Even before I realized that I was aromantic and asexual, I struggled to find books that had protagonists that I related with. They took the things I valued for granted. Things like friends, family, and support. And, more often than not, fell in love with the nearest character of the opposite sex at the most inopportune time. Staring down at these pages, which were supposed to be my safe haven, and feeling shut out from these grand adventures caused me a lot of frustration and heartache I couldn’t put words to. Until the words were given to me, tossed aside like a gift I barely managed to catch.
I first heard the term “asexual” from a friend who already identified as queer and had tossed themself into the vocabulary and culture like they were making up for lost time. They had no problem or hesitation sharing this new knowledge with me and I loved to listen, learning about them and many of the other people in my friend group. Mid-rant they threw out the term with a nonchalant attitude. As if they were saying any other casual word that I should obviously know. The unknown term caught my attention as I was well versed in queer terminology. Or well versed for a middle schooler growing up in the midwest.
“What’s that mean?” I asked, interrupting them. I remember them turning to look at me, a kind but unfocused look in their eyes as we continued walking to class. Their mind obviously still on whatever had stirred them into a rant in the first place. A topic I can’t recall now, the entire memory overshadowed by that one word.
“Asexual?” they guessed after a slight pause. I hesitantly nodded, not even sure if I had heard it right the first time. They looked forward again and said without a care, “oh, it means that you don’t experience sexual attraction.” Then they were ranting again, the words blurring as my entire worldview shifted.
One word. One small, simplified definition, and a brand new door was opened to me. I didn’t quite understand it in its entirety obviously. I didn’t know that sexual and romantic attraction or gender could be fluid. Could exist a sliding scale. I hadn’t even learned that you could distinguish romantic and sexual attraction, let alone apply it to myself. But I had the word. One I could plug into the search engine on my phone and access hundreds of websites that could explain it to me, could break down each term, and give me the personal experiences of strangers. Strangers I could relate to more than my peers.
Asexual hadn’t felt exactly right at first, like a loose tooth I couldn’t stop wiggling with my tongue. But through that word I was able to access similar ones. Words like aromantic, which clicked together with its other half. Even words like agender, which I wouldn’t explore until way, way, later on, when covid-19 forced us all to quarantine, and I had no choice but to think about my gender identity. Listen, I was a middle schooler in midst of a sexuality crisis, part way through puberty, and sure every single person in the world hated me, I had more than enough on my plate.
But I finally had a label to the invisible box I had been carrying around. And that, somehow, by labeling it it became less heavy. And eventually that its weight would become a source of comfort rather than a nameless burden stirring in my chest.
Being aroace has brought such joy to me even with all its difficulties. Nothing makes me happier than looking out into the world and seeing my community thriving. Both my fellow asexuals/aromantics, my fellow trans siblings, and the queer community in its entirety. And there’s nothing like opening a book and seeing someone queer like me. Looking into the typed words or the panels of a manga, putting my fingers onto the page, and thinking me, me, me.
However, there’s always another side to the coin. I cannot help but to think what if I’d known sooner. I was lucky enough to begin my journey in middle school, fairly young and before any major relationship I could’ve gotten into. I’ve read many stories of people online who weren’t as lucky. Adults who’d spent their entire lives feeling strange, getting into relationships because we’re told that’s what we’re supposed to do. People who had spent their entire lives without access to the terms that helped me so much. I’ve even seen people who weren’t asexual or aromantic comment about relatives that had long passed, who had explained their feelings in a similar way, and wonder if maybe they had been aspec or arospec. They had lived and died unknowing, not even given the opportunity to explore.
I cannot imagine how different my life could’ve been if I had heard the term asexual later or not at all. I spent a lot of time questioning, even after I had started using the term publicly. So many of my experiences didn’t match up to the cold, clinical ones I found on queer wiki sites. But I had the time to explore myself. I had the time to seek out more nuanced and real-life experiences of other asexuals and aromantics. To learn how varied a community could be. Where all of us could have vastly different experiences but still bond together under the same flag(s). The time to figure that out is a luxury not all can afford. But even knowing that and being eternally grateful for it, I can’t help but wonder, if I had learned sooner, would I have figured everything out sooner? Could I sit here now, a few more days, months, or even years of self confidence and comfort under my belt?
What if not only me, but so many others, could have had access to this doorway? What if others in my life could’ve learnt sooner and felt more secure in themselves and their identities? What if my allosexual and alloromantic classmates had heard and learned about it sooner? Could I have avoided the years of bullying, of harassment, I went through (and continue to go through) when I first came out? Rather than being forced to explain what my sexuality was and answer each nitpicky and often personal question lest be subjected to scrutiny, could I have been accepted with an open mind?
Maybe I could have avoided the pain I went through just by coming out if things were different. Maybe nothing would have changed at all. But if I can, I want to help someone realize, the way my friend did, that things can be different. That they aren’t alone in this world. That me, people close to them, and even strangers they’ll never meet are out there feeling the same way. That they aren’t a freak, a weirdo, broken, confused, dysfunctional, or all the other labels that ignorant people put on us when they see us and can’t understand. That instead, there are labels they can choose to wear, ones that seek to bind rather than exclude. That’s what representation means to me. That by putting a queer person in my book, one day someone might read it and have a lightbulb moment. Even the same creeping curiosity that allowed me to ask the question, to bring it into reality by looking into it myself. Or that someone who already knows will read it and feel the same spark of joy I feel every time I see a queer character. That’s why I write and put queer characters into each piece, so that they and everyone in between can see that they are not alone. So that one day a stranger might put their fingers to the pages of one of my books and think, me, me, me, only to hear me whisper back, us, us us.