawing is contingent on a process of reflection” (Mitchell et al., 2011, p. 25). In this activity, students were directed to fold a piece of paper into quadrants and label each with a particular location. Examples might include a classroom, residence hall, student organization meeting, office, or an off-campus environment. They were then asked to draw and/or write the way in which they understand their identity

139 performance in that space. Their responses were used to guide the second interview; the drawings themselves were not analyzed but the conversations that they sparked resulted in rich interview data which was analyzed. If participants did not remember to submit their drawing prior to our second meeting, they were given an opportunity at the start of the interview to share their drawing; one student preferred to discuss his thoughts during the second interview rather than present a drawing and another had technology challenges that prevented her from sharing the drawing she completed on her computer. Several participants responded to the drawing prompt using prose rather than pictorial form, and all incorporated writing or labels of some kind. Both interview protocols and the drawing activity prompt (Appendices F and G) were piloted with a bisexual college student to ensure the questions and directions were understandable and so that I could refine the wording as needed (Glesne, 2016).

Data Analysis

Narrative analysis is situated within the wider field of narrative inquiry and can be broadly defined as “a family of methods for interpreting texts that have in common a storied form” (Riessman, 2008, p. 11). As such, narrative methods can be used to analyze a range of texts, including interviews and journals. Riessman (2008) noted:

narrative analysts interrogate intention and language—how and why incidents are

storied, not simply the content to which language refers. For whom was this story

constructed, and for what purpose? Why is the succession of events configured

this way? What cultural resources does the story draw on, or take for granted?

What storehouse of plots does it call up? What does the story accomplish? Are

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there gaps and inconsistencies that might suggest preferred, alternative, or

counter-narratives? (p. 11)

The narrative strategy will depend on the researcher’s focus—content, form, performance, or image. Rather than a rigid application of any one approach, narrative analysis in a critical poststructural study calls for use of multiple analytic strategies

(Riessman, 2008). Riessman (2008) presented four approaches; I draw on the most relevant for this study—thematic analysis and dialogic/performance analysis. I also discuss strategies for deconstruction (Czarniawska, 2004; Martin, 1990).

Thematic analysis. Thematic analysis focuses on the content of the narrative. In thematic analysis, the researcher keeps stories intact and participants are quoted at length.

The analytic process varies and is not governed by a rigid set of rules. Although

Riessman (2008) acknowledged the flexibility of thematic analysis, she did provide guidance using William’s (1984) study of chronic illness as an exemplar:

The investigator works with a single interview at a time, isolating and ordering

relevant episodes into a chronological biographical account. After the process has

been completed for all interviews, the researcher zooms in, identifying underlying

assumptions in each account and naming (coding) them. Particular cases are then

selected to illustrate general patterns—range and variation—and the underlying

assumptions of different cases are compared.” (p. 57)

Although language and form are not the foci of thematic analysis, they cannot be completely disregarded.

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Context and prior theory both play a role in thematic analysis, although the extent to which context is considered is shaped by epistemology, purpose, and one’s research questions. In this study, attention to both local and societal contexts is fundamental to understanding participants’ experiences of bisexuality. This is particularly true given the importance of theorizing power in a critical poststructural epistemology. The researcher’s use of prior theory informs analysis, although they remain sensitive to new theoretical insights (Riessman, 2008).

In practice, I completed this thematic analysis by first reading each narrative in its entirety to get a sense of emergent themes. Further, this initial reading allowed me to explore how pieces of participants’ narratives came together to create a larger picture. As

Josselson (2011) explained, it is not the parts that are significant in human life, but how the parts are integrated to create a whole – which is meaning” (p. 226). Following

Josselson’s (2011) hermeneutic circle, this first reading did not entail formal coding; rather, I made note of emergent themes as well as how I believed my own assumptions shaped the research texts. Next, I used Dedoose software to code the data employing narrative coding; “narrative coding is appropriate for exploring intrapersonal and interpersonal participant experiences and actions to understand the human condition through story, which is justified in and of itself as a legitimate way of knowing”

(Saldaña, 2016, p. 154). Additionally, I coded for the various environmental and social contexts referenced in the interviews. This is in keeping with Clandinin and Connelly’s

(2000) conceptualization of the three-dimensional inquiry space, which includes temporality, the personal and social, and place. Coding for context was particularly

142 relevant for this study because identity negotiation strategies are contextually specific.

Once the coding process was complete, I themed the data by moving from words and phrases that described data segments to phrases that more broadly captured shared experiences and major ideas; analytic memoing aided in this process because it allowed me to identify points where codes overlapped to create a larger story (Saldaña, 2016).

Finally, I presented narratives reflective of these overlapping themes, as well as points of tension.

Dialogic/performance analysis. Dialogic/performance analysis includes elements of thematic analysis, but also incorporates structural analysis (Riessman, 2008) and additional analytic considerations related to interaction and performance.

Dialogical/performance analysis asks how speakers produce and perform narrative.

Numerous contextual factors are examined, including the influence of the researcher, the setting, and the social circumstances in which the narrative is produced and interpreted.

The researcher also considers history, culture, and audience. Riessman (2008) drew on

Goffman (1959) to understand narratives as interactive performances. Goffman posited individuals stage performances of “desirable selves” to save “face” (as cited in Riessman,

2008, p. 108), a suggestion with theoretical relevance for the exploration of identity negotiation.

Like in thematic narrative analysis, there is no analytic toolkit, yet dialogic/performance analysis is even less straightforward because there are no clear methods (Riessman, 2008). Despite the procedural ambiguity, the researcher should be attuned to types of speech, sounds, and rhetorical strategies, as well as gaps, omissions,

143 and other linguistic markers. As Riessman (2008) noted, “language—the particular words and styles narrators select to recount experience—is interrogated, not taken at face value”

(p. 137). As such, dialogic/performance analysis requires significant interpretation on the part of the researcher (Riessman, 2008). Interrogating participants’ words in this way is appropriate given the critical nature of this study (Jones et al., 2014). I drew on queer theory for this analysis to explore how heterosexism, monosexism, and normativity shape participants’ identity performance, as well as the ways in which they recounted their experiences.

Researcher and reader positionality are brought to the fore in dialogic/performance analysis. Drawing on Wolfson, Riessman (2008) characterized dramatization as a “plea for commonality” (p. 112). This was particularly relevant to the study of bisexuality and identity negotiation given bisexual’s desire to be seen as such

(Miller, 2006). Further, reader positionality shapes the interpretive process: “readers are inherently part of the interpretive process, bringing their positioned identities and cultural filters to interpretation” (Riessman, 2008, p. 111).

In practice, I engaged in this dialogic/performance analysis by drawing heavily on structural analysis and coding for the six elements of narrative (Riessman, 2008). These include: an abstract, which summarizes the point of the narrative; orientation, which provides the time, place, situation, and those involved; complicating action, or the turning point or crisis; evaluation, where the narrator provides commentary on what has happened; resolution, or the outcomes of a plot; and lastly a coda where the narration concludes, and the listener is brought back to the present. I then considered why the

144 participant told their story in such a way by considering the “interactional, historical, institutional, and discursive” contexts in which the story was produced (Riessman, 2008, p. 105). Within this study, those contexts might include the college campus, campus microclimates, interpersonal relationships, and sexuality and gender discourse that both allows and constrains how participants enact and understand their bisexuality.

Deconstruction, as an additional analytic strategy, offers insight into these discourses.

Deconstruction. Deconstruction functions as “both a method to interrupt binary logic through practices of reversal and displacement and as an antimethod that is more an ontological claim (Lather, 2007, p. 5). As an analytic strategy, it “exposes, in a systemic way, multiple ways a text can be interpreted” (Martin, 1990, p. 340). In doing so, deconstruction “is able to reveal ideological assumptions in a way that is particularly sensitive to the suppressed interests of members of disempowered, marginalized groups”

(Martin, 1990, p. 340). Deconstruction can be used to disrupt binaries by showing that they do not in fact have two distinct poles. Deconstruction is thus particularly useful when studying bisexuality because of society’s tendency to treat gender and sexuality as binary.

In addition to dismantling binaries (e.g. heterosexual/homosexual, male/female, public/private), deconstructive analysis can also be used to examine silences, attend to contradictions, interpret metaphors, and consider societal taboos (Martin, 1990). This analysis does not require formal coding. Rather, I made notes of my analyses in a researcher journal. These strategies were apt for considering bisexuality through a queer theoretical framework because they bring to light the role that monosexism and

145 normativity have in shaping experience. To illustrate this process, I present a hypothetical example of the “examining silences” analytic strategy suggested by Martin (1990). If a bisexual participant refers to a romantic or sexual interest as “they,” this use of a gender- neutral pronoun might be indicative of an unwillingness to disclose the gender of their partner; alternatively, it might also signal an awareness of gender-inclusive terminology.

In sum, data analysis included three overlapping strategies—thematic analysis, dialogic/performance analysis, and deconstruction—to explore the strategies of identity negotiation for bisexual college students and to understand the ways in which systems of power influence these strategies. The use of narrative analysis allowed for the examination of bisexual students’ perceptions of identity negotiation and of bisexuality more broadly. In addition to detailed analysis, I also employed several trustworthiness strategies to ensure the goodness of the research (Arminio & Hultgren, 2002).

Trustworthiness

Trustworthiness refers to the ways in which high-quality research is ensured

(Jones et al., 2014). In this section I discuss several trustworthiness strategies including relational competence and positionality, reflexivity, peer review, the presentation of negative cases, and the provision of rich, thick description (Creswell & Poth, 2018; Jones et al., 2014). Relational competence, wherein the researcher attends to their social identities, positionality and the biases and assumptions they bring to their research, is one strategy for ensuring trustworthiness in a study (Jones et al., 2014). Relational competence required me to consider the relationship I had with participants and the power imbalances inherent in those relationships. Ensuring trustworthiness entailed

146 positioning myself in the research and reflecting on my preunderstandings. Kong et al.

(2001) offered several self-reflective guiding questions for use in conducting an ethical queer interview: “Am I describing the research correctly? Does this person understand the concepts/language I am putting forward? Am I presenting enough information about myself and my research in order for this person to make an informed choice?” (p. 252).

Engaging with these questions was one way I attended to relational competence as I conducted the study.

The notion of positionality is related to relational competence. The researcher allows their reader to understand how their social identities shaped the research process, from the choice of topic to the practice of analysis and writing (Jones et al., 2014). The research process is relational; “as narrative inquirers we work within the [three- dimension inquiry] space not only with our participants but with ourselves. Working in this space means we become visible with our own lived and told stories” (Clandinin &

Connelly, 2000, pp. 61-62). I continued to reflect on my positionality in a researcher journal and include my reflections at the conclusion of the study. This provides the reader insight into my analytic process and the way in which my subjectivities affected that process. Sharing one’s narrative, however, makes the researcher vulnerable (Clandinin &

Connelly, 2000). In the spirit of vulnerability, I begin to make visible my own story.

Positionality

I recall discussing a project similar to this dissertation study in a doctoral seminar in the second year of my PhD program. A respected colleague inquired as to my positionality— “I assume you identify as an ally?” I could feel the familiar heat building

147 beneath my skin and I pointedly replied, “Actually…no,” failing to conceal my frustration at having been mistaken for straight yet again. In that moment, I felt so profoundly unseen. Although I do not mean to suggest only individuals holding a particular identity should have the right to study that population, I had assumed (hoped?) my work would mark me as bi. Yet here I was having done much of my academic work on the study of bisexuality, again presumed to be heterosexual. What more did I need to do?

***

I knew I was bisexual long before I had ever heard the word. I don’t recall feeling different from other children, but I also didn’t share my girl crushes with my elementary school friends. That just wasn’t something you talked about. When I first admitted to liking men and women, I was in middle school. My closest friends had little to say on the subject and many of my peers seemed to assume I was claiming bisexuality for the attention. This pattern continued into high school. Despite co-founding my school’s Gay-

Straight Alliance (a name I now recognize for its role in erasing bisexuality), I never felt my claim to a bisexual identity was seen as legitimate by my classmates. A small number of men came out as gay during high school, and while they were not immune to bullying, they seemed unquestionably embraced by their friends. At the same time, openly queer women were virtually nonexistent. I struggled to make myself seen in a culture that urged girls to kiss other girls at parties while their boyfriends applauded. Counselors dismissed my identity; one psychiatrist consistently referred to my bisexuality as “your issue.”

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It wasn’t until college that I began to feel truly comfortable with my queerness, though not yet with my bisexuality. A supportive campus environment was of paramount importance during my college search. I was looking for a place where, for the first time, I wouldn’t feel invisible. I chose an institution in a large urban area with a rich LGBTQ+ history. New York University was home to one of the oldest gay student organizations and boasted a large queer community. When I arrived on campus for orientation, I immediately threw myself into the LGBTQ+ activities, but found spaces for bisexual people were lacking, an experience into which my graduate work would give me more insight. I cut my hair, began wearing more masculine clothing, and allowed those around me to assume I was a lesbian. At home with family, I presented as straight. The constant denial of a fundamental aspect of myself—that I was neither—was exhausting. Only my closest friends and partner knew I was bi.

Life after graduation brought additional challenges. I had married my male partner and was trying to navigate my first job which seemed to demand a professionalism I interpreted as traditionally feminine. I traded black leather boots and flannel button-downs for heels and dresses; I grew my hair. As the outward markers of queerness fell away, and my colleagues took my husband as a sign of my heterosexuality,

I found myself in a new kind of closet. Finally, I entered my Higher Education and

Student Affairs master’s program and discovered my experience was not unusual. I immersed myself in the literature on bisexual identity. I learned that dedicated programming designed to support bisexual students is not common on college campuses,

149 and I began to realize I owed it to myself to be open about who I am and to advocate for students like myself.

Clandinin and Connelly (2000) reminded their readers “narrative inquiries are always strongly autobiographical. Our research interests come out of our own experiences and shape our narrative inquiry plotlines” (p. 121). My identity as a bisexual woman undoubtedly informs my interest in this study, my choice of theoretical perspective, and the assumptions I bring to the research. I adopted the bisexual label in early adolescence. While I later learned the term pansexual, the definition of which more explicitly aligns with my rejection of a gender binary, I had grown up with and grown into the bisexual label; it felt uncomfortable to take on a new term for myself, particularly when I reject the argument that bisexuality leaves no room for trans identities. At the same time, I also identify with the term queer, which signifies my politics as much as my sexual identity. Further, while I use the labels “bi” and “bisexual” interchangeably, I prefer the term “bi” as it encapsulates more than sexual behavior and leaves space for other forms of attraction and relationship building. My own process of claiming the bisexual label, and making my bisexuality visible to others in different, contextually dependent ways, drew me to this research. I was curious how others negotiated their bisexuality, particularly on college campuses, and how student affairs professionals and faculty could be more supportive.

Rhoads “asserted that resisting the pull of framing BGL student development in a monolithic way and assuming one generic queer subject is critical to truly knowing these students as individuals” (as cited in Marine, 2011, p. 47). With this caution in mind, I

150 recognize that my experiences as a queer woman are my own, and that shared membership in the bisexual community does not mean my experiences or development will look like the participants in this study. This is particularly true given my white racial identity, as I have not had to contend with the “double bind of racism and homophobia” experienced by many queer People of Color (Marine, 2011, p. 49). My identity as a white person may have also shaped what Participants of Color felt comfortable sharing.

Additional Trustworthiness Strategies

Engaging in conversations around race, sexuality, power, and oppression in research, teaching, and professional spaces has provided me with an opportunity to grapple with my own assumptions and make sense of my experiences. Continuing to reflect on my experiences and beliefs over the course of this study helped me to set aside preconceived notions of bisexuality and identity. For example, while I have experienced the erasure of my identity and the resulting desire to make my sexuality known, not all participants in this study felt a similar need. A reflexivity journal aided in this reflective process (Jones et al., 2014).

Empathic neutrality guided my conversations with participants (Patton, 2002).

Empathic neutrality “seeks vicarious understanding without judgement (neutrality) but showing openness, sensitivity, respect, awareness, and responsiveness” (Patton, 2002, p.

40). This is similar to Kong et al.’s (2001) concept of an “empathic, emotional orientation” (p. 252). If interviewers ask queer people to tell their stories, which can feel like being asked to come out, they must feel the researcher will be receptive (Kong et al.,

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2001). To build trust and establish rapport with study participants, I disclosed my own bisexual identity and my motivations for engaging in this research.

Additional trustworthiness strategies included engagement in peer review, the presentation of negative cases, and the provision of rich, thick description (Creswell &

Poth, 2018). Peer review involved relying on a trusted colleagued to check my assumptions and analyses, and to work through multiple interpretations (Glesne, 2016).

The peer reviewer for this study was a recent Higher Education and Student Affairs PhD graduate. Moreover, the peer reviewer provided an outlet for the me to work through my feelings related to the research project (Creswell & Poth, 2018).

The inclusion of negative cases is a trustworthiness strategy wherein the researcher recognizes and reports evidence that does not conform to emerging patterns and themes. I monitored the accuracy of my interpretations by acknowledging this evidence; reporting this evidence then allows for a more nuanced depiction of the topic of inquiry (Creswell & Poth, 2018). Finally, thick description entails the following:

(1) It gives the context of an act; (2) it states the intentions and meanings that

organize the action; (3) it traces the evolution and development of the act; (4) it

presents the action as a text that can then be interpreted. (Denzin, 1989, p. 33)

In practice, offering thick description required me to include lengthy participant quotes or excerpts of researcher-participant dialogue (Ponterotto, 2006). This allows the reader to evaluate the transferability of the findings (Creswell & Poth, 2018). Additionally, presenting data in the participants’ own words enables the reader to determine the validity of the analysis (Patton, 2002).

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Ethical Issues

An open question in the field of narrative inquiry asks whether this research is meant to merely describe the world or to change it (Clandinin, 2007). This is an axiological question not unique to narrative inquiry, but to conducting ethical research more broadly. Researchers concerned with conducting an ethical inquiry need to move beyond “doing no harm” to “doing good” (Jones et al., 2014, p. 184). Doing good requires not further marginalizing or disempowering participants, sharing practical results with participants, and working toward social change (Creswell & Poth, 2018; Jones et al.,

2014). The way in which researchers represent study participants and work towards change introduces additional ethical considerations, as hooks (1990) illuminated:

No need to hear your voice when I can talk about you better than you can speak

about yourself. No need to hear your voice. Only tell me your pain. I want to

know your story. And then I will tell it back to you in a new way. Tell it back to

you in such a way that it has become mine, my own. Re-writing you, I write

myself anew. I am still author, authority. I am still colonizer, the speak subject,

and you are now at the center of my talk. (pp. 151-152)

I kept hook’s words in mind by “working the hyphen” between self and other, recognizing the entanglement of the two (Fine, 1994). This entails writing with rather than for those who have historically, and presently, been othered:

When we opt, instead, to engage in social struggles with those who have

been exploited and subjugated we work the hyphen, revealing far more

about ourselves, and far more about the structures of Othering. Eroding

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the fixedness of categories, we and they enter and play with the blurred

boundaries that proliferate. (Fine, 1994, p. 72)

Writing with requires interrogating oppressive discourses while allowing marginalized voices to speak for themselves. This poses a challenge, however.

The researcher must toe the line between analyzing participant narratives and subjecting them to a “social scientific gaze, fixation, [and] moral spectacularizing” (Roman as cited in Fine, Weis, Weseen, & Wong, 2003, p.

190). Ultimately, this is a question of representation.

Researchers must remain mindful to the ways in which their work can reinscribe the Other, confirming and reinforcing oppressive narratives (Fine, 1994). This is particularly true when discussing populations that have been pathologized in the literature and in the popular imagination, as has been the case with bisexual people. Researchers have a responsibility to consider how their work will be received, and how it might be misused (Fine et al., 2003). Fine et al. (2003) used the working class and poor (often,

People of Color), as an example, though the same cautions would apply to LGBTQ communities. The tension exists when, in ignoring information, the researcher denies real-world challenges facing marginalized communities, but in reporting it, they risk their findings being used to further pathologize. For example, bisexuals have been stereotyped as sexually promiscuous (Rust, 2003); does that mean a researcher sensitive to this issue should not report findings of risky sexual behavior? Ultimately, Fine et al. (2003) erred on the side of sharing, though doing so with thoughtfulness and respect. Further, the researcher must take care to avoid essentializing marginalized persons and communities

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(Fine, 1994). Fine’s (1994) suggestion, which draws on hooks, Scott, and Spivak, that researchers “listen, instead, to the plural voices of those Othered, as constructors and agents of knowledge” (p. 75) aligns well with the polyvocal nature of individual narratives. The presentation of multiple voices addresses a tension in postmodern and poststructural research by decentering the “editorial authority” of the researcher (Borer &

Fontana, 2012, p. 48). Additionally, the researcher can employ literary and poetic strategies for representing participant narratives to blur disciplinary boundaries and create space for previously ignored perspectives (Borer & Fontana, 2012).

Summary

The purpose of this chapter was to provide an overview of the epistemology, theoretical framework, methodology, and methods guiding the study of bisexual college student identity negotiation. I began by introducing critical postmodernism as the epistemological perspective, queer theory as the theoretical framework, and narrative inquiry as the methodological approach informing the study before discussing the appropriateness of pairing these approaches. I then discussed the research methods used. I started with an overview of the research context—Midwestern State University—before elaborating on the sampling criteria and strategies I employed to generate a participant sample. I next described the data analysis strategies I utilized before concluding with an explanation of trustworthiness strategies, my own positionality as researcher, and finally, ethical considerations.

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Chapter 4. Findings

1. What narratives of identity negotiation are told by bisexual college students?

2. How do systems of power influence bisexual students' narratives of identity

negotiation?

3. What is the perceived significance of identity negotiation for bisexual college

students?

4. How do bisexual students understand their bisexuality as a result of having to

employ identity negotiation strategies?

To answer these questions, I employed a narrative methodological approach (Clandinin &

Connelly, 2000), grounded in critical (Tierney, 1993) and poststructural (Sarup, 1993) epistemologies. I conducted two semi-structured interviews with a diverse sample of 16 bisexual participants at a large, public Midwestern university. Between the first and second interview, students completed a drawing activity where they described how they perceive their identity performance in four different on and off-campus contexts. As detailed in Chapter 3, I analyzed the data using thematic and dialogic/performance

156 analysis (Riessman, 2008), while also deconstructing binaries such as heterosexual/homosexual and male/female (Czarniawska, 2004; Martin, 1990).

The purpose of this chapter is to provide an overview of the findings, beginning with the presentation of participant narratives. As Jones and Abes (2013) suggested, providing participant narratives prior to the exposition of broader themes allows

“individual life stories [to] remain intact—a mosaic of what is distinct about each of them…so what they share in common is illuminated” (p. 66). I then highlight two contextual themes—Pervasive Binegativity and Hegemony of Binaries. These themes were derived from thematic and dialogic/performance analysis, both of which were guided by critical and queer theoretical perspectives. The contextual themes illuminated the factors that informed participants’ identity negotiation experiences and thus their identity negotiation narratives. In particular, participants spoke at length about the pervasiveness of binegativity in their lives. I also emphasize the way in which participants recounted their narratives, revealing the hegemonic influence of binary conceptualizations of sexuality and gender on the participants themselves. Finally, I introduce five themes characteristic of participants’ identity negotiation strategies which emerged from thematic analysis data. These include Settling for Simplicity,

Transgressing Normativity, Downplaying Bisexuality, Subtly Signaling Sexuality, and

Outness as Advocacy.

Participant Narratives

Consistent with the goals of narrative inquiry, I begin by presenting the individual narratives of each of the participants. As described in Chapter 3, 16 participants chose to

157 participate in this study. Fourteen of the initial 16 students completed all facets of the study while the remaining two (Deen and Rachel) completed only the demographic form and the first one-on-one interview; nevertheless, their narratives offered valuable insights and are included here.

The students in this study described their sexuality using a number of labels which fell under the umbrella of bisexuality (See Table 2). They represented a variety of gender identities and racial or ethnic backgrounds. Although most participants identified as Christian, students belonged to numerous religious or spiritual traditions which nearly always shaped the way they understood and negotiated their bisexuality. Participants also studied across a range of academic disciplines and class years. Most were born and raised in the Midwestern United States, though their backgrounds ranged from large cities such as Chicago and Cleveland to rural farming communities. Students’ experiences were differently shaped by their pre-college environments and socially constructed identities, yet there were similarities which emerged across participants’ narratives.

Participants received messages about sexuality from their schools, friends, families, and, for many, religious institutions, that shaped their level of comfort with their bisexuality. They rarely chose Midwestern State with their bisexuality in mind, but the transition to an unfamiliar, and often more accepting, context allowed students to think about their sexuality in new ways. Participants now needed to navigate a variety of campus environments, including residence halls, classrooms, and places of employment.

They described their sexuality as not necessarily relevant in many of these contexts and were unsure if it was safe or appropriate to come out.

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Table 2.

Participant Information (From Demographic Form) Pseudonym Pronouns Sexuality Gender Race Ethnicity Worldview Class Year Alex She/Her Bisexual, queer Female Mixed Latinx Christian Third Cecile She/Her Bisexual Gender fluid Caucasian Agnostic Third Sawtelle Deen She/Her Bisexual/pansexual/ Female Asian Indian and Secular/ Third questioning/don't Pakistani atheist/ identity with a label ex-Muslim Gadiel He/Him Bisexual Man Black American/ Yoruba Fourth Caribbean 154 /African

Jessica She/Her Bisexual Female Latina Hispanic Christian First Katrina She/Her Bisexual Female White White Atheist First Kyra Kerr She/Her Bisexual Female Black Jamaican/ Agnostic/ Third American Atheist Liam They/Them Pansexual Non-binary White White Christian; First non-church attending Lydia She/Her Bisexual Female Puerto Non-practicing Second Rican Catholic M They/Them Bisexual Nonbinary Hispanic Agnostic Fourth Rachel She/Her Bi Cis Female White Latina Conservative Judaism Second Remus He/Him Bisexual Male White Grew up jewish & Fourth catholic, currently agnostic (continued) 159

Table 2. (continued)

Sarah She/Her Bisexual Woman Black African- First American Sharon She/Her Bisexual Cisgender White White Jewish Second Female Sofia She/Her Queer Cisgender Caucasian American Christian First female Summer She/Her Bisexual Female Caucasian Christian Fourth

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Friendship groups and other social settings often provided a more comfortable space for students to make visible their bisexuality.

Of course, there were critical differences across narratives as well, often informed by students’ race, gender, or worldview. The purpose of the narratives presented next is to highlight the complexity of bisexual college student experiences. All participants were given the opportunity to select a pseudonym. Family and friends referenced throughout this chapter were also given pseudonyms, and no campus organizations or buildings are referred to by name. I introduce participants using the language they employed on their demographic forms. For example, several white students used the term “Caucasian” to describe their race or ethnicity. Despite the term’s connection to scientific racism

(Mukhopadhyay, 2008), it is often operationalized as a more polite euphemism for white

(Melville, 2014). I include it here to honor participants’ identifications and because it speaks to their (dis)comfort naming racial difference.

Alex

Alex identified as a bisexual and queer Latinx woman who defined bisexuality as

“attraction to the opposite gender and then other genders.” Although she preferred using the term “queer,” Alex often found it easier to adopt the “bi” label, particularly with older people and with members of the Christian community. At times, she would simply refer to herself as gay, such as with her conservative grandfather. Alex also described herself as belonging to the Christian community where people tended to “pin my sexuality to who I’m dating at the time.” Ultimately, she felt more comfortable identifying as gay than being labelled straight, perhaps because she was “super closeted” growing up and

161 called herself straight for many years. Now, being referred to as straight made her “feel like I’m lying to people.”

Alex grew up in a small, predominantly white, East Coast town with a Latino father and a white mother. Although her hometown included both conservative and liberal communities, she likened this liberalism to “white feminism,” where people cared about environmental rights “but kind of neglected like the institutional racism side of things.” In this environment, Alex witnessed the acceptance of “a few white, cis gay men” but ultimately felt LGBTQ+ identities were not embraced. This was especially true in her church, where queer and trans people were not permitted to hold leadership positions or to volunteer.

Because there were not openly queer women for her to date, Alex did not give much thought to her bisexuality during high school. She became more exposed to queer identities in college, but this led to the realization that she would have trouble navigating the Latinx and Christian communities of which she was a part. At the same time, the transition to college allowed Alex to feel more confident and authentic; at home, she still feared coming out and had not yet shared her bisexual identity with her dad.

In Latinx and Christian organizations, as well as in her classes, Alex was assumed to be straight. She felt as though, because she is more feminine, she can “blend in with a lot of the students here [at Midwestern State].” This became frustrating, however, particularly when she was trying to date. The erasure of her bisexuality manifested differently across these distinct contexts. In Christian spaces, if she identified as bi,

162 people expected her to choose her “straight side” or hoped that she would end up with the

“right gender.” Her roommates had also told her she should simply “choose to date men.”

Among her Latinx family, queerness was just not discussed. And in academic settings, sexuality was treated as a binary.

Because Alex had many classmates that she also knew from Christian organizations, she was mindful of how she showed up in class. She also made a point not to wear pride apparel or more masculine clothing to her instructors’ office hours.

Although she critiqued notions of professionalism as racist, she did not want her faculty to “base their opinion off of me, like from my presentation.” Similarly, Alex concealed her sexuality at her on-campus job. For safety purposes, and because she wanted to be academically successful, she did not want her sexuality “to be a hinderance.” That is not to say Alex always concealed her sexuality. In fact, she was instrumental in starting a campus organization for LGBTQ+ Christians. Despite her discomfort, she also hoped her openness in more traditional Christian groups would challenge the myth that queer

Christians do not exist.

Alex was critical of the Midwestern State administration’s approach to LGBTQ+ identities, stating:

I think they're fine with it as long as you aren't too loud about things, you know?

Like they don't care as long as, I don't know. I think it's one of those things as

long as you aren't open about it and they're fine. Like, you can be quietly gay, but

then once you're out and like, with trans people and anyone in the community it’s

just like, I don't know. [The university leadership] just don't seem to care.

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But Alex was not “quietly gay” in all contexts. In class, she felt “people think I'm too like loud…It feels like people are angry that I'm just like existing and like being okay with myself existing.” Being open about her queer existence, both on social media and in person, was clearly important to Alex. It came at a cost, however. I asked Alex how she felt about having to manage her sexuality across campus. She explained that, as a queer

Latinx woman, “it's really tiring.”

Cecile Sawtelle

Cecile Sawtelle identified as bisexual and gender fluid and described her racial identity as Caucasian. For Cecile, bisexuality referred to “being attracted to two genders.”

She went on to clarify that her attraction was not limited to cisgender men or cisgender women. At one point, Cecile described herself as pansexual but felt it was easier to identify as bisexual. When I asked why it was easier, she shared:

Really just whenever people would ask me questions about it and then that leads

into people inquiring about, you know, the gender spectrum and everything. Um,

so I find it's just easier for a lot of other people to understand.

Using the term “bisexual” thus allowed her to avoid having to educate others.

Cecile grew up in a small but diverse Midwestern city. Her neighborhood, however, was conservative, predominantly white and seemingly heterosexual, and unwelcoming of LGBTQ+ people. She was raised in a home where she received explicit messaging that LGBTQ+ identities were unacceptable. She would hear slurs used against the LGBTQ+ community in her hometown and there was a culture of bullying in her high school. As such, Cecile was still closeted at home.

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Even though she was not out in high school, Cecile found the environment intimidating and was still called slurs “because people have a way of identifying people in the LGBTQ community.” When asked why she thought this might be, Cecile shared that people assumed she was a lesbian because she had short hair and wore loose clothing.

Bisexuality was not discussed much growing up, but Cecile had dated several men who identified as LGBT and she was able to open up to them about her identity before sharing with a larger group of friends. At home, however, she found it “really difficult” to not be able to share that part of herself. Whereas some students used outness as an opportunity to advocate for the queer community, Cecile was fearful that standing up for LGBTQ+ people would mark her as queer. She explained:

I haven't had any kind of problem, you know, standing up to racism, you know,

whenever those comments are made. But whenever I feel the need to stand up for

people in the LGBT community, I get afraid that [my family is] going to suspect

something. Um, so I haven't really been able to confront them about it. Um, which

is really hard to just kind of sit there and, you know, listen to your family insult

you without them knowing it.

College offered a more comfortable context—to an extent. Cecile transferred to

Midwestern State from a smaller, private institution nearby. She was looking for greater racial and LGBTQ+ diversity. Although she described MSU as accepting of LGBTQ+ identities, she had not seen any resources targeted towards bisexual students. She did find her counseling group to be very welcoming, but despite the presence of openly bi and

165 lesbian women, she had not personally come out yet. She wanted—and still hoped—to but “I guess I just more so don’t know how.”

Likewise, she did not know if it was appropriate to mention her sexuality in the workplace and felt uncomfortable around her very religious roommate. Generally, Cecile

“doesn’t really like bring it up unless it’s a topic that’s being talked about or someone asks.” This did not seem to happen often because bisexuality was largely absent on campus. This absence made Cecile feel as though her identity was invalid and invisible.

Having the freedom to discuss her bisexuality meant a lot to Cecile because she avoided thinking about her sexuality for so long.

Deen

Deen identified as an Asian woman of Indian and Pakistani heritage who characterized her sexuality as “bisexual/pansexual/questioning/don’t identify with a label” on the participant interest form. During our interview she shared, “It's been a pretty recent identifier for me, like to identify myself as bisexual. I'm still not completely comfortable with that label. Um, mostly because I feel like, especially with sexual orientation, sometimes labels can be very confining.” For Deen, bisexuality meant “being physically/sexually attracted to both males and females.” Although she offered one of the more binary definitions of bisexuality, Deen went on to share that she “want[s] to work towards being the most open-minded” and that she “wouldn’t not be attracted to certain types of people just because of gender/sex.”

Deen struggled “to come to terms with not identifying as straight” because of her

Muslim upbringing. She was raised in an affluent suburb of a large Midwestern city

166 which she described as accepting of LGBTQ+ identities. Her parents, however, were

“very homophobic” and she grew up being told that homosexuality was punishable by

God. That messaging, and a fear of her family’s reaction, led her to rationalize her same- gender attractions. Deen shared, “I didn’t even acknowledge [bisexuality] as a possibility until after I came to college.” She felt guilt and embarrassment around sex generally, but with the support of her partner she was able to become more comfortable. At the same time she was exploring her sexuality, she was also questioning her faith. Deen mentioned that, at least at the moment, she did not consider bisexuality a significant part of her identity. Instead, her ex-Muslim identity was at the forefront of her mind. The embarrassment she felt when she ran into students from the Muslim organization she used to attend had been “a barrier to me being more outward or open about identifying as bisexual.” Deen was not offended by being mistaken for straight, and other than with her partner and closest friends, she was not out on campus.

Gadiel

Gadiel identified as a Black bisexual man who also described himself as pansexual or queer depending on the knowledge of the people with whom he was speaking. For Gadiel, bisexuality was the “attraction to two or more genders” but he noted, “We have a lot more language to talk about bisexuality and pansexuality and queerness now.” He used queer most frequently because it was most encompassing and usually well understood in the collegiate context. “In a perfect world,” he shared, “I don't think I would use a label” because his attractions wouldn’t need to be explained. Prior to

167 coming into his own sexuality at age fifteen, he used the term “straight” to describe himself, and colloquially he would sometimes use the term “gay” among his friends.

Gadiel grew up in a suburb of a large Midwestern city. He was born and raised in a nondenominational Pentecostal church, which he described as “violently homophobic;” anti-queer messages were very visible and vocal. His high school environment was similarly unaccepting. Administrators would outwardly show disgust towards LGBTQ+ students. Initially, he did not take these messages personally, but as he came to more fully understand his attraction to multiple genders, hearing anti-LGBTQ+ sentiments would make him feel physically ill. He shared:

It was like that, that feeling you get in your stomach when you like feel sick. Um,

and you just try to leave the area or leave the room so you don't have to hear it

anymore. Um, so yeah, I would say I did take it personally once I did realize that I

was attracted to more than one gender.

These negative messages were pervasive; Gadiel received no supportive messages about queerness prior to college.

At present, Gadiel was more comfortable with his bisexuality and found it annoying to be presumed straight. He critiqued the binary understanding of how straight people are expected to look and behave versus how queer people are assumed to look and behave. His criticism extended to MSU, which he characterized as relatively accepting of

LGBTQ+ identities, but still situated within a homophobic society. Further, he described campus as “very heteronormative.” This meant that queerness was rarely foregrounded, both within the Black student organizations he frequented as well as in predominantly

168 white contexts, and Gadiel recounted various experiences with binegativity and microaggressions.

Nevertheless, Gadiel was generally comfortable coming out on campus, so long as he felt it was physically and emotionally safe to do so. Like many participants in this study, he did not feel the need to be out in academic or professional contexts and was usually assumed straight because he is masculine presenting. He described this assumption as a privilege and explained that “there are things that you have to sacrifice for your immediate comfort, safety, and well-being…It's like, do you want to fight the fight now or do you want to, um, worry about the long term?” Overall, Gadiel valued his personal well-being over the need to assert himself as a queer person in a given space.

Having to make these choices communicated to Gadiel that “we have a lot of ways to go as a society.” Of all the participants, Gadiel was one of the most outspoken regarding social systems of oppression.

Jessica

Jessica identified as a bisexual Latina. She defined bisexuality as “being sexually attracted to both men and women…it doesn’t necessarily have to be a 50/50.” However, she clarified that “technically, I am pan,” but she went by “bi” to avoid the imposition,

“Wait. Explain that.” For Jessica, her sexual attraction was inclusive of non-binary people and was not limited to two genders.

Jessica’s parents were born in Mexico, and for both generational and cultural reasons, they struggled to understand bisexuality. Explaining pansexuality would be too

169 difficult—both on her parents as well as on Jessica, who feared they would respond, “No.

That’s wrong.”

Jessica grew up in a Latinx household close to Midwestern State’s campus. She realized she was not straight in middle school but felt unable to share with her conservative parents. She relied on her school friends to talk through her emerging sexuality, and eventually “grew comfortable” enough to come out to her parents during her senior year of high school. She explained it had been a process for them to accept her bisexuality because, “it’s not really a thing in Mexico. And if it is, it’s just shut down.”

Even now, her parents would prefer “it to be very hush.”

Growing up Catholic exacerbated Jessica’s fears and she struggled with her religion while coming to understand her sexuality. Ultimately, Jessica embraced her

Christian faith and came to believe “God loves everyone,” in contrast with “very Catholic thinking.” As she grew more comfortable, she became more visible in her sexuality— wearing more masculine clothing, hanging a pride flag in her residence hall room, and posting about bisexuality on social media.

The transition to college made being more visibly out possible for her. She found

Midwestern State’s campus to be very supportive and although bisexuality was not often talked about, she did have a bisexual instructor with whom she felt comfortable. On campus, Jessica did not have to put up a “façade” by dressing “straight.” At the same time, she did not disclose her sexuality unless there was an invitation to talk about it or she was among other queer people. She also identified moments of discomfort,

170 particularly in environments where no one else was LGBTQ+. In the interest of safety, she avoided situations where she felt she would not be accepted.

Jessica shared that she wishes she was, “stronger, willing enough to just wear whatever I want anywhere. But I do feel that sense of being afraid of what I might be perceived as on campus or how friends of mine might think of me if they know.” Jessica was stronger than she realized. Her narratives were often those of resistance and advocacy. For example, when her father visited campus, she chose not to take down her pride flag. Jessica tried to be open about her bisexuality in the hopes that doing so would help others.

Katrina

Katrina identified as a white bisexual woman who “just define[s] my own bisexuality as being attracted to whoever I'm attracted to...gender is not necessarily binary to me at least.” She “played with” the term “pansexual” but ultimately felt “bi” was a better fit, in part because it was well-understood by others.

Katrina was raised in a predominantly white, wealthy suburb of the city in which

MSU was located. Despite the town’s lack of racial and ethnic diversity, Katrina described it as “not as conservative as you might think,” and relatively accepting of

LGBTQ+ identities. She felt this was a result of work the community had done; administrators at her high school pushed to create an accepting and safe environment for all students. When Katrina joined her high school’s Gay-Straight Alliance, she still considered herself a straight ally and dismissed her “weird girl crushes” as “nothing.” She

171 initially saw her bisexuality as a burden and feared it was something she would have to

“constantly walk people through” for the duration of her life.

Coming out to friends her sophomore year was uneventful. Although she never formally came out to her parents, she dated two women in high school, so she assumed they knew. In fact, when her older brother came out as bisexual before she did, Katrina felt it was treated as a bigger deal than it needed to be. Despite bisexuality being normalized at home, Katrina did worry that coming out might change people’s perceptions of her. Regardless of whether this change was positive, negative, or neutral, it was the change itself that made her anxious. Although Katrina did not mind if people knew she was bisexual, like many students in this study, she typically did not volunteer the information unless it was “relevant to the conversation.” She simply did not feel as though being bisexual was a significant part of her identity— “it's just, like, who I am.”

In certain contexts, such as with her field hockey team, Katrina chose not to share her bisexual identity because she feared the other women on the team would assume she was attracted to them—a misconception about bisexuality highlighted by several participants. Generally, if Katrina did not verbalize her sexual identity, she was presumed straight because of her femininity. The women she dated were assumed to be just friends.

This assumption afforded her the privilege of avoiding uncomfortable conversations and judgmental stares but was also frustrating; Katrina tired of constantly having to come out to people. Yet while she wanted to make a coming out post on social media, she lacked the confidence to do so.

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On campus, Katrina found explicit support for bisexual students lacking, although two of her roommates identified as bi so she was able to discuss her sexuality in her residence hall room. Outside of her residence hall, however, she did not find her sexuality particularly welcomed. She was involved in STEM student organizations and although they were not unaccepting, sexuality was never a focus. In classrooms, she was similarly cautious about what she chose (not) to share. Because she knew she would never face discrimination for being straight, she did not actively try to correct her peers or instructors when they assumed her heterosexuality.

Instead, Katrina used a fake (e.g., private, alternate) social media account to explore being open about her sexual identity. Positive experiences in that safe online space made her feel more confident she could one day post about dating women on her real Instagram account. Like many bisexuals, Katrina often questioned the validity of her sexual identity. Often choosing to present the “straight side” of her bisexuality and reserving the “gay side” for her closest friends influenced how “valid” her bisexuality was. She wished she did not pass for straight but was unsure how to be anyone other than herself. Katrina enjoyed dressing femininely, for example, but was frustrated that her femininity was associated with heterosexuality. She shared that participating in this study made her feel more confident in her sexuality.

Kyra Kerr

Kyra Kerr identified as a Black bisexual woman. Although Kyra defined bisexuality as liking “both men and women,” she personally thought of bisexuality as less literal and more of an attraction to those who shared her gender identity and those who

173 did not. Kyra used to use the term “pansexual” to describe her sexuality but felt

“bisexual” was more easily understood by others. The transition to college provided Kyra with an opportunity to redefine herself and adopt the label which fit her best.

Kyra was born in the South but moved to a large, West Coast city when she was a young child. Her family relocated to a suburb close to Midwestern State and Kyra graduated from a Midwestern high school. Although there were not many Black students in California, Kyra perceived a more profound lack of people with minoritized identities when she moved to the Midwest. She did, however, find LGBQ+ identities were accepted, and she established a friend group of predominantly LGBTQ+ people. Despite this acceptance, Kyra was cautious around new people. She feared they may hold misconceptions of bisexuality or otherwise bigoted views. “I already had to deal with microaggressions from being Black,” she explained, “so I didn't want to deal with also…telling people I'm pansexual.” Kyra also felt she could not come out to her parents.

Kyra came from a Jamaican family, and although her parents were not homophobic, she feared her larger family would not understand if she came out as bisexual. Kyra recalled visiting Jamaica as a teenager shortly after the U.S. had legalized same-sex marriage and hearing prejudiced messaging around queer identities. Further,

Kyra grew up listening to Reggae music, some of which included homophobic lyrics.

Despite receiving hurtful messages from her culture, Kyra shared, “no matter what, I'm still Jamaican, that's, I cannot change about me. And I see bisexuality as the same thing.

It's something that it, that I identify as, and I can't really change about myself.” She

174 navigated this tension by supporting Jamaican artists who identify as LGBTQ+ or who do not promote homophobia.

Media representations of bisexuality, however, were practically nonexistent when

Kyra was growing up. Further, Kyra felt that while people may have an idea of what a lesbian looks like, they do not have a similar image of bisexuality. As such, Kyra assumed most people believed she was straight. She did not outwardly show her bisexuality, nor did she own any pride flags or accessories. Like most students interviewed, Kyra shared “I guess I’m just more, just more of the mind of ‘mind your own business.’ … [My bisexuality] doesn't really necessarily concern you unless it, unless it should. And that only will happen if you actually know me.” Kyra was also aware of how her presentation was contextually dependent:

In environments that are mostly black, I have not, I know I'm more presenting,

“I'm black, I'm Jamaican,” but I'm hiding this identity while, in environments

where I'm more in LGBT spaces, I'm more openly saying “I'm bi.” So, I think just

the duality of that, I approach different situations based off the environment I am

in because of that.

As a child, Kyra’s family relocated to a primarily white area and she quickly became aware that people notice and care about race. This realization shaped the way Kyra came to think about her bisexual identity as well because she figured sexuality must also be something people notice. If people could make assumptions of Kyra based on her race, they might also make assumptions about her sexuality.

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Kyra’s racial identity also informed her choice of college; she selected MSU because it had a merit-based scholars program centered on diversity and inclusion. Most of her friends on campus were queer People of Color with whom she can joke about her sexual identity. In academic settings, however, Kyra was more reserved. Although she did not feel her personality shifted across campus contexts, Kyra did alter her presentation and chose how much to disclose about her sexuality based on her level of comfort.

Liam

Liam identified as a white, non-binary pansexual. They shared, “I label myself as pansexual because I feel like I'm attracted to people of all genders, but then I also know that a lot of bisexual people feel the same way.” They also felt their non-binary identity informed the sexual identity label with which they felt most comfortable.

Liam grew up in a small college town about an hour from MSU’s campus.

Although the community was predominantly white and heterosexual, the presence of a university fostered a culture of acceptance. Liam’s family was also accepting of

LGBTQ+ identities; their parents were LGBTQ-friendly ministers and their older sister was active in her school’s Gender-Sexuality Alliance. Despite this, Liam struggled with their own identity. They did not know any LGBTQ+ adults, which made envisioning a future for themself difficult. Further, many of their close friends were members of more conservative churches and espoused homophobic views. Others were generally accepting but had a difficult time understanding Liam’s pansexuality.

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Liam was raised with supportive messaging about lesbian and gay people, but felt their parents misunderstood bisexual and trans identities. Although they are open to their family about their pansexuality, they have not yet shared their own non-binary identity.

Liam had to explain their pansexual identity to a brother who was unfamiliar with the queer community. They noted, “I feel like that made my identity like, I was a little bit more aggressive about it. Like, I felt like I had to be more out to make him understand who I was.” Conversely, Liam dated men during high school who pretended Liam’s pansexuality did not exist. As a result, Liam was “more quiet about my identity.” They felt that although these experiences had different impacts on their identity, both were

“pretty important.”

Liam’s sexuality was often assumed based on their haircut and style of dress, which often changed. They also felt their different-gender relationships were more visible, which contributed to people’s assumption that Liam was a heterosexual, binary woman. They said it “doesn’t affect me much” when people misgender them or assume their heterosexuality, but did share, “I'm just kind of like, that's sad.” When Liam was in a place where they did not have to hide a part of who they are, they felt less anxious.

Liam also wore pansexual pride bracelets, buttons, and tee shirts. When people complimented them, “it makes me feel happy. It's also, it's happened a lot with teenagers, like people who look a little bit younger than me, which definitely makes me feel happy because I feel like I'm probably making them feel more comfortable with who they are.”

Overall, Liam “like[ed] that people know that I'm queer when they look at me and especially when I'm at MSU or in a community that I know is more accepting.”

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Liam noted that their residence hall community was particularly affirming and included many LGBTQ+ students. There were campus environments that were less accepting, however. Liam was a pre-nursing major and lamented that the field was mostly straight, white women. Academically, it was a very “heteronormative space. So no one's really said anything negative, but it definitely like, I don't feel like it's a space where I'm very out.” Like many participants, Liam would not proactively bring up their sexual identity, but if they were asked, they were open to sharing. They felt that their sexuality rarely showed up on campus and wished there was more opportunity in class to discuss queer sexualities. Knowing that they might have to be more reserved in their sexuality in the nursing classroom made Liam “want to get involved, especially in the nursing…I feel like once I get into the nursing school, I would kind of like to get involved in increasing that diversity and possibly education about LGBT people in the medical community.”

Lydia

Lydia identified as a bisexual Puerto Rican woman. She defined bisexuality as sexual preferences based on male and female gender. Lydia grew up in a large

Midwestern city in a predominantly Latinx neighborhood. She found it easy to navigate her sexuality in her school community because many of her friends were queer. At home with her traditional Hispanic family, however, Lydia struggled. When her parents discovered she had been seeing a masculine-presenting woman, they “grew their suspicions” and “basically threw me out of the closet and then were just completely shutting me down.” Lydia recounted the painful moment when her father told her “this is

178 wrong. This is not how it’s supposed to be.” Although Lydia was now more confident and outspoken in her sexuality, she will not revisit her identity with her parents until she is financially independent in case they continue to react poorly.

Lydia found support among her friends, but they tended to tease her about

“choosing a side.” Her gay friends picked up on the fact that she did not typically “go out there and really make [her bisexuality] known,” going so far as telling her “the gay community doesn't want you because you're so straight passing. You don't embrace it.”

Lydia shared that she took these comments with a grain of salt because they were coming from her friends, but she did seem bothered by the idea that they may have actually believed what they were saying.

Lydia found it frustrating that people assumed she was straight because she presents as feminine. Although she recognized the privilege in being able to pass as straight, she stressed that the choice to pass was not intentional. She was typically open about her bisexuality and mentioned past female partners. She also had a rainbow emoji on her Instagram page, a rainbow pin on her bag, and a pride flag in her residence hall room. Despite these efforts at openness, Lydia noted that being in a predominantly white, more conservative part of the Midwest made her cautious and, at times, fearful. Lydia shared, “Okay, I'm already a girl. And then it's like, okay, woman. Then she's Hispanic and then Puerto Rican specifically and then bisexual and it's just and from [my home city], so this inner-city place.” These identities made Lydia feel particularly visible on campus and she was highly aware of the assumptions her classmates held. She felt caught between a need to protect herself and to prove herself. In many on-campus contexts,

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Lydia characterized her experience using the metaphor of a cloud; “although I'm still gay, it's one of those things that's hazy where it's just like, there's something masking, covering it. Like I was saying earlier, I don't openly say it.” This decision not to “openly say it” was critical for Lydia’s physical and emotional safety. At the same time, she was a vocal advocate for the queer community and for diversity and inclusion more broadly.

M identified as bisexual, Hispanic, and nonbinary. They defined bisexuality as attraction to male and female people. Although they clarified that they were also attracted to people who identify as trans, they found the term “bisexual” to be simplest to use. M felt their nonbinary identity made it easier for them to identify as bi because “there's not a lot of, um, not a requirement...assumptions to be made. So, I felt more comfortable. Like there's less demanded of me [because I am nonbinary].” At the same time, they wondered aloud in our interview if nonbinary people could be bi, raising the question of who gets to decide the labels one can or cannot adopt for themselves.

M grew up on the West Coast in a generally progressive area, although they moved to a smaller Midwestern town after high school. They mentioned it was common to see confederate flags to illustrate the climate of the community. M was raised Catholic in a Mexican immigrant family. Neither their parents, nor their hometown, was particularly tolerant of LGBTQ+ identities, although their teachers encouraged acceptance. M had to learn that being bisexual was nothing to be ashamed of. M’s brother identified as gay, and growing up, their mother told them both that homosexuality was immoral and they would go to hell; their father was “disgusted” by it. M felt scared of

180 their same-sex attraction. Apart from their brother, they did not have anyone in whom they could confide.

Unlike most participants, M’s sexuality and gender identity played a large part in their choice of where to attend college. Moving to the city in which MSU was located was instrumental in M’s growing comfort with their bisexuality. M had not thought much about their sexual identity prior to college. In the city, people were much more open, and

M became friends with others in the LGBTQ+ community. They also started to get hit on by men and attended their first Pride parade. M felt that, despite not being particularly masculine, they were often assumed to be gay. This did not bother them, but they were uncomfortable with gay men exoticizing them because of their Latinx ethnicity. Despite making connections with other queer people, M still struggled, noting, “I feel being bisexual is probably a little lonely in terms of finding other people like yourself, even with the community around it's, yeah. It's still a minority.”

M has a pride sticker on their laptop and is generally comfortable with it being visible, although they felt nervous affixing it to their computer. They also expressed worries about what other students might think upon seeing the sticker, and sometimes contemplated covering it. This happened most often in the campus libraries or dining halls. M was particularly cautious about revealing their sexual identity in environments they perceived to be less accepting, such as Christian organizations or athletic facilities.

Like many participants, however, M had not actively concealed their sexual identity.

Rather, it simply was not discussed. In instances where sexuality did come up, such as in smaller classes or with friends, they still felt nervous. M took part in group therapy

181 through MSU’s counseling center, and while they described the space as one in which their sexuality was welcomed, they added, “I was still pretty nervous about talking about it cause I haven't really mentioned it to many people, but um, yeah, they were cool with it.” It was clear that M was still unlearning the shame and fear instilled by their family while navigating campus as someone minoritized across ethnicity, gender, and sexuality.

Rachel

Rachel identified as being a bi cisgender woman who is both white and Latina.

Rachel defined bisexuality as “attraction to your own gender and other genders.”

Realizing that she was bi did not mean that much to her. “It was just like, ‘okay’,” she explained. Instead, Rachel considered her woman in STEM, Latina, and Jewish identities to be more salient, describing them as “pretty much the very oppressed groups.”

Although Rachel did not count bisexuals among the “very oppressed,” she did not paint a picture of bisexual acceptance. She grew up in a suburb of a large, Midwestern city and while her hometown and high school communities were generally accepting of

LGBTQ+ people, her family held more conservative views on sexuality. Rachel characterized her father as homophobic and explained that although her mother “claims not to be homophobic,” she has made disparaging comments about gay and bisexual people. Rachel recalled her mother telling her she “looked like a lesbian” when she did not wear jewelry. Her mom also said that she could personally “never date a bisexual man.”

Rachel’s friends were more accepting, but sexuality was usually not discussed.

Rachel also described herself as a “private person” who did not typically talk about her

182 romantic interests. Instead, she turned to the internet for information and validation. She had come out to her counselors and was now out to her roommate as well. Although she never “told” her roommate she identifies as bi, she did put “bi” in her Tumblr bio

“because then I was like, then she’ll see it and then she’ll know.”

In addition to negotiating her identity through social media, Rachel used fashion

(e.g. flannel shirts and denim on denim) to signal her bisexuality and always used gender- neutral terms when talking about her future partner. Additionally, she mentioned having male and female crushes to her roommate, an approach she described as “saying it without saying the whole sentence.”

Despite these efforts, Rachel did not mind “if straight people think I’m straight.”

She thought coming out would not likely change people’s perception of her but worried,

“you can never really know.” She was glad that her therapists treated her bisexuality “in passing” because that is how she treats it—“just kind of like, in passing.” Of all the participants with whom I spoke, Rachel was least out on campus and was very casual about her sexual identity. Being bi was simply not a significant part of who she is.

Remus

Remus identified as a white bisexual man. For Remus, being bisexual meant

“being attracted to both men and women.” He had also “considered being pansexual rather real lately. Just ‘cause the idea of being attracted to someone who is transgender is not uncomfortable to me, which I don't know if that does still count as bisexuality or not.” Remus had previously identified as straight and had repressed his same-gender thoughts growing up.

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Remus was one of the only participants to situate his sexual exploration in a historical context:

We grew up in a strange time where it's like we've seen massive homophobia but

then it's shifted to more acceptance. But getting caught in the middle of that is

really confusing and I feel like that's why there's probably a lot of people in our

generation that were like, I don't know what I can tell people or I don't know what

I can say.

Remus also felt that, as a man, U.S. society was less accepting of his sexuality than if he were a woman.

Remus’ family and religious life also shaped the way he thought about his sexuality. He grew up in a large Midwestern city with a Catholic mother and Jewish father and attended Catholic school for several years. When his father converted to

Christianity, Remus spent time in a Christian youth group where there was an implicit understanding that being gay was unacceptable. His father shamed him for his femininity, and Remus felt he would have explored his sexuality earlier had it not been for the way he was raised. Although Remus had a “super accepting” mother, he did not come out to her until several weeks prior to our interview. Growing up, Remus felt as a man, he could not talk about his bisexuality, particularly with other men. As such, he surrounded himself primarily with female friends and distanced himself from straight men. He is now at the point where he felt it was empowering to be bisexual, although certainly still difficult, something he was able to openly discuss with his bisexual girlfriend.

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On campus, Remus felt most comfortable in the English department because he did not have to think about how his bisexuality showed up in that space. He was much more guarded at fraternity parties and recounted a negative experience with his male roommates in which he was reprimanded for “acting gay.” Remus was frustrated by the fact that discussions of bisexuality were largely absent from the classroom because, whereas lesbian and gay students had an opportunity to explore their sexualities in an academic context, he did not. Remus also struggled to connect with other bisexual students on campus and noted he did not know even one other bisexual man.

Generally, Remus believed people assumed he was straight because he presents as masculine. He did discuss engaging in “code-switching” where he behaved differently with gay men and with women. He saw his ability to shift between contexts as largely positive; “I think I'm in a position where I can talk to both bisexual people, homosexual people and straight people, bringing those people together and being able to step up or step out when someone says something that's just ignorant.” Despite these moments of advocacy, like most participants, Remus felt his bisexuality was not often relevant and typically did not try to make it known because it did not seem necessary. He feared others would think he was bringing it up to gain attention and wished bisexuality was normalized.

Sarah

Sarah identified as a Black, bisexual woman. Rather than advancing a dictionary- style definition of bisexuality, Sarah explained what it meant for her:

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For me, it's not exactly like a binary. A lot of people assume that. But, for me

personally, that's not how I go about things. It's more of like, I don't know, I don't

ever want it to be just like 50/50 cause for me it's just like, it changes sometimes,

but it's just letting myself know that I'm okay with any gender…[It] just changes,

you know, over if I prefer a specific gender at a specific time, it doesn't change

the fact that I still think that I'm bisexual.

Prior to understanding herself in this way, Sarah thought she was heterosexual for many years. She added, “there was a long in between space where I knew I wasn't heterosexual but like again, I was still figuring stuff out.”

Sarah was raised in the Midwest. Her high school was located in a predominantly white area and, although there was a visible queer community, she did not participate as much as she would have wanted. Sarah was unable to connect with the queer students in her high school because they were primarily white and upper class. A few people in her high school were very open about their bisexuality but hearing her peers’ comments about those students (e.g., they were making it up or they would eventually change their minds) made Sarah question her own identity. “What if it’s not real,” she wondered. This caused doubt around what she could share about herself.

Sarah became more comfortable in her senior year and surrounded herself with a group of accepting friends. It was important for Sarah to come out to her parents prior to college. She tried dropping hints to her mom and thought the tomboy phase she went through would have clued her parents in to her sexuality. When she ultimately did come

186 out, her family was accepting. Sarah articulated a concern shared by many participants, however:

The closer I am with someone, sometimes the harder it was just to say it. Like my

parents for instance, they were the last people I told before I left home. So, I guess

it was harder ‘cause the most change can come out of that. Like, if I know you

super well and then I tell you and you don't react well, that's going to have the

most effect on my life.

On campus, she dropped her bisexuality into conversations but shared, “I never outright was like on a agenda to tell everyone. But if the topic of dating or whatever came up, I would feel so comfortable saying it at school ‘cause it didn't seem to matter as much.”

Her comfort casually coming out on campus was shaped by a campus climate which Sarah felt was inclusive of LGBTQ+ identities. Her experience had been informed by finding community within a queer Students of Color organization and she felt particularly validated in her campus’s Black cultural center.

Generally, Sarah had not actively concealed her bisexuality, but she was cautious off-campus in revealing her identity. When she encountered homophobic and binegative remarks, she would speak up but without mentioning her own identity. In class, she wondered if addressing myths about LGBQ+ sexualities might cause people to assume her queerness, but she became more comfortable with that. It felt good being able to talk about sexuality in the classroom. She also hoped to be more open with her roommates where she had previously been hesitant to “rub it” in. As Sarah navigated campus, she began to realize her sexuality was more important to her than she initially thought. In

187 addition, while she was hesitant to attend white-centered LGBTQ+ events, she was grateful for campus organizations that supported queer Students of Color.

Sharon

Sharon identified as a white, bisexual, cisgender woman. She described herself as

“being attracted to men and women…not necessarily exclusionary of non-binary people or trans people.” Sharon grew up in a liberal, upper-middle class suburb of the city in which Midwestern State was located. She described her home community as accepting of different lifestyles and did not observe anti-LGBTQ+ bullying in school. Although her high school had a Gay-Straight Alliance, it was not particularly active, a fact Sharon attributed to low-need given the positive school climate.

Sharon began to understand her bisexuality in middle school to early high school.

She never felt uncomfortable with herself or her same-gender attractions but, like many participants, she did not tell people she was bisexual unless it explicitly came up. Most of

Sharon’s friend group was LGBTQ+ and many were bi. She appreciated that she could openly discuss her sexuality with this group of peers. In other contexts (e.g., classes, work), however, she questioned whether it was appropriate to discuss sexual attraction at all, particularly queer sexualities.

Sharon also avoided discussing sexuality at home. Because she did not talk to her parents about attraction to either gender, she did not feel like she was hiding anything from them. Although she thought her parents would be generally accepting of her sexuality, she feared they would need to see “concrete, serious evidence of it before they

188 respect it.” It was not only her parents who Sharon felt would question the validity of her bisexual identity. She found people tended to “roll their eyes” at bisexuality.

Like most participants, Sharon’s bisexuality did not play a role in her choice of college. She began her studies at a private research university in upstate New York before transferring to MSU. She felt the campus was “pretty accepting” but “a big state school is probably going to have more people… I'm sure there's people here that hold beliefs that they don't support LGBTQ.” She also had not seen any positive messaging specific to bisexuality on campus.

Sharon thought her engineering major contributed to the assumption that she was straight. This assumption did not bother her, but she did note it made it more difficult to get the attention of women she might be interested in dating. She did not feel comfortable sharing her sexual identity in STEM contexts, or anywhere where academics were centered. Ultimately, she felt it would not be relevant to discuss her sexuality there and that people might view it as oversharing. Conversely, she felt no need to conceal her bisexuality on her club sport team because many of the members and at least one coach was queer. Sharon felt it was “refreshing” to have a queer-affirming space that was not centered on LGBTQ+ themes.

Sharon did little to actively signal her bisexuality to others. Among friends she would casually mention having crushes on women. She also dressed in ways she felt were often stereotypically associated with bisexuality, such as cuffing her jeans or wearing flannel shirts, but this was not an intentional strategy to be recognized as

189 bisexual. Sharon ultimately felt the choice to intentionally conceal her bisexuality was justifiable because it ensured her safety:

I'm still working on kind of solidifying my relationship with my identity just

because, because of some of the negative stereotypes about like LGBT that, well

about bi people like, ‘Oh, you're not LGBT if you're dating a man’ and stuff like

that. Like, those things go through my head when I'm thinking about

relationships. So, it's like, it's gonna like, things are changing all the time. Um, but

it is still kind of like a, like a question between, ‘am I in the LGBT community?’

Like, or in any particular situation, like ‘am I comfortable sharing something

that's literally part of my identity, but I might still have to conceal it?’

Sharon appreciated the camaraderie in being recognized as a member of the LGBTQ+ community by another queer person, but she was often mindful of the concern expressed above.

Sofia

Sofia identified as a Caucasian, queer cisgender woman. She defined bisexuality as “not necessarily romantic, but at least sexual attraction to two or more genders.” She was more comfortable using the term “queer” because it better captured her attraction to nonbinary and agender people. For Sofia, “calling myself bisexual or pansexual just doesn't give me enough freedom in how I want to deal with relationships.”

Sofia grew up in a small Midwestern suburb. She described her town as a

“bubble” and “basically all white.” She summed up the culture thusly: “Sunday was for

Church…Friday it was for football.” Sofia was raised in a Christian household where

190 sexuality was rarely discussed. When it was mentioned, it was not treated as a spectrum.

Sofia was not out to her family, and although she believed her parents would accept her, she felt it was “just better to keep it closed off.” Like many participants who worried that coming out would change the dynamics of their family or friendships, Sofia shared, “I enjoy our relationship right now and I'm not really willing to sacrifice like the peace that we currently have.” She had felt the relief of being able to share with her friends, but still hates having to hide a part of herself from her family.

On the other hand, she recognized that there was some privilege in being assumed straight: “Sometimes it's nice because I don't have to worry about people thinking of me differently or prejudging me based on what I identify as or what they think [I] identify as.” Even though Sofia felt MSU was “trying to create a welcoming community,” she recognized that students arrive on campus having been raised in homophobic environments and bring those opinions to college. She identified numerous invalidating messages about bisexuality and was hesitant to share her queer identity in many campus environments. This was particularly true of Christian organizations, with the exception of a newly created LGBTQ+ Christian student group. The presence of queer Christians on campus made Sofia more inclined to invest in her Christian identity.

Although Sofia felt it was “nice” to be presumed straight “just in terms of my unreadiness to come out,” she also knew it would become “a little annoying because I want to be my whole self.” She made some small efforts to make her queer identity known including wearing feminist buttons and tee-shirts. Like many participants, however, Sofia did not want to “impair” her academic or professional relationships by

191 revealing her queer identity. More recently, though, Sofia had become more comfortable with her identity and hoped that being open would help future students.

Summer

Summer identified as a Caucasian, bisexual woman. Like many students in this study, her Christian identity was highly important to her. For Summer, bisexuality was

“an equal attraction to both men and women.” Summer’s childhood years were spent in a tiny, rural, Bible Belt town in the Midwest. Her high school did have a Gay-Straight

Alliance (GSA), but she was unable to participate because of her home life; it would not have been safe for Summer if her family discovered her bisexual identity. Although she could not attend, Summer felt the mere presence of the GSA had a positive impact on students who were closeted like her. She did find a pocket of acceptance in performing arts activities, but overall, her school culture was openly racist and homophobic. The climate in the larger community was similar.

When Summer first began to think about her sexuality, her mental health declined, and she questioned her attraction to women. Both her parents and the church communicated the message that her attractions were unacceptable. Referring to what she heard in church, Summer shared:

It wasn't an outright “gay is bad.” It was more of like a, “we have people who

question their genders and their, you know, sexuality.” And I always felt like just

a sharp dagger. Like I felt, got all hot all over because I felt like I was being

targeted even though no one knew, you know? And it was just really hard for me

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to hear that the community that I grew up in and I loved so much, if I were to feel

like I could be my true self, I probably would not be accepted which sucked.

At home, she primarily felt shame. She felt she was living a double life because of the way she had to present herself to others. Among her family, she dressed more feminine.

She had even prayed in the hopes that her same-gender attractions would cease. When she came out to her mother during college, her mom shared she had people praying for her as well. Summer had not been able to come out to her father. In her home community,

Summer assumed people thought she was “a straight, good Christian girl.”

On campus, however, Summer attempted to make her bisexuality known. Being out made Summer feel “like I can breathe. Like I don't feel like I have to hide anything.”

She often used humor to signal her sexual identity and was intentional about the clothing she chose to wear. Summer shared that influencing others’ perceptions based on the way she dresses made her feel “in control...‘cause I’ve never had control over my life as a kid.” Dressing more androgynously has helped her feel more confident coming out to people and she believed most people assume she was a lesbian or bisexual. Overall,

Summer felt the transition to college had allowed her to explore her sexuality and feel more comfortable in her own skin, resulting in an improvement in her mental health.

However, Summer had struggled to navigate her identity between the queer and Christian communities. She feared coming out in the Christian community but hoped to connect with more LGBTQ+ Christians. Summer was not the only participant to express a desire to be more open. She referenced a queer Christian friend who would post things like

“God loves all his LGBT children,” and hoped one day she would be able to do the same.

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But although Summer held reservations about what she could share online, she did not lie about her sexual identity. She shared that if someone, “asked me like, you know, ‘do you like girls?’ I would say ‘yes.’ I would not be like, ‘no.’ That's me, like my way of being out of the closet.” Summer hoped that by being open in her Christian organization, she might help LGBTQ+ students that are not yet out.

Summary

I began this section by presenting participant narratives in their entirety to highlight what is unique about each person’s experience. Narratives also began to reveal commonalities across participants, both in terms of the contextual forces shaping their experiences and the identity negotiation strategies they employed. In the sections that follow, I expand on the two contextual factors—Pervasive Binegativity and the

Hegemony of Binaries—that informed these narratives, both in their content and form. I also detail the five themes characterizing identity negotiation strategies that emerged from the data—Settling for Simplicity, Transgressing Normativity, Downplaying

Bisexuality, Subtly Signaling Sexuality, and Outness as Advocacy.

Pervasive Binegativity

Thematic analysis revealed the way pervasive binegativity shaped participants’ experiences and informed their choice of identity negotiation strategies. Because identity negotiation is carried out in response to contextual demands, understanding participants’ identity negotiation narratives necessitates an appreciation for their contexts. Participants detailed home and campus environments rife with binegativity. Throughout our interviews, all participants recounted the myriad misconceptions held by monosexuals.

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These misconceptions are detailed in the subsequent sections and include the idea that bisexuality does not exist or is merely a phase, that bi people are “not gay enough” to be members of the queer community, and that they are attention-seeking and prone to infidelity. Hearing these beliefs had a detrimental impact on the students in this study and influenced how they negotiated their sexuality. In particular, participants often responded to these prejudices by distancing themselves from their bisexuality or confronting oppression despite finding it difficult to do so; most employed both strategies as I demonstrate throughout this chapter.

Pressing for Proof

Participants were often asked to provide evidence for their bisexuality, and they faced invasive questions from peers. Cecile, for example, had been asked, “Have you ever kissed a girl? Or like, have you ever slept with a girl? Have you dated a girl?” She felt people were “always, I guess, prying for proof.” I inquired as to how being asked to show evidence made her feel. Cecile responded:

I thought it was really demeaning, demeaning, even for people that I was really

close to, to ask me those questions, you know? I understand them being curious

because my public relationships have all been with men. Um, but I think that it's

demeaning for them to, I guess, want evidence.

For Lydia, these questions often came from prospective female partners who wondered if she was confused. Lydia would have to list her relationship history to prove she was serious about being with a woman.

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Liam explained the way this asking for evidence manifested as competition within the queer community:

There's competition between people who like, who wants to be the most queer. So

like, sometimes people are like, “Why, are you sure that you're bi or pan? Because

you haven't been in a really long, like a serious relationship with a female-

presenting person.” And I'm like, “Yeah, I'm still sure.” And it's just a lot of

things like that where people are like, “Well, you're not doing as many things as

this person, bi person has. This bi person’s dated seriously people of all genders

and you haven't.” And I'm like, “Well, that doesn't make me any less bisexual

than that person.”

Liam’s story was not unique. Kyra similarly recounted:

There was a person that was living on our [residence hall] floor last year who,

they were, I believe they were non-binary…and the roommate was bisexual. She

was bisexual and for some reason they as— they just thought that they weren't.

They didn't seem bisexual or things like that. So, it was almost like they didn't

really recognize that part of her identity, of their roommate’s identity, which was

very surprising because this was someone who very much prided themselves on

their knowledge of social justice and things like that. They had gone to

conferences and gotten awards for their work in LGBT topics and things like that.

But and yet still had this stereotype of, they believe bisexual people look or act a

certain way.

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As Kyra mentioned, participants were often asked to prove their bisexuality and had to contend with stereotypical notions of how a bisexual person looks or behaves.

Both Kyra and Liam expressed disappointment that invalidating messages at times came from other queer people. Liam hypothesized, “I think just people aren’t educated enough about it and…are insecure in who they are as people and are kind of projecting that.” Here, Liam alluded to the internalized binegativity which effected multiple participants in this study and caused them to question the validity of their sexuality.

This asking for proof or treating bisexuality as something that is “not real” left participants unsure of how valid bisexuality was or how open they should be. Although

Cecile was attracted to other women, she felt that campus events marketed towards lesbian women might not be accepting of her bisexuality. Her quotes captured sentiments of discomfort and invalidation and are presented at length:

Cecile: I guess I would just be kind of uncomfortable, you know, with the

suspicion that the people there might be wondering why I'm there or be

questioning my validity, I guess.

Kaity: So, what is that feeling of invalidation? How do you experience that?

Cecile: I guess it's more of an internal thing, not necessarily facilitated by other

people. I experience it mostly when people ask me about my sexual experiences

or romantic experiences with women.

Kaity: So, you, can you say a little bit more about that? When they're asking you

those things, is it how, why do you get the sense that they're asking?

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Cecile: Um, the sense that?

Kaity: So, if people are asking about, “Oh, have you dated a woman” or, you

know…How do you interpret the messaging behind that question?

Cecile: Yeah. It feels a little bit like an interrogation. Some people, you know, it's

understandable, they're just curious and just want to know. But depending on the

context or I guess number of questions that they ask and make it feel a little bit

more like they're attacking me.

Here, Cecile showed a willingness to excuse well-intentioned albeit invalidating, microaggressive questions. At times, peers went further than simply questioning whether participants were bisexual enough. Some outright rejected the idea that bisexuality was a valid sexual identity.

There’s No Such Thing

Participants were told bisexuality did not exist. “I remember someone telling me bisexuality was not even a real thing,” Deen shared. Sofia, Jessica, and Gadiel echoed similar sentiments and Lydia voiced feeling particularly frustrated when she received these messages from others within the queer community:

I hear smack about bisexuality all the time. Like, oh! Like gay people even saying

bisexuality’s not real…Like you’re just, you know, experimenting, you’re

confused or stuff like that. So, I think especially within the— own community,

that’s mad. I took that extra hard because there’s a lot of people trying to tell me

what I am and what I’m not.

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Hearing these comments led some participants to question the reality of their sexual attractions. Sarah further shared:

It really made me also question, like, I was already questioning. Even though I

had the label, there was still moments of doubt. Like, am I really this? That's why

it took me forever to tell my family ‘cause I was just like, well what am I? What if

it's not real and what if I changed my mind? And then that also contributed to it

because it's not even if I feel that way, but if people don't think that I'm being

genuine, it caused a little bit of doubt how much I could share about myself.

Here Sarah captured the experience of self-doubt and alluded to the idea that bisexuality was a phase or something she would change her mind about.

The Presumption of Monosexuality

The idea that bisexuality did not exist was closely related to the idea that participants were simply confused or going through a phase that would result in a monosexual identity. All participants, except for Rachel and Deen, shared examples where others felt they would ultimately choose a side, or that they were in fact gay or straight. That Rachel and Deen did not provide examples of this experience was likely because the initial interview did not explicitly cover misconceptions about bisexuality.

As Gadiel explained, the presumption of monosexuality manifested as “overt biphobia,” where he would be told “you have to choose a side,” or as

“microaggressions,” such as “Which [gender] do you like more?” The belief that participants were simply “confused” or actually straight or gay was laden with gendered assumptions. Male participants, such as Gadiel, shared experiences of hearing “you’re

199 just gay and you don’t want to say it.” Participants who did not identify as men had heard similar sentiments. Liam, for example, said, “especially for men being bisexual was just, they were gay and not ready to come out.”

The comments made about women were more complicated. Sofia had heard, “if you’re dating a girl, you’re a lesbian.” But Cecile explained that bisexual women are seen as “just fetishizing other women but really they’re attracted to men.” Because the majority of women and feminine-presenting people in this study were typically coupled with men or masculine-presenting partners, they were most often assumed to be heterosexual. Remus described this gendered dynamic thusly:

There’s this weird double standard with bisexuality and I feel like there’s this

whole power of the penis movement where it’s like, if you’re a bi woman that

means you’re just straight. And if you’re a bi man, that mean’s your just gay.

In this sense, not only was monosexuality hegemonic, but patriarchy was as well. Yet although participants were sometimes told they were “just gay,” they struggled to feel

“gay enough.”

Not Gay Enough

Participants recounted painful stories of being told they were unwanted and did not belong in the queer community. Lydia, for instance, had been told “the gay community doesn’t want you” and “you’re not gay enough.” Sharon felt this viewpoint was “closed minded,” elaborating:

It's again kind of a reinforcement of people not believing bi people when they say

like, “No really, I like more than one gender” because then they'll, they see if

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you're in a different-gender relationship. Well, just say like, “Oh, well either they

don't actually like two genders. They were lying about it and now they're just like,

they're not actually seriously going to commit to any one of the same gender or

two, they're, they don't care enough to include themselves in the LGBT

community. Like, they're purposefully separating themselves by dating someone

of the opposite gender.”…Some queer people would say the fact that you're, you

have the potential for a straight relationship at all, removes you from the LGBT

community…It's those kind of gatekeeping things. Um, which is unfortunate

because the LGBTQ community is supposed to be very accepting and help those

who feel a little bit pushed out.

Sharon provided more concrete examples, as well. She said, “I see tweets like ‘if you’re bi and you’re dating, like if you’re not in a same-gender relationship, don’t come to

Pride.” She also had heard some gay women say, “Oh, I can’t be with a girl who’s been with a guy before. That’s gross.”

Being told that they were not gay enough or that they were gross for having sexual experiences with people of more than one gender negatively influenced how bisexual students thought about their bisexuality. Sharon was still unsure if she belonged to the LGBTQ+ community or if she was comfortable sharing her bisexual identity when she still chose to conceal it at times. Remus also struggled with this sense of belonging.

He shared:

Being bi is very intimidating to be ‘cause like I said, I feel like I don’t belong in

the culture. Um, it’s really easy to feel like, I don’t know, prejudice from other

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LGBTQ members. Like just being like, “Oh, you’re not actually gay.” Which is

crazy ‘cause I’m like, just ‘cause I’m still a part of straight culture doesn’t mean

that I’m not a part of gay culture.

Remus’s comments were indicative of the invalidating messages bisexual people received, but also the internalized misconception that bisexual people were part straight and part gay.

M alluded to the reasoning for this gatekeeping behavior within the queer community detailed above. They argued:

I feel like there’s a hierarchy of people who are discriminated or like the,

depending on what you identify as. I think because bisexual people aren’t

discriminated as much, at least from what I’ve known, their experiences are

overlooked because, oh, it’s not the worst you’ve been treated because here’s a

transgender woman who’s lesbian.

M’s comment alluded to the idea that, with limited power, queer and trans people might fight among themselves for what limited respect and resources do exist. The allusion to a hierarchy of oppression, the notion of not being gay enough, or even Remus’s reference to straight culture, demonstrated the pervasive and at times internalized thinking that bisexuality was a less marginalized combination of heterosexuality and homosexuality.

Binary Assumptions

Students described how binary assumptions held by others manifested in frustrating comments about their bisexuality. These hegemonic binary assumptions also influenced participants’ internalized sense of gender and sexuality as I describe in the

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Hegemony of Binaries contextual theme. Participants voiced annoyance at the assumption that their bisexuality was “50%, 50%,” as Sarah put it. Alluding to the related assumption that bisexuality is inherently transphobic, she elaborated, “and then some people, which is understandable, they ask like, ‘are trans people included in that?’” Sarah stressed that “it’s not the same for every single person.” For example, whereas M said “I don’t think I have a [gender] preference,” Jessica explained, “it doesn’t have to be very concrete of 50, 50. You can like girls more than guys or you can like guys more than girls, but it’s still part of being bisexual and it doesn’t mean that in future years I’m going to have to accept either just being lesbian or just being straight.” Relatedly, Liam emphasized, “it isn’t just an in between of straight and gay. It’s its own identity and it can be different for a lot of people.” As Liam’s quote highlights, and as this research demonstrates, bisexual people had vastly different experiences and ways of defining their sexuality, yet there was a tendency for monosexual people to assume a shared experience.

Attention-Seeking

Students were told they were “faking it, or they just want attention,” as Sharon put it. M summarized the way this made it hard for them to be openly and proudly bisexual when they shared, “I want to be proud of what [I] identify [as], but I feel like some people think I’m trying to get attention.” M concluded this thought with a dejected,

“Yeah,” capturing the sadness and frustration students felt when their sexuality was questioned. M, who had a pride sticker on their laptop, then went on to say, “It doesn’t feel good. Yeah. Yeah. [I] just try to focus on my work, but it does get distracting.”

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Participants also identified the gendered dynamics of “attention-seeking.” Sharon, for instance, believed others were most likely to say that a bisexual person is claiming the identity for attention “especially if you’re a girl.” Summer explained:

It’s for attention a lot of times. Like, that’s more of a straight girl type of thing. If,

yeah. Oh, you’re just, you just want attention and that’s why you’re dancing with

a girl in the club, because you know, guys think that’s hot.

This opinion of bisexual women as seeking the attention of men was closely related to the hypersexualization of bisexual women, as I go on to discuss.

Nonmonogamy and Promiscuity

Peers and potential partners felt participants were more likely to cheat, or to leave for a new partner of a different gender than their current partner. Half of the students interviewed shared an experience where they had heard this viewpoint. Gadiel shared that gay men told him, “You’re going to stop fucking with me because you want to go back to girls, like you just, like I’m just a toy, like a plaything.” Sarah voiced the concern that bisexuals “cheat more than other people. I think that’s a big weird misconception.” Not only were bisexual students receiving the message that they were more likely to cheat,

Liam explained: “For some of my friends, it was really hard for them to separate the concept of polyamory with bisexuality. I still wanted to be with one person. It just, like their gender didn’t matter.” Although some bisexual people are nonmonogomous, as

Katrina pointed out, “that’s somebody’s choice. That’s not every bi person.”

Relatedly, bisexuals were assumed to be “promiscuous,” “greedy,” hypersexual, or as Sharon put it, “uncontrollable sex monsters.” At times, this manifested in their

204 fetishization. Ten participants shared incidents where they heard bisexuality described in these terms. Alex, Lydia, Katrina, and Kyra specifically mentioned the assumption that they would be interested in group sex. Summer described being hypersexualized by men, which she explained “makes me feel kind of angry because I feel like it’s demeaning my sexuality, because if it’s like my sexuality is only for sex, it’s not for who I am.” One of the few men in this study, Gadiel also felt gay men fetishized him as a result of his masculinity. “It’s like you,” he started to explain, “People think that you’re more masculine because you are attracted to more than one gender.” Participants described this assumption of promiscuity as “frustrating.” “I just hate that,” Lydia stressed.

Kyra reacted to this hypersexualization by becoming more withdrawn. She:

just deleted all dating apps and things like that because…it definitely made me

realize, Oh I thought it was just a stereotype that people thought bisexual people

just meant that you were into a three-way. No, people really just generally think

that.

In addition to these pervasive negative attitudes and assumptions around bisexuality detailed above, students also recounted a miscellany of hurtful sentiments they had encountered. For example, Alex’s mother told her, “you can just talk about it during counseling and they'll fix it,” implying her bisexuality was something that needed to be corrected. When Alex did disclose her bisexuality to her counselor, the counselor argued

Alex’s bisexuality was a result of trauma. Similarly, Cecile, who did not grow up with her biological father, described a stereotype pervasive in her home community that a

205 queer sexuality was the result of “daddy issues.” Sofia mentioned a belief that one cannot be a good Christian and also be queer—a stereotype she was actively working to combat.

Homophobia and Religion

Many participants grew up in environments that were heavily informed by organized religion. Although Sharon described instances where her Jewish youth group imparted messages of acceptance towards LGBTQ+ people, most participants recounted hearing hateful rhetoric regarding homosexuality. This was particularly true for participants who were raised in Christian, Catholic, and Muslim families or communities.

It is important to note that, because of the tendency towards binary thinking, very few of these messages were specific to bisexuality; rather, participants were taught that homosexuality was a sin. Sofia, for example, reflected on the “hate the sin, love the sinner mindset,” noting “so you hate a large portion of my identity, yet you still say that you love me.” Alex found this hypocritical rhetoric within the Christian community particularly hurtful, and harder to ignore than more explicit condemnations of bisexuality:

It's been not necessarily the comments telling me I'm going to hell that are the

most hurtful or that are the most impactful on the way I like to be myself. It's been

a lot of those kind of smaller comments that are like…hate the sin and love the

sinner kind of thing. And those kinds of remarks that that aren't necessarily the

blatant “you're going to hell” because those is easy to brush off. It's like, or like,

“Oh, I would consider going to your gay wedding.” I've heard that one, I was like,

“interesting.” Or I'm like, “Oh, like all sin is equal so I'm not gonna judge you

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more than someone else.” Things like that are definitely have been the most

challenging to kind of manage.

Alex was also kept from positions of leadership within some Christian churches or organizations because of her bisexuality, although she ultimately found a church that fully embraced her. Whereas these hateful messages prompted Alex to search for a supportive church, Sofia migrated away from organized religion. Although she was still invested in the queer Christian community on campus, she explained why she would no longer attend formal church services:

I did go to a United Methodist church and recently, I think it was back maybe

February or something, they voted to not allow LGBTQ clergy. And so up until

then I kind of had my teenage rebellion, kind of like, I didn't want to go to church.

Church is an institution that hates gay people. I was going through my whole

teenage rebellion right there. But that kind of solidified me not going to church

anymore. I just, it's to me, it sent a message, “We don't welcome LGBT leaders,

so why should we welcome LGBT followers?”

Participants’ narratives captured the ways they had to be mindful of how they could engage with religion as bisexual people. Some found affirming religious or spiritual communities. Others, like Gadiel, kept their identity hidden for fear of being “thrusted in front of the entire church and asked to confess.” Deen broke with her faith entirely.

Deen shared how these messages influenced her bisexual identity:

I grew up Muslim, so I, for most of my life I identified as straight, like

heterosexual because I was raised Muslim and in the religion it's just not, it's not

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allowed for you to be anything other than heterosexual. And I remember always

being attracted to girls, but in my head I was, I had told myself that it was normal

as a straight female to have those attractions.

She went on to explain, “I think just growing up religious has such deep-rooted effects on your, on your mental, uh, just how you think about everything.” For Deen, her religion imparted a sense of guilt and embarrassment. In thinking about her bisexuality, she shared, “it was there deep down, but I couldn't like verbally identify myself as that.”

Here, Deen used the euphemism “that” rather than naming her bisexuality, a semantic move which spoke to the enduring nature of this shame. M was similarly raised to believe that homosexuality was “immoral;” they explained, “I was raised Catholic and I think that made me like not really be comfortable with exploring other identities.” For participants like Deen and M, it was necessary to distance themselves from their religious upbringing in order to explore their bisexuality.

Hegemony of Binaries

In addition to the ubiquity of binegativity, participant narratives also spoke to the pervasive nature of gender and sexuality binaries. This contextualizing theme emerged from a dialogic/performance analysis of the data and illustrates the way participants often replicated the binary logics that prohibited a more expansive understanding of bisexuality. Although most participants defined bisexuality in ways that rejected a gender binary, they nevertheless spoke about gender and sexuality in terms that reinforced these binaries, demonstrating the hegemonic nature of binaries and revealing the ways participants themselves internalized them. Remus, for example, used the language of

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“both genders” and discussed bisexuality in a way that sounded more akin to both heterosexuality and homosexuality rather than as its own orientation:

This is cool that I have this capability of being open to both genders and both

people. Um, I think it can be hard, um, because I am, and I talked to my girlfriend

about this because she's the same way. I think that because it's like we're both

60% heterosexual, um, we're more selective with the people that we're attracted to

that are men or for her that are women. Um, and so it's harder to find like what I

would want because I think there's traditional forms of homosexuality with both

genders.

Katrina mentioned being “fine” with being assumed straight because “I mean like I do like guys, so like it's like partially true.”

Further illustrating the pervasive nature of the gender binary, even participants who themselves did not identify with such a binary reproduced this language. M recalled watching a movie with “some woman making out with another woman and then a guy.

And I thought it was something like something women would do to like for men. And I didn't actually think about it in terms of like a guy being attracted to both genders.”

Sharon illustrated the way it was difficult to counter this tendency to speak about gender in binary terms when she discussed binegative assumptions:

If you're in a different-gender relationship we'll just say like, “Oh well, either they

don't actually like two genders, they were lying about it and now they're just like,

they're not actually like seriously going to commit to any one of the same gender

or two, they're, they don't care enough to include themselves in the LGBT

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community. Like they're purposefully separating themselves by dating someone

of the opposite gender,” which both of those are not true but those are

justifications for why people might say like especially bi people in ops— like, in

different-gender relationships but even still for people who aren't even in a

relationship.

Here Sharon used both “different-gender” and “opposite gender;” she later began to say

“opposite” before correcting to “different.” It was unsurprising that participants internalized this way of thinking and speaking about sexuality given the society in which they grew up. Alex, for example, was raised to believe sexuality “was very binary. It was very much either you are 100% gay, you are 100% straight. You will never look at any man ever. You will never look at any woman ever.” Alex was not unique in this experience. Sofia shared:

My parents kind of saw or taught us or told us about sexuality as little as they did

in terms of black and white. You either are a guy that likes guys or you're a guy

that likes girls or a girl that likes girls or a girl that likes guys. There's not a

spectrum.

Although participants’ own attractions and experiences did not align with this binary conceptualization of sexuality and gender, unlearning these discourses was thus a process that required intentional correction. Remus provided a more recent example:

I remember a moment in high school, I was dating a girl for two and a half years

and I think senior year I said something like, “I think I'm like 60% gay.” And then

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she was like, “Well doesn’t that mean you're just gay?” And I was like, “yeah, I

guess.”

At times, it was easiest for participants to capitulate to binary logics, as explaining gender and sexuality binaries to others was difficult. Opting for the easier option was one of several identity negotiation strategies participants employed to address binegativity, monosexism, and erasure. The two themes I have just presented—Pervasive Binegativity and Hegemony of Binaries—provide the context necessary for understanding the five identity negotiation strategies I go on to describe. These five strategies emerged as themes from the data and include not only what choices participants made, but also how they felt about having to employ such strategies.

Settling for Simplicity

Social identities are constantly being negotiated as individuals adjust their behaviors in response to changing circumstances and prejudice. One identity negotiation strategy employed by many participants with regard to their bisexuality was the strategic selection of identity label. Regardless of the term that most resonated with them, participants would often select the term they felt would be most easily understood by others. This often meant eschewing the terms “pansexual” and “queer,” and opting for

“bisexual” or even “gay.” This strategy reduced the emotional or explanatory labor students had to engage in regarding their sexuality. In this section I detail the way participants hoped to limit others’ confusion, questions, or misconceptions and to more easily make themselves understood. Students considered their audience, and the assumptions those individuals were likely to hold, when choosing a label. Yet as I go on

211 to demonstrate, even the simplest term (i.e., bisexual) carried with it significant negative connotations that shaped bisexual students’ experiences both on and off campus. Because of the invisibility of bisexuality and the pervasive assumption that it does not exist, participants were often assumed to be straight. This invisibility allowed for students to settle for simplicity by avoiding misconceptions about their sexuality altogether. I conclude this section with a discussion of this strategy; participants often settled for simplicity by allowing their assumed heterosexuality to go uncorrected in the interest of protecting their emotional and physical well-being.

Making Themselves Understood

Numerous participants employed the language of simplicity or ease in explaining why they most often used the term “bisexual” when sharing their sexuality with others. M confessed they were “still confused about the whole bisexual versus pansexual thing… but bisexuality seems simple to use.” Alex felt, “with older people, not like old, but like my mom and things like that, she doesn't understand what queer means. Um, so I think for her bi is a lot easier.” In this way, considerations around ease of understanding were at times for others’ benefits as much as they were for the participants.

The participants preferred terms that, as Sarah put it, “more people like, they're going to be like, “Oh, okay. I know what that is.’” The goal was to avoid terms like

“pansexual” that often resulted in a response like “what the heck is that?” as Liam shared.

Numerous participants, including Liam, Lydia, Rachel, Cecile, Sarah, and Jessica, explained that it was not just that they were bothered by a lack of understanding. Rather, they wanted to avoid the at times invasive questions that often followed. Rachel

212 described herself as “a person who doesn’t want to have to explain things to people,” which is why she adopted a more “well-known” label even though she felt the term

“pansexual” also described her. “It’s a lot to explain it,” Liam noted, referring to the emotional toll the need to defend their sexuality took. “I wish people would use the pansexual label more,” they explained, “because I do think of it as an umbrella term under bisexuality.” Liam was often told “well, nobody knows what that means, which makes me sad.” Cecile admitted that choosing a label for the benefit of others was

“definitely submissive…I guess in some ways, I am shying away from the community as a whole by avoiding, you know, but…” Here, Cecile trailed off in thought. Despite wrestling with this idea of submission, Cecile knew she was making a choice based on what was easiest for her, and by extension, her own well-being. These choices were typically shaped by how likely whomever they were speaking to would be to understand the terms they used, and their familiarity with bisexuality in general.

Participants considered the assumptions people were likely to hold about various identities and this informed their choice of label. While most participants felt the term

“bisexual” allowed them to avoid the most misunderstandings, Alex found that it was easiest to use the term queer:

I think I like using queer, I think more than I like using bi depending, but it just

feels like a lot less like, Oh, you have to define this. Um, because like, I don't

know, I feel like sexuality can be pretty fluid. And so, saying queer is like, people

don't automatically assume like, Oh, you're only attract— I dunno. It's like, it

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feels a lot more fluid and a lot more encompassing…lot more open to exploring

sexuality.

Alex, like many participants, wanted to avoid the assumption that bisexuality was inherently binary and restrictive.

Alex articulated the way she chose to identify was based on “the different perceptions people have of it.” She offered the example of the Christian community where using the term bi allowed others to presume she could simply choose to date men.

Alex’s comments on the Christian community were indicative of the consideration students paid to audience when considering which term to employ.

In addition to religious affiliation, Alex also considered the age of those around her, as explained above. For Gadiel, on the other hand, his thought process centered the

“knowledge of the people in the room.” Like Alex, however, Gadiel did often opt for the term queer, which he felt was “more encompassing” and “people just understand what, what it means.” He went on to clarify, however, that “that's very specific to a college campus, like an academic space because that word is, I guess more reclaimed, I guess. It's not as pejorative as it would be in a non-collegiate, non-academic space.” Likewise, he would use the term “pansexual” around academics who he felt would understand it.

Colloquially, he would go by “gay” among other queer people. This strategy allowed

Gadiel to build camaraderie with LGBQ+ people, but it also represented a capitulation to binary ways of thinking.

Despite using queer most frequently, when I asked Gadiel which word he would prefer I use in writing up these findings, he deferred; “you can use bisexual. That's

214 fine…since it tailors to your study.” Sofia went through a similar thought process, sharing:

Sometimes I flow through different kinds of ways I introduce myself if I am

coming out to a person. Whatever's just easier for some people to understand

because people part of the LGBT community are more able to understand saying

like, “Oh, I'm queer” because I feel like the LGBT community has taken

ownership back of that word. Whereas it used to be a slur and as a straight person

using it, it would be still kind of like a slur. So, if I'm introducing myself to

someone who doesn't have much experience, I'll use bisexual and then just

explain a little bit further. Um, but if they're an ally of the community or part of

the community, I'll use queer or pansexual, but mainly queer if, if it's comfortable

and fits the situation.

Here again, Sofia’s decision-making took her comfort into consideration.

Katrina succinctly summarized the challenge participants faced in making this choice: “Not that people would really understand [bisexuality] that well, but they understand it better than like pansexual.” Despite the intentionality with which participants selected the word for their sexuality, misunderstandings, including some of their own, persisted. Ultimately, although “bisexual” may have been a more intelligible label, misconceptions about bisexuality were pervasive and shaped students’ experiences across the themes expanded upon throughout this chapter.

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Not Having to Deal with It

Not only did monosexual peers have numerous misconceptions about bisexuality, they also frequently misread bisexual participants as straight. Protecting their physical and emotional safety often meant participants allowed their assumed heterosexuality to go uncorrected. As Kyra discussed:

In the classroom people I think people assume I'm straight, so I go around with no

sort of worry about my sexuality in a sense or fear about it. So, because I know

people aren't going to bring it up, there's no situation for them to bring it up. So I

don't worry about it.

This ability to pass as straight was a form of erasure, but it also was a kind of privilege.

Lydia spoke about this at length, and acknowledged the way her gay and lesbian peers might not have this same ability:

I don't know that whole straight passing thing. I understand it and I, I don't know.

I know a lot of my gay friends who are, I dunno, they're very like, “Oh, well you

need to understand that, like it, things are easier for you because you look like

that.” And I do understand that there's me having the [feminine] style that I do

have and everything. It does open up more spaces for me being that I am straight

passing and because of that, I am given more opportunities in one way or another

and I don't have these looks and when I'm by myself, I don't worry like, Oh my

God, this person's going to come at me. It's because of my sexuality, you know?

Now, when I'm out in the street holding hands with one of my [female] partners,

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then that fear comes to me. But for a lot of my friends that fear is constantly on

them, you know?

Lydia spoke to the opportunities afforded to straight, or straight-passing, people in a heteronormative society. She understood that she did not struggle with the pervasive fear some of her lesbian and gay peers did. At the same time, being told “things are easier for you because you look like that” was a microaggression that undermined Lydia’s very real experiences with discrimination. Gadiel similarly noted:

Different spaces require different things. Again, the privilege that I have of not

being, not having to talk about my sexuality because people assume one way or

the other. They're not having that, that to have to talk about that.

He did elaborate on this idea, however, referring to bisexuality as a “gray area” because this ability to pass only worked for people who are “masculine presenting as a man or feminine presenting as a woman.” Participants in this study often did adhere to these normative gender presentations, however, because they were socialized to.

Transgressing Normativity

As described above, pervasive binegativity influenced students’ identity negotiation. Further, the ways in which participants were socialized into heteronormative society—by institutions such as family, church, and school—informed how they came to understand their bisexuality and how they negotiated their identity. I demonstrate the influence of each of these institutions on bisexual identity negotiation throughout this section.

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Family Dynamics

Students talked about being socialized into rigid gender roles. Men, in particular, received clear corrections when they transgressed these normative expectations. Remus recalled,

a moment when I was like, I want to say eight years old, nine years old. Um,

when I was just at camp or something and I got back into the car with my dad and

I was talking probably more effeminately and he just was like, “Don't talk like

that. Don't talk like that and you can't talk like that.” And I was like, just shamed.

So, I think that that aspect, I feel like I for sure would have been more in tune

with my homosexual side at this point in my life if I had been let.

Gadiel recounted a similar experience:

You're going to be a boy and boys don't cry. Boys do this, boys play sports, boys

get dirty, boys do this, boys don't jump rope, boys don't do Patty Cake. They don't

do any of those things. So there was a very, just very masculinist approach to

being raised…that influenced how I am today, like my presentation. Um, and also

again with sports and stuff, so it gets very masculine, this very strict approach to

boyhood and then manhood and then I did realize I was queer. It was just like,

okay, I have to keep this up. I have to like, so nobody like under—, like nobody

could see it, see through the cracks. Nobody could see, see me. So it just, again,

following that same line and I guess now it's just ingrained into me. Um, also the

way I dress, like I'm the way, I guess my speech pattern.

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Here, Gadiel described the way he learned to keep his queerness hidden. He attributed this ability to the corrections he received growing up:

Because I think that all boys stray from this very strict masculine approach and

then they're immediately corrected. So, it's not like, it's like a non-normative thing

where all boys are just born like this super masculine. No, you get like, you get a,

what is the word I'm looking for? You get these corrections, like you stray this

way, you get, you get, you, there's a, there's an immediate reaction. You're like,

okay, “I don't want, I don't want that reaction again.” So, you go back to the strict

masculinist framework.

These immediate corrections taught participants how to behave in ways that aligned with normative expectations of men and women. For some students, these expectations were closely connected to their ethnic or religious backgrounds.

Lydia’s family “being Hispanic and having very, just specific gender roles” communicated the message that transgressing these norms was “not how life is supposed to be.” Alex also acknowledged that her family had strict rules about gender (e.g., “the woman has to cook and clean and do all that stuff; the man is the one who goes into work”), but she resisted these norms. She shared “my mom knew that I wasn’t just gonna go with the flow with that. So, she kinda let me do my own thing.”

For some families, the solution to queer sexuality was simply to not discuss it.

Alex’s mother gave her some freedom to transgress prescribed gender roles, but Alex also explained:

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In the Latino community, like on my dad's side, it, it was more like, I don't know

how to explain it, but so I have, she's like a cousin, I don't know. You call

everyone your cousin. And she might be an aunt. She's some variety of like

extended family. And she is, I think she's married, I think she's married to a

woman or they might be dating for a while, but she's gay. And my dad is always

like, “Oh, this is—her name is Grace—This is Grace. And her friend Consuela.”

And I was like, okay, but they're married. I don't know. It's just like, that's just not

acknowledged at all. It's very much like ha—It's very Catholic, too, that side of

my family's very Catholic and so it's, it's one of those things where you just don't

do that. And it's like they're friends because we don't want them to go to hell. And

if we say they're dating, then they're going to go to hell.

Here, ethnicity, religion, and sexuality came together to shape how Alex was raised to view sexuality—as something not to be acknowledged. Alex did not share this view, but she was forced to negotiate her bisexuality within this family structure.

Socialization in Schools

Schools were often a place where students could connect with peers and find support they could not find at home. Nevertheless, they were also sites of bullying and in this sense, they taught students it was at times necessary to keep their sexuality quiet.

Gadiel saw that “queer people—like visibly queer people—in our school were heckled daily.” Gadiel’s quote implies that those who were not visibly read as queer could escape this bullying. For M, “there was a lot of bullying in school just towards people who were, you know, queer, or. So, I was mostly scared of just actually exploring what I am or

220 coming out or stuff like that.” In a school where bullying was pervasive, M admitted they

“participated in the whole homophobia thing.” They went on to share they had to learn that their sexuality was not something about which they needed to be ashamed. Thus, although schools did provide opportunity for students to share their sexual identity with a select group of friends, peer culture largely prevented them from making their sexuality visible.

Gadiel also demonstrated the ways the administration was complicit in this culture. Administrators did little to stop the bullying and:

you could see the visible disgust or like, on the faces of security guards and

principals and teachers and, um, just when queer people decided to be themselves

and do the exact same things that, that cis-het, cis-het, um, cisgender,

heterosexual students did, they would be in trouble, like get sent to detention or

things like that.

Again, the school culture sent a clear message that it was not okay to be yourself.

Religious Institutions

The ubiquitous nature of homophobia as it related to organized religion documented in the Pervasive Binegativity theme influenced the normative messages students received about their bisexuality. Participants received explicit messaging from religious institutions that homosexuality was a sin. But they also described more subtle ways that religious beliefs, also held by friends and family, shaped how open they felt they could be about their bisexuality. Gadiel recounted a story which showed both the explicit messaging and more subtle corrections he received as a child. He recalled,

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kids being like, having to go in front of the entire church and having to exercise

queer demons, you know, things like that. It was just like, those, those are just

very visible, very vocal. Like even my own family members, I have an older

cousin; she's a lesbian and she was forced to do with that, that kind of thing. Like,

go in front of the church and confess, you know, confess your sins and be saved,

you know, all of these things. Um, so yeah, it was those messages and even just

passing comments with family members and other church members, like, Oh, he

looks a little sweet or he has some, you know what I'm saying? He looks a little,

he needs to be, you understand, corrected or things like that. Or she, she, she's a

little bit too tomboy. She's too old for that. Um, so she needs to, you know,

femme it up a little bit and be more girly and things like that.

These types of messages reinforced gender-normative styles of dress and behavior which resulted in participants being assumed to be heterosexual.

For several participants the religious messages they received from family and friends were meant to counter more tolerant media portrayals of LGBQ+ identities. For instance, Summer was told she was not allowed to watch Glee because “people were gay on that show.” Deen remembered her conservative, Muslim mother’s reaction when The

Ellen DeGeneres Show came on television:

She'd just be like, “Change the channel. That woman is disgusting.” And I didn't

even, like, this was before. I was so young. I didn't even realize that Ellen was, I

didn't even know Ellen was gay. And so, it's always just like, “Why?” And she

never even fully told me. She [was] just kinda like, “She's disgusting.”

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Although Deen did not realize it at the time, this message, along with religiously informed messages about sex more broadly, left her with “a lot of guilt” around her sexuality.

Katrina shared an experience where a friend reacted negatively to a media portrayal of queerness:

I had one of my really closest friends in middle school, she was super religious

and so I remember having sleepovers and stuff and her being like, we're, there's

one Disney Channel show where the, one of the kids had two moms and he was

their kid's friend and it was like, she was like, “I don't think they should be

showing that kind of stuff on the TV” and “it influences kids” and stuff like that.

This experience left Katrina afraid to share her bisexuality in the future, for fear that she might have other friends who secretly held similarly homophobic views.

For Gadiel and Summer, these messages resulted in a desire to rid themselves of a queer identity. Gadiel admitted, “I hated myself for a very long time. I thought there was something wrong with me. And so, I tried to, you know, pray it away.” Summer was told her church community would be praying against her bisexuality; “it was like, pray the gay away. That’s what I felt was happening. Which I’ve tried. I did try very hard.” Alex did not use the same religious language, but she did share, “I know in early, when I got to college, I tried anything I could to like not like women.” Attempting to eliminate one’s identity is an extreme identity negotiation strategy which had a profound impact on students’ emotional well-being. Fortunately, Alex, Summer and Gadiel are no longer in a place where they feel they must deny their sexuality. Both Alex and Summer have since

223 become active in the Christian community, as I will later discuss. Gadiel indicated

Yoruba as his worldview on the demographic form but made no references to his faith or spirituality during our interviews. Distancing themselves from organized religion may have been one strategy for finding self-acceptance as bisexual people.

Downplaying Bisexuality

Participants often downplayed the importance of their bisexuality or distanced themselves from friends or family to avoid questions and conflict related to their sexual identity. Less frequently, students minimized the importance of their bisexuality because they wanted it to be normalized. One of the ways they justified this was by arguing bisexuality was not relevant to most of their collegiate experience. In this section, I first begin by detailing what I mean by downplaying or distancing. I then describe participants’ experiences with the (ir)relevance of their bisexuality, primarily in academic and professional contexts. Next, I discuss the ways participants concealed or chose not to reveal their bisexuality. I conclude by contrasting heteronormative spaces in which bisexuality was largely erased with more supportive campus environments.

Sarah captured the idea of downplaying her bisexuality when she said:

It was just like, there wasn't an overwhelming amount of pride. Like it was just

like, yeah, it was part of me, whatever. But there wasn't really a space to just talk

about it and be like, share it with someone else who feels the same way ‘cause

wasn't really anywhere to go that much.

Sarah’s quote raises the question, would Sarah have felt a greater sense of pride and connection to her identity had there been a setting in which she could share it? For

224 participants, it often seemed easier to dismiss their sexuality as “whatever” rather than struggle with the lack of community.

Similarly, Jessica casually dismissed an interaction with a protester who came to campus to preach that “the homosexuals are going to hell and all this bullshit” by saying

“we just thought it was funny.” Laughing off these hateful comments insulated Jessica from the impact of the protester’s words. Summer also seemed to excuse hurtful opinions about LGBTQ+ identities. She said, “it's not something that everybody will be able to always accept. Everybody has different opinions and views” but immediately followed her statement with, “but I hate that I can't be open with my family.” For Summer, because her sexuality was something that had become a salient part of her identity, she shared:

I feel like I've distanced myself from [my dad] and my younger siblings, uh, half

siblings, which I have three. Um, but I, I feel like I've distanced myself from them

because I know that that's something that I feel would just come up naturally for

me now. And that's not, I don't know how that would be received and I already

have so much stress and anxiety from my mom and my stepdad that I just am

interested to see how my dad would take it. So, I, yeah, it kinda sucks because I

want so badly for them to just like know and to be able to just make peace with it

themselves.

Summer was caught between a desire to respect her family’s views, reduce her own anxiety, and be seen for who she truly was.

Similarly, Lydia said that “I just don't feel the need to [make my bisexuality known.] I don't see why it's such a big idea, like big thing.” Here it would seem as though

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Lydia’s bisexuality was not particularly important to her, but she immediately went on to share, “I can't just make it that known because my parents don't … it's not that I can still just come out and be openly out to my family and everything. So, there's still that whole like, okay, I have to be careful.” Lydia’s follow-up comments signaled that downplaying her sexuality may have been a way to lessen the pain she felt at being unable to share this aspect of herself with her parents. It did not necessarily mean she did not value her bisexuality. Sharon spoke to this tension when she shared:

On one hand, it's a very important element to the course of my life. It's about

whether I'm, I mean it influences who I'm going to have relationships with and

what communities I'm accepted in and what communities I might be pushed out

of and if I feel camaraderie with certain people, and my comfort in certain places.

But on the other hand, that's just a part of me that I didn't choose. So, it's not like

it was a big decision where I was like, “Okay, everybody, I'm bi. This is a very

big life moment.” It's something that I can't change it. It's something that, it's

gonna happen. It's like that and I, it shouldn't be a big deal because it is what it is.

It's more made of like, in a completely personal sense, it's not a big deal to me. It

becomes a big deal based on the interactions with other people.

For Sharon, her sexuality was an important part of who she was because it informed her interactions with other people. For several participants in this study, the decision to downplay the significance of their bisexuality was also influenced by how it would shape their relationship with others. M dismissed their bisexuality as something that “wouldn't matter because [I’m] in a relationship right now.” Here, M internalized the misconception

226 that their sexuality was dependent upon their partner. Katrina frequently expressed concern that coming out would “change people’s perception of me,” so even in spaces where she felt no one would “really bat an eye at it,” she still wondered, “do I really need to share that?”

For some participants, such as Sofia and Remus, the decision to downplay their bisexuality was less a protective mechanism and more a gesture towards normalizing bisexuality. In her feminist organization, Sofia said her queer sexuality was “not super important” because “if I were to tell someone that I was queer, they'd be like, ‘Oh cool.

Me too.’” Remus was even more explicit in his hope that bisexuality could become normative in society—“I want it to be normal.” Considering this, he shared:

I don't, I don't need [my bisexuality] to be something. Like sure, it’s something I

identify with and I feel more in my skin because of it. And I can be like, “Yeah,

this is me.” But because of that I don't need to share it with other people. I know

who I am and I don't need other people to, like I feel like if I was going around

and being like, “Hey, I'm bi, I'm bi,” I would be at an intention thing or it would

be not something genuine. Like if someone, if it comes up and it's relevant, I'll

talk about it, but if it's not, I don't really see a point.

Remus’s mention of relevance was repeated by most participants throughout the course of our interviews.

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Bisexuality’s (Ir)Relevance on Campus

Suggesting that bisexuality was irrelevant to their campus experience provided participants with the justification for downplaying their bisexual identity. For example,

Katrina shared:

If it was relevant to the conversation I would tell people or like, but I wasn't really

super, like I've never felt like being bisexual was the biggest part of my identity

because, I don't know, it's just who I am. So, I never really would outwardly share

that with people. [It] wouldn't be one of the first things I tell people about myself.

But if it was relevant, I was way more open to talking about it.

This need to downplay the importance of being bisexual in contexts where it did not appear relevant manifested across campus, from classrooms to workplaces to student organizations.

Academic contexts. Classrooms, and other academic environments, were not necessarily seen as unwelcoming of students’ bisexuality. Rather, there was a notable absence of discussion around sexuality in these contexts. Resultantly, participants did not make their bisexuality known unless, as Gadiel put it, “the topic is about sexual identity or how it relates to sexual identity.” One of the few students to allude to the heteronormativity bound up in this decision, he added, “I don't feel the need to, ‘cause I don't, ‘cause straight people don't say that.” For most participants, however, the choice not to explicitly mention their bisexuality had more to do with the perceived lack of relevance or opportunity. This was particularly true in STEM environments; humanities and social science classrooms were seen as slightly more inclusive of sexual identity. As

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Remus, an English major, explained, “If it came up, I'd be like, ya boy's bisexual, but, but it never really has fully that way. Maybe we'll talk about LGBTQ writing overall as an overall or, I dunno. We haven't really talked much about it.” Thus, even when conversations around LGBTQ+ issues broadly were introduced, bisexuality was notably absent.

M had a pride sticker on their laptop which was visible in the classroom. They did not, however, verbally assert their bisexuality. When I asked M to tell me more about why they were uncomfortable doing so, they shared, “I just don't know how to bring it up. Yeah. Like, I'm not dating a man right now.” M’s comment illustrated the confusion students felt around how to introduce their sexuality into an academic context, but it also spoke to an internalized binegativity wherein M felt that not being in a relationship that appeared same-gender meant their bisexuality was somehow less worthy of discussion.

Sharon shared:

I think most of [my classmates] would be a little bit confused if I brought it up in

class. And especially ‘cause like I said, it doesn't seem relevant. They probably

think that I'm doing too much and trying to put it in their face.

Sharon’s quote builds on M’s point. Not only did participants feel unsure how to introduce their sexuality into the classroom, they also worried their classmates would feel equally confused about its place. Yet the notion that simply being out in an academic space was “doing too much” or “put[ting] it in their face” spoke to the heteronormativity of the classroom environment. In fact, this heteronormativity left M feeling as though “if the class or teacher asks students for their sexuality and, like 99% would be straight and

229 then I'll be the only bisexual.” Given all that participants shared, however, M likely had not considered they had classmates feeling a similar way.

Katrina captured why it was important for sexuality to have a place in the classroom. She said, “[identity] shapes your experience as an engineer and how you interact with the world. So, I kind of wish if there were more spaces for that in engineering and I guess in STEM in general.” Further, Remus lamented not having an opportunity to explore his bisexuality in an academic setting:

It's kinda sad ‘cause I don't understand it more because I feel like people who are

lesbian or gay get more attention in that aspect. Like you get to understand

themselves a bit more now, whereas bisexuality kind of gets put under the sheets

and it doesn't really, it's like, “no, no, no, no, you, you don't get your place.”

In fact, it seemed as though participants desired an opportunity to contribute their unique perspectives. For example, Sofia shared, “[my sexuality] doesn't matter unless it's like in my sociology class. If we're talking about different perspectives, I give a different perspective as a queer woman than a heterosexual woman does.” Katrina offered a similar perspective, noting:

I wish I was taking more liberal arts classes cause I feel like that's where my

experience in being bisexual, like come[s] into how I interpret various humanities

things. So, I feel like if I were taking classes like that, I may be more open to

sharing that. But because it doesn't come up that much and it's not necessarily

relevant to coursework, I try to not talk about it.

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Here again, the tension between feeling a need to downplay the importance of their sexuality and the desire to share was evident. Students felt a similar impetus to downplay their bisexuality in the workplace.

Sexuality in the workplace. In addition to academic spaces, participants had similar hesitations concerning bringing up their bisexuality in professional contexts.

Again, this concern centered on the relevance of sexual identity in the workplace.

Relatedly, participants worried it would be inappropriate to do so unless it explicitly came up (and thus became relevant). In professional settings, it was thus easiest to pass as straight. As Gadiel shared:

I don't talk about my sexual identity at work, either. It's not something that comes

to conversation. Um, so I work in athletics, and no we don't, not really. Um, but

again, if conversations about like partnering or intimate relationships do come up,

people just assume that I'm attracted to women. So I'm just like, I go along with it.

Gadiel saw this as a privilege, as he explained:

I guess professional atmosphere, so like conferences…scholarship dinners and

memoriams and things like that, sexuality also doesn't necessarily come up, unless

I'm specifically talking about something related to queerness… I guess that's just

a privilege that I have that I don't have to necessarily talk about that all the time.

Um, what people just don't assume that this is a conversation we'd need to have.

Whereas Gadiel focused on the question of relevance, Cecile voiced her concerns about

“how it would be appropriate to mention my sexuality in the workplace or if it is appropriate at all.” That she described her on-campus job as “very inclusive and open”

231 did not mollify her concerns. When I asked Cecile if her heterosexual colleagues were open about their relationships, she simply replied “Yeah.” It was not as though conversations about relationships were not welcome in professional settings. Rather, queer sexualities seemed inappropriate. As Sharon explained:

Just in general, I think if you share your LGBT identity, people feel like that's

very personal information even though the assumption that someone would be

straight doesn't seem like they're sharing personal information. So in a situation

where it's supposed to be very professional or very academic relationship between

you and whoever's around you, if they found out that I was LGBT, they probably

think that I overshared or something like that or start thinking too hard about it.

Sharon’s quote is illustrative of the way heterosexuality is normative in U.S. society, whereas LGBQ+ sexualities are seen as overly explicit or inappropriate. Gadiel further felt that being associated with bisexuality might cause others to devalue his professional contributions, noting:

Unless the topic of sexual identity or anything related to that in general comes up,

they don't need…there's no point in me saying it because then it, it adds

preconceived notions about what else I'm going to say, uh, or devalues anything

else that I'm going to say. Um, it might be, that's what I like, as in my experience,

if people don't necessarily look at you the same or value what you say

after…telling them that you are a queer person or that you identify this way or

that.

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This quote captures the concern that Gadiel’s contributions or opinions would be attributed to his bisexuality as opposed to his whole person, whereas heterosexual students do not have to worry that their ideas are attributed to their heterosexuality.

Student organizations. Students also felt sexuality was often irrelevant in student organizations that did not center identity. Exceptions thus included LGBTQ+ organizations, Student of Color organizations, and feminist clubs. As was the case with classrooms and workplaces, it was not necessarily that these organizations were hostile towards bisexuality. As Katrina shared, “I'm in [an engineering club and an environmentalism club]. And I think it's not that they're not accepting, I think it's just not the focus.” Kyra was also involved in a STEM organization which she likened to “an academic situation too because it is something like, it is something that directly relates to my major.” In that environment, Kyra felt “the question [of my sexuality] probably won't come up so I won't bring it up. And I know they won't bring it up because they assume

I'm straight.” For Kyra, she did not feel the need to build friendships with these peers, so this was not an assumption she had a need to correct. Conversely, M did feel a sense of friendship with their peers in a non-identity based social justice organization that met off- campus. Yet even though “they do have a pride flag on their front lawn…it's hard to say that I'm bisexual when it's, it's not about that.” Despite the explicit symbol of LGBTQ+ acceptance, M still hesitated to come out. Participants seemed so used to employing protective strategies that they did not always know what to do when faced with accepting contexts. For example, I asked Cecile, “How have these experiences that you've

233 encountered on campus, whether positive or negative, affected how you understand your own bisexuality?” She shared:

The positive experiences have had more of an impact than the negative ones,

particularly because I've been experiencing negative things revolving [around] my

sexuality for much longer. So, having the support that I need in order to feel

comfortable talking about my sexuality is a lot for me. Um, I guess I'm still

adjusting to having that feeling just in the sense that I'm still adjusting to talking

about sexuality in general and still trying to adjust to how to respond to people

supporting me.

The fact that supportive spaces were so few and far between stands in stark contrast to the irrelevancy with which participants’ bisexuality was treated in most contexts.

Not Revealing and Concealing

Participants considered the relevancy of their bisexuality, along with how accepting they perceived people or environments to be, when deciding to conceal or selectively reveal their sexual identity. In other words, they made choices, some more intentional than others, regarding when and where to make their bisexuality known.

These involved choices of behavior, appearance, and avoiding certain people or conversations. When I asked Remus about his experiences with binegativity, he responded that he had not necessarily encountered it “directed at me and just ‘cause I, if

I’m not comfortable with that person, then they’re not going to know it about me.” Being selective about when and where to make their bisexuality known was a way participants could avoid binegativity. As Kyra explained:

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I shouldn't have to really hide my sexuality, but at the same time I do it. I do. I

hide my sexuality not because I'm afraid, but more because I just don't want to

deal with the questions that come along with it.

Gadiel shared a similar sentiment, but also spoke to the way controlling others’ impression of him was a safety precaution. Gadiel at times would be cautious of how masculine he came across. He said, “I mean, obviously in some spaces for safety and… you don't want to have to deal with like quest—, like questions or just obviously again, the thing of safety. And not just physical safety, like emotional, mental safety.” Jessica had this in mind during orientation when she was placed in a group that “seemed like the typical nineties high school scene from a movie where like it was like the jocks and then like the popular girls.” She shared she did not mention her bisexuality “in that circumstance because I felt like it wasn't openly safe to.” Participants were highly aware of how their contexts, both on and off campus, influenced their sense of safety.

Contextual considerations. Participants took context into consideration when deciding how to present in a given space or within certain communities. Often, religion was a factor in students’ decision-making. M, for example, did not want friends from a

Bible study to know they were bisexual, “so I try not to reveal myself in front of them.”

M thus chose not to study with this group so they would not need to use their laptop with the pride sticker or “bring up the topic of LGBTQ stuff.” Cecile similarly wanted to avoid certain conversations. Her partner’s grandmother was involved in the Methodist Church, which was recently debating its position on LGBTQ+ clergy. Cecile used the language of avoidance and concealment, noting:

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I've tried to conceal it around my partner's grandmother. Um, just avoiding any

conversation revolving around ‘cause she has talked about the Methodist LGBT

debate before this point. So, that would be probably the only instance where I've

actively concealed my identity. Um, but obviously in my dorm, I'm just trying to

avoid having those conversations in general.

Sofia also discussed feeling a need to conceal her queer identity in a large, campus

Christian organization as well as with her extended family who lived near MSU. “There’s another place where I find myself concealing my identity,” she shared, “just ‘cause [it’s a] very conservative household, very religious household.” With her parents, as well,

Sofia worried about how much she could say. This was incredibly difficult for her and she shared, “I absolutely despise hiding a part of myself from them.”

Lydia appreciated that her female partner asked her if she was comfortable being touched in public. Lydia shared:

It just depends on the situation where we are in public. I was like, specifically [in

this rural area off-campus], you know, I'm not the most comfortable with you

holding my hand and grabbing me the way you're grabbing me and stuff like that.

But, in other places, like very, no, like, you know, just around here, like the

[progressive, urban area near campus], Hey, maybe a little bit of handholding, but

that's it, you know? But I just hate that cause then it's also like me being bisexual,

I just hate that with women, I have to feel that certain way. And then with men

I'm just like PDA, you know?

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Lydia’s quote is illustrative of the frustration participants felt in having to negotiate their bisexuality.

Jessica described the feeling as sadness:

It's sad that I have to hide the fact of [my bisexuality] just because of the

judgment I might receive. I wish I wouldn't have to hide it and I wish it was more

of an accepting like, okay. And not having to wonder what they think or judgment

in general, but that's kind of just how I've accepted it throughout the years. And

like that's how it's going to have to be.

Jessica felt the need to negotiate her identity was an immutable fact of living in a heteronormative society. She downplayed her masculinity in most of her classes but would dress more masculine in her English class where she knew her instructor was supportive. When I asked how getting dressed in a more feminine outfit felt, Jessica shared:

It feels pretty normal just because I've had to do that. But it's definitely different

to dress in something more masculine because it feels more, well, more liberating

and more comfortable in who I am and not having to like, not having to present

myself a certain way as I do when I dress more feminine. So, it's like, it feels

more restricted but I'm okay with it.

Although Jessica used terms like “normal,” and “okay,” this resignation clearly impacted her in a negative way because she also mentioned feeling sad and restricted. Here, Jessica highlighted the tension between feeling comfortable in her own identity presentation and living within a heteronormative society.

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Alex also had to make choices about what she could wear. For example, she would not wear pride apparel to work because of an openly homophobic colleague. At work, she said, “I try to keep [my bisexuality] as, I don’t know, as hidden as possible.”

Summer similarly spoke about prioritizing her family’s comfort, which in turn allowed her to feel more comfortable:

When my family comes over, I mean, they know that I'm bi. They still don't

accept that it's—I'm ‘straight with unnatural desires,’ which is hilarious to me…I

won't wear collared shirts because I know that makes them uncomfortable and I

still care about them. So yeah, I think that I, or I won't take a second glance at

somebody I find attractive, that's a woman. Or I'll talk more about the guys in my

life so that it makes it, and honestly it makes it easier on me because if I talk

about girls at all, it's an uproar. It's a, it's a big fight. So, I just act as straight as

possible when my family's around.

During our interview Summer reflected on these experiences. She shared that she had not thought much about the ways she conceals or makes her bisexuality known. “Knowing that I do hide it,” she said, “kinda makes me sad, but then I also can understand it.”

Summer, like many participants, understood that their choice of identity negotiation strategies was largely made for their own comfort and safety. For Kyra, this process was more subconscious:

I think I'm just, because I was used to just not really disclosing my sexuality at

first when I first learned about my sexuality when I was younger. I think it's just

still a knee jerk reaction to just pretend I'm straight around other people and just

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think in the back of my head these people think I'm straight, so I'm not going to

say anything that would say otherwise and things like that.

Kyra went on to describe this as “not hiding it, but just not really being outwardly verbal about it,” particularly around people she did not know very well.

Liam similarly spoke about subconsciousness. I asked them how going off- campus or leaving the city might shape how they present in that setting. Liam said:

I probably wouldn't wear any pride things or like that. And I like, I feel like I do

this subconsciously a lot. If I'm going to a space where I feel less safe, I dress like

a lot more feminine. And if I feel more comfortable, I dress a lot more

androgynous or masculine.

These spaces of comfort were somewhat limited on MSU’s campus.

Understanding their sexuality. Participants further elaborated on how they thought about themselves and their sexuality as a result of having to move through campus in these ways. Remus, for instance, reflected on both positive and negative experiences related to his bisexuality:

Positive ones? I have definitely been just a strength, like, okay, this is who I can

be. Like, it's cool. Not that the negative ones have made me feel like, Oh, I

shouldn't be bi. Like, just cause one, I really can't change that into like, I would

never just be like, Oh, this was negative, so I can't deal with necessarily. I don't

want to deal with this anymore. It's more just, it made me uncomfortable and

made me be like, damn, I have to change myself for certain people because of my

sexuality and something I realized that not everyone has to deal with.

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When I asked Remus what the experience of having to change himself meant to him, he responded:

It typically disconnects me with whoever that is. Um, and it's sad. It's not like a,

I'm changing myself for that person. It’s more like, Oh, I didn't, I don't have the

connection that I thought I had with that person and I can't be as comfortable

around them being myself, which is fine, but definitely removes me from that

relationship a little bit.

Here again, participants used the language of “fine” to describe situations which had a negative emotional impact.

For Katrina, having to negotiate her bisexuality was closely related to how she thought about the validity of her sexual identity:

When it comes to my bisexuality, it's validness I guess is something that I think

about a lot. And so thinking about how my bisexuality appears in different spaces

and how that affects how I think about it, kind of made me take a step back and be

like, I can, how I present myself doesn't have to impact how valid my bisexuality

is.

Similarly, for Cecile, the experience of having to either intentionally make her bisexuality visible or to conceal it “definitely contributed to how I process my… especially since I have two polar opposite environments on campus where I can or can't present my sexuality. It's kind of emotionally destabilizing.”

Gadiel spoke at length about how having to downplay his bisexuality depending on context was at times a worthy sacrifice:

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[My bisexuality] is affected by it—Not, not necessarily affected by time and

locale, but it can be operationalized differently by different times in different

locales. And that I am who I am and people who are gonna rock with me gonna

rock with me regardless. And that, I dunno, I, that there are things that you have

to sacrifice. There are things that you have to sacrifice for your immediate

comfort, safety and wellbeing.

Gadiel spoke to the agency he was able to assert by selectively choosing how his bisexuality shows up in difference spaces. Participants were able to maintain control over their comfort, safety, and wellbeing by strategically downplaying their sexuality.

Seeking Relevance, Finding Support

The lack of campus environments in which sexuality seemed relevant, and the lack of peers, faculty, or administrators with whom students felt comfortable, made the places where students could discuss their bisexuality all the more important. Speaking about her athletic team, Sharon shared:

I appreciate it just because it's a space where I can be comfortable talking about

my attraction to women, whereas there's certain settings where I am not

embarrassed about it, but I just don't know if it's necessarily appropriate to talk

about sexual attraction at all. Especially introducing like LGBT. Like in class, I

probably wouldn't bring it up or at work it probably wouldn't come up. Um, which

it is what it is because I have coworkers, classmates who would openly talk about

their different gender attractions and it's slightly more taboo to talk about same

gender attractions that people might be like, “why would you bring that up in

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class?” Like you need to chill out a little bit and it's not that explicit. And it might

be a little bit more mild than that much objection. But I do think that's true.

This quote highlights both the importance of LGBTQ+ affirming spaces where students did not have to downplay their sexuality, but also the freedom with which heterosexual students can openly discuss their relationships in all settings.

Participants were able to find support and build community on campus in a variety of ways, however. They often began by building confidence being open about their sexuality with smaller groups of people or with a trusted individual. Many times, they felt most comfortable sharing with other queer people. On campus, participants discussed the importance of friends and partners, supportive administrators and campus climate, and welcoming faculty.

Faculty support. Though few and far between, faculty were in a position to offer support. Gadiel talked at length about what it meant for him to have queer faculty:

It was cool. Like, so one professor that I had two years ago now, I think it was

two years ago. He was the first gay Black male professor that I had, or teacher in

general, educator that I've ever had in my life. He was amazing. The class is

centered around sexuality and race. And it just meant a lot to me to see somebody

in that position who knows what they're talking about, who is studied and well-

versed in not only their own identity, but how the identity affects people outside

of themselves. And just being able to go and talk to him about class, about life,

about things in general. Like, I still email him just to this day. And just to have

that somebody who is in that, that position and be like, it's possible, like it's

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possible to reach that level and be able to be open about yourself. But also

understanding why people aren't allowed to be as open and what that, what, what,

what gates, invisible and visible, are there for queer people to, to exist. Other

professor? She's a white lesbian and even still, her, just being able to see that she

was there for me and that she saw me as a student, as a Black student in a

predominantly white class, but also as a queer student in, in the space that we

were in. And just her looking out for me and just being there and understanding

what is like, not necessarily completely understanding, but having an inkling of

what it's like to exist in that space. Um, that's literally the only two that I can think

of.

Gadiel emphasized the importance of being seen and being understood. But not only did

Gadiel conclude with “that’s literally the only two,” he noted that this support was siloed.

Gadiel’s Black male professor taught in the African and African American Studies department, and his lesbian instructor was in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies.

Jessica and Remus both found a sense of belonging in the English department.

Jessica had a bisexual instructor who “was just like, ‘I’m here for you if you ever need to talk to someone about it as an adult. If students aren’t enough, you have a teacher you can come to.’” Summer mentioned a woman language instructor who had a wife and children. This was important to Summer because she had “not been around a lot of adults that are in the LGBTQ community and seeing a professor that is, was very, it was different, and it is nice.” The experiences above were all within humanities subjects, however. Only Kyra shared an experience within a STEM field, where her physics

243 instructor included a nondiscrimination statement on the syllabus. This signaled to Kyra that this instructor would not likely be prejudiced against her.

Peer connections. Participants also noted the way in which supportive partners, often members of the bisexuality community as well, helped them feel more comfortable exploring their sexuality. Deen, for example, shared that her pansexual partner was a “big influence on me drifting away from religion and just being a supportive figure in my life, in my transition [towards identifying as bisexual].” Remus similarly discussed being able to explore his attraction to men while partnered with a woman. He said being in a relationship with a bisexual woman was, “nice as fuck, just because I could be my most authentic self with my best friend and we can, I don't know, it's just, we're unstoppable, you know? It's just awesome.” Cecile’s former partner took her to her first pride parade.

She shared:

It was kind of overwhelming for me because I had never been in one place with so

many people that belong to that community before. But it was really exciting. I

was with one of my previous partners that actually took me so that I could

experience those things. So, I was also kind of emotional that, you know, I wasn't

having those feelings of being isolated.

And Summer, who was dating a man, said:

I told him I was bisexual, and he was like, “Okay.” I was like, “Okay, cool.” And

it was great. There was no, there was no hypersexualizing it…And so I think that

he makes me feel comfortable if I'm sharing with people in my life because the

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way he has responded to me. So, I think that when I'm in a relationship that is

healthy and that they're accepting of who I am, that helps me in public spaces.

Finding acceptance and having her bisexuality treated respectfully by her partner thus influenced the way Summer was able to move about campus in more visible ways.

Friends were a similar source of support. Sarah, for instance, drew confidence from seeing a friend stand firm in her claim to the bisexual label; “She has always had male partners…but she still stands by ‘I’m bisexual’ and she’s 100% certain.” Sarah explained that her friend’s confidence and unwillingness to let others define her was “my biggest influence.” Many participants recounted stories where they felt safe around

LGBTQ+ friends, in particular. Summer felt that connecting with other bisexual students meant:

I don’t feel alone…finding people who are so open and just chill about it, like it’s

not a big deal is, makes me just feel like, okay, like more comfortable with myself

and expressing myself in a public setting.

Kyra highlighted the importance of connecting with students with a shared identity when she said:

A lot of my friends that I have right now I've made through [my merit-based,

social justice scholars program]. So, when I first met them, I know at the very

least they're either, they're either People of Color or they're, they're queer or

they're both, a lot of them. And so I didn't have to, I knew I didn't have to hide

anything about that, about myself off the get go… I think it was just having them

understand not only just what it's like to be queer, but also a Person of Color and

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queer. Because intersectionality, that those two things make it very different and

have very different experiences from someone who is just white and queer. So it

was because, I think it's partially because they would understand where I was

coming from.

Here, Kyra emphasized that she did not have to conceal or downplay her bisexuality.

Administrative and organizational support. Lydia echoed Kyra’s feeling around finding a space where she could be visible in all her identities. When she saw that

MSU had a club for queer Latinx students, “I got really excited because it was just something that’s like, wow! Like, that’s all of me…the idea of it sounds like a little comforting home.” Alex was able to find similar support in the graduate student assistant for her merit-based, social justice scholars program. She shared, “it’s a really cool spot where she just like, actually, I don’t know, cares about all of me as a person and not just like pick and choose, you know?” Alex’s graduate assistant helped her navigate her queer, Latina, and Christian identities both on and off campus and pointed her towards additional resources. Sarah felt a similar sense of connection when she was in the Black cultural center, or attending a queer Student of Color organization:

It's really affirming. Like, it's so different from everything before I got here. So,

I've just like very like, we can exist, and we can talk about our experiences. I've

just never had that before on that level, on a weekly basis. So, it's just very

validating. I just feel way more comfortable than I ever have before.

Beyond finding spaces or people with whom they could connect, participants also spoke to the importance of seeing bisexuality welcomed on campus. Sarah, for example, shared

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“[Campus administration] is very open and not just tolerating. It’s like celebrating…I’ve gotten constant emails about [LGBTQ+ history month] and seen it over [social media] posts and everything…They’re very proud. So, I think that makes a difference.” Liam found that seeing others on campus wearing pride apparel, or queer couples holding hands, made them feel more comfortable wearing their own pride clothing. Similarly,

Remus felt “visual indicators, like having LGBTQ, like rainbow stuff, all over the

[English] department,” as well as the availability of queer studies courses, signaled to him you “can be who you are, who you want to be.”

Despite the fact that participants were able to highlight meaningful examples of campus connection, it was challenging to find community on a heteronormative college campus. M, for example, began by sharing “I think most people are accepting of

[bisexuality]. I know there’s some jokes people make that aren’t cool, but I think generally it seems very accepting. I think there’s a lot of bisexual students on campus.”

For M, it meant a lot to have moments of recognition where they could feel a part of a queer community. When I asked, “How often do you feel like that happens here on campus?” however, they shared, “Um, not too often, actually. That was actually pretty rare.”

M was not the only participant to highlight this rarity. Cecile mentioned, “I haven’t found very many groups on campus that are particularly inclusive of bisexual people.” Further, when I asked Remus how he had been able to connect with other bisexuals on campus, he shared, “Um, I didn’t even know. I dunno. There’s not really any groups that I’m aware of or any specifically like, Hey, this is a safe space or place to meet

247 up or people to meet.” Instead, Remus met the bisexual people he does know completely by chance and lamented, “I just want to meet more people that are also bisexual that I can have the full relation to.” At present, Remus had not met a single bisexual man. He shared, “I feel like bisexual men, it's hard though, ‘cause I don't really know many bisexual men. And that's the only thing that is hard. It's just, it's really lonely and you don't have really have anyone to relate to.” This difficulty identifying and meeting other bisexual students may have been due to the effort students made not to reveal their bisexual identity. Conversely, signaling their bisexuality was one strategy participants employed to form connections with other LGBTQ+ students.

Subtly Signaling Sexuality

Signaling their bisexuality in subtle and not-so-subtle ways allowed students to be recognized as queer and to find like-minded students. Yet it was difficult to make their bisexuality known in less explicit ways given the tendency to assume monosexulity.

Sharon offered an example to illustrate this point:

Another thing that I noticed that the university does [to show acceptance of

LGBTQ+ identities] is a lot of their sexual harassment training and stuff like that

also includes same-gender relationships. And in situations like those, it's usually

just like, oh, one example of a certain person then moves onto another example.

So, it's not going to show someone in multiple relationships. So, it's harder to

portray bisexuality.

The reliance on using a partner’s gender to ascertain someone’s sexuality, or a reliance on mononormative assumptions, made it difficult to show bisexuality. “Besides wearing

248 pride stuff,” M said, “there's not much else we can do.” Nevertheless, participants did share numerous ways their bisexuality, or at the very least their queerness, may have been visible. Throughout this section, I demonstrate how participants stylized their bodies, leveraged social media and visual signifiers such as pride flags or buttons, and verbally hinted at their sexuality, all in the interest of making themselves visible as bisexual people.

Stylizing the Body

For some students, clothing and hair choices were an intentional and meaningful opportunity to express their sexuality. Jessica discussed this at length:

Before moving [to MSU] I decided what clothes I wanted to bring to college, and

I had a lot more clothes that was obviously not something someone who identified

as straight would wear or is more masculine. And so, I decided to bring it just

because I knew that college was a space that I was able to, ‘cause I was never able

to wear it at home. And so, I decided to bring a lot more and I felt so far, I felt

very comfortable wearing it. And I had an event this past Tuesday. It was the

LGBTQ historical month dinner… It was the first time I was able to wear a very,

more fancy, um, fancy attire and it was like a button up and pants. And it was the

first time I was, I've been able to wear that in public. And then in this space where

other people are also part of LGBTQ and stuff. And so that was the first

experience for me and the fact that it's on campus is very nice to have that. Like

where I'm going to school and like be able to present myself as like however I

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want and not having to be afraid of like what my family might say about it and

just like do what I want to do.

Jessica had debated wearing a dress to the event but decided against it. She was thrilled to receive many compliments from students and event organizers. Although Jessica felt affirmed at this queer-centered event, she did express concern over what faculty might think if she wore more masculine clothing to class: “I just wonder what they think about it, or what goes through their mind.” She also wondered if she could wear masculine clothing off campus. She shared:

Off campus, I feel like, I feel a lot more insecure about it just because I don't

know the, the reactions I'd get from everyone and how they would receive it or

how I might be looked at differently. I don't think I've openly worn something like

that off campus before. And so, I'm not, I wouldn't be afraid to, but I would be

like, I wouldn't like to be afraid to, but I know internally it would be just because

of like the different community it is off campus.

Here, Jessica expressed the fear that other participants, and particularly Participants of

Color, felt when considering how they showed up in off-campus contexts. As Sarah said,

“off campus it's a different story because you just never know what can happen.”

For Jessica, clothing was a way to feel affirmed in her identity. For others, clothing gave them a sense of control. Summer spoke about being able to control other’s perceptions of her through her clothing. On campus, she dressed androgynously and played with bandanas and different hairstyles. She also embraced femininity when she felt so inclined:

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I'm like, Oh, if I wear this this day, maybe if I talk to a girl, this'll be more of like,

I'll be in control of that situation. But if I dress like this, a guy that's probably

more likely to be attracted to me. And it's like, it's whatever I feel that day. I guess

my one friend described me as very “futch” which is femme and butch and I will

embody one or the other, just depending on how I feel. So, I'll wake up one day

and just wear the [masculine] outfit like I described, or the next day I'll wear a

crop top and skinny jeans and heels.

For Summer, these decisions were very consciously considered. At home, she dressed in traditionally hyper-feminine clothing; on campus, however, she enjoyed a freedom from judgment she could not find at home. She believed her outfits might give away her sexuality, but she said “not that I do it because I wanna out myself or whatever, but I, it’s like the small details that maybe people who are looking for it wouldn’t see.”

Here Summer, alluded to the idea that some of these visual cues might be unintelligible to straight people, but other members of the LGBQ+ community might pick up on them. Rachel similarly shared that if she wanted to get a woman to notice her, she might “dress a little more gay,” which for her meant a flannel or denim shirt.

In addition to clothing, participants used accessories to signal their sexuality.

Liam, for example, would put pansexual pins on their backpack and they came to our interview wearing a rainbow bracelet. Sharon also mentioned that using pins or flags could signal bisexuality. It was difficult, however, to clearly make bisexuality known when often these attempts could be read as lesbian or gay.

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Jessica did distinguish between gay clothing and bi clothing. She described her lesbian friend as someone who:

Only pretty much wears men's clothing where it's like men's top, long jeans, and

then white shoes, every single day. She has short hair. Not a pixie cut, but it's

short. Um, yeah. And then versus me, I've worn, I dunno, feminine outfits as well

as masculine or like a good in between.

Yet because of the heteronormativity inherent in modern society, most participants were not read as “in between” but rather decidedly gay or straight. Kyra also explained how race could complicate these assumptions. She acknowledged short hair was often an indicator of queerness, but went on to say, “I kind of already have short hair, but that’s just, it’s a bit, it’s a bit different because in the Black community, more women have shorter hair because that’s just how it grows.” As such, participants had to find other ways outside of their physical presentation to make their sexuality visible.

Social Media and Visual Cues

Participants such as Lydia, Alex, Katrina, Rachel, and Sharon used their social media accounts to hint at their bisexuality. Lydia did so by including a rainbow emoji in her bio. Alex used her social media to educate others about queer issues. She shared, “if you scroll through my Instagram [you would] be like, ‘Ooh, she’s not straight.’” Sharon and Katrina were less ready to share their sexuality broadly, but they used “fake”

Instagram accounts to experiment with what they felt comfortable posting. Rachel used her Tumblr, which very few “real-life” friends followed, to post about her bisexuality.

Finally, Sharon and Liam both had others either oversee them using or match with them

252 on dating apps, which gave away their sexual identity. In addition to social media, participants signaled their bisexuality through rainbow stickers, pins, and flags. Most, with the exception of Liam who did have pansexual pride attire, used LGBTQ+ rainbow pride items; they were not specifically signaling their bisexuality, but rather their

LGBTQ+ identity more broadly.

Verbally Hinting

Some students felt that by talking about queer issues, they were likely assumed to be queer. In classrooms, for example, Gadiel shared “I won’t necessarily say that I’m a queer person, but the way I talk about things obviously, or he’s just a very learned person, but generally straight men aren’t learned about queerness, gender identity.” Sarah similarly believed that “people usually catch on” when she discusses sexuality in the classroom:

Sometimes it's like if there's a discussion that's to do with sexuality, not outright

coming out, but saying something in defense or saying a particular line about like,

“Okay, well, that's a myth” or “this is actually how I feel about it.” And then I

think people usually like catch on. Like, she probably is part of that group if she's

talking about it so intimately.

Alex was similarly told by her Christian friends that “straight people never use the word queer,” so by talking about queer people, she was signaling her own identity.

Apart from discussing queer issues, participants took various approaches to verbally hinting at their identities. Sharon would “make passing comments about swiping on some girl on Tindr” or casually mention having crushes on women. Rachel would

253 adopt gender-neutral terminology when discussing a future partner. She shared, “I always say like, ‘Oh, my spouse’ or ‘someone that I date.’ I always say ‘someone’ instead of ‘he’ or ‘she.’” Summer’s approach was to use humor to connect with people. She mentioned,

“I'll make like gay jokes and then like make conversation. That's how I make friends.”

She also shared that she would “make jokes about being attracted to both genders. And usually it's just received like, it's hilarious, you know, cause it's just the, it's, it's received well.” When I asked how having her jokes well-received made her feel about her sexuality, Summer responded, “It makes me feel like, Oh, like people aren't weirded out.

Like, Oh, I feel good about my sexuality. Like, this is how I'm connecting with people…

I don't have all that like, panicky shame about it, you know?” For Summer, being able to joke about her sexuality with peers and have it embraced had a positive influence on her sense of self.

Remus also spoke about becoming more comfortable being openly bisexual. His strategy for hinting at his sexuality included allowing others to overhear him discussing his sexuality rather than coming out explicitly:

It's almost like now I'm getting to a point where I'm saying it out loud with the

doors open, you know? Like I, like if my other roommates hear, okay. If they

want to eavesdrop and they hear, like, “Oh, he's bisexual.” Like if you want to

find out that way, okay. I'm not going to come to you.

“Saying it…with the doors open” allowed Remus to be out without having to confront his heterosexual male roommates face-to-face. Remus had discussed moments of tension where his roommates made homophobic comments. For example, he shared, “I just

254 hugged a couple of my friends that are dudes and they both were like, ‘back off’ or like, they're like, ‘you get,’ they said, ‘you get gay when you're high.’” Given the dynamics in his home, being able to “say it with the doors open” was a significant step for Remus.

Now, he has become even more comfortable with his sexuality and is more willing to confront homophobic or binegative statements. This willingness to confront heterosexism was emblematic of the theme, “Outness as Advocacy.”

Outness as Advocacy

Over half the participants embodied the theme “Outness as Advocacy” to varying degrees. Alex, Jessica, Liam, Lydia, Remus, and Summer all shared examples of openly discussing their bisexuality in the hopes of helping other members of the queer community. Cecile and Kyra both believed they would stand up to binegativity and homophobia if they were in a position to do so, though at the time of our interview this was discussed in more hypothetical terms. Finally, Gadiel and Sofia opened up about their sexual identities in the context of this research study because they wanted to contribute to the bisexuality literature to better other students’ experiences. For some participants, resisting binegativity and heterosexism by simply being unapologetically queer was also a form of self-advocacy. I describe these varying expressions of “Outness as Advocacy” in the subsections that follow.

Outness in Support of Others

Because bisexuality was so highly stigmatized and rarely visible on MSU’s campus, participants felt that simply being out could positively influence their bisexual, pansexual, and queer peers. Jessica based her decision to be open in support of others on

255 her own experience where “others being open about it, that's helped me. So, let's try to help others if that helps them.” Positive feedback from peers encouraged her to keep going:

Now I'm just like, “Yeah, I'm bi. Here's my story.” ‘Cause when I've told people

they say it helps them a lot just because they're in similar situations. And so, I've

always been very open about my situation with that and like a lot of things in

general. And so, if people ask, I'm pretty open about it. Or if there's LGBTQ

reunions or things on campus, I decide to go to them and openly say like, “Yeah,

I'm part of the community.”

Cecile hoped to advocate for her peers in similar ways, but whereas Jessica was open about her bisexuality, Cecile was less comfortable. Although her narratives were often centered on avoiding conversations about sexuality, she felt on obligation to stand up for others. One of Cecile’s roommates identified as a lesbian, but she explained:

My other roommate is Catholic and she's very religious and so I feel

uncomfortable in my space…Just I guess out of fear that if it were to ever come

up, I don't know if I would say anything about being bi, bisexual. If she were to

say something hateful or, I guess I'm just, I just don't know what the outcome

would be.

The need to avoid conversations about sexuality in her residence hall was “really kind of hurtful even though nothing has occurred at this point.” Yet despite the anxiety Cecile expressed, she was:

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Just trying to prepare myself for what I might have to say or do if that

conversation occurs, especially thinking if my friend who lives with me were to

be verbally attacked because she is a lesbian, then I would feel compelled to come

out as well, in support of her.

Cecile’s comments were emblematic of the pressure bisexual students were under to choose between supporting members of their community—and by extension, themselves—and the need to protect themselves from hostility on campus.

Some participants were more comfortable with advocacy than others. Jessica, for instance, recounted a story of confronting an anti-LGBTQ+ preacher who was protesting on campus. Having a friend with her in solidarity made facing hostility easier for Jessica and contributed to her sense of safety. From what Cecile shared, it was clear she wanted to be that person for her lesbian roommate but was not quite ready to do so, and her advocacy remained at this point more hypothetical.

Liam put advocacy into practice through their visual presentation. As highlighted in Liam’s introductory narrative, they advocated for pansexual visibility through their clothing and accessories. They shared, “I like being out in public and I feel like if I'm out in public than other people can see that and feel more comfortable about being out themselves.” Liam’s desire to support other queer people extended off campus as well.

Liam worked at a small, independent bookstore in their home community where an

LGBTQ+ section was set up in the front of the store:

A lot of older adults have come in and looked at it and bought books and they'll

just talk about it in a very excited way or I've met a lot of middle schoolers who

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come in and look at it and are like, seem really ex— like around that age who are

just starting to explore maybe a queer identity or the queer community and being

able to talk to them about my experiences and just listen to those people being

excited to learn is definitely very positive and fun.

Liam’s quote captured the importance of queer visibility, but it also emphasized the positive influence these types of interactions had on the participants.

Remus also enjoyed connecting with others. He felt his sexuality could bring people together and he would “step up or step out when someone says something that's just ignorant.” Yet although Remus provided the example of confronting heterosexual people who advance homophobic rhetoric, he also argued he would react to a queer person in the same fashion:

In the same manner that if someone's like, “Ugh, cis people,” like if a homosexual

person’s like, “I fucking hate cis people, heterosexual people.” And I'm like, I can

understand, come to an understanding and be like, “I understand, but that's not

helping anything. You bashing these people isn't going to make them be nicer to

you. What do you think you're doing in that situation?”

Remus had the well-intentioned desire to “bring people together” in the interest of destigmatizing bisexuality, and he believed bisexuals were well-positioned to embrace an

“everybody loves everybody” approach. Remus had not considered, however, that a heterosexual person espousing homophobic views was doing so from a place of privilege, whereas a queer person voicing their anger towards heterosexism or transphobia (albeit

258 directed at cisgender, straight people) may have been coming from a place of hurt and disenfranchisement.

Finally, it is important to note that while participants were often intrinsically motivated to advocate for the LGBTQ+ community, they may also have been responding to external demands. Lydia, for instance, shared, “I do advocate for gay people…obviously” but she also:

felt so much pressure to be like, Oh my God. Like on my social media, I have to

make sure I post certain things. I have to make sure I am aware. I have to make

sure I know all of the famous gay celebrities and all the history of gay people and

stuff, but it's just like, a lot of gay people themselves don't know that. So why is it

that I felt the pressure to do that? You know? Only because people are telling me

based off of my appearance solely that I'm not gay, you know?

Here Lydia captured the pressure participants were under to “prove” their bisexuality through their appearance or actions. Eventually, Lydia was able to pay less mind to how others saw her. She said:

I just realized I just kind of, in general, just like sexuality. Yes. But in general, as

a whole, it's my whole personhood. I just kind of stopped caring how, how people

were seeing me. It was more I think I'm representing myself in a good way and if

that's sufficient, that's sufficient for me, then that should be sufficient for

everyone.

I revisit this position when I discuss the ways in which participants sought personal empowerment. In addition to using their clothing, their behaviors, or their stories to

259 advocate for others, participants also came together to advocate through campus organizations.

Campus organizations. Several participants in this study were involved in the creation of an LGBTQ+ affirming Christian organization. Alex attributed her openness speaking about her bisexuality to her advocacy work. She explained the impact that she and others hoped to have: “As I started coming out, other people were like, ‘Oh! This, we can do this.’ And so, they started coming out.” Ultimately, this led to the creation of the queer Christian organization. Although the club started only about a month before our interview, it already boasted 15 members.

Summer described the need to extend this advocacy beyond inclusive spaces to enact change in overtly homophobic and binegative contexts. Like most participants,

Summer knew what it meant to feel ashamed of her bisexuality. She hoped that by engaging in conversation about her sexual identity in traditional Christian organizations, she might be able to help others. That was Summer’s “way of being out of the closet.”

She explained:

I will have a conversation with somebody…I think that it makes me feel good

because I know that there are other girls and guys in [a large, conventional

Christian student organization] that are very closeted and are just struggling so

much and just feel so much shame and pain over it that like, I, if, if I can have a

conversation with somebody, you know, then, then to make them feel not alone,

it's all worth it.

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Although Summer experienced this ability to support others as a positive, advocating for the LGBTQ+ community required a certain amount of emotional labor. Gadiel also spoke to the fact that this labor fell to “mostly queer people and Black women.”

Heteronormativity was pervasive in the Black student organizations Gadiel frequented, as it was across MSU’s campus. He stressed that there was “not any overt homophobia or transphobia or things like that,” but “you might get comments in passing and then those are addressed.” Although Black men did at times address problematic comments, the responsibility was disproportionately shouldered by the organizations’ most marginalized members. It was unsurprising then that, when asked how their peers could best support bisexual students, nearly all participants hoped that heterosexual students would take a more active role in addressing microaggressive and overtly hostile comments. In addition to advocating for the queer community through campus organizations, bisexual students engaged in advocacy in academic and professional contexts.

Outness in academia. Gadiel characterized research that contributes to the

“canon of queer literature on, specifically for bisexual, pansexual, [and] queer people” as

“important” and “necessary.” A similar belief about the importance of bisexual visibility drew numerous participants to this study. For example, Lydia saw her participation as another opportunity to “advocate for diversity and inclusion.” Sofia’s experience provided evidence for the impact “outness as advocacy” can have. A peer who Sofia described as being “super big on activism and being a voice for people who don't have a voice” told Sofia she would be participating in this study and encouraged Sofia to do the

261 same. Sofia shared, “So I just signed up for it and you know, trying to do my part in using my privilege and helping to better other people's experiences.” Like many participants, she wanted to improve the experiences of other LGBTQ+ students.

Participants’ desire to improve the experiences of queer people extended beyond this particular research project. Students sought ways to improve their classroom environments and fields of study. Some recognized the way in which their disciplines were structured, and the ways faculty addressed queer sexualities, were problematic. For instance, Alex was critical of her public health courses’ tendency to treat queer people as though they are a population in need of help. Not only did this approach to teaching deprive queer people of their agency, it presumed that all students in the class were straight. Further, Alex critiqued sex education as “generally super heteronormative” which is “really detrimental to queer people and their health and it affects health outcomes.”

To counter this heterosexist and deficit approach, Alex was outspoken about her concerns in class, particularly in smaller classes where it was less intimidating to be so.

Her peers would “kind of roll their eyes and like, ‘Oh, she's doing it again.’” Despite the tendency for her peers to dismiss her concerns, Alex was committed to working for the betterment of the queer community through HIV research and activism. Similarly, Liam wanted to get involved in diversity efforts in the nursing field. They recognized that current attempts at diversification were focused primarily on race and religion. While these efforts were certainly laudable, Liam felt the field still lacked LGBQ+ diversity and hoped to educate the medical community on this population.

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Unsurprisingly given the heteronormative academic environments in which participants negotiated their bisexuality, the responsibility of this education typically fell to queer and trans students. As Alex explained:

Typically, it's only… there's me and this one other gay dude in the class and

there's probably, I dunno, some people might be queer. But generally, it's just us

who, and we're like, we're calling this stuff out. And so [the instructor] definitely

assumes that we're not straight because otherwise we probably just would've just

been quiet, but I don't know. It just doesn't seem like… A lot of the people in the

class that are straight, even if they identify as allies, don't say anything.

As was the case in campus student organizations, Alex’s quote is illustrative of the additional burden bisexual students took on of educating their instructors and peers. It also revealed the tendency for heterosexual students and faculty to assume that if a student is an outspoken advocate of the queer community, they are likely queer themselves. This kept some students, such as Cecile, from standing up for the LGBTQ+ community for fear others would “suspect” she was queer herself. Sarah took a middle- ground approach, where she would “correct” others for making homophobic or binegative remarks but would not “tell them about my identity.” In this sense, although some participants did not fall neatly within the “Outness as Advocacy” theme, they still found ways to combat heterosexism while also controlling the assumptions others made about them.

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Personal Empowerment

For several participants, however, confronting binegativity or visually signaling their bisexuality was a form of empowerment. For example, Jessica had a pride flag hanging in her residence hall room. She recounted a story of friends of a friend visiting her space. She was warned that the visiting students were not supportive of the LGBTQ+ community, but Jessica reacted with, “Who cares, you know?” The decision to leave her pride flag visible left her feeling:

More empowered ‘cause I don't fucking care if they're looking down on it. Like,

what they think doesn't pertain to me and they are people I wouldn't want to be

friends with anyways…So I was just like, “yeah, I don't care. I'm going to put my

pride up, my pride flag up.”

Jessica reacted similarly when her parents came to visit campus, again using the language of empowerment:

Ever since I got on campus, I've been open, a little more open with it to my

parents when they visit, ‘cause I didn't take the flag down when my dad came to

visit last time. And I think to him it's very shocking, just ‘cause before I'd be very

hush about it and very quiet and trying to not show anything just because I know

their reactions. And so I think it took him by surprise that I'm very open about it

here and I think that my parents both know that me coming here is gonna make

me more open about it back at home when I do go back home. And I feel more

empowered with it just because I'm able to find my own strength with it here first

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and then go back home and not having to find that strength while at home ‘cause

just ‘cause it wasn't very supportive there.

For Jessica, like for many participants, the campus context, while certainly not free from heterosexism, did provide the freedom she needed to gain confidence in her own bisexuality. This confidence empowered Jessica to confront her father’s homophobia on her own terms.

Lydia similarly discussed the way she grew more confident in her identity. She shared, “I'm a very proud person of where I come from and I've worked so hard on my self-esteem and figuring out my identity. Today, I feel very comfortable.” This comfortability allowed Lydia to challenge homophobic or binegative comments. As

Lydia shared, “Even if it's someone who is anti-gay or is just opposed to all of that. I will mention [my bisexuality]. Will I mention it in a different way? Yes.” She went on to explain that although she would verbally confront anti-queer rhetoric, she would still temper her sexuality. For example, she would not kiss another woman in front of a homophobic person. This was not a decision made based on shame, however, but rather her personal well-being.

Whereas Lydia challenged heterosexist rhetoric more broadly, Liam advocated for themself when people assumed they are straight, which they shared “happens a lot just

‘cause a lot of people are more heteronormative.” Here, Liam made the explicit connection between the frustrating assumptions which they were forced to confront and the societal context which made such self-advocacy necessary—heteronormativity.

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Kyra’s narrative further illustrated the toll heteronormativity took on participants.

Whereas some responded by making efforts at concealing or downplaying their bisexuality, Kyra spoke about how her sadness in the face of oppression shifted towards anger:

Usually sometimes I would just feel a bit sad, just thinking, “Oh, this is something

that I have to deal with,” and I've known for a while that's something I'm gonna

have to deal with probably for my entire life. But at the same, after a certain point,

I think I just got more angry at it. Like, just annoyed, frustrated.

In the past, Kyra had chosen to walk away rather than confront prejudice head-on. At the time of our interview, however, Kyra felt she could no longer tolerate oppression— neither her own nor that of others. She shared:

If I had come across [heterosexist rhetoric] now, I feel like I would abs—, directly

say… “I'm bisexual. Also, fuck you.” …So, I think a lot, a lot more now I would,

I think I'd be a bit more aggressive towards outward bi-phobia or just homophobia

if I directly see it. Um, so yeah, I think that's, that's, that's changed. I've just gotten

a bit angrier at it.

The anger Kyra felt was coupled with a feeling of exhaustion, which numerous participants experienced. The more tired Kyra became, the more outspoken she was, because she knew “that saying nothing is not going to make the problem go away.” In this way, Kyra’s personal journey towards self-acceptance and self-advocacy pushed her towards a desire to bring about societal change.

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Summary

The purpose of this chapter was to first introduce the 16 participants whose narratives made this study possible. The presentation of individual narratives allowed me to highlight the diversity of experiences within the bisexual community. The narratives also began to illuminate shared experiences which I then explored further through the explication of themes. Next, I described the two contextual themes—Pervasive

Binegativity and the Hegemony of Binaries— which emerged from thematic and dialogic/performance analysis, respectively. Finally, I discussed the five identity negotiation themes which spoke to the narratives participants shared, the way systems of power influenced those narratives, and the way participants understood bisexual identity negotiation and their sexuality more broadly.

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Chapter 5. Discussion

The purpose of this study was to understand the experiences of bisexual students relative to their sexual identities and how they negotiated their bisexuality on the college campus. Further, I explored how bisexual college students’ identity negotiation narratives were informed by systems of power. First, I employed thematic analysis which revealed narratives of Pervasive Binegativity. Second, I engaged in dialogic/performance analysis to explore how heterosexism, monosexism, and normativity shaped participants’ narratives. Deconstruction further allowed me to recognize and disrupt binaries. I elaborate on this point when I discuss the Hegemony of Binaries theme. In addition to these two contextual themes, thematic analysis also illuminated five themes characterizing identity negotiation strategies: Settling for Simplicity, Transgressing

Normativity, Downplaying Bisexuality, Subtly Signaling, and Outness as Advocacy.

In this chapter I first briefly consider the results in relation to the four research questions that guided this study. Next, I expand upon these ideas by discussing the findings thematically. Here, I place the emergent themes in conversation with the relevant literature. I begin by emphasizing the ways in which binegativity and the hegemony of binaries influenced participants’ narratives before exploring the themes found in the data.

Next, I provide research, theoretical, and practical implications. Lastly, I present the

268 limitations and strengths of the current study, suggest directions for future research, and offer concluding thoughts.

Interpretation of Findings in Relation to Research Questions

This section explores the emergent findings in relation to the four research questions that guided this study. As a reminder, these included:

1. What narratives of identity negotiation are told by bisexual college students?

2. How do systems of power influence bisexual students' narratives of identity

negotiation?

3. What is the perceived significance of identity negotiation for bisexual college

students?

4. How do bisexual students understand their bisexuality as a result of having to

employ identity negotiation strategies?

In the subsections that follow, I discuss how the data responded to each research question. I elaborate on these concepts when I revisit the themes initially presented in

Chapter 4.

What Narratives of Identity Negotiation are Told by Bisexual College Students?

As presented in the previous chapter, each participant’s narrative was unique and highlighted the way bisexual students’ multiple identities and contexts influence the selection and experience of identity negotiation strategies. Nevertheless, some commonalities emerged from the data. Participants shared narratives of strategically employing various identity labels dependent upon their audience. They also recounted the socialization experiences which taught them how to fit into heteronormative society,

269 particularly within family, educational, and religious contexts. These socialization narratives further revealed the ways participants were punished for transgressing normative expectations of gender performance.

Participants also shared narratives in which they downplayed the significance of their bisexuality. Participants achieved this by sharing narratives of irrelevance wherein they claimed bisexuality had limited or no place in the classroom, the workplace, or in many student organizations. By claiming that their bisexuality was not an important aspect of their identity, participants were able keep their sexuality private without much further thought. It was only within the context of the research interview that most participants began reflecting on how this distancing strategy in fact required sacrificing a part of who they were for the benefit of others. The way participants spoke about the affirming connections they were able to form, often with other bisexuals, underscored the importance of supportive people and contexts.

Relatedly, participants sought connection by making their sexuality known when they felt it was safe to do so. Participants recounted various approaches to visibility, both visual and verbal. At times participants extended this quest for bisexual representation beyond themselves; most participants shared narratives in which they used their bisexuality to advocate for other queer people. Their agency, however, was heavily influenced by interlocking systems of power and oppression.

How do Systems of Power Influence Bisexual Students' Narratives Of Identity Negotiation?

This narrative inquiry study not only sought to understand bisexual students’ identity negotiation narratives, but also how those narratives are shaped by systems of 270 power. A critical poststructural epistemology and a queer theoretical lens assisted me in orienting data analysis towards questions of power. Findings revealed that participants made decisions related to their identity in response to numerous systems of oppression including binegativity, homophobia, and racism. Binegativity was pervasive and manifested in many ways, from the outright denial of bisexuality as a valid sexual identity to invasive, microaggressive questions about participants’ sexual history. It also resulted in feelings of exclusion from the larger queer community for many participants.

Given the way binegativity shaped all participants’ experiences, I expand on this system of oppression in detail when I discuss the Pervasive Binegativity contextual theme.

In addition to binegativity, participants also described experiences with homophobia more broadly, particularly as it manifested in religions communities or within their families. Students’ narratives pertaining to family and/or faith dynamics were also heavily informed by race and ethnicity. For example, Gadiel discussed growing up in the Black Church and M, Alex, and Jessica all spoke to their experiences in Catholic,

Latinx households. Further, real or perceived fears surrounding how binegativity, homophobia, and racism would endanger them influenced how students presented in various contexts. This was especially true of rural, off-campus contexts where participants took particular care to conceal or downplay their identity.

Finally, the role both hetero- and homonormativity played in informing students’ identity negotiation strategies was evident in the way participants described choices to downplay their identity. For instance, the way Sharon spoke about not wanting to “put

[her bisexuality in her classmate’s] face,” was reminiscent of covering, an assimilationist

271 strategy that entails minimizing the obtrusiveness of an identity (Yoshino, 2007).

Participants seemed highly aware of notions of respectability and appropriateness within academic and professional contexts and enacted their identity in accordance with these norms. This practice highlighted the tension between respectability and queerness and between students’ public and private selves (Joshi, 2012).

What is the Perceived Significance of Identity Negotiation for Bisexual College Students?

Findings from this study suggest the ability to negotiate their bisexuality afforded participants a sense of agency over their identity and the way they experienced their social world. Students were able to avoid uncomfortable questions and conversations and protect their emotional and physical safety by strategically enacting their bisexual identity across contexts. This was particularly significant to participants who were raised in homophobic households. Summer, for example, explained how shaping others’ perceptions of her through her choice of clothing and accessories allowed her to feel “in control” in ways she never could as a child.

Yet despite the sense of control participants experienced, they also described feeling sad, restricted, and exhausted because they felt pressured by heteronormative and racist social contexts to conceal a part of themselves. As detailed in the Downplaying

Bisexuality theme, however, participants minimized the significance that concealment or covering strategies had on their sense of self. The way they spoke about this need, however, revealed the sense of loss they felt over not having spaces to be unapologetically proud of their bisexuality. Gadiel, for example, referred to this as a necessary “sacrifice” he had to make for his immediate wellbeing. Numerous participants 272 expressed a hope that their sexuality would be normalized; consciously choosing not to reveal their bisexuality thus served as a reminder that their bisexuality was not normal in heterosexual or lesbian and gay spaces. It is unsurprising that participants felt a desire to fit in given the exclusion from both campus communities that bisexual students experience (Lowy, 2017). This desire, however, speaks to the way hetero- and homonormativity operate on the college campus.

How do Bisexual Students Understand Their Bisexuality as a Result of Having to Employ Identity Negotiation Strategies?

The final research question addressed in this study considered how bisexual students understood their bisexuality in light of having to employ identity negotiation strategies. Participants explained that the notable absence of bisexuality on their campus, along with the binegative messages they often heard, made them feel as though their own bisexuality was invalid. Further, choosing to downplay their bisexuality contributed to this internal sense of doubt. Having to employ identity negation (e.g., denial, lowered identification), passing, or covering strategies (Deaux & Ethier, 1998; Yoshino 2007) may thus have contributed to the internalized binegativity many participants experienced.

Conversely, supportive campus contexts—typically those that embraced an intersectional understanding of identity—contributed to a sense of validation and comfort. When participants were able to practice identity enhancement strategies such as enhanced group contact with likeminded peers, they felt empowered in their bisexual identity. I elaborate on this sense of empowerment and outness in the service of others in the Outness as Advocacy subsection.

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Relationship of Themes to Existing Literature

In this section, I discuss the thematic findings by placing them in conversation with the extant literature presented in Chapter 2. Before addressing the five identity negotiation themes that emerged from analysis of the data, I begin by detailing the broader societal context in which participants were situated and about which they spoke at length. Understanding the pervasive binegativity with which students were forced to contend was critical for interpreting participants’ identity negotiation narratives.

Additionally, I demonstrate the way students tended to replicate the binary logics that shaped their experiences.

Pervasive Binegativity

The ways in which participants discussed binegativity provide support for

Yoshino’s (2000) conceptualization of bisexual erasure, which results from class erasure, individual erasure, and delegitimation. Class erasure refers to the denial of bisexuality; the term class here is used as it would be in legal studies to denote an identity category.

Participants were frequently told bisexuality did not exist and that they were faking.

Relatedly, students were asked to offer proof of their bisexuality, most often in the form of evidence of same-sex experiences. Not only was being asked to provide evidence of their sexuality demeaning, it was also difficult. Bisexual students worked against their peer’s tendency to define their sexuality in terms of the gender of their current partner, or the gender of the people with whom they have had the most public intimate relationships.

To confront the assumption that they were either gay or straight, participants had to challenge the prevailing notion that gender and sexuality are binary and to resist the

274 monosexism that resulted from this way of thinking (Eisner, 2013). Liminality resists such a binary understanding of sexuality (Abes & Kasch, 2007; Halberstam, 2005), but because of the liminal nature of bisexuality, it was challenging to make visible a bisexual identity. As bisexuals perform their sexuality, they are simultaneously resisting and constrained by heteronormativity (Abes, 2009). How can one prove that which is not visible? I go on to grapple with this question when discussing the “Subtly Signalizing

Sexuality” theme.

Participants also experienced what Yoshino (2000) called individual erasure.

Although bisexuality was acknowledged as an authentic identity for some people, peers treated participants as though they were not actually bisexual or were going through a phase. This resulted in gatekeeping behaviors where participants were asked to prove their bisexuality. Participants had to contend with stereotypical notions of how a bisexual person is supposed to look or behave. Yet as noted above, the notion of a bisexual “look” was quite elusive. Having their sexuality questioned was particularly hurtful when it came from other queer people.

The practice of questioning bisexuals’ inclusion in the queer community is not new (Blasingame, 1992; Stone, 1996; Weiss, 2011). Blasingame (1992) argued this gatekeeping takes place because “the queer community was established on a set of norms of what constituted queer” (p. 47). As she explained, “some people are viewed as being more queer than others. Bisexuals are most often viewed as less queer because they do not identify as exclusively gay or lesbian” (Blasingame, 1992, pp. 49-50). In this way, bisexuals are regarded as “fence sitters,” untrustworthy, and a threat to the queer

275 community (Stone, 1996, p. 101). This is closely connected to the deligitimation of bisexuality.

The third and final form of bisexual erasure—deligitimation—occurrs when bisexuality is stigmatized or denigrated (Yoshino, 2000). Participants were told they were not gay “enough,” seeking attention, prone to infidelity, and promiscuous. These misconceptions revealed a variety of prejudices around bisexuality and the stronghold that binary notions of sexuality and gender have on students’ thinking. First, the idea that participants were not gay “enough” speaks to the tendency to treat bisexuality as though it is composed of heterosexuality and homosexuality, as opposed to its own identity

(Burrill, 2009). Second, the discourse surrounding fidelity, monogamy, and promiscuity is rife with racist and sexist assumptions about how sexuality should be enacted in

“proper” society. As Klesse (2005) pointed out, “accusing a person of being promiscuous is part and parcel of a highly gendered, classed and racialized discourse on sexuality” (p.

449). When viewed through a feminist theoretical perspective, “promiscuity discourses can be deployed to subject women’s sexual agency to a specific disciplinary regime of morality” (Klesse, 2005, p. 449). Further, this discourse has disproportionately been wielded against Women of Color and women with marginalized class or religious identities (Cohen, 1996; Klesse, 2005). In this study, male and masculine-presenting participants did not share examples of being hypersexualized in this way. In fact, Remus was the only participant to mention that he and his partner had considered nonmonogamy. Women and participants who were assumed to be women, on the other hand, were careful to distance themselves from this discourse and while they argued

276 nonmonogamy or promiscuity was a perfectly valid option for others, they were clear they were not interested in group sex or relationships with multiple partners. This was unsurprising given all but one white woman participant also identified as a religious minority, disabled, and/or lower class. Bisexual women had to resist discourses that framed them as sexual objects (Li et al., 2013). Pursuing nonnormative relationship structures may have exposed these women to harassment, violence, and ostracization from their home communities (Klesse, 2005).

Additionally, claiming a bisexual identity, regardless of sexual practices, challenged both hetero- and homonormativity. According to Duggan (2003), homonormativity “does not challenge heterosexist institutions and values, but rather upholds, sustains, and seeks inclusion within them” (p. 50). Given bisexuality’s association with nonmonogamy and promiscuity, bisexuality threatens this claim to inclusion. Of relevance to this study given the role of Christianity in many participants lives, this politics of assimilation (i.e. homonormativity) functions in response to

Christian opposition to homosexuality on the basis of Christian standards of morality, family, and relationships (Mathers, Sumerau, & Cragun, 2018). This may help to explain the pressures Christian students were under to adhere to a certain type of relationship. It also brings to light the ways in which Christian students were caught between their faith and the lesbian and gay community, and unable to find unqualified belonging in either.

Not only were participants constrained by and seeking agency within binegative, heterosexist regulatory structures, they were also contending with hegemonic notions of gender.

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Hegemony of Binaries

I explored how participants produced and performed their narratives by engaging in dialogic/performance analysis. Students replicated the very binaries of sexuality and gender that constrained their ability to make visible their bisexuality. Most students rejected a definition of bisexuality that framed attraction in terms of exclusively cisgender males and females. They were careful to explain that their attractions were “not necessarily binary” or “not necessarily exclusionary of non-binary people or trans people.” Yet when students were not carefully articulating the way they self-defined bisexuality, they were also less mindful of their word choice. Even participants who did not personally identify with the gender binary used terms like “both genders.” The way participants spoke about gender and sexuality, the words they employed, was significant because discourses shape the organization of identities and social worlds (Foucault,

1976). Power, according to Foucault,

is a relation. It inheres in difference and is a dynamic of control and lack of

control between discourses and the subjects, constituted by discourses, who are

their agents. Power is exercised within discourse in the ways in which they

constitute and govern individual subjects. (Weedon, 1987, p. 113)

Certain discourses, in this case the discourse surrounding binary gender, rise to the level of “truth.” Scholars across a range of disciplines are working to disrupt the binary construction of gender (e.g., Bradford et al., 2018; Nicolazzo, 2016; Oakley, 2016), yet it remains hegemonic. This entrenchment is due in part to medical and psychiatric discourse and the legacies of scientific racism (Bilodeau, 2005; Markowtiz, 2001).

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Although participants understood their attractions as falling outside of this strict binary, they found it difficult to make their sexuality intelligible to others given the hegemony of this binary gender discourse.

In addition to referring to gender as binary, students also talked about their bisexuality as being partially straight or “60% heterosexual,” for example. This mirrors the way in which the literature often incorrectly implies that bisexuality is a combination of both homosexuality and heterosexuality (Burrill, 2009). Even when sexuality is understood as a dialectical interrelation rather than a strict linear binary, bisexuality is still lost to a binary logic that excludes the possibility of both/and. In other words, bisexual identity and experience may include attractions and behaviors that resemble both heterosexuality and homosexuality, but bisexuality is more than either.

Nevertheless, participants struggled to free themselves of this binary logic.

Sharon’s comments illustrate this point. She alternated between using both “different- gender” and “opposite gender;” at one point, she began to say “opposite” before correcting to “different.” Not only does this speak to the difficulty of unlearning the hegemonic discourses of sexuality and gender that shape bisexuals’ reality, Sharon’s comment was also reflective of the way narratives are performed within the context of the research interview, and in society more broadly. As Goffman (1959) argued, individuals perform a desirable form of themselves. Further, narratives are interactive performances, and interviewees are aware of the presence of the researcher (Riessman, 2008). In this example, Sharon was aware that I had been using the language of “multiple” or

“different” genders. It was clear she knew the “correct” term to use but had been

279 socialized in such a way that the phrase “opposite gender” came most naturally. I, myself, took care throughout the interviews not to replicate this binary discourse but often found it difficult to do so. I do not consider this use of socially desirable language to be a limitation, but rather an example of the tension between participants’ academic and personal understandings of gender and sexuality and the way the gender binary functions in white, colonialist U.S. society more broadly (Driskill, 2010; Simpson, 2017; Willey,

2016).

By deconstructing these discourses that constrain both sexuality and gender, I was able to explore the detrimental impact these discourses had on bisexual students (Robbins

& McGowan, 2016). As I next go on to show, participants were constrained by “the conscious and unconscious adherence to the norms and cultural signifiers of sexuality and gender” (Valocchi, 2005, p. 756). In particular, they struggled to make their sexuality understood and visible within a cisheteronormtive campus context in which both sexuality and gender were treated as binaries, including by the participants themselves.

Beginning with an explication of these material and discursive realities shaping bisexual college students’ identity negotiation experiences provided the context necessary for the presentation of the five identity negotiation themes which now follow.

Settling for Simplicity

Sexual “feelings and identities exist within a specific historical period that limits and/or provides access to certain ways (e.g., categories, nomenclature, cultural norms) for making meaning of feelings, desires, fantasies, and identities” (Denton, 2019, p. 59).

Power provided a lens through which to examine how (and by whom) sexual identity is

280 defined (Valocchi, 2005). Within the context of cisheteronormative, monosexist college campuses, workplaces, and home communities where bisexuality was often rendered invisible, participants negotiated their sexuality through the choice of an identity label.

Often, participants elected to use the term they felt would resonate with others, rather than that which most resonated with themselves. This was similar to Tillman-Kelly’s

(2015) finding that gay, lesbian, bisexual, and queer Students of Color often employed alternate sexual identity labels “when they believed their preferred sexuality would be difficult to explain, understand, or unlikely to be accepted by others” (p. 90). This strategy allowed students to avoid the emotional labor necessary to explain their sexuality to others. Although most participants found the term bisexual was most easily understood and thus simplest to use, others preferred to use the term queer, which they felt was less laden with binary assumptions.

In this sense, the choice of identity label functioned as an agentic strategy. It also highlights, however, the way in which bisexual students were situated within the structure/agency binary that simultaneously provided them with options and constrained those options (Valocchi, 2005). Yes, participants had the power to select a label that offered them a modicum of rhetorical control over their social interactions, but the labels from which they could choose were still limited. Regardless of the label selected, participants had to settle on extant, socially intelligible terminology that may not have captured the complexity of their behaviors, desires, and sense of self. In discussing

Native Two-Spirit/GLBTQ genders and sexualities, for example, Driskill (2010) asserted that terms like “queer” and “trans” only have meaning within the rigid binaries of white

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America. Although no participants in the present study identified as Native—a significant limitation which speaks to the legacies of U.S. colonialism and the underrepresentation of

Indigenous students on predominantly white campuses—Driskill’s (2010) argument addressed the ways in which white supremacy and the hegemony of binary thinking limit bisexual students’ ability to self-identify.

As Driskill’s example illustrated, “labeling practices are also grounded in hegemonic female/male, feminine/masculine binary discourse” (Oakley, 2016, p. 1). As students attempted to subvert the systems that marginalized them through their choice of a label, they also contributed to bisexual erasure. Based on a Foucauldian (1978) understanding of discourse and power, Oakley (2016) explained:

Discourse that attempts to subvert power also reinforces it by first recognizing its

power and second by giving it credence through acknowledgment that it needs to

be challenged in the first place. Likewise, remaining silent allows that which is in

power to remain in power, though silence should not be assumed to be passive

acceptance of dominant powers. (p. 9)

The notion that students were neither passively accepting bisexual erasure nor actively combatting it is critical as it speaks to the challenges bisexuals face in negotiating their identity in cisheteronormative society.

Transgressing Normativity

Participants discussed the ways they were socialized into this society by their peers, families, and religious leaders. This socialization informed how they came to understand their bisexuality and how they negotiated their identity. Hegemonic gender

282 norms are produced through performative action which often involves “the repetition of oppressive and painful gender norms to force them to resignify” (Butler, 1992, p. 84). For bisexual men in particular, understanding the stigma surrounding bisexuality required an exploration of how homophobia and binegativity interact with masculinity (McCormack et al., 2014). The men in this study were raised in an environment that taught them not to cry, not to embody femininity, by correcting deviations from gender norms. This finding extended scholarship describing the ways in which men are socialized into performing masculinity in accordance with a rigid set of normative expectations (Edwards & Jones,

2009) by highlighting the cisheteronormativity undergirding these norms. Adherence to normative masculinity limited the freedom the men and masculine-presenting participants in the present study had to explore their bisexuality prior to college, although women and feminine-presenting students also discussed the ways they felt similarly limited by their home environments.

Regardless of gender identity, participants were taught to reproduce normative masculinity and femininity; as such, they adopted styles that were often read as heterosexual. As a liminal identity, bisexuality offered students the latitude to play with their gender expression to some extent. Yet while some participants resisted the norms into which they had been socialized, doing so was difficult. Further, participants struggled to make their bisexuality intelligible precisely because of this state of liminality

(Whitney, 2001). Miller (2006) argued that as bisexuals “do gender” they are also “doing sexuality.” She suggested that “doing gender” in accordance with societal norms “also means doing ‘obligatory heterosexuality’” (Miller, 2006, p. 65). When bisexuals “do

283 gender” as expected (i.e., their sex assigned at birth is congruent with their gender expression) they are assumed to be straight. For participants in the present study, transgressing normativity, on the other hand, typically resulted in the assumption of a lesbian or gay identity and the further erasure of their bisexuality.

Downplaying Bisexuality

Participants engaged in various identity negotiation strategies whereby they downplayed their bisexuality. They provided various rationale for doing so, including articulating a claim that their bisexuality was not relevant on campus, that it was not a significant aspect of their identity, or that it should be normalized and thus was not a big deal. Before I discuss the ways in which participants minimized their bisexuality, I begin with a caution. Previously, I described the way bisexuality is broadly erased (Yoshino,

2000; 2007). It is also important to note that, given predominantly white college campuses’ tendency to center whiteness, and the “heteronormative racial narratives that produce [Queer of Color] invisibility,” bisexual Students of Color may feel particularly erased on campus—in students organizations, in the workplace, and in the classrooms and curricula (Brockenbrough, 2015, p. 33). That said, although visibility and representation are important, “the casting of coming out as a liberatory act reflects a

White middle-class epistemological bias that does not necessarily resonate for queer subjects marked by racial difference” (Ross, 2005, as cited in Brockenbrough, 2015, p.

36). For example, Jessica, Alex, and Lydia all described the way their families chose to ignore their bisexuality or pretend it didn’t exist. To varying degrees, these three women tolerated this dynamic. Acosta (2010) similarly found that queer Latinas engage in

284 similar identity negotiation strategies with their families, including the avoidance of candid conversations about sexuality or pretending the initial disclosure had not taken place. Brockenbrough (2015) argued performing queer invisibility in these ways can serve as an agentic practice for queer People of Color. It is with this in mind that I next discuss when and where participants chose to downplay their bisexuality.

Bisexuality’s (ir)relevance on campus. Participants frequently remarked that their sexuality was not relevant in most campus contexts. Although related to the idea that campus environments were unwelcoming of nonnormative sexualities (Blumenfeld et al., 2016; Rankin et al., 2010; Tetreault et al., 2013; Vaccaro, 2012), the notion that bisexuality was irrelevant advanced this idea. It was not as though students were discussing bisexuality and finding it poorly received; rather, participants did not see an opportunity to introduce bisexuality into the conversation at all. This was unsurprising given prior research demonstrating bisexuality’s absence in school curriculum and classroom discussion (Elia, 2010, 2014; Jones & Hillier, 2014). In most disciplines, sexuality was simply not a topic of academic conversation. Further, students did not believe it was appropriate to mention same-gender attractions or relationships to peers or coworkers.

Normativity provides a lens through which to understand why heterosexual behavior is a welcome subject of conversation in the classroom or workplace, but bisexuality is not. Systems of power, privilege, and oppression not only shape institutions of higher education, but as social institutions, colleges and universities reinforce and perpetuate these systems of inequality and marginalization (Edwards, 2006). As such,

285 campus contexts are not immune to normativity, monosexism, and binegativity.

Homonormativity in particular is characterized by a “privatized, depoliticized gay culture” (Duggan, 2002, p. 197). A homonormative campus culture thus communicates to students that sex, regardless of with whom, is meant to be kept behind closed doors.

Faced with a campus context that students perceived as unwelcoming of explicit discussions of queer sex and sexuality, participants downplayed the importance of their bisexuality, which in turn limited their ability to enter campus spaces as their whole selves.

The claim that bisexuality was not relevant in the classroom, the workplace, or in most student organizations was emblematic of the lowered identification identity negation strategy described by Deaux and Ethier (1998). Individuals engaging in this strategy deemphasized the importance of an identity. This was thus “a particularly flexible strategy of identity negation, allowing a person to respond to immediate situational pressures without relinquishing a well-established identification” (Deaux &

Ethier, 1998, p. 309). Yet as Deaux and Ethier (1998) noted, although this strategy may have immediate advantages, the longer-term consequences are unknown. It is unclear what effect the choice to downplay the importance of their bisexuality might have on participants over time. Although the preponderance of research has found that concealing one’s identity may negatively impact wellbeing (Paul et al., 2014), a smaller body of research suggested concealing one’s sexual orientation reduces stress and negative affect

(Huebner & Davis, 2005). For those with multiple marginalized identities, the choice to

286 downplay the significance of a queer identity can be a means of survival (Lou, 2016), and is emblematic of the agency these students possess (Brockenbrough, 2015).

Importantly, there is a distinction between an “episodic pattern of concealment” and “the closet…The former may be a source of anxiety and discomfort, but the latter potentially shapes a whole way of life.” None of the participants in this study could be described as completely closeted, yet all described times they were not forthcoming about their bisexuality. Newheiser and Barreto (2014) found:

hiding a stigmatized identity can result in a lowered sense of belonging…although

individuals living with concealable stigmatized identities report a preference for

hiding (vs. revealing) the identity during social interactions, hiding in fact reduces

feelings of belonging—an effect that is mediated by felt inauthenticity and

reduced general self-disclosure (i.e., disclosure of self-relevant information not

limited to the stigmatized identity). (p. 58)

The way participants discussed supportive campus contexts in which they did not downplay their bisexuality contrasted with those where hetero- and homonormativity were more prevalent. These supportive contexts ranged from Women’s, Gender, and

Sexuality Studies classrooms to queer Student of Color organizations to peer groups comprised predominantly of LGBTQ+ friends. In these spaces, students articulated a much clearer sense of belonging and did not question their authenticity or validity.

Choosing not to reveal. As noted, these affirming spaces were few and far between. Given the pervasiveness of binegative or otherwise unwelcoming contexts, participants at times made the decision not to reveal, or to consciously conceal, their

287 bisexuality. Although some participants at times attempted to signal bisexuality, and some embodied the theme “Outness as Advocacy,” all described instances where it was advantageous not to openly discuss their sexual identity. This aligns with current research that has shown not all bisexuals actively try to gain greater visibility, and those who do may view their bisexuality as a central aspect of their identity and have more discomfort with being seen as heterosexual (Davila et al., 2019; Mohr et al., 2017). In fact, bisexuals are more likely to conceal their identity than their gay and lesbian peers (Dyar et al.,

2014).

Although participants occasionally used the language of concealment, more often they discussed choosing not to reveal their bisexuality or sharing their identity only if asked. The way participants described this varied. Remus, for example, used the term

“code-switching” to explain how openly he was able to discuss his attraction to men. The ways he talked about his interest in men differed when he was among gay men, women, and straight men. Code-switching, a term drawn from sociolinguistics to describe strategies available to bilingual people (Myers-Scotton & Ury, 1977), was employed by bisexual participants as well. To offer another example, several participants used the word “gay” colloquially when speaking with their queer friends, because in this context, the term would be understood as an umbrella encompassing bisexuality. With more conservative straight peers, however, participants such as Alex used the term “gay” to mean attraction to the same sex in the hopes of avoiding invasive questions and incorrect assumptions about bisexuality.

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In addition to discussing or describing code-switching, several participants employed the language of passing. Passing is a form of code-switching not typically accessible to members of other marginalized communities, but available to bisexuals given the often-invisible nature of sexuality (Cross, 2012; Verni, 2009). Lydia, for instance, referred to herself as “straight passing” and explained how it afforded her a sense of safety. Although Cross (2012) argued that passing is no longer necessary within urban environments and on college campuses, several participants in this study spoke to the limitations of this claim. Lydia felt highly visible in her Puerto Rican identity, particularly on her predominantly white campus, and did not want to invite more unwanted attention by being visibly queer as well. Deen, who was still coming to terms with her bisexuality at the same time she was navigating a break with her Muslim faith, was not comfortable outwardly identifying as bisexual. The suggestion that universities are “safe spaces” for coming out and living openly (Cross, 2012, p. 206), thus fails to consider the experiences of queer people with multiple marginalized identities.

Rather than analyzing bisexual identity negotiation in terms of passing, it may be more useful to consider covering, as Yoshino (2007) suggested. The majority of participants did not attempt to pass as straight or to intentionally hide their bisexuality.

They did, however, find ways to downplay the “obtrusiveness” of their bisexuality

(Yoshino, 2007, p. 76). Participants explained they would only talk about their sexuality

“if it came up” and Sharon mentioned not wanting to do “too much” or “put it in their face.” Yoshino (2007) described this as a form of assimilation. Bisexual students on college campuses are thus faced with a contradiction: “Many individuals can choose to

289 live beyond the closet but they must still live and participate in a world where most institutions maintain heterosexual domination” (Seidman, 2002, p. 6). Even though most participants felt comfortable with their bisexuality, they had to grapple with the heteronormativity of the college environment. Importantly, Yoshino (2007) clarified, “I am not against all covering, but only against coerced covering” (p. 92). The distinction here is that bisexuals may choose to cover for their comfort or convenience, but they may also be forced to cover by a homophobic or binegative context which necessitates covering. In her work on trans* college students, Nicolazzo (2017) referred to a “social imperative to cover” in response to oppressive social structures (p. 32). Of course, these structures of oppression are not the same for bisexual students as they are for trans* students, yet this notion of “imperative” is critical as it frames covering as a survival or resistance strategy, rather than as a form of cowardice. The imperative to cover is further complicated by students’ multiple identities, as I have begun to show.

Participants’ intersecting identities influenced when and where they chose to reveal their bisexuality. For example, students were more fearful of rural environments and hesitant to disclose their bisexuality in the presence of Christian or Muslim peers, family, and friends, who they assumed to hold more conservative views on sexuality.

Students of Color felt more comfortable in spaces designed with diversity and inclusion in mind (e.g., scholars program, queer Student of Color organization) or with trusted faculty or administrators.

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Subtly Signaling Sexuality

Although participants often performed covering strategies, they also employed a variety of strategies to signal their bisexuality to others. These attempts at visibility ranged from how they styled their hair and clothing to the stickers, pins, and flags they used to adorn their bodies, laptops, and residence hall walls. When asked what sexuality their peers and faculty assumed them to be, however, most answered, “Straight.” A smaller number thought strangers might assume they were gay, but none felt they were read as exclusively bisexual. This was in line with prior research that found “bisexual displays” were often misunderstood or unnoticed by others (Hartman, 2013).

Interviewees such as M and Sharon alluded to the fact that it was difficult to portray bisexuality. This can be attributed in part to the lack of a distinct bisexual style (Hayfeld et al., 2013; Huxley et al., 2013).

Monosexism provides insight into why it would be so challenging to present a visibly bisexual style. Monosexism arises from the view that sexuality and gender are binary and refers to the structural privileging of monosexual identities and the assumption that all people are either heterosexual or gay (Eisner, 2013). For women, the adoption of a “butch” style, which included shorter hair, minimal makeup, and more masculine clothing, was typically attributed to a lesbian aesthetic (Hayfield et al., 2013). Bisexual women who embodied more “femme” styles—long hair, dresses, and other traditionally feminine clothing—were assumed to be straight, itself a form of lesbian erasure driven by compulsory heterosexuality (Rich, 1980). Men in this study were generally assumed to be heterosexual because they dressed more masculine, and participants explained the ways

291 they were socialized into this masculinity by their families and communities of origin.

Nonbinary and genderfluid participants’ experiences tended to align with the gender most peers would assume them to be based on normative ideas about gender (Butler, 1993).

These normative assumptions were troubled, however, by participants’ racial and ethnic identifications. For example, although short hair was often considered a visual indicator of a lesbian identity (Hayfield et al., 2013), this was not universally true, particularly in the Black community. Gender, and the aesthetics and actions associated with dominant conceptualizations of gender, is thus a function of white normativity and served to complicate the ways Participants of Color could signal their bisexuality.

Within a social structure that does not permit the assumption of bisexuality, participants needed to find more explicit ways to make their sexuality known (Miller,

2006). Interviewees inserted mentions of their bisexuality into their social media profiles or signaled their sexuality through pride accessories. Often, however, they used rainbows rather than bisexual pride colors, further allowing monosexist assumptions to prevail. By signaling a generic LGBTQ+ identity or allyship, participants were rarely assumed to be bisexual. As such, the most effective identity negotiation strategy participants could employ to emphasize their bisexuality was verbally hinting. This verbal approach extended research by Tabatabai and Linders (2011) which found bisexual women negotiated their identity by employing narrative strategies, including narratives of attraction to women and queering the men with whom they had relationships. The researchers also found the women in their study at times politicized their identities, challenging homophobia as a means of affirming their membership in the LGBTQ+

292 community (Tabatabai & Linders, 2011). These narrative strategies and advocacy work at times were invisible strategies. For participants in the present study, it was sometimes simply necessary to outright come out and claim the bisexual, pansexual, or queer label in order to be seen as bisexual.

Outness as Advocacy

Previously, I discussed how covering offered a useful way of understanding how and why participants downplayed their bisexuality. As described in Chapter 2, one of the axes across which groups can highlight or mute identity is activism (Yoshino, 2007).

Activism, as Yoshino (2007) conceptualized it, did not necessarily entail political organizing, but rather an unapologetic outness. For Yoshino (2007), for example, this looked like teaching civil rights law and writing about LGBTQ+ issues. For participants in this study, advocating for the queer community provided one avenue for highlighting their bisexual identity. Tabatabai and Linders (2011) found something similar among the bisexual women in their study; some of their participants intentionally politicized their identities by confronting homophobia and advocating for other queer women.

Deaux and Ethier (1998) also offered a helpful framework for examining this phenomenon. They described a reaffirmation identity negotiation strategy which included asserting the positive values associated with a maligned identity in the face of misunderstanding or prejudice. They also discussed a social change strategy wherein an individual hopes to alter negative beliefs about an identity or to change the social structures which continue to oppress members of a marginalized group (Deaux & Ethier,

1998). Participants, for example, would open up about their bisexuality, verbally and by

293 wearing pride apparel, in the hopes of making other queer students feel more able to do so. They actively contributed to the research on bisexuality (through this study) and corrected heterosexist and binegative comments in their classes and organizations.

Further, several participants described their involvement in the creation of an

LGBTQ+ affirming Christian organization. Research demonstrated intensified group contact can foster belonging and challenge erasure (Deaux & Ethier, 1998; DiFulvio,

2011). Coming together as a group also provided opportunity for collective action which had the potential to challenge structural oppression as well (DiFulvio, 2011). For many of the Christian students in this study, the way they understood their Christian faith was for many years bound up in what they understood about their sexuality. In college, however, they found new ways to perform their bisexuality and Christianity in such a way that allowed them to challenge heteronormative and binegative structures. Abes and Kasch

(2007), in using queer theory to analyze a Catholic lesbian’s identity narrative, described a constant redefinition of what it means to be lesbian and what it means to be Catholic.

Many of the Christian participants in the current study similarly negotiated both of these identities, “performing a strategy of liminality in which these identities share the same identity material” (Abes & Kasch, 2007, p. 627). Ultimately, students came to understand their bisexual Christian identities by reconceptualizing their faith to be inclusive of queer identities and finding affirmation of their bisexuality in a newly Christian space. Toft

(2014) analyzed data from 80 surveys and 20 interviews and found bisexual Christians engaged in a similar re-imagining of both their sexuality and faith.

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I conclude the discussion of the Outness as Advocacy theme with a caution. For some participants, their desire to confront homophobia and binegativity had yet to be actualized, which speaks to the ideological and material barriers to activism, particularly for students with multiple marginalized identities. For Kyra, speaking out against homophobia in her residence hall suite could have led to her being outed and perhaps even jeopardized her living situation. Activism, for queer Students of Color especially, can be a significant source of stress, exposure to oppressive behavior, and further marginalization (Duran, 2019a; Vaccaro & Mena, 2011). As such, while many participants in this study negotiated their bisexuality by advocating for themselves and others, the inability or unwillingness to engage in this work should not be viewed as a shortcoming.

Research, Theoretical, and Practical Implications

The present study offers numerous implications for research, theorizing, and practice. In this section I discuss considerations for bisexuality scholars, including sampling and rapport, methodology, and directions for future research. Next, I present theoretical implications related to identity development and identity labels. Finally, I offer suggestions for improved faculty, counseling, and student affairs practice.

Recommendations for Future Research

This narrative study provides guidance for bisexuality and higher education researchers and illuminates directions for future research. Researchers might enter into a study on bisexual college students incorrectly assuming that the social stigma surrounding bisexuality may result in difficulty recruiting participants or that students

295 might be unwilling to communicate freely. Kong et al. (2001), for instance, noted that asking queer people to recount their stories can feel like being asked to come out. Instead, researchers should anticipate that bisexual students are hungry for opportunities to be seen and be heard. Participants frequently shared that the opportunity to participate in the present study offered a space to discuss their bisexuality that had been lacking. Jessica admitted, “other than this interview, I feel like I wouldn't have a way to express it to someone else that isn't just a friend.” Students like M felt “overlooked.” In this sense, the research interview can function as a developmental intervention, providing an opportunity for participants to construct meaning of previously unexamined experiences

(Baxter Magolda & King, 2007). Future research on bisexual, pansexual, and queer college students might look for ways to include a greater number of participants while remaining cognizant of methodological considerations. A grounded theory study

(Charmaz, 2014) on the process of identity negotiation, for instance, could lead to additional insights into this phenomenon of interest while also providing an opportunity for many students to share their experiences.

Future research should also continue to include individuals underrepresented in the current literature while avoiding tokenization; the intersections of multiple marginalized identities are particularly in need of exploration, specifically LGBTQ+

People of Color (Duran, 2019b; Ghabrial & Ross, 2018; Huang et al., 2010). As noted, some participants engaged in both identity amplification and negation strategies.

Brockenbrough (2015) asked, “What circumstances lead queer students of color to embrace or resist queer visibility? …How do the tensions between queer visibility and

296 invisibility affect activism by and for queers of color in various educational spaces?” (p.

38). Given these tensions emerged in the current study, as did the role of advocacy and activism, these questions continue to be worthy of further examination. Duran’s (2019a) research exploring the way queer Collegians of Color actively resist systems of oppression, in part for the betterment of other queer People of Color, provided an excellent starting point; research which emphasizes the specific dynamics of bisexual activism would extend this scholarship.

Study findings suggested that worldview plays a role in bisexual student identity negotiation and thus additional research is needed on bisexual students from a variety of religious or spiritual traditions. Current research (e.g., Means, 2017; Means et al., 2018) has begun to explore the intersections of race, spirituality, and sexuality; additional work is needed in this area. Further, given the importance of Christianity in the lives of many participants, additional research is needed to understand how monosexual Christian college students might perceive their bisexual Christian peers. In their study of cisgender, heterosexual Christian women’s constructions of bisexual people, Mathers et al. (2014) called for additional scholarship that explores “the ways bisexual people experience and are shaped by religious experiences, others, organizations, and traditions” (p. 947). The present study offers a glimpse into that experience, yet there is still need for additional work.

Furthermore, several of the participants in this study made passing reference to having a disability. Although the research protocol did not include questions specific to ability, additional research is needed to examine how the intersection of disability and

297 bisexuality may compound experiences of invisibility. As Coffman (2007) identified, “in the minds of able-bodied society…people with disabilities must not possess sexuality” (p.

194). The belief that disability and sexuality cannot and do not coexist may thus contribute to the erasure of disabled bisexual experiences. Much in the same way bisexuality problematizes the heterosexual-homosexual binary, crip theory offers a critique of a disabled-nondisabled binary (Abes, 2019; Kafer, 2013; McRuer, 2006).

Further, given the relationship between heteronormativity and compulsory able- bodiedness (McRuer, 2006), this is a fruitful avenue of poststructural scholarship (Abes,

2019).

That so few bisexual men responded to calls for participants was not surprising given the “relative invisibility of bisexual men…compared to bisexual women”

(Steinman, 2011, p. 400). Yet it is precisely for this reason that men’s perspectives are needed. Steinman (2011) argued that more research on the relationship between masculinity and bisexuality might help to explain this absence.

Steinman (2011) also argued “bisexual absences—such as experiences of behaviorally bisexual but non-bisexually identiﬁed individuals—should be brought more toward the center of inquiry” (p. 406). With that in mind, research exploring the experiences of people who are attracted to or sexually involved with individuals of more than one gender or no gender, but who would not identify with a label such as bisexual, pansexual, or queer, are also in need of further exploration.

Lastly, many participants in this study described the way moving to college provided the freedom needed to more fully explore their bisexuality. Given the over-

298 representation of highly educated individuals in bisexuality research (Diamond, 2008), additional research is needed to examine the experiences of less educated and/or working-class bisexuals. Further, higher education researchers should explore the aspects of the college environment that promote or hinder bisexual college student development.

Theoretical Implications

Although I did not design this study to explore identity development, it nevertheless has implications for student development theory. The application of a critical poststructural theoretical perspective shed light on the limitations of traditional, stage-based models. For example, Troiden (1988) argued, “identity disclosure enables the homosexual identity to be more fully realized” (p. 112). His last stage also included the confrontation of stigma and seeking social change. D’Augelli (1994) similarly concluded his model with the development of commitments to social and political action. Although

D’Augelli (1994) recognized that empowered bisexual people are aware of the structure of heterosexism, his model did not adequately theorize the role of heterosexism in constraining opportunities for resistance. Further, conflating the development of an individual sense of identity with group identification “results in an odd tyranny in which political activism and universal disclosure become signs of an integrated [LGBQ] identity” (McCarn & Fassinger, 1996, p. 519). A critical postsructural analysis, such as the one I engaged in here, highlights the risk involved in engaging in political action and helps to explain why identity concealment should not always be considered a form of developmental arrest.

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For many participants in this study, being out to fewer people limited the discrimination they experienced. For Students of Color, many of whom already felt marked in their racial difference on a predominantly white campus, the choice to downplay the importance of their bisexuality was a protective strategy that practitioners should not view as developmentally unsophisticated. Similarly, stage-based models that equate developmental progression with entering an LBGQ community (e.g., D’Augelli,

1994; Troiden, 1988) further fail to consider the intersection of multiple dimensions of identity. For instance, queer Students of Color may prefer to join race-based student organizations where their experiences may be better understood (Duran & Pérez, 2017).

Rather than questioning why bisexual Students of Color choose not to engage with queer organizations on campus, student affairs practitioners should ask themselves how racism is perpetuated in these spaces, particularly by white, cisgender gay men (Duran & Pérez,

2017).

Intersectionality (Crenshaw, 1989, 1991) offers one possible lens through which to explore the experiences of bisexual Students of Color. As noted in Chapter 3, I chose not to employ an intersectional theoretical approach because my sample was not comprised exclusively of Bisexuals of Color; rather, numerous participants held several privileged identities. Whether “intersectionality is a theory of marginalized subjectivity or a generalized theory of identity” is an unresolved question in need of further exploration (Nash, 2008, p. 10). Further, scholars have questioned intersectionality’s

(in)ability to theorize agency and the deployment of identity (Nash, 2008; Singh, 2015).

In addition to the open question of the appropriateness of applying intersectionality to

300 privileged identities, intersectionality may be limited in its ability to consider how marginalized identities not only intersect but also how they are interconstituted. In other words, how does the historical construction of race also give rise to current conceptualizations of sexuality and gender? These questions are all worthy of further theoretical investigation. Yet despite its limitations, the importance of attending to multiple marginalized identities within the bisexual research cannot be overstated.

This study further complicated the notion of identity salience. Salience refers to the importance attached to a social identity (Jones & Abes, 2013). Ethier and Deaux

(1994) posited that “when identity is made salient, as for example by change in context, a person will become increasingly identified with his or her [sic] group” (p. 244). This conceptualization of identity salience would suggest that, on a heterosexist college campus, bisexual students would experience their bisexuality as salient. Yet as this study revealed, students downplayed their bisexuality and argued it was less salient than many of their other identities (e.g., race, ethnicity, or religion). The relationship between this claim and a desire to see their sexuality normalized is worthy of further consideration.

Further, student affairs professionals should not expect that, given the pervasiveness of binegativity on the college campus, all bisexual students will experience their bisexuality as highly salient; this is particularly true if students hold other heavily stigmatized identities. Rather, salience should be considered in relation to the agency students possess

(Wijeyesinghe, 2019).

Finally, this study lent credence to an expansive definition of bisexuality that extends beyond an attraction to cisgender men and women. That is not to say that the

301 practice of how people adopt or eschew an identity label, and the way others relate to them because of that label, is not worthy of further consideration. I argue, however, the theoretical distinctions between bisexuality, pansexuality, and other plurisexualities extend far beyond mere definition of the terms and their relation to a gender binary.

Rather, the implications of certain identity labels in the perpetuation of whiteness, for example, is in need for further exploration.

Implications for Practice

This study offers several implications for faculty, campus administrators, and student affairs practitioners who seek to create more inclusive and affirming campus environments. A first step towards creating affirming campus communities is listening to student voices. The suggestions for practice listed here come directly from participants and are supported by bisexuality and higher education literature.

Participants critiqued what they viewed as a “faked air of tolerance” and a

“charitable effort” toward diversity and inclusion on the part of MSU. As Gadiel remarked, administrators were not “necessarily interested in hearing actual queer people talk about their experiences of how it is…[and integrating] them more fully.” Rather than embracing a neoliberal multiculturalism that tolerates the existence of bisexual students, colleges and universities must make more explicit moves towards supporting this student population. These efforts include the suggestions enumerated throughout this section.

What is critical, however, is not merely paying lip service to marginalized identities, but committing time, resources, and personnel. Further, it is crucial that all members of the campus community challenge monosexism, binegativity, and binary approaches to

302 sexuality and gender, beginning by setting aside the assumption that students must be either gay or straight.

Students hoped that their peers, and particularly those with privileged identities, would confront prejudice when they encounter it. Kyra described this as “showing a lack of tolerance for a lack of tolerance.” For instance, Gadiel suggested “addressing

[panphobia and queerphobia] when I’m not in a room, when a queer person isn’t in the room. Make sure your advocacy goes beyond my eyes or beyond queer eyes.” In order to empower students to engage in this type of bystander intervention, however, students must be able to identify binegativity and bi erasure, engage in conversations around difference, and feel confident calling in their peers. Bystander intervention can foster improved campus climate for bisexual students by interrupting heterosexism and offering emotional support (Aboud & Joong, 2008; Dessel, Goodman & Woodford, 2017).

LGBT+ ally programs are one approach to training bystanders (Woodford, Kolb,

Durocher-Radeka, & Javier, 2014). As Dessel et al. (2017) emphasized, it is particularly important to encourage bystander intervention by heterosexual students given the heterosexism present on college campuses.

Residence hall staff can also train Resident Assistants to engage in this type of education. For example, Sofia suggested RAs use hall bulletin boards to educate residents on the LGBQ+ spectrum. So long as RAs are themselves properly trained, they have the potential to serve as important sources of support to bisexual students (Evans, Reason, &

Briodo, 2001). Residence halls can also be an important site of community building.

Several participants noted they were less comfortable attending large student

303 organizations or LGBTQ+ events but would have enjoyed an LGBTQ+ program in their residence hall. For example, Cecile shared she would like:

Maybe an event. Not even a regular event, but just something where, you know,

maybe all LGBT individuals in one residence hall would get together. And just

like, even just do a non-sexuality-related activity. Just like, you know, get dinner

together or maybe to have some sort of seminar revolving around sexuality or

visibility in our living spaces.

In addition to seeking visibility in their residence halls, students also desired more outward markers of inclusivity.

Jessica reflected on a display of pride books and flags set up in her campus’s education building. Academic departments and building coordinators should thus be mindful of which images are visible in hallways and on classroom walls. Faculty and administrators can also signal their receptivity to LGBTQ+ identities through artwork, books, flags, and placards. For example, Remus appreciated that his advisor’s office was decorated with feminist and queer symbols. This might also include Safe Zone stickers.

As Bruno (2009) noted, Safe Zone programs “provide a visible resource for a potentially invisible population and clearly identify safe spaces on campus for this community” (p.

49). Stickers alone, however, are not enough; faculty and student affairs professionals wishing to display these symbols should also engage in training (Sanlo, Rankin, &

Schoenberg, 2002). Ideally, faculty and administrators would receive training specific to bisexual identities. For example, The University of Rhode Island (2016) has offered a

Fluid and Non-binary Advanced Safe Zone workshop. Ultimately, to be effective,

304 symbols of support must be paired with a demonstrable willingness to advocate for queer students in meaningful ways.

In addition to signaling their support through visual markers, faculty should be intentional about creating bisexual-affirming classrooms. At minimum, instructors can include a nondiscrimination statement in their syllabi; ideally, they would emphasize this policy at the start of the semester as well. Further, faculty should ensure multiple, marginalized identities are represented in course materials. Although participants in this study enjoyed their first-year survey and social justice coursework, they lamented faculty only mention sexuality when covering issues of diversity. As Lydia stressed, “that’s the only time that they ever really mention it ever.” Kyra worried that by silo-ing conversations around bisexuality in gender and sexuality studies classes, for instance, students most in need of education around LGBTQ+ experiences and identities will not receive it. Participants’ suggestion to address sexuality across the curriculum, not just in diversity coursework or the area studies, mirrors existing research. In order for institutions to effectively engage diversity on campus, “diversity should be addressed through multiple lenses, across the curriculum” (Milem, Chang, & Antonio, 2005, p. 26).

Further, it is not enough for faculty to cover LGBTQ+ identities and experiences without explicitly naming bisexuality. Curricular inclusion alone is also insufficient. In discussing Queers of Color (QOC) in education, Brockenbrough (2015) emphasized the need:

for deeper considerations of how various bodies of knowledge have produced

QOC invisibility and pathology, and how the inclusion of intellectual and cultural

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productions by queers of color in curricula may or may not transform the

meanings traditionally ascribed to QOC difference. (p. 34)

As Alex had identified, bisexuality was discussed in her public health courses, but in a way that patronized and further marginalized this community. With this in mind, it is thus necessary for faculty to critically examine the pedagogy and materials they are using in their classrooms.

Although heterosexual faculty allies can certainly engage in this work, institutions must take seriously the need to hire more bisexual, pansexual, and queer administrators and faculty. Participants had a difficult time identifying queer adults which made it challenging for them to imagine a future for themselves as bisexual people. It is thus critical that bisexual students can identify role models and mentors among their faculty.

As Jessica put it, “it’s different to talk to students about [bisexuality] versus talking to teachers or adults about it…or having a mentor you could go to.” The presence of these individuals is critical because “role models in the form of visible bisexual leadership on campus would serve as a source of support and normalization for bisexual students as they come to terms with their fluid sexual identities” (Lowy, 2017, p. 209).

Of course, these responsibilities cannot fall to faculty alone. Supporting bisexual college students should be a campus-wide effort. Student affairs professionals in multicultural centers, career services, academic advising, and other functional units can work alongside faculty to create programming in support of LGBTQ+ students (Vaccaro,

2012).

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Many students now work while attending college, making on-campus workplaces an important site of learning and development (Peck & Callahan, 2019). Yet participants in this study expressed a concern that their sexuality was not a welcome topic of conversation in professional contexts, potentially limiting their engagement in those spaces. Student employee supervisors should take care to create inclusive environments and assist students in navigating the complex interplay between respectable queerness

(Joshi, 2012), raced, classed, and gendered notions of professionalism (Adams, 2010), and critical notions of authenticity (Kupo & Oxendine, 2019).

Regarding curricular contexts, Abes and Jones (2004) offered suggestions for how academic advisors can foster self-authorship in lesbian college women, in part by encouraging enrollment in courses that employ a constructivist-developmental pedagogy.

Participants in the present study desired coursework that would allow them to explore bisexuality and to see LGBTQ+ identities discussed from an asset-based perspective.

Advisors can point students towards these (albeit limited) courses. Exposure to courses that employ critical and poststructural perspectives will further allow students to recognize and gain confidence in challenging monosexism, heterosexism, and racism.

Student affairs professionals with an understanding of these systems of oppression will be better able to appreciate bisexual students’ unique experiences, offer them tailored support, and refer them to appropriate resources.

In addition to campus-wide programming and student support services, it is also necessary to engage in conversations around privilege within LGBTQ+ affinity spaces.

As Patton (2013) noted, identity centers have a part to play in disrupting privilege on

307 campus. Practitioners within LGBTQ+ centers can assist student leaders in examining the potential gender, race, and class biases (among others) within their organizations (Harr &

Kane, 2008). Further, students should be encouraged to reflect on the way monosexism functions to privilege gay and lesbian identities.

Students require spaces in which they can be affirmed in all facets of their identity. Although many participants were fortunate to find affirming counseling resources at MSU, empirical studies have demonstrated that this is often not the case for bisexual students (Dobinson et al., 2005; Li et al., 2013). In general, participants emphasized a need for confidential, culturally competent, and accessible counseling.

Jessica, for example, noted the available mental health resources were not specific to sexuality and Summer suggested “specific resources for people who are bisexual…somebody who has a lot of knowledge on the anxiety or the stress that comes with that.” At a time when university counseling centers are overburdened (Center for

Collegiate Mental Health, 2020), committing resources to these services is critical. A recent national study found 11.5% of students seeking campus counseling services identified as bisexual, compared to just 2.9% who identified as gay and 2.0% as lesbian

(CCMH, 2020). Data from this current study suggests students felt particularly comfortable and affirmed in group counseling settings that either centered or welcomed

LGBTQ+ students. Group counseling may thus provide a more cost- and labor-effective means of serving a larger number of students while also helping students connect to similarly identified peers.

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In addition to counseling resources, bisexual students also require bisexuality- specific campus resources and programming. Participants frequently emphasized that resources designed for LGBTQ+ students alone are not enough. Although some events should unabashedly center sex and sexuality, participants also craved opportunities to have dinner or play sports with their bisexual peers without an explicit focus on sexual identity. Many campuses now host Bisexual Visibility Week programming. Events range from educational (e.g., Robyn Ochs’ Getting Bi: Beyond Bisexuality 101 workshop;

Ochs, n.d.) to informal celebrations and hangouts (e.g., University of North Carolina’s

Bisexual Pride in the Pit event where participants were invited to “take a photo with the

Bisexual Flag, learn interesting Bi facts, and hang out with Bi folks and allies”). As is the case for other campus resources, it is critical that organizations and events communicate to bisexual students that they are welcome. Some participants worried, for instance, that they were not “gay enough” or marginalized enough to attend LGBTQ+ events or utilize these resources. Student affairs professionals who advise LGBTQ+ campus organizations should work with club leadership to create programming where bisexuality is validated.

In addition to general bisexuality and LGBTQ+ programming, participants also mentioned a desire for student organizations which embraced their academic focus (e.g., an LGBTQ+ STEM group, a club for LGBTQ+ students and allies in the health professions). This was particularly important given how absent sexuality is in STEM classrooms and traditional professional organizations. Finally, any approach to supporting bisexual students must be intersectional. In other words, it must move beyond

“a soft multicultural inclusion of race and ethnicity” and other marginalized identities

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(Muñoz, 1999, p. 10), and actively work against the systems of power which enable that marginalization. As Alex shared, “I really wish that the queer organizations here focused on intersectionality because…often it feels like a lot of the faces and the representation you got of queer people are white gay men and that’s not my experience.” Raza Womyn, a Chicana/Latina student organization at UCLA, offers one of many examples of what a queer social and academic counterspace might look like (Revilla, 2010). The organization’s critical praxis, “vision of social change and…activist commitment to eliminating all forms of oppression and social injustice” suggests a need for spaces where critical consciousness can develop (Revilla, 2010, p. 56). These types of organizations can achieve both activist and retention goals by offering the support and resources multiply marginalized students (in this case, queer Students of Color) need to navigate cisheteronormative, white supremist institutions (Revilla, 2010). It is, however, necessary for student affairs professionals to note that not all students will be ready or willing to engage with such “revolutionary” organizations.

Limitations and Strengths

This study is limited in several ways, and readers should consider these limitations when interpreting study findings and considering implications for research and practice. Yet the study also has notable strengths, which I highlight here as well.

Limitations

Before expounding these limitations, I begin with a brief overview of the study’s delimitations, or the ways in which the study was intentionally bounded. First, I chose a broad definition of bisexuality and allowed students to self-identify with the term

310 regardless of the identity label they most prefer. Resultantly, study participants identified as bisexual, pansexual, and queer and had nuanced experiences and narratives specific to their chosen label. Second, I selected queer theory to guide my analysis, intentionally centering sexuality despite the fact that participants were also privileged or marginalized across a range of social identities. Finally, the choice to employ narrative inquiry, as opposed to another methodology, meant that study findings would focus less on the process of identity negotiation and more on individual student stories. With this in mind,

I go on to consider this study’s limitations.

Several of this study’s limitations arose from my social identities. As noted, highly educated, middle-class white women are often overrepresented in the current bisexuality literature. As someone who holds these identities, I ran the risk of recruiting a participant sample that shares many of these identities, as these students may be most comfortable speaking with someone they perceive to be like-minded (Dwyer & Buckle,

2009). Half of this study’s participants identified as white or Caucasian, although one white student also identified as ethnically Latina. Eleven participants identified as women, and all were well-educated. Despite these commonalities, however, students had vastly different experiences largely due to their other socially constructed identities.

When I initially conceptualized this study, I feared researching a population (i.e. bisexual students) with whom I share the experience of interest may result in participants assuming I understand where they are coming from, and thus sharing in less detail than they otherwise might (Jones et al., 2014). I was also concerned that my positionality would affect my ability to interpret participant narratives. As Cortazzi (1993) noted when

311 discussing the cultural and contextual nature of narrative, narrators speak in ways they deem to be socially appropriate. This suggests students from cultural backgrounds in which sexuality is not openly discussed may be less forthcoming or that I may not have understood the culturally specific nuances of participants’ narratives. In actuality, participants, regardless of background, felt comfortable sharing and took the time to explain the ways in which their culture informed their experiences. Instead, participants at times perceived me as a representative of the university. For participants who harbored a justifiable mistrust for cisheteronormative, white institutions, my connection to the university curtailed what they felt comfortable discussing when asked to critique their college experiences.

An additional limitation exists given the sampling strategies employed. In their study of bisexual mental health, Ross et al. (2010) found:

Our convenience recruitment method likely resulted in a sample of bisexual

people who were predominantly open about and comfortable with their sexual

orientation. Furthermore, in acknowledgment of the fluidity of sexual identities,

we opted to use a broad definition of bisexuality that included self-identification,

sexual behavior, and sexual attraction. Although the majority of our sample

endorsed a bisexual identity, there may be differences between those who self-

identify as bisexual and those who do not. (p. 501)

In particular, this study invited bisexual participants and thus might have marginalized

Students of Color who view the “bisexual” label as white (Hartman-Linck, 2014), partially explaining the overrepresentation of white students in this study. Students of

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Color who have sexual or romantic relationships with, or attraction to, people of more than one gender may have chosen not to participate. These students’ perspectives would thus not be captured by the present study. Further, while this study did include several participants who were only recently out, I was not able to access the experiences of students for whom the term “bisexual” did not resonate, or who were not comfortable claiming the term publicly (i.e. through an interview).

Lastly, this study was not designed to study bisexual college student development.

Given this study’s critical poststructural epistemological grounding, a traditionally developmental lens would have been inappropriate. Citing Namaste (1996), Denton

(2016) explained “poststructuralism argues that the complex interworking of cultural, social, and institutional relationships determine how people can self-identify in socially recognized and validated ways” (p. 61). That said, additional research exploring the ways in which participants were able to identify, make sense of, and challenge these complex structures, as well as how their exposure to experiences and academic contexts that bring these structures to light, is needed. I elaborated on directions for future research in a previous. Now, however, I address the strengths of the present study.

Strengths

In Chapter 1, I demonstrated that studies exploring the unique experiences of bisexual college students are notably absent from the higher education literature. This study contributed to addressing that gap. Additionally, bisexuality research has largely overrepresented white, cisgender women (e.g., Bleiberg et al., 2005; Diamond, 2008;

Hartman, 2013) at the expense of bisexuals with marginalized gender, racial, and ethnic

313 identities (Collins, 2004; King, 2011). Although there is still much work to be done in this area, I intentionally sought to diversify the participant sample through maximum variation sampling (Creswell & Poth, 2018). This approach allowed for a more expansive consideration of gender. Additionally, the inclusion of Students of Color brought to light the ways race, ethnicity, and culture shaped participants’ identity negotiation experiences.

I often reflected on Muñoz’s (1999) insistence that scholars move beyond “a soft multicultural inclusion of race and ethnicity,” and intentionally named the way whiteness influenced bisexuals of all racial identities (p. 10). This study also complicated the role of privileged identities by exploring the intersections of bisexuality and masculinity

(McCormack et al. 2014), as well as bisexuality and Christianity (Toft, 2014); the normative expectations associated with these dominant gender and/or worldview identities constrained bisexual participants’ ability to fully explore their sexuality.

Finally, this study responded to the need for more critical and poststructural scholarship on sexual identity (Denton, 2016), as well as the thoughtful utilization of queer theory and sophisticated methodologies (Renn, 2010). The resultant findings should guide future higher education and student affairs scholarship and practice.

Concluding Thoughts

The purpose of this chapter was to discuss study findings in conversation with the larger body of higher education and bisexuality literature. Additionally, I offered suggestions for higher education and student affairs research, theory, and practice guided in large part by the hopes and needs participants expressed.

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I concluded each participant’s second interview by asking what having the opportunity to participate in this research project meant for them. Students appreciated having the space to speak openly about their sexuality, to contribute to what little is known about bisexuality, and to reflect on their own experiences. Sarah shared that it made her feel “special.” Knowing that 16 students set aside their time to bravely share their stories made me feel special as well. I began this study knowing I would gain a deeper understanding of bisexual college students’ identity negotiation experiences; I did not realize how this project would challenge me to think about my own.

Although I strongly believe that stage-based, age-related developmental models fail to capture the realities of bisexual experience, engaging in this work forced me to confront my unconscious biases about bisexual identity development. I believed that, having been confident in my bisexual identity since a very young age and now in my

30’s, I would be less sensitive to binegativity and less likely to conceal my sexuality. Yet as I listened to participants recount their experiences with prejudice, I realized how deeply painful these experiences are—for all of us. Further, I reflected on how the very act of sharing my research felt like a coming out, and it caused me to question how my sexual identity shapes my experiences in academia.

The participants in this study live in a world that looks different from the one in which I began coming out. Same-sex marriage is legal in all 50 states. Nuanced, intersectional portrayals of bisexuals on television are increasing at encouraging rates

(Framke, 2018). Nevertheless, binegativity, (cis)sexism, homophobia, racism, and ableism continue to structure U.S. society, including institutions of higher education, and

315 participants’ narratives reflected their need to navigate these interlocking systems of oppression. This study aimed to bring these experiences to light in the hope higher educational scholars and practitioners will work to disrupt these larger systems of inequality.

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Appendix A. Expert Nominator Letter

Subject: Seeking Participants for Study about Bisexual Student Identity

Hi [Nominator],

My name is Kaity Prieto and I am a doctoral candidate in the Higher Education and Student Affairs (HESA) program at The Ohio State University. I am writing you in the hope that you could assist me in recruiting potential participants for my dissertation research. My research explores how bisexual students negotiate their bisexual identity in a collegiate context and how they understand their bisexuality as a result. What is required of students is participation in two one-on-one interviews, each lasting approximately one hour, and a drawing activity where they will be asked to describe how they conceal and/or make visible their bisexual identity in four spaces of their choosing.

I would ask that you nominate students with whom you have worked and who you feel would be comfortable talking about how they have negotiated their bisexuality in college. In order to qualify for this study, participants must fall under the umbrella term of bisexual. This can include students who prefer related identity labels such as, but not limited to, pansexual, polysexual, omnisexual, fluid, or queer. Students who do not identify with any sexual identity but understand themselves as bisexual are also invited to participate. Please only nominate students who you feel would be open to discussing matters of sexuality and how it relates to their identity(s) and collegiate experience. Students who are selected to participate will be given a $25 Amazon gift card.

To nominate students, please share with them the email listed below this message. Please take care to protect students’ identities (e.g., email students individually or BCC them on the email so they cannot be directly identified). Any publications/presentations that result from this study will mask the students’ identities, as well as the identity of the institution. It is my hope that this research influences how higher education institutions support their bisexual students. Further, this research should shed light on the ways in which intersecting sources of power, privilege, and oppression shape bisexual students’ collegiate experiences. If you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact me. I have also listed the contact information of my advisor, Dr. Susan R. Jones. Thank you in advance for your assistance with my research. I truly appreciate your help.

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Best, Kaity Prieto Dr. Susan R. Jones Doctoral Candidate Professor Higher Education & Student Affairs Higher Education & Student Affairs [email protected] [email protected] 201-618-0687 614-688-8369

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Appendix B. Participant Recruitment Letter

Subject: Information about A Study about Bisexual Students You Might Be Interested In

Hi [Student],

My name is Kaity Prieto and I am a doctoral candidate in the Higher Education and Student Affairs (HESA) program at The Ohio State University. I am writing you in the hope that you could assist me in my dissertation research. My dissertation explores how bisexual students negotiate their bisexuality in a collegiate context and how they understand their bisexuality as a result.

All that is required of you would be participation in two one-on-one interviews, each lasting approximately one hour. During the interviews we will discuss your bisexuality and how you navigate different campus spaces as a bisexual student. You will also be asked to complete a brief drawing/writing activity where you will describe how you conceal and/or make visible your bisexuality in four spaces of your choosing. It is my hope that this research influences how higher education institutions support their bisexual students.

Students who are selected to participate will be given a $25 Amazon gift card. Please note that to participate in this study, you must see yourself as falling under the umbrella term of bisexual. This can include students who prefer related identity labels such as, but not limited to, pansexual, polysexual, omnisexual, fluid, or queer. Students who do not identify with any sexual identity label but understand themselves as bisexual are also invited to participate.

If you are interested in participating, please fill out a secure demographic form that will be accessed through Qualtrics. This process will allow me to obtain a diverse sample for this research. The link to this secure form can be found here: [INSERT LINK HERE]

Should you choose to take part in this project, you can always stop your participation at any time. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact me. I have also included contact information for my advisor, Dr. Susan R. Jones. Thank you in advance for your assistance with my research! I truly appreciate your help.

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Best, Kaity Prieto Dr. Susan R. Jones Doctoral Candidate Professor Higher Education & Student Affairs Higher Education & Student Affairs [email protected] [email protected] 201-618-0687 614-688-8369

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Appendix C. Participant Interest Form

Subject: Participant Interest Form- Bisexual College Students

Hi [Student],

Thank you for your interest in my dissertation research. Please take a moment to fill out this form, providing as much information about yourself with which you are comfortable. Questions relating to identities (ability, class, gender, sex, sexuality, etc.) are open ended. You are encouraged to self-identify. If you do not feel comfortable answering any of these questions, you may leave that question blank. Completing the form as thoroughly as possible will assist me in obtaining a diverse participant sample, allowing a range of perspectives and experiences to be represented.

Name: Preferred pseudonym (A made up name used to conceal your identity): Pronouns: Primary email address (How you would like to be contacted): Cell phone number (Optional—to receive text message reminders):

Age: Year in school: First Year/ Second Year/ Third Year/ Fourth Year/ Other Gender: Sexuality: Race: Ethnicity: Worldview (religiosity/spirituality/secularism): Political affiliation: Social Class: Ability (do you identify as having a disability?): Major/minor: Campus involvement (e.g., student organizations, Greek life, campus employment, resident assistant, student government): Community involvement (e.g.., community organizations, activist movements, off- campus employment): Would you be available for an hour-long interview in the next few weeks? Is there anything else you would like me to know about you?

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Appendix D. Recruitment Flier

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Appendix E. Correspondence with Selected and Prospective Participants

Email to Selected Participants

Subject: Bisexual College Student Interview Recruitment Follow-Up

Hi [Student],

Thank you for submitting an interest form for my dissertation research on bisexual college students. I am happy to share that you have been selected to participate. Your first interview will be approximately an hour long and will take place shortly.

If you are interested in scheduling an interview, please go to [link] by [DEADLINE] to select an interview time that is convenient for you. All interviews will take place on the main campus. I will follow-up to confirm the interview time and specific location. We will schedule your second interview during our first meeting.

Because this is a research study, when you arrive for the interview you will be asked to review a detailed description of the study and your rights as a research participant. You will have the opportunity to ask questions before consenting to the study. You may preview that information at [hyperlink to consent form here]. Clicking on this link does not commit you to be in the study; it simply takes you to a copy of the consent form so that you can get more information. Because it requires informed consent, only students who are 18 years or older will be permitted to participate in the interview. Remember, participation is confidential and voluntary. You can withdraw any time if you change your mind.

If you have any questions or concerns, do not hesitate to contact me. I have also included the contact information for my advisor, Dr. Susan R. Jones. Thank you in advance for your assistance with my research. I look forward to speaking with you!

Best, Kaity Prieto Dr. Susan R. Jones Doctoral Candidate Professor Higher Education & Student Affairs Higher Education & Student Affairs [email protected] [email protected] 201-618-0687 614-688-8369

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Interview Confirmation Email to Participants (First Interview)

Subject: Bisexual College Student Interview Confirmation

Hi [Student]:

Thank you for your participation in my dissertation study! Your confirmed date, time, and location is included below. Remember, the interview will last about an hour.

Date/Time: [Date/Time]

Location: [Location]

If for some reason you are unable to make it, please email me. I will send an email reminder the night before your interview, and if you provided your cell phone number, I will also send a text reminder.

Your participation is valuable to this research, and I appreciate your willingness to assist in this study. If you have any questions or concerns, do not hesitate to contact me. I have also included the contact information for my advisor, Dr. Susan R. Jones. Thank you in advance for your assistance with my research. I look forward to speaking with you!

Best, Kaity Prieto Dr. Susan R. Jones Doctoral Candidate Professor Higher Education & Student Affairs Higher Education & Student Affairs [email protected] [email protected] 201-618-0687 614-688-8369

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Interview Reminder Email (First & Second Interview)

Subject: Bisexual College Student Interview Reminder

Hi [Student],

Thank you for signing up for an interview! This is a quick reminder about your scheduled interview time and location.

[DATE & TIME]

[LOCATION]

Best, Kaity Prieto Dr. Susan R. Jones Doctoral Candidate Professor Higher Education & Student Affairs Higher Education & Student Affairs [email protected] [email protected] 201-618-0687 614-688-8369

Interview Reminder Text Message (First & Second Interview)

Hi [Student],

Thank you for signing up for an interview! This is a quick reminder about your scheduled interview time and location.

[DATE & TIME]

[LOCATION]

If you have any questions or concerns, do not hesitate to contact me. I look forward to speaking with you!

Best, Kaity Prieto

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Email to Individuals Not Selected to Participate

Hi [Student],

Thank you for your interest in participating in the study on bisexual college students. The study is nearly complete, and I was fortunate to have more interested participants than were needed. As such, your direct participation is no longer necessary.

If you have any questions about this or the study itself, you can reach me at [email protected]. I have also included contact information for my advisor, Dr. Susan R. Jones, if you would like to contact her with any questions or concerns.

Thank you again for your willingness to participate in the study. I appreciate it!

Best, Kaity Prieto Dr. Susan R. Jones Doctoral Candidate Professor Higher Education & Student Affairs Higher Education & Student Affairs [email protected] [email protected] 201-618-0687 614-688-8369

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Appendix F. Interview Protocols

Interview Protocol 1

Explain that we will be discussing matters of bisexuality and sexual identity. Discuss my own identities—particularly my bisexual identity—and what motivated me to conduct this research. Try to orient the participant towards thinking about their experiences relative to their bisexuality with a focus on pre-college experiences.

Say: I would like to remind you that you may skip any question or stop the interview altogether if you would like. If you choose to do so, no data you have provided will be used in the study. If you have any questions, please refer to the consent form.

1. Introduction: I would like to begin by getting to know you a bit better. What drew you to participate in this study? 2. As you know, the purpose of this study is to explore how bisexual college students negotiate their bisexuality. Could you begin by sharing how you would define the term “bisexuality?” 3. On the participant interest form, you shared that you identify as ______. What does [that term] mean to you? a. Probing question: What about that term resonates with you? b. Have there been other terms with which you’ve ever identified? c. [If the participant does not use the term “bisexual” to describe themselves], why do you choose not to use the “bisexual” label? 4. Could you talk to me about where you grew up? a. Probing questions: How would you describe the area in which you grew up (e.g., rural, suburban, urban)? b. How would you describe the demographic composition of your hometown (race, ethnicity, social class, dominant religion or worldview)? c. How would you describe your hometown’s acceptance of LGBTQ+ identities when you were growing up? 5. Please share with me how you came to understand your bisexuality. a. Probing questions: When did you first realize you were attracted to people of more than one gender? b. What did that realization mean to you? c. When did you first hear about bisexuality? d. In what ways did your home/school/community environment shape how you thought about your bisexuality? 387

6. Who would you describe as the most important people in your life (prior to coming to college)? a. What messages did you receive from them about LGBTQ+ identities? b. About bisexuality in particular? 7. Thinking about those messages, how comfortable did you feel opening up to others about your bisexuality? a. Probing questions: If you had disclosed your bisexuality to others prior to college, tell me about that experience. b. If you had not, why did you choose not to share? How did it feel not to share your bisexuality with others? 8. Whether or not you intentionally came out, what sexual identity do you believe people assumed you to be? a. What do you believe gave them that impression? 9. Besides verbally disclosing your bisexuality to others, in what ways did you attempt to make your bisexuality known, if at all? a. Probing question: How did others receive those attempts? 10. Before we wrap up for today, is there anything else you want to make sure I know about you that you haven’t yet had an opportunity to share? a. Probing question: Is there anything you thought I would ask you that I did not?

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Interview Protocol 2

Explain that we will be discussing matters of bisexuality and sexual identity. Try to orient the participant towards thinking about their experiences relative to their bisexuality since coming to college. Share that we’ll use their drawing/writing exercise to help guide the interview.

Say: I would like to remind you that you may skip any question or stop the interview altogether if you would like. If you choose to do so, then no data you have provided will be used in the study. If you have any questions, please refer to the consent form.

1. Today I would like us to focus on your experiences and ways of identifying since coming to college. To start, can you share in which ways, if any, your bisexuality played a role in your choice of where to attend college? a. Probing question: What factors were important to you in choosing a college? In particular, were there any elements of the campus environment that were particularly important to you? 2. In our last interview, we discussed the messages about sexuality you received from your home community. How would you describe your college campus’s acceptance of LGBTQ+ identities? a. Probing question: What messages have you received about bisexuality from your friends/classmates/instructors/administrators? b. Which spaces, if any, are places on campus where you feel your bisexuality is welcomed? What about that space/those spaces makes you feel this way? 3. I would like to talk to you about biphobia, which is a term used to describe the prejudiced attitudes about bisexuality and bisexual people, and the discrimination they face as a result. Can you tell me about experiences on campus where you might have encountered biphobia? a. Which spaces, if any, are places on campus where you feel bisexuality is not accepted? What about that space/those spaces makes you feel this way? b. How did these experiences affect how you experience your bisexuality? 4. How comfortable did you feel disclosing your bisexuality to folks on campus? 5. With your bisexuality in mind—how do you think you are perceived by your instructors and campus staff? a. How do you think you are perceived by other students? b. Probing question: What sexual identity do you believe people assume you to be? c. How do you think these perceptions affect you and how you see yourself? 6. Besides verbally disclosing your bisexuality to others, in what ways do you attempt to make your bisexuality known, if at all? a. Probing question: In which campus spaces do these attempts take place? b. How did others receive those attempts? 389

c. How do you feel as a result? 7. Can you share with me experiences, if any, where you have attempted to conceal your sexual identity? a. Probing question: In which campus spaces are you most likely to conceal your bisexuality? b. How did you feel as a result? 8. Referring back to your drawing/writing exercise, how have you experienced your bisexuality differently across campus? a. Probing question: What about in academic spaces/clubs and organizations/work/residence hall/health and wellness services/etc.? b. Can you take me through your thought process as you completed the exercise? 9. Thinking about all that we have discussed today, how do these experiences affect how you understand your bisexuality? a. Probing question: What does having to make visible and/or conceal your bisexuality in these ways mean to you? 10. What do you wish others understood about bisexuality? 11. If you could change anything about your university experience as it relates to your sexual identity, what would it be? a. What could the institution to do better support bisexual students? b. What could your peers do? 12. What was it like discussing your bisexuality during these interviews? a. Probing question: What did the opportunity to engage in this research mean to you? 13. Is there anything else you wish I had asked you?

Say: Thank you for taking the time to participate in this research project. If you have any questions about the study, please do not hesitate to reach out!

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Appendix G. Reflective Drawing Activity

As a part of the research study titled “Bisexual College Student Identity Negotiation Experiences,” you are asked to participate in a project using drawing (or writing if you prefer). Scholars have used drawings in social science research to elicit stories. This activity will give you a chance to reflect on your bisexuality outside of our research interviews. You will have about two weeks to complete your drawing. We will then come together to discuss your drawings in our second interview with one another (two to three weeks after the completion of your first interview).

Please take a blank piece of paper and divide it into four quadrants. Label each quadrant with a specific location. Three should be on campus spaces and one should be an off- campus environment of your choosing. These might include a classroom, residence hall, student organization meeting, work location. See below for an example.

Intro to Engineering Classroom LGBTQ+ Club Meeting at Student Union

Fraternity House Internship at bank downtown

Draw and/or write how you present and/or conceal your bisexuality in each of these four spaces.

Please keep in mind this activity is not about artistic talent, and you are welcome to use writing/words as much as you’d like. You will be able to explain your drawing in our next interview, so do not worry if you do not think something will be immediately clear to me. You can complete the activity using whatever medium you prefer—pen and paper, digitally, etc. When you are done, please submit a copy via the Buckeyebox link that I will send you individually.

If you have any questions, do not hesitate to reach out to me directly!

Best, Kaity Prieto 391

Doctoral Candidate, Higher Education & Student Affairs [email protected] 201-618-0687

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Appendix H. Interview Summary Sheet

Date of Interview Interviewee Pseudonym Unique Identifier (INVWR_DATE_SEQ) KP_ Start/End Time

Interview Context / Non-verbal Cues: Note interruptions or anything unusual about the location of the interview; include any important non-verbal communication, body language, how participant entered interview or any other pertinent information that would not be captured in the audio file.

Interview Summary: Summary of student’s key experiences

Interviewer Reflections: Initial thoughts/reactions/interpretations/assumptions

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Appendix I. Informed Consent Form

The Ohio State University Consent to Participate in Research

Study Title: Bisexual College Student Identity Negotiation Experiences Researcher: Dr. Susan R. Jones

This is a consent form for research participation. It contains important information about this study and what to expect if you decide to participate.

Your participation is voluntary. Students who are selected to participate will be provided a $25 Amazon Gift Card.

Please consider the information carefully. Feel free to ask questions before making your decision whether or not to participate. If you decide to participate, you will be asked to sign this form and will receive a copy of the form.

Purpose: This research study seeks to better understand the experiences of bisexual students in a university environment. Dr. Susan R. Jones, along with a graduate student in the Higher Education and Student Affairs (HESA) program, will facilitate this project and work to achieve the following four goals: 1. To explore the narratives of identity negotiation told by bisexual college students. 2. To understand how systems of power influence bisexual students’ narratives of identity negotiation. 3. To understand the perceived significance of identity negotiation for bisexual college students. 4. To understand how bisexual students understand their bisexuality as a result of having to employ identity negotiation strategies.

Procedures/Tasks: Participation involves: • Participating in two interviews. The interviews will be conversational in nature and will last approximately 60 minutes. Researchers will audio record and transcribe each interview. A paid transcriptionist may also transcribe interviews. • Participating in drawing/writing project. Participants will have approximately two weeks to document their experiences negotiating their bisexuality in different campus contexts. You will then discuss this project in the second interview with the researcher. 394

Safeguards for ensuring the privacy, confidentiality, and proper use of data are summarized below.

Duration: The research project will take place during the Fall 2019 semester. The time commitment will be approximately three hours.

You may leave the study at any time. If you decide to stop participating in the study, there will be no penalty to you, and you will not lose any benefits to which you are otherwise entitled. Your decision will not affect your future relationship with The Ohio State University.

Risks and Benefits: Bisexual students are not often given a chance to share experiences related to their sexual identity. By participating in this study, you will have the opportunity to reflect on the ways that you have come to understand your sexuality and how your sexuality shapes your college experiences. We do not know if you will benefit directly because of your participation in this study, although you may feel an increased sense of self-awareness and gain a deeper understanding of your bisexuality. That said, we hope that future college students might benefit from this study because this study will contribute to existing knowledge about bisexual college student experiences. These benefits could include the potential to improve campus climates, services, and resources supporting bisexual students. There is minimal risk involved in this study. During the research, participants may process through difficult experiences they have had in relation to their sexuality. If this occurs, the researchers will have resources from the university’s counseling center on hand.

Confidentiality:

Efforts will be made to keep your study-related information confidential. However, there may be circumstances where this information must be released. For example, personal information regarding your participation in this study may be disclosed if required by state law. Also, your records may be reviewed by the following groups (as applicable to the research): • Office for Human Research Protections or other federal, state, or international regulatory agencies; • The Ohio State University Institutional Review Board or Office of Responsible Research Practices; • The sponsor or agency (including the Food and Drug Administration for FDA- regulated research), if any, supporting the study.

All information used in publications and other public forums will be kept de-identified to protect your privacy; each participant will select a pseudonym that researchers will use for material prepared for all publications and other public forums. The only individuals that will have access to the interview data are Dr. Susan R. Jones, Kaity Prieto, and a paid 395 transcriptionist. These will be the only individuals with access to the data and will keep such information in locked file cabinets or on password-protected computers.

Participant Rights:

You may refuse to participate in this study without penalty or loss of benefits to which you are otherwise entitled. If you are a student or employee at Ohio State, your decision will not affect your grades or employment status.

If you choose to participate in the study, you may discontinue participation at any time without penalty or loss of benefits. By signing this form, you do not give up any personal legal rights you may have as a participant in this study.

An Institutional Review Board responsible for human subjects research at The Ohio State University reviewed this research project and found it to be acceptable, according to applicable state and federal regulations and University policies designed to protect the rights and welfare of participants in research.

Contacts and Questions:

For questions, concerns, or complaints about the study, or you feel you have been harmed as a result of study participation, you may contact Dr. Susan R. Jones ([email protected] or 614-688-8369).

For questions about your rights as a participant in this study or to discuss other study- related concerns or complaints with someone who is not part of the research team, you may contact Ms. Sandra Meadows in the Office of Responsible Research Practices at 1- 800-678-6251.

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Signing the Consent Form

I have read (or someone has read to me) this form and I am aware that I am being asked to participate in a research study. I have had the opportunity to ask questions and have had them answered to my satisfaction. I voluntarily agree to participate in this study.

I am not giving up any legal rights by signing this form. I will be given a copy of this form.

______Printed name of subject Signature of subject

______AM/PM Date and time

______Printed name of person authorized to Signature of person authorized to consent for subject (when applicable) consent for subject (when applicable)

______AM/PM Relationship to the subject Date and time

Investigator/Research Staff

I have explained the research to the participant or their representative before requesting the signature(s) above. There are no blanks in this document. A copy of this form has been given to the participant or their representative.

______Printed name of person obtaining consent Signature of person obtaining consent

______AM/PM Date and time

397