Lately, I’ve seen a lot of talk about bisexuality on my platforms, and the conversations seem to be overlapping. I wanted to share my thoughts here to clarify how I feel about these debates around bisexuality.

When you’re transgender, people often view you as a person who’s meant to service their specific needs or desires based on a loose set of stereotypes that will occasionally be described as “the best of both worlds”. It’s a compliment you’re pressured into accepting because people often feel as if they’re going out on a limb by at least acknowledging that you don’t identify with the gender they feel still lingers within you. For transgender women, to be the best of both worlds means to have the best of a woman: beauty, and the best of a man: a large, functional penis and a voracious sexual appetite. If you are noticiably transgender, this will be the stereotype projected onto you by fetishists; it’s a form of misgendering you’re pressured to accept as validation. It’s a sentiment I’ve primarily experienced from people who identify as bisexual, and it’s often coupled with a request that I validate their sexuality by giving them access to my body. It’s incredibly commonplace and incredibly dehumanizing.

There’s been a lot of discussion lately about a woman named Paris, who shared online that she’s bisexual but doesn’t see herself in a long-term relationship with a woman. She’s been with women before and is still attracted to them, but says she couldn’t date a woman, especially not a masculine one, since she prefers sex with men. Her comments about women were mostly negative, and she made it clear that men meet all her romantic and sexual needs. Many lesbians saw her video as proof of why they often only date other lesbians, feeling that some bisexual women see lesbians as just sexual partners, not long-term options. In response, some men made videos defending bisexual women, arguing that many end up with men because lesbians are “biphobic.” This ignores the fact that lesbians aren’t the only women who date women, and reveals an observable pattern of some bisexuals seeking validity through people whom they view as having a closer proximity to a “valid” queer sexuality. The whole conversation has become heated, and as someone who relates to lesbians about being fetishized by bisexuals exploring their sexuality, I’ve found myself drawn into it, as a person who frequently finds herself in a position where a bisexual person expresses to me that because they are bisexual, they will only ever be interested in having a sexual relationship with a transgender woman.

I want to be clear: biphobia is real, and there is real bias against bisexual people. Many are invalidating Paris’ sexuality because she said she couldn’t date a woman long-term, and I think that’s biophobic. Bisexuality exists, and it doesn’t make sense to deny that. Still, people often wrongly assume there’s only one way to experience or express bisexuality. I think that’s part of what makes this conversation so complicated because, obviously, not all bisexuals operate through a lens of fetishism, but some of us, because of who we are, are put into more direct interactions with people who do fetishize us because, in their minds, we exist outside of the cis hetero paradigm, which makes engaging with us taboo, and thus exciting.

One of the biggest debates around Paris’ video was about the split-attraction model. The split attraction model comes from theories around asexuality. Because asexuals do not experience sexual attraction in the way that allosexuals (non-asexuals) do, there is a need to distinguish between sexual and romantic attraction. Bisexuals have since appropriated this understanding to suggest that there are some people who may have homosexual sexual desires, but will only ever have heterosexual romantic desires. So you’ll commonly hear someone say “I’m bisexual, but heteromantic”, to suggest that when they date, the relationships they have tend to be seen as heterosexual within our society. To be frank, I’ve dated a lot of bisexual men, and I’ve really never dated a bisexual man who has also dated cis men. Speaking anecdotally, this experience of bisexuality is rather commonplace, and perhaps for that reason, it feels odd to suggest that those who experience bisexuality in this way aren’t actually bisexual. However, when you’re a transgender woman who passes, this places you in a very odd position.

When I lived in a conservative community and would turn to my audience to share stories about the heterosexual men who were asking me out on dates, people would often tell me that I was barking up the wrong tree. My audience of predominantly cis het people would tell me that, factually, bisexual men were a better match for me. However, after moving to Los Angeles and prioritizing bisexual men in my dating pool, I did not find that to really be the case. Quite often, I’d come into conversations, speaking openly about my preference for bisexual men, to attract them, and many of these men would assume that I was cis. Some of them would become excited to finally connect with a woman who was approving of and supportive of their bisexuality. Sometimes I’d just randomly bring up my preference for bisexual men, and there would be men who weren’t even out about their sexualities, who would suddenly feel comfortable disclosing their bisexuality to me. I’d spend a lot of time sitting with these men, speaking about their sexuality and validating them in a way I understood they weren’t used to. However, the tone would change when I’d eventually disclose my gender to them.

Perhaps it sounds like a first-world problem, but passing has put me in an odd position. I have always gotten a decent amount of attention from men, but passing means I almost never have the experience of a man being attracted to me and fully aware of what he’s attracted to. So disclosure is always a really frustrating, often an upsetting experience. So there was a time when, when a man said he was bisexual, I’d interpret that as him being more likely not to care about me being transgender. In my mind, at the time, a man being attracted to both men and women would mean that he wouldn’t really care about my body. However, I found out pretty quickly that wasn’t the case.

One of the first dudes I dated in LA was a performative male feminist who loved to bond with women over his shared attraction to men. When we met, he was incredibly lecherous and forward, and I was receptive to him because he was openly bisexual. However, his tune completely changed when I told him I was transgender during our first date. The dates that followed were quite weird, and with time, I’d piece together that he was mostly going on dates with me when his wife was out with other people. I was interested in dating him, but he mostly used me to pass the time and distract himself from the less-than-savory thoughts he’d have about his wife when she was out with other men. He made a big deal about us dating, often taking selfies with me when we’d go out, but when I’d try to be flirty with him, he’d pull away from me. With time, I had to accept that he was perhaps attracted to me in some way, but wasn’t ready to actually be with a trans woman; no matter how many femboys he openly expressed attraction to within the earshot of a cute cis queer woman and dfab non-binary person who’d sworn off straight men.

I’m not in the business of telling people what their sexuality is, so I’m not going to ever feel comfortable saying that dudes like that aren’t actually bisexual. You could, perhaps, make that argument, but I don’t really see the point of it. There are plenty of bisexual men who are only attracted to cis people. Ultimately, I am a practical person. While bisexuals will debate about whether or not bisexuality is a trans-exclusionary label, I’ve had to accept that it is for enough of the people who are attracted to me that I can’t presume that a man saying he’s bisexual means he is attracted to transgender women. I cannot presume that a bisexual man is more likely to date a transgender woman, as my experience with prioritizing bisexual men taught me that quite the opposite was true.

I often hear from non-monogamous couples that one partner realized they were bisexual during their relationship, so they opened things up to explore. Sometimes, both partners end up exploring their bisexuality, and that’s usually when I get involved. When I moved to LA, I planned to focus on dating bisexual men. Over time, I noticed that being openly transgender often attracts couples who are just starting to explore their sexuality. These couples are usually emotional and looking for validation. From what I’ve seen, bisexual people often feel misunderstood and invalidated, both in and outside the queer community. When bisexual couples approach me, it often feels like they see intimacy with me as something that validates them, while my own needs are overlooked. As a polyamorous woman, people often assume I’m bisexual, since that’s common among nonmonogamous women. Sometimes, no matter how many times I say I’m straight, people don’t believe me. Many bi couples have assumed I’m “a little bit bisexual” based on stereotypes, and I’ve often had to defend my sexuality because of how objectified I feel in these situations.

I know myself and what I like in the bedroom, and I can’t fulfill the “shemale” fantasy that some bisexual men expect from me. Partly because I don’t want to, and partly because it’s not possible for me. It’s unfair to assume all bisexual men want to be the bottom, but that’s been a common issue I’ve faced. For those who fetishize transgender women, access to my body is non-negotiable. I’ve told bisexual men, “I don’t want to be touched there,” and they’ve replied, “But I like it,” while touching me there, more times than I can count. Trans women are rare, and many bisexual men seem overly eager for the experience. I’ve had men ignore my boundaries, using their sexuality as an excuse. In my experience, I’m often expected to allow certain things just because they’re bisexual. Many have told me they only value our relationship if I top them, but since I can’t, I’ve realized that for many bisexual men, being with someone assigned male at birth means they expect versatility.

Of course, I can’t speak for all bisexual men. I only know what I’ve experienced with those who have approached me. I’ve been with a bisexual man, Nathan, for ten years. He was the first I dated after becoming non-monogamous and focusing on bisexual men. Nathan is different from most of the others I’ve dated, and I think that says something. Most of the bisexual men who fetishized me had little experience outside of cis women and were interested in traditional, heteronormative relationships. They often weren’t part of the queer community and seemed lonely, jumping straight to sex instead of building a connection. Nathan and I waited a month before having sex. He’s been married before and doesn’t want that again. His other partner is genderfluid, and he spends a lot of time with gay men, would have no issues publicly admitting to his attraction to men, and would definitely punch a homophobe to defend a partner or a friend. Nathan doesn’t make a big deal about his sexuality, but he’s openly bisexual and comfortable with his partners. He hasn’t dated cis men, but he’s attracted to them. He’s confident and, maybe because he’s my longest partner, he’s a great and attentive lover. Our relationship never feels selfish or one-sided. For Nathan, bisexuality isn’t just about sex, so it’s not taboo for him.

Dating is naturally exclusive, and it’s hard to express your preferences without hurting someone. Bisexual people who only experience their sexuality in a sexual way are still valid, as are those who don’t date trans women. We could all benefit from thinking about why we feel the way we do, but in the end, it is what it is. With time, you figure out what works for you. Right now, I have as many partners as I can handle. My boyfriends are caring and well-adjusted, and I didn’t meet them until I became more open to dating straight men again.

I met Alexander about 6 years ago, right before the pandemic started. He didn’t know that I was transgender, but when I told him, he wasn’t phased by it. He was attracted to me, so he pursued me. Of my partners, Alexander is the most normative. He’s a clean-cut guy who works a straight-laced job, and I’m probably the strangest thing in his life. He identifies as heterosexual, and he has no shame about his attraction towards me. We’ve gone on several trips together, and he regularly has parties where he invites his work colleagues, who are all aware of our relationship and his love for me. In a way, he is a complete foil to many of the paranoid narratives that were shared with me by closeted bisexual men in my youth. Closeted men would often tell me that I had to accept that there was a reason why they didn’t want to go out with me or see me as a long-term partner.

When I was younger, I would go over the men’s houses and sneak around so that they could keep me as their dirty little secret. When I stopped doing that, I started to understand how much they relied on my ignorance. These men often made me feel as if, because of who I am, they could never move through the world with me in the way I currently do with Alexander. For a while, I truly believed that my gender sabotaged a man’s image, and low self-esteem made me all too comfortable with keeping their secret. I’d be lying if I said that time hasn’t eventually taught me to embrace the opposite of what society often tells me is true about the men who like transgender women. I’ve noticed that some bisexual people don’t like it when people like me talk about our experiences with bisexuals, but with all the discussion around Paris, it felt important to bring up.

In Paris’ description of her preferences, trans women, who often have the body part she says she likes, are noticeably absent. Some bisexuals reject this transphobic view of bisexuality, but many still hold onto it. One bisexual man who rejected me told me that when he fantasizes about women, trans women aren’t part of those fantasies. I can’t say he isn’t bisexual because of that, but I know he’s not alone, and that shapes how I interact with bisexual men.

When lesbians talk about preferring to date other lesbians, some bisexuals call that “biphobic.” While there are lesbians who dislike bisexuals, it’s not fair to say lesbians who date other lesbians do it out of spite. Lesbians are an extreme minority, and lesbians often feel isolated in society and want to be with women who understand that experience. Lesbians who only date other lesbians usually do so because it feels right for them. Calling this “biphobic” feels off to me, because it sounds entitled. It sounds like bi women want to date lesbians who aren’t interested in them. While biphobia exists, it’s strange to use the term when lesbians simply prefer other lesbians, especially since bi women often end up with men who fetishize their bisexuality. In polyamorous circles, many people are interested in bi women, and couples exploring their sexuality often have rules that keep things from becoming romantic. For example, some have a “one-penis policy,” where women can be with other women but not other men. These arrangements often fall apart when real feelings develop. I’ve also had wives veto their husbands’ relationship with me if they liked me too much. For those of us seeking more than just sex, it’s important to know what someone is really open to. Over time, people tend to seek out partners whose sexuality matches their own.

To me, this conversation circles back to the idea of biphobia as rejecting someone romantically because they’re bisexual. Every so often, there’s a story about cis women who don’t want to date bisexual men, and stereotypes about STDs and cheating come up. People rightly call that biphobic. But sometimes, it seems like these women just want to date straight men because they want someone whose sexuality and romantic expectations matches their own. Just as it makes sense for lesbians to date other lesbians, it makes sense for straight people to want to date other people who also identify as straight. I’m not going to pretend the reasons given won’t be overwhelmingly biphobic, but I also know that, for many straight people, their sexuality is much more than “man + woman”, but that it’s also often a set of roles and expectations. These expectations are frequently alienating for bisexuals, who often will ultimately choose to exclusively date other bisexuals. Bisexual men routinely reject me because I’m heterosexual, and I do indeed respect that! I’ve often found that my heterosexuality clashes with their bisexuality.

In my own life, most of my partners are straight men. Not because of insecurity or validation, but because I do often tend to find that those are the relationships that flow the most seamlessly. I have certain romantic expectations that might feel strange to bisexual men who aren’t as interested in the gender binary. Bisexual men frequently turn to me for a more open mind. And while I can admit that I am quite openminded, I am very terribly, tragically heterosexual. I had to accept that the theory of who I could date wasn’t necessarily true. Nathan and I likely work because we share a common Evangelical background and have both, in our own ways, divested from heterosexist expectations. Even still, even in my very positive relationships with bisexual men, I sometimes feel like I’m holding them back. However, I don’t feel that way with straight men. With straight men, I often feel like I’m on the same page as them. It’s like we speak the same language when it comes to our expectations, and it’s a noticeable difference. I know many of my thoughts about bisexual men are informed by the kind of men I likely attract as a gender assimilating trans women.

I know bisexual people often feel invalidated, and I feel a bit guilty sharing thoughts that might add to that. However, I want to validate my own experiences and those of others like me. I can’t ignore how often bisexual people have expressed gender essentialist ideas to me. It’s strange to be seen as “the best of both worlds” by bisexual men, while straight men in my dating pool just see me as a woman. Even in these discussions, I find myself thinking about that difference.

When I talk about biphobia, I’ve noticed that, aside from being rejected for being bisexual, most examples people give are actually just homophobia experienced by bisexual people. Gay people are also accused of:

• Being promiscuous, and thus at higher risk of catching STDs.
• Not truly being their stated sexuality label or being in a “real” relationship because they aren’t heterosexual.
• Being greedy, wasteful, and selfish.

There are definitely some things unique to bisexuality, which is why the term “biphobia” is useful. But without homophobia, many of these ideas wouldn’t exist; they come from the same bias. Even in gay spaces, you can see internalized homophobia, so it’s strange to pretend that biphobia from queer people isn’t rooted in homophobia. In the debate around Paris’ content, a bisexual man challenged my position that biphobia is homophobia, and asked how I’d feel if someone said transphobia is just misogyny. I told him I actually agree; misogyny is at the root of almost all of this.

Without misogyny,  there would be no value system around sexuality, and heterosexual couples wouldn’t carry more social value than homosexual couples. It is the existence of misogyny that necessitates the need for a gender binary where men and women have these unique, distinct, predestined roles that they must play or suffer rejection. In a heterosexist world, the homosexual is gender-non-conforming by definition. Homosexual relationships defy heterosexist norms, and homophobia exists to police people towards said norms and away from the gender nonconformity of homosexuality. Trans people’s mere existence, when coupled with success, defies the cissexist norm that the most valuable bodies are cis bodies. This is a direct threat to the patriarchy, which is managed by the normalization of misogyny and gender binarism. Trans women are shamed for not being men, and trans men are shamed for not being wombs for men. Those who do not assimilate into binary gender are viewed as great disrupters of the sacred order of misogyny. A world without misogyny is a world without transphobia.

When I told him this, he argued that I couldn’t understand misogyny as a trans woman. To me, that proved my point. As validity is his primary focus as a bisexual man, he assumed I spent all my time fighting for my gender to be recognized. I transitioned 20 years ago, and it’s actually been a very long time since I’ve fought for my gender to be validated, let alone been misgendered. I feel the way I do about misogyny because I’ve been seen as female since I was young. Before I identified as a woman, I was placed in a female box and treated poorly for it. I honestly don’t know what it’s like to be treated as a man. When people are misogynistic towards me, they generally don’t know that I’m transgender, and I’ve even been sexually assaulted by men who did not know. Misogyny has been a huge thing I’ve had to navigate around in my daily life; it’s just part of my life as a woman. However, this bisexual man couldn’t see me that way. To him, my transness separates me completely from womanhood, and he held onto ideas about me that weren’t true, based on his own binary view of gender. This is a kind of gender essentialism and invalidation that I am incredibly used to experiencing from bisexual men specifically.

Ultimately, while I accept that the wider cis het world isn’t very fond of transgender women, I’ve had to acknowledge that someone being bisexual isn’t the green flag I once imagined it was. As a pretty polysaturated person right now, I can’t pretend I have much openness to new people, but when you have the option, you can’t ignore the patterns. I spent more time than most people trying to date bisexual men very intentionally, but the way the cookie crumbled is that I now have relationships mostly with straight men. My escapades meant that I do have a large network of bisexual men who are down to fall into bed with me every once in a while, but I don’t find myself being very receptive to those people. I am not a man, but it’s quite clear to me that many of the bisexual men I’ve attempted to date cannot really treat me how they treat cis women, so they instead treat me how they’d treat, well, like someone who’s a bit of a woman, someone who’s a bit of a man. The worst of both worlds is what I often receive, but I can’t make any grand statements about all or most bisexuals. It’s just that, from my vantage point, this is something I see that most people really don’t see or speak about. Every bisexual man I’ve met who has dated a trans woman long term is distinctly different from the men who only see trans women for sexual fulfillment. It’s like there are people who see me, and then people who only see what they want to see of me.

I do think that the bisexuals who reserve romantic feelings for those in society who’d make them seem straight, and exclusively sexual feelings for those in society who would make them seem queer, do have some internalized homophobia they could stand to unpack. I think that the bi women calling lesbians biphobic for wanting to date other lesbians could stand to read the room and recognize that they exist in a culture that discourages lesbians from being in lesbian relationships, and that’s why they feel so protective of them. I will always feel as if I can be biased, and I will not rebuff the accusations of biphobia that I receive, but I will do so with the acknowledgment that bisexuals dominate the acronym. and frequently do indeed hold systemic power over me, which is part of why I experience the dehumanization from them that I do. The people who fetishize me often do so with a distinct feeling of having power over me, which is why the subtext is often that I should be thankful or flattered for receiving a type of attention I do not want. I do think that some bisexuals should be more understanding of the fact that some of us really do not want to be fetishized, and being told that we will only ever be sexually interesting to you will always feel like you’re fetishizing us. Whether or not it’s valid, it kinda doesn’t matter.

To me, at the end of the day, the thing that matters the most is your clear communication about your feelings. If you just want sexual exploration and casual sex, be incredibly clear about that. Some lesbians are les4les because the bi women they’ve attempted to date, all too often, have attempted to include a man in the mix or, down the line, clarified that they only had a sexual desire for them. That can be very, very hurtful, and I don’t think a lesbian is wrong for not wanting to experience that. When bisexuals refute this, it often feels like they’re trying to pressure a lesbian out of being in explicitly lesbian relationships, which is indeed an insidious form of homophobia; lesbophobia to be specific. It’s odd for me to experience so many unicorn hunting, one penis policy shenanigans, and to know that some of the bisexuals involved in these dynamics feel as if their sexuality is being reinforced, while the subtext of homophobia is ever-present. I’ve known far too many bi women in relationships with homophobic men who don’t seem to catch that those men are biphobic, who always seem to catch that the lesbians who reject them are.

I think we should all be free to explore our sexualities and that there is likely never going to be a completely politically correct way of doing so, but honesty takes you very, very far, even if it’s ugly. While it’s been a bit hurtful, I’ve always appreciated hearing from bisexual men that they don’t date transgender women, so I know not to give them my time. If I could go back in time, I’d tell myself to prioritize that question over simply asking about a man’s sexuality and assuming that if he said bisexual, he had a romantic capacity for a trans woman. At the end of the day, I’ve learned that when you resonate with someone, it flows quite naturally, and these questions don’t really matter as much. I think everyone has a certain capacity, and sometimes I think labels can overcomplicate things, but that’s another rant for another post.

My online content is changing, and I feel it’s for the better. I started my first YouTube channel back in 2005, and about ten years later, I made YouTube my full-time job. Some of you might not know that I have a degree in Character Animation from CalArts. I haven’t always shared my creative side fully, and sometimes I wonder how things would have turned out if I had chosen a different path. At one point, I stepped away from creative projects to focus completely on YouTube, since it was the only thing paying the bills. Before I finished college, I tried to keep the fact that I was transgender private for my own safety. I went after a full-time YouTube career, honestly, because I faced discrimination. It wasn’t until I legally changed my documents that it became easier to find work and be taken seriously. That was about 16 years ago, though it doesn’t feel that long. With the way the economy is now, I realize that even though there are challenges, I’m in a more comfortable spot than many people. Over a decade ago, I started building my online presence at a time when most people didn’t think it was possible to make a living this way. Now, I’m able to live fairly comfortably in a big city thanks to the income from my online work.

When I was a child, I wanted to be an artist. My splatter-painted clothes and sketchbook, which never left my side, made that obvious to most people who met me. I spent most of my childhood in relative Evangelically-informed isolation. I think that caused me to be rather time-blind, but perhaps that’s just my ADHD. I’m used to putting my head down and doing busy work; idle hands, and all that. However, what I’ve been feeling right now is as if time has truly gotten away from me, leaving me to forget who I wanted to be. Looking back on my life, it’s different, but not exactly the life I imagined I’d have as a child. I have a career in which I largely use my creativity to earn a living. I make what I want; often, however, I want to make it. And yet, for quite some time, I’ve felt like there was a distant time when things would eventually stabilize, and I’d get back to creating art. A boyfriend, whose name I’ve already forgotten, helped me build a drafting desk for my art, which is sadly unused in the three apartments I’ve lived in since moving to Los Angeles. I moved here in 2017.

Next year will mark a decade since I moved to LA. Realizing that made me think about how little I’ve accomplished here. For years, I’ve been searching for a way to make YouTube content that I can actually keep up with. I’ve tried all sorts of ideas and formats. A few years back, I decided to wear the same outfit and film everything against a red backdrop. That worked for a bit, but once I started meeting other creators, I realized how behind I was. Working with Matt Bernstein was a wake-up call. He keeps things simple; plans in a Google Doc, films on Wednesday, and has the video edited and posted by Friday. When we first worked together, I was paying my assistant to research for a week, then I’d spend another week writing, and another week editing. By the time my video was ready, it was already outdated, and it rarely did well. Clearly, I needed to change my approach.

The reality is, because I was raised in such isolation, it is both a strength and a weakness of mine. On the one hand, I earn my income almost entirely by devoting myself to being a content creator and hosting a platform where I can freely express myself and allow others to do the same. I probably wouldn’t have done that without feeling the need to have that sort of space for myself. I am incredibly self-motivated, and that’s a good thing. The bad thing for me is that when you’re in isolation, it’s very easy to lose sight of the bigger picture and to see where you’re perhaps falling short. About a year ago, I finally sat down and calculated how much I’d be paying myself if I were working hourly. As it turns out, I have been a particularly oppressive boss who has been underpaying my workers quite greatly. I realized that I needed to do something different and rethink exactly how YouTube fits into my life.

IIn the past, I’ve been frustrated by seeing what other content creators have done with their platforms. For quite some time, I vented about this on Patreon. It wasn’t quite jealousy, but this emotion that I couldn’t entirely place. One day, I was walking on Hollywood Blvd, as I always do, and I ran into a follower of mine who happens to work at one of the bars on the boulevard. She asked me, “What are you doing next?” and when I responded, “YouTube,” I could see the disappointment on her face. I’ve seen this look on more than a few people who seemed very surprised to hear that I was focusing so much of my time and energy on YouTube. For the longest time, my primary focus was sustaining myself through the work I do online. I suppose I have to admit that I’ve been doing that for a very long time now, and I’m not really continuing my personal development or actually pursuing some of those goals I let go of many years ago. When I had that conversation with the woman on the boulevard, I was frustrated because, from my perspective, I’ve been actively uploading some of the best, highest-quality content I’ve ever made, but the truth is, it’s not the content I’m proudest of. Over time, I realized that the feeling I had was simply seeing some of my colleagues pursue things I had essentially given up on. I realized I had a latent resentment that they never backed down from pursuing their dreams, and in reality, I had.

It’s hard to admit that I’ve let much of myself go when it comes to my goals and dreams, but the way the world turns has rekindled a fire within me. Many of you do not know that the channel now known as Kat Blaque started as TransDIYer, a transgender-themed DIY channel. In 2010, when I started the channel, I wanted to create sewing and DIY content, but I ended up getting sidetracked into being a talking head. The reality is that I’m passionate and I care deeply about the topics I’ve discussed. It is, in fact, quite hard for me not to make content, as it’s the one habit of mine that I’ve maintained since I was a child. However, I can also lean on the fact that I’ve now done it for most of my life. In the early internet, those of us who were early adopters felt the need to create conversations and hold spaces online because we knew the status quo would ultimately not do so. Over the years, I’ve created forums, groups, blogs, and websites dedicated to various causes I advocate. Many of us felt a sense of responsibility to hold space on the internet for the marginalized, seeking a place to be. Frankly, as I look around the net right now, it seems like many of those spaces have multiplied and are almost oversaturated. I’m divided about that because, as the world has become more online, I’ve become less online. I was one of the first trans bloggers online, but now I’m shifting into existing offline. While I was isolated online as a child, it seems like Billionaires are attempting to isolate everyone in these algorithms, where they’re taught what to think and how to feel. I’m becoming more sensitive to that, and as I do, I think a lot about how to add value to people’s online diets.

So what’s next for me then?

After pitching an idea to a company, the director reminded me that whatever I create should have a reason for me to be involved. I try to stay humble, but as I get older, I see the importance of being confident in what I do well. I’m a writer, public speaker, illustrator, seamstress, and sometimes an actress. I’ve come to realize I have creative talents that not many people have. When I think about it, creativity is my superpower. It’s helped me get this far, and without it, I don’t think I’d be successful.

Right now, what I want most is to create. I know many of you miss my old video essays, and I understand that’s why a lot of you joined my channel. I saw someone on TikTok say the video essay is dead. For me, it’s not dead, but I do need to rethink how I make them. I don’t want to spend so much time on a single video essay anymore. I’ve realized I can’t reach my creative goals if I spend weeks on a video that doesn’t pay off, and most of them don’t. Now, I see YouTube more as a job that pays my bills and supports my other business. For many topics you like to hear me talk about, I want to spend about as much time on them as I do filming reactions. I’ve noticed that reaction content helps keep my channel going and lets me put out videos faster, in a format that’s much easier to edit and doesn’t need a lot of graphics. This way, I can share more content and still have time for higher-quality projects that support my art career and my passion for education.

I feel very drawn to teach. It’s what my Grandmother did, what my Mother did, and what I feel drawn to do in this phase of my life. What I’ve recognized is that in the age of AI, creativity is being undermined. While people eagerly celebrate that they no longer need to pay artists, what they’re not realizing is that under fascism, art and self-expression are always under attack because they are powerful. It transcends a lifetime, and often encourages feelings that lead to action. These billionaires want you to stop thinking for yourself and just let the white supremacist robot do the thinking for you. As art education is defunded, discouraged, and replaced with AI, I feel a similar obligation to the one I felt in my early internet days to fill in the blanks. I’m not the only one doing it, but I’m one of the few who really can.

At the moment, I’m working on a DIY series and creating new posts for this website. I’ve hired a few new editors to help me produce most of my YouTube content. Working with them and my assistant has freed up my time for other projects. Now that I’ve thought about what I want to leave behind, I have some new goals I want to pursue.

So expect Blaque in the City and my YouTube channel to both be more active, but also more intentional. I’m very excited about what’s to come. If you’re ever curious what I’m working on, check me out on Patreon!