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A Brief Conversation on My Aromanticism

In honor of Aromantic Spectrum Awareness Week, I discuss what being aromantic means to me

By Delise FantomePublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 14 min read
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A Brief Conversation on My Aromanticism
Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

About four years ago I came to the realization that I was aromantic. It took me a while because, well, it's not a largely well known romantic orientation. The fact that there can even be orientations for romance related things is hardly well known!

I'd have to say though, that in terms of my journey to this discovery, it's been . . . pretty chill.

No one ever hassled me on it. Growing up in Miami, there was a lot to get roasted about in the halls between classes, or at the spillout during lunch. Your shoes, your shirt, jeans, hair, face, even the way you laughed was public fodder for stand-up at lunch. I can't tell you how many times I was given stinging one-liners for a laugh, or my frizzy curls, or even my weight. Never was it for a lack of relationship. I was left to reside with the anime kids in our little corner on the low wall that acted as the border between concrete and grass. There we laughed about the latest manga chapters, fought over who would win in a versus battle, and complained about things as children do. But never, even as some of us got in and out of relationships, was I ever questioned about that. My theory about that is, they were too scared to- I didn't have a temper, just a quick, rude tongue. So maybe they just figured I intimidated anyone who might have approached me. Meanwhile I had no idea there could be something different about me. I liked reading teen books by Dessen, Blume, and some adult erotica. I liked reading the descriptions of passionate romances, passionate trysts, and the awkward teenage first love songs that come with coming-of-age. I loved reading about these heroines getting their "happily ever after". Never, not once, did I imagine such things happing to me. I instead dedicated more time to becoming a more authentic me- unashamedly clomping through the manga sections of my local bookstores as the only black girl there, buying up black t-shirts with skeletons, gushing about horror movies, and listening to rock music. Things that, in that part of Miami, at that part of the mid first decade of the 2000s, wasn't common. I made myself strange and unusual, and basked in it.

By Varvara Grabova on Unsplash

On the flip side, I had no questions about it at home. My parents never asked me about boys. Could that have been because my father said to me, "no dating until college"? Unlikely. He's certainly not the . . . er, the enforcer of the family. Or the strongest person in general. And I myself never brought up such things at home because my mind was not on such things. I loved to read books, I loved to stay on the computer for hours reading fanfiction and manga. I loved to sleep in and begrudgingly do chores. Perhaps these reasons made my parents believe that no boy would want to be bothered with me for long? I was weird and lazy (the latter they mentioned more than the former, but both were still common things heard), and perhaps too weird for a boy to want me. Not any of the boys I went to high school with anyway. Maybe it was the fact that, as the eldest girl and first child, they didn't want to see me reach that stage in life. They always did get very weird about the topic of boys in relation to me . . .

Then, in college, nothing still. I hung out with friends, found out one had a crush on me, never encouraged it, and still nothing. Not from parents or friends. When I had long since curbed my rudeness and got better at treating my hair, I still got no sort of inquiries on why I hadn't tried to pursue a male partner. Honestly it's only now that I'm writing this essay, that I wonder why nobody else wondered. Could the answer be so simple; nobody gave a shit one way or the other. Wouldn't that be so wonderful, to have friends that really didn't care so long as I was my bubbly self? I sat on the train once, and a young man sat next to me and in that typically thoughtless way so many have, decided to mans spread in that narrow little chair on the train.

I didn't bother protesting (it's Miami, you don't start something unless you're reasonably sure you could beat the other's ass), and also I was struck by the warmth of that knobble knee peeking out from his ripped jeans against my own knee. And I suddenly wanted badly, to have a friend I wouldn't be embarrassed to ask for a cuddle from, or to mindlessly press the side of my body against theirs and not have them look at me weirdly or tease me about having a crush. I wanted to have what animals have, you know? Cuddle piles, or the ability to just flop over another being. He was cute, so I chalked it up to a five minute crush on a stranger, and mentioned it to my mother who was just amused at me, but didn't question it further. That was the first ping of "something new, yet not", that I brushed away without another thought. I became more interested in speaking about politics- the politics that loom over non-white lives, that kills them, that has soaked the history of black lives from the time of the first black footfall in this country. I researched, I read, I listened, I became prouder of my blackness and my womanhood.

The questions didn't come until I'd left home, moved to a city four hours away, and started my job.

"Are you dating anyone? Why not?"

"Are you interested in dating? How come?"

And still, I will never say I was aggrieved or annoyed by these questions. I'm still not! I've never had a disrespectful, in person query. Just these questions, and my succinct answer of:

"No, I don't want to be bothered."

Though these rare, yet finally asked questions were starting to nudge me along to a train of thought that had been waiting in it's cheerily lit station for some time. This train, comfy with its stacks of soft, fluffy pillows along each bench, was a meandering and comfortable journey for another two years. Every question of relationship status was just someone opening the door, poking their head in to acknowledge me, and then closing it with a gentle snap of the lock as they moved on. There were hills, and lakes, and forests we passed through on this journey as more and more it came to me that I never wanted to date. But, should I ever decide to . . . Eh, but the idea of having to share what little time I have with myself after such and such obligations with someone else . . . . Oh but people are exhausting and after working eight hour shifts with them I don't particularly want to be bothered . . . oh, but if only I had some friends to go to this place with . . . ah, everyone looks like they have such fun together . . . man, what's the point of having dates with someone, can't we just hang out and take a nap?

My little train compartment grew more and more as I learned more about this previously ignored part of me. Filling with blankets, little picture cards, and a steaming cup of tea to fragrance the space. So this continued, as I grew more sure and yet still not sure enough.

By Balazs Busznyak on Unsplash

The train made it's first stop in April of 2017.

A girl named Georgina had become one of my newest work acquaintances. We didn't speak very often as we weren't placed together very often, but she was kind and pretty. We were sitting in front of the dug out space for a half constructed pool from which an as yet built water slide would drop (later, when it was open, I would amend this word for horrifically crash) guests down after a whirling ride. She was telling me about her boyfriend, who was nice, and about some previous relationships. I nodded, smiled, offered dialogue when the specific pause for such came up. Then came the question of my relationship status.

Single. No, not interested- well, I'm just more comfortable being by myself and dating seems like a lot of trouble. I've never felt inclined to! No, no interest in it. Well, no, never. Really. What was that word again?

Asexual.

Yes, I know, It's Aromantic Spectrum Awareness Week but bare with me, my asexuality was the gateway.

The new word intrigued me. A quick google search of the word surprised me. So many resources! It was almost mindboggling how many choices of websites could offer answers, but I think I went with the best option: AVENwiki. Oh, I still remember the way I felt . . . understood. Even when I hadn't really (purposely, to my face at least) been misunderstood ever by anyone else, I felt understood by my own self. Like, "oh! Oh that's? That feels close!"

Still not perfect. But closer.

From there asexuality turned to demisexuality. Demisexuality turned to demiromantic. Demiromantic turned to aromantic. There so many other things started to make sense! So that's what all these feelings of ambivalence towards romance and sex are called, I thought, so there's nothing truly wrong at all. Not that I mind being a little wrong, but, I mean that's a clear and searchable word! Honestly I felt better about having a simple word to give people to Google rather than having to waste a minute trying to explain why I didn't give a shit about a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Some feelings still weren't . . . neatly wrapped up, like: well then why do I like romance novels? Why do I enjoy light shipping of people? Shouldn't I not want these things? These answers have been muddled and sheepish, but the important thing was that most of my feelings were acknowledged and yet- that's a passing grade. Using the term aromantic has felt better, but not perfect. I do not think it ever will be, and that's fine. I know there are micro labels, and maybe one of those could fit me, but I just feel like using one isn't for me and that using "aromantic" is what's best. The only other one that I felt just as good about was "demiromantic" but it came with a feeling of insecurity, because I've never felt romantic connections and though I couldn't be sure I never would, I knew definitely that I never had and using that term made me feel a bit like I was . . . masquerading. And while I may still have infrequent, private doubts about being aromantic, using the term never made me feel like I was faking at it. I believe labels are what you want them to be- permanent, fluid, any and all of it.

Using these terms is what finally got me some pushback. Still never to my face! But I was amused when- you all remember that weird confidential app Facebook was peddling for a bit, to let you confess something anonymously? Yeah, so on there somebody asked me "So be honest, you don't date because of trauma?"

Like, what the hell, I can't take anyone hiding behind a smokescreen seriously. It never annoyed me because it wasn't true. I don't think I ever felt annoyed about someone questioning my identity until I spoke about it to some fellow coworkers during downtime at the pools and one of them straight up said, "Oh, that doesn't exist. Humans need that, so its an instinct, you literally can't not have it."

My only response was a sunny smile and a peace sign as I disappeared to a friend's guard spot for an hour.

Now my train car had very obvious accents of black, grey, purple, green . . . all together and purposeful instead of being happenstance. The train blew its whistle, I rejoined with two new little flags, and the journey continued.

I found some aromantic and/or asexual accounts to follow on Twitter. I ponder over a few representative enamel pins when they so happen to pop up in any ads my FBI agent curates for me, and I sigh in confusion over amatonormative antics. I guess the only change of note is the occasional moment of self-reflection where I wonder whether my fondness for people is me finally getting a crush after 26 years of not having ever had one, or just a strong sense of admiration. It's always the latter though- I just can't shake off the complete societal indoctrination that romantic relationships are essential.

By pure julia on Unsplash

Sometimes I wonder if I need to be more active in my aromanticism. Perhaps I need to make more posts on Twitter about it, to really show how proud I am to be this. But, I never quite felt . . . well I'll be honest, I just don't want to. I've always been introverted, been a bit of a loner. Groups aren't always my things. Especially not online groups, a lesson I had to learn through Facebook. I'm more of an observer to things, shy about making my presence exaggerated on the internet. I've come to observe the messiness of all online groups, and nothing is safe, not even aromanticism. With my few little followers on Twitter, I feel a comfy niche. Not safe, not by any means, but . . . cozy. And being aromantic, and being able to follow aromantic things, has brought me even more comfort, has given my Twitter page the ability to be cozy. To delve into discussions of gender, sex, and the human condition in short bites of 280 characters. Discussions following suit are set up in conjoined cars of 280 characters. I get to hop aboard others trains of thoughts, examine the insides, the sleeper cars, the gilt edges of their windows. I can also be witness to the pigheadedness, the white washing so thorough it can only be a muscle memory, the racism and massive human failures that many others deny being in their safe haven. These things make my timeline/feed no less cozy though, for two reasons:

1. These instances of racism and TERF/SWERF/Aphobia has strengthened and deepened my relationship with the block button. It's a powerful tool, and wonderful advocate for my relaxation and comfort. I'm not saying I block all that makes me uncomfortable (looking at you, Florida), but plain ignorance and/or maliciousness does not have to be tolerated . . . so I don't. Thanks to my growing relationship with my identity as an aromantic asexual Black woman, this button has been getting a lot of use, and I feel no lesser for it. Using it to curate my online experience has also given me some confidence to approach my real life in some similar fashion- that is, to prioritize my safety and wellbeing, and to choose wisely who I give my energy and attention to.

2. In the vein of energy and attention, I do not give my aromanticism much of it. It is who I am, until I come upon information otherwise that would have me re-examine this label. And again, I credit this to the wonderful people in my life who haven't been nosy assholes. I credit it to my mother, a woman from Trinidad who came here and made it this far through will power alone, and did not understand how you could let anyone make you feel any way about yourself. A father born in 1958, a Black man who'd seen too much in Philidelphia, lived through too much to be swayed by public opinion. And I am a Black woman. That's not something that can be overlooked, or brushed off, and I can't make a decision later on saying, "oh actually I'm not quite this."

I AM this. For however "close if not perfect" being aromantic is, being Black is perfect. I put my energy and attention into being a Black woman. I put my enjoyment to it. I put enthusiasm into being aromantic (and asexual). I put thought into it, as any other part of me, yes, just . . . maybe not as much as other pieces of me. And I think that's perfectly fine, and others may have opposing thoughts about it . . . but those are there's to have, as mine are to my own possession.

So . . . all this has been a rambling, extended way to say that I love being me. I love being a Black aromantic woman. Learning about this part of me changed many of my outlooks on life, and many others stayed the same. And I thought about writing this essay because . . . I have not been able to find many other essays from aromantics that look like me. So I wondered if perhaps this essay would find readers who did. Readers who didn't want words from an activist, but someone else. Someone like them, maybe? Someone, like them, holding their cards close to their chest and saying it's okay to feel whatever you're feeling. Don't have to shout it out, put it on a billboard, or buy a single themed product from Target. Just be sure to tell yourself the truth- nothing else matters but that.

Identity
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About the Creator

Delise Fantome

I write about Halloween, music, movies, and more! Boba tea and cheesecake are my fuel. Let's talk about our favorite haunts and movies on Twitter @ThrillandFear

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