A Few Thoughts Of Christopher Biggins, Biphobia, And Bisexual Invisibility

The words of Christopher Biggins that recently got him thrown off a cheap TV show should throw a light not just on Biggins.

He's not unique.

He has attitudes that in some form are shared by too many people within the LGBTQIA++ community. Often the offenders are older gay men but not exclusively. Younger gay men and lesbians may also have similar views to Biggins. One marginalised group of people attacking one more marginalised group of people. Of course not everyone there looks down on bisexuals. But too many do.

Bisexual friends have told me of the biphobia they often encounter if they go to such places or are involved in a gay-dominated queer community, of how they are insulted there for being bisexual. They can tell the stories better than I could.

Bisexual people can be verbally abused from both sides. Prejudiced straight people attack them for being too queer. Prejudiced gay people attack them for not being queer enough.  Bisexual people are called confused.  They are called greedy.  They're accused of being promiscuous - that they're just bisexual to get lots of sex.  They're told it's just a phase and they'll get over it soon.  It's pointed out to them that everyone is a bit bisexual.  (Wrong!)  It's pointed out to them that they can't be bisexual because bisexuality doesn't really exist.  Basically, say you're bisexual and a surprising number of people won't accept your sexuality.

 

 

Bisexual people can also tell us of the problems associated with bisexual erasure within both the media and the (supposedly) LGBTQIA++ community.  Bisexual erasure.  That's a term that many readers will not have encountered.  That's okay.  It's a term that I hadn't encountered either until I came out as trans and started to learn at least something about queer issues.  It's not a term that you're likely to hear much.

 

I'm not going to talk about it here.  Others have talked far more eloquently than I would.  A very quick internet hunt led to this article on "Erasure of Bisexuality" and this article on "The LGBT Community's Dirty Little Secret."  The first article is an introduction.  The second is worth reading and shows how common the problem is.

Biggins is one man of many similar men and that he should have said the things he said comes as no surprise to me whatsoever.

Now is the time not to attack Biggins but to bring widespread prejudice against bisexual people into the spotlight. To deal with the prejudice and not just with one celebrity.

Yeah, that would be good. Wiping out biphobia. Wherever it is to be found.

 

Image from https://www.etsy.com/listing/194409681/bunnies-against-biphobia-sticker

So far I haven't spotted any major media channels doing that.  They've condemned Biggins.  Yes, the man said prejudiced things.  Yes, they were nasty.  And maybe the offense he would cause bars him from being on a television show that by its very nature is offensive to some.

 

Condemning Christopher Biggins this week is easy.  It's the stuff of soundbites.  It's the stuff of feeling good about ourselves because of our righteous anger against an imperfect human.

 

Tackling biphobia is hard.

 

No easy soundbites here.  No opportunity to pretend that everything is okay.  To tackle biphobia is to say that here is a way in which our society is still broken.  Here is something that needs fixing.  Here is real work that we need to do.

 

Here is the space in which each one of us has to take personal responsibility for how we think and what we believe.  We have to look at ourselves and check to see if our minds and hearts contain any taint of biphobia - just as we have to look at ourselves and check for racism, homophobia, and all the other ways we may have become prejudiced against other human beings.

 

Here is the place in which every single one of us has to take personal responsibility for bringing change to society by the way we speak and act or at least for never standing in the way of that change.

Tackling biphobia is work.

So call out Biggins for his attitudes.  Please do.  Just don't stop there.

Days of Gratitude - Going Over The Edge And Entering The Lost World With A Giraffe

There have been some hard days recently.  Days on which keeping this gratitude diary becomes very important to me.  Days on which it would be easy to feel miserable because it is so hard to continue.  Days on which every single thing is a fight inside on a scale of The Battle of Waterloo.  And the cannons sound just as loud.

These were such days.  Each of them was hard.

1st August - I couldn't leave the house and hid away for much of the day.  Having done so well when out for a few hours the day before I was still in recovery.  Some tears.  Physically shaking for quite a while.  Yes.  I could watch the shaking.  So much I wanted to do.  So little I could do.

2nd August - a really horrible time.  I did manage to buy some food ingredients but couldn't do food.  Yeah, I got through the electrolysis okay but it wiped me out completely.

3rd August - forcing myself out and getting overwhelmed, getting lost, getting more overwhelmed and spending quite a period walking alone outside unable to stop talking but only able to say "Carry the cat."  Getting dizzy and giddy and nearly falling down a steep hill away from any paths.

4th August - buying a ticket to Crawley and everything from last year coming flooding back, the pretty total collapse I had a year ago that meant I couldn't go there, the struggles earlier in the year when I was there including the hallucinations I suffered in the nights.  Heading to town to do one little job, getting there and being so overwhelmed and having sensory issues ramped up to twelve (it's one more than eleven) and having to leave, failing to do that job, getting even more overwhelmed in the street and bloody hell it was pretty damn shit!

During those days I could have given a lot more details about the things I just couldn't do.  Every single day is hard.  Every single day there are problems and I work extremely hard so that if I am with people outside of this house they don't know that anything is wrong.  I remember during my worst ever breakdown when I was self harming multiple times every day just to get through and stay alive, people would eventually find out - because I'd say - and they wouldn't have had a clue that I wasn't a happy little bunny bouncing away in the woods to a home filled with carrots.

But I don't write a "being unhappy and finding the difficulties" diary.  I write a gratitude diary.

And so the memories of all the dren fade away.  But the things for which I am grateful each day remain.  I can look back and smile.  And I can set the screensaver to show me all the gratitude posts or all the other wonderful things that I've done and seen in the last year or so.

The last year has had so many unexpected moments and themes and directions.  It's been amazing.  Bloody hard.  But amazing.

Here then are four days that I could choose to moan about but choose to celebrate.

1^st August

Hard day. Much physical shaking. Much mental dren. And no snazzy photos taken!

But I just blogged about why keeping a gratitude diary is important to me on every day, including the hard ones. So here goes:

Grateful for words. Grateful for writing blog posts. For the memories they bring back. For the humour that can go into them at times. For the seriousness too.

Grateful for puzzles, today in particular for the killer sudoku book that kept me company.

Grateful that even on a dren day I could still read some of a book. That's progress.

Grateful that a year ago I encountered a quote by Jim Palmer. Grateful for all those who have given me some strength on my journey out of soul destroying religion. The quote wasn't the one in this picture.

The picture asks questions. All my answers used to be no.

Grateful that I have a conference and a festival to look forward to this month.

Grateful to have started to rearrange the new art room into something more comfortable to sit in and where the table is closer to natural light.

Grateful that the state of my head today is just for today. Not for yesterday. Not for tomorrow. And certainly not forever.

And then there's this. It's a biggie:

Grateful that I have a piece of paper dated three years ago today. It's my deed poll certificate from when I changed my name legally to Clare.

Some days are bloody difficult. But life is amazingly better than it was three years ago. It's better than it was one year ago. And compared to just four months ago it's pretty damn stonkingly good.

Yep. That's enough thankfulness for a "bad" day. The actual lists we could all write if we were to stand back - in good mindful manner - and step out of our own dramas are very long ones.

2^nd August

Some things hurt. I struggle with electrolysis. Total meltdown would be easier than getting it done.

Grateful to have got it done yesterday and that, very slowly, it has the desired result.

Grateful for soft toy friends to help me through it and for peaceful music through my headphones.

This time, from a set of very ambient music that Moby released for free.

Grateful too for the Metro and for the difference public transport makes to my life.

Yesterday I travelled in carriage 4041 which is the first to be named after someone.

3^rd August

Grateful to have not stayed at home even though I wanted to. Managed a walk instead although my head was such that I got lost several times and my lack of balance today would have ended very badly had there not been a tree to fall into. Yay for trees.

But the walk contained some superb sights, only some of which were photographed - hey, an excuse to return.

One of these pictures is where I ate lunch. The other seemed a good place to stop for a drink and gaze down on what Blob decided was the Lost World.

Grateful too for the shop by Wilko's in Gateshead - six packets of Snowy Road treats for a Pound.

4^th August

Rough day. And I just bought a train ticket to Crawley. That would be a bad enough fate for anyone but I have extra motivation to dread being there.

Anyway. Grateful today that I just about avoided breaking down in town having already completely failed to do the one thing I had wanted to do. Avoidance was thanks to a newish charity shop. And thanks to Amanda and text messages too.

Happy purchases:

Love the art.

Love the most cuddly giraffe ever.

Love the book.

On The Creation Of New Worlds. Ruach Breathes In Laughter

It was bed time last night.  I was tired.

Before heading for bed I mentioned to a friend that an art image had started to come into my head during the afternoon.  I mentioned it might include glitter.  In all honesty the only clear thing about the image was the first two lines.  My friend said to do it.

Art is very scary for me.  I have no skill and the thought of throwing colour out and seeing what happens is a very daunting one.  But I agreed to do this art.  Experiment.

I got out paper.  A sheet from a cheap A3 sketch pad from The Works.  I got out some pens.  And I drew the first of the two lines.  It didn't look like the one in my head.  It was the wrong colour.  The wrong shape.  I drew the second of the two lines.  What was on paper was now a different image to anything in my head.  For a start the two lines in my head were black.  For a continuation they were closer together.  For a finale they weren't quite that shape or form.

Two lines.  And I had gone wrong.  Completely and utterly wrong.  And my total lack of skill in putting something from my head onto paper was displayed.  I'm a failure!

I could have thought that.  I could have allowed myself to be disheartened.  I could have put the pens away and screwed up the paper and gone to bed unhappy with myself.  All of that would have been very easy for a person such as myself to do.

But I didn't do that.

I decided I would play instead.  I drew some more lines.  And then drew some words.  And then I wrote some words to fill some of the gaps.

I've played a little more this morning.  And by half past seven I had this sitting on the table.  Is it time to stop?  Or should I continue to play?  I haven't quite decided yet.  There's a lot of scope for play.  Lots of space to fill.  But there's also a lot of wall in this room that needs to be filled.  Maybe this simple image can help with the process, a call to me to play so much that there is nothing left to fill.

For now there is this:

Ruach roared, smiled, soared.

Uncontrollable, uncontained, undying.

Releasing love, her breath

Illuminated all the Stars.

In song, wilderness dance, and lyrical laughter.

In total, free generosity of ecstatic colours,

Stars gave birth to Worlds.

It's not going to win any prizes for artistic or literary virtuosity.  But it's there.  It's mine.  It's part of my long trek into freedom and a place where the air is fresh and the earth under my feet sighs with contentment.  And it's there at half past seven in the morning.  I rise, and life - with all it's difficulties and all the thorns that wound from within and without - is good.  So I learn:

Today.  Ruach, Spirit, breathes life into me.

Today.  Ruach, Spirit, breathes life into each one of you.

She breathes.  Every day.  Every moment.

We just have to stand with outstretched arms and receive

As her breath washes us from without,

As her breath rises, dangerously powerful, from within.

Then one day, filled, filled, filled again,

We will realise the truth:

We are that breath.

We are Ruach.

Then lightning will let fly from our hands

We will be the light and life of this world

And each day live as creators of the new worlds.

A Grand Day Out in Durham - 6: The Jumping Bean Cafe

A shorter post to finish off my grand day in Durham.

I had been wanting to visit a cafe for a while.  I'd felt hot and tired and had planned either to just catch a bus home or to have a quick drink.

Instead I had walked along the river, visited a gallery and thoroughly explored a large churchyard.  Instead of that drink I had wandered for a few hours and found a lot of enjoyment in the wandering.

Now I was back on a main shopping street and I honestly was much less tired than I had been before the relaxed wandering and exploration along streets and through gateways, wherever appealed.  I was pretty thirsty but I was mentally energised and the only part of me to feel tired now was my feet.  It is interesting how much of what we call tiredness is related to a state of mind not a state of body.

I was very glad to have wandered.  I enjoyed it then.  And I've enjoyed looking at all the photos I took of the riverside and the graves in St. Margaret's extensive grounds.  Those things added something precious to my life and cost me nothing except the effort to go and do them.  That's the way it's been for the last few months.  A making of effort, when I can, to find the precious things.

I was approaching the bus station and still hadn't made a cafe decision.  I can be terrible at making cafe decisions.  Sometimes I can walk right round a town three times and still won't have been able to go and get a drink.  And now my cafe opportunities were running out.  Suspense!

But then I looked up a quiet street leading up from that busy shopping street - a street of many nice charity shops - and saw a sign for a cafe.  It was my last chance.  Yes.  Last chance saloon.  Last fuel before the motorway!  No services on M25!  (It's been a while since I was on the M25.)  I would climb that hill, follow that street, go to that cafe.  Determination kicked in.  I needed a drink.  I needed a quieter place than a bus station.  And I needed it now.  Not for me a bottle of water from Tesco.  I would go to the cafe.

And what a cafe it was.  It was the end of their day so it was pretty much deserted.  There was no music playing inside.  The decor was just right.  The service was friendly.  The whole place was just what I needed at that moment.

For anyone tempted to follow our cafe visiting example, this is The Jumping Bean on Neville Street.  There are lots of good reviews here.  This is their Facebook page.

I bought myself a drink.  If I had one moan it would be this:  The cafe stocked several kinds of San Pellegrino fizzy drink.  But it didn't have the lemonade.  My favourite was missing!  Never mind, it's only a small place and can't stock every drink in the world.  I bought a can of one of their other drinks and sat down.  And breathed.  And surveyed the empty cafe in front of me:

A slight delay in blog posting there.  I typed these words above: A making of effort, when I can, to find the precious things.

As I continued to write I convicted myself.  There was something happening this afternoon, a kind of not-church church meeting that happens every month in the city centre.  I'd only ever been to it once before but get an email each month to tell me when it will be taking place and what the theme will be.  I'd been thinking of going but then today came and I decided that staying at home would be much easier.  And then my own words hit me.  Making of effort.  When I can.  Find the precious things.

So I went to it.  I'm glad I did.  Even not-church church can trigger me with that explicit belief in the words spoken and in the small amount of mostly belief free liturgy - made for the occasion - that there is a benevolent being out there, a sky-god ready to intervene in our lives.  But in that atmosphere I found I could just about cope with it and the people who are there each have their own manifestation of wonder.

Back to the memories of the cafe now.   The walls of the cafe were covered with art.  I guess that the display changes from time to time and maybe when I return there will be different art on display.  I used to go to a cafe in Newcastle that was like that - The Laughing Cat - and sometimes I would adore the art and sometimes I'd find it a lot more difficult.  It didn't matter much either way.

I really liked being in the cafe.  Blob Thing agreed to take a couple of pictures of me and I took some of Blob.  He's already blogged about it of course because he's far less behind with his blog than I am with my own.

Here's Blob - and one of the varieties of San Pellegrino that was in stock.  And some art and music books to browse.

A picture of the counter area.  It's only small.  But it's rather wonderful.

And another piece of art close to my seat.  This is the cathedral of course and I confess that I prefer the picture to the real thing.

Ecclesiastical Philistine!





Blob enjoyed himself at the cafe almost as much as I did.  We resolved that if we were in Durham again we could return to the cafe.  I think we should go soon with Winefride on a charity shop crawl.  We should be able to visit the shops of High Fell, Birtley and Chester-le-Street on the way.  Or perhaps we should plan a day in Durham and find some more surprises.  And Blob and I did return to the cafe another day.  On that day we had walked from Chester-le-Street along the River Wear and were very glad to sit outside the cafe on the quiet street.  I have another Chester-le-Street to Durham walk planned too, and this time we won't see the Wear until we reach Durham.  We have such a lot to look forward to.

This particular cafe has loyalty badges.  We bought the red badge for a pound.  It entitles us to ten percent off drinks forever more.  There's another more expensive badge that would entitle us to ten percent off all the food too.  Blob wore the badge with pride.  It's not just a good cafe.  It's a good badge.

And then it was time to go home.  Back to the bus station.  Catch a bus.  Pull out of the bus station.  Reach the end of the street.

At which point the bus broke down!

Catch a second bus.  Blob Thing was very pleased to look out of the window on the way home and see his old friend The Angel of The North.  The Angel had told him that he would have wonderful surprises and experiences.  This day out in Durham had more than its fair share of them.

A Grand Day Out In Durham - 5: Life and Death In St. Margaret's Garth

My day in Durham was providing wonderful surprises.  I had just explored the overgrown woods at the edge of Saint Margaret's graveyard.  Now I had the rest of the graveyard to wander in.  This is not a graveyard of neatly regimented stones, with perfectly tended grass.  This is a place where nature has been allowed to take over in places.  I loved it.

Yesterday I got carried away with a discussion of death and graves and what rules and customs we have concerning dead bodies and the places in which we put them.  Today I'm not going to do any of that.  Instead I just want to share photos of Saint Margaret's church yard, Durham.

I recommend that if you're visiting Durham you shouldn't just go to the major tourist spots - the cathedral, castle, museums and so on.  Because Durham has at least this one place that the tourists never see.  If it has one place it is likely to have many more and in the course of time I'll go back and explore the city more.

For now though, I have memories.  And I have photos.  Here are a dozen of them.  I haven't edited any of them at all - they're just what was taken that day using my phone.  You will possibly conclude from these photos and from the previous post that I am a fan of graveyards.  You would be correct.  I like them a lot.

I do like them.  But I do not wish to be buried in one unless it's in one of the schemes where trees are planted on your grave, adding life and beauty to the land.  That would be okay.  But in general I have an issue with me being buried - in terms of land use and the cost of it all.  When I am dead my corpse will be a corpse.  It can be disposed of in any way.  I'd love for as much as possible of it to be used for transplants, giving life from my death.  I wouldn't mind if what was left was taken and used for scientific purposes.

What I would hate would be to have a grave that people would come and visit and lay flowers on.  When I am gone, weep not for me.  And please don't visit the site of my rotting corpse because I'm not there.  When I am gone, I call you to live.  Don't worry, I have no plans to die just yet.  I'd like to live for a lot of years and have been commanded not to die.  In any case, I have a holiday booked with a friend - we want to see in the next millennium in Iceland.  It's booked!

I have seen a certain family which has an attitude that I find difficult to watch.  The parents in this large family are buried together in a plot in a cemetery.  One of them died 29 years ago.  I have watched as the children who still live nearby visit the grave.  Regularly.  They go and tend the grave and add flowers and have done it faithfully for over a quarter of a century.  An ancestor worshipping society would be amazed by the depth of devotion they have all showed.  If that made them all happy I wouldn't be so worried by their attitude to death and graves.  Carry on family!  Be happy.

But it doesn't.  I have watched them argue with each other.  I have watched them bickering and sometimes falling out in bigger ways.  I have watched as every single one of them has accused every other one of them.  "I go to the grave this much - and they don't."   "I buy flowers - and they don't."  "They are disrespectful to our parents."  Every one of them has said things like that.  And it's been a regular thing.  If I've met any of them singly it was almost a guarantee that at some point they would be moaning about the rest and about the grave and about "What would dad think of them?"

I have watched all that.  Over and over.  It makes me sad that they are all so unhappy and that they almost seem to go out of their way to be unhappy and increase the woes and guilt of each other.  The deaths of their parents has become an excuse for stabbing each other with words and attitudes.

I'd hate it if anyone behaved that way about my grave.  Of course I'd be dead so wouldn't be in a position to do much hating.  But the thought appalls me.

When I am gone.  No grave stone.  No regular visiting for 29 years.  No arguing.  May as much of my body as possible be used to bring life or as a contribution to scientific research.  And then dispose of the rest cheaply.  No buying flowers.  No gifts for the site of my corpse or remains.  If you want to give to my corpse site, please give to the living instead.  Don't spend a fiver on some flowers.  It might make you feel good but it wouldn't make me feel good.  Spend your fiver on feeding the hungry, helping the oppressed.  Spend it on being merciful in a world where many need to receive acts of mercy.  Let your kind charity be for the living and not for me.

Remember me.  But move on.  Live your lives to the full and let me go.

Wow.  That got a little morbid.  Sorry.  It was unplanned.  Instead of just presenting you with a set of photos you've had to cope with me typing meandering thoughts about death again.   I'll try not to mention death in the next post.  I'll mention art and badges and Blob Thing and drinks.  And a very lovely little cafe that was just the place I needed to be in between graveyard and bus stop.

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