No Man’s Land: Reflections on my experience as a bisexual daughter of immigrants
Maria Kopke
I was five when I was first made aware that people had a hard time figuring me out. A staff member at my school got frustrated with me because I kept telling her I was Brazilian. “You were born in Portugal, so you’re Portuguese,” she argued. I told her multiple times that, yes, I am Portuguese, and yes, I am also Brazilian, but that just wasn’t enough for her.
When it comes to my nationality, the way I present myself to the world has gone through different phases. As a child, I didn’t have a problem showcasing my two nationalities. There was never a language barrier, since Portuguese is the official language of both countries, and I could easily switch from a European accent to a Brazilian accent, depending on whether I was talking to my family or my classmates.
In my teens, I didn’t feel strongly about either nationality. For some reason I thought that disliking Portugal made me a ‘cool kid’ but I also knew better than to go around telling people I was Brazilian and risking xenophobic comments. Some context is important here: discrimination against Brazilian immigrants in Portugal is alive and well. Just last year, students of the Lisbon Faculty of Law placed a box filled with rocks in the halls of the university with a sign stating the rocks were “free, if used to throw at a zuca” (a word used often pejoratively to refer to Brazilians).
At 17 I moved to London and started to reflect on who I was and what I chose to display. On one hand, being away from home made me aware of how much I loved my country and how heavily I had been shaped by growing up there. On the other, most of my friends in London were immigrants, children of immigrants, or somehow had a history that extended beyond England. It was easier for me to explore my identity when, for the first time in my life, I was surrounded by people who related to my conflict and had similar struggles.
It was also in London that I first began to come to terms with what being bisexual meant to me. I had come out a few years earlier and the reactions I received ranged from ‘it’s just a phase’ to ‘you’re only trying to be interesting.’ Though that didn’t send me back to the closet, it did make me more reluctant to talk openly about it. In London, many of my friends were bisexual which meant that, for the first time, I felt that I could be vocal about it, knowing I would be understood.
Embracing my identity didn’t make the conflict go away; in fact, it only grew from there. Understanding who I am has been a process of questioning, of deconstruction and reconstruction. It was only recently, in conversation with a friend, that I noticed the similarities between my experience as a bisexual woman and my experience as a daughter of immigrants.
The first similarity is that in both cases I am expected to choose a side. By declaring myself bisexual, and by declaring myself the bearer of two nationalities, I am in no man’s land. I must choose between my blood and my territory, between Gay or Straight Town.
Another similarity is that I am half one thing, half the other, and how I am seen depends not on myself but on my circumstances. This one is easier to understand regarding sexuality since it’s a debate that’s been going on for some time among bisexual people: you are either seen as gay or straight, depending on who you are dating.
The more I think about it, the more I must acknowledge that I have always done this to myself regarding my nationalities. I was confident with my Portuguese half, having grown up surrounded by Portuguese people, attending Portuguese schools, knowing Portuguese history, and having Portuguese friends. I was confident in my Brazilian half by listening to Brazilian music, eating Brazilian food, and spending Christmas under palm trees, with Havaianas on my feet.
This falls apart though when a teacher in high school asks the class to write a paper on the Portuguese dictatorship period and suggests we talk to our grandparents about it, and I end up being the only kid in class who has a different assignment because I have no one to talk to. Or when, during a night out in Brazil, I am the only person in the entire club who doesn’t know the lyrics to the song they’re playing.
In short, if my identity is attached to exterior factors, who am I then, calling my grandmother to ask her about the Brazilian dictatorship period because the teacher didn’t know what else to do with me? Who am I, standing in the corner watching the crowd go wild as they sing in unison? Who am I when I’m alone?
The fact that I am specifically Portuguese and Brazilian adds yet another layer of conflict: Brazil was a Portuguese colony. Knowing what the colonization meant, seeing the damage it has caused which lasts to this day, can I proudly be both? When should I demand accountability, and when should I hold myself accountable? How does this make me privileged?
That last question is easy answer. The fact that I live in Europe and have an EU passport makes it easier to travel with no hassle, whereas my Brazilian mother is subjected to long lines and uncomfortable questions every time she is at an airport. My light skin and ability to speak with a European accent also mean that I am never thought of as ‘other’ when people see or hear me. Usually people only realize I’m Brazilian after they’ve gotten to know me a bit, and while that doesn’t shield me from xenophobia, xenophobic comments directed at me often come watered down, or accompanied with a ‘but you’re not like that.’
Something similar happens regarding my sexuality. I am aware that I appear less threatening to people as long as they can think of me as somewhat straight. I’m also aware that I am less likely to be a victim of homophobia if people are blind to my queerness.
Moreover, in both cases, people sometimes assume that I would be better off if I just discarded that part of me which places me at the margin. The year I came out, I had a friend tell me that she hoped I would lose my virginity to a man. What that friend was offering me was a chance to play for the winning side.
Another struggle I have has to do with gatekeeping. This can happen subtly, such as when an Uber driver in Rio de Janeiro immediately asks “You’re not Brazilian, are you?” as soon as I say good morning in what in my head is a perfectly fine Brazilian accent, or in the form of my gay friends looking at me in confusion when I state that I’m part of the LGBTQ community, before they remember that there is a B in the acronym.
Sometimes it’s more blatant, like when, during political discussions, Brazilian family members tell me “you don’t live here, so you have no say in the matter.” Sometimes I do it to myself, keeping away from certain conversations because I feel that I’m not queer enough to understand the issue. And sometimes I catch myself doing it to others, falling into the same heteronormative, Eurocentric line of thinking which has often worked against me.
So, how do I feel about all this? What phase am I in now?
I have decided that I want to proudly embrace and display all aspects of my identity, and there is no way to do that unless I also embrace the conflict. And, though it’s a daily effort, I recognize that how the world sees me almost never translates to who I am. Mainly, I am not half of anything. Not half straight, not half gay, not half Brazilian, and not half Portuguese.
Everything I am, I am entirely. And even when doubt comes knocking, I take comfort in knowing that No Man’s Land isn’t a lonely place. There are a lot of us here.