This is a systemic issue where white queer people with platforms use their marginalized identity as a shield while simultaneously perpetuating harm against other LGBTQ+ individuals. To understand why this matters so urgently right now, we need to look at both the historical context and the current political landscape threatening all our rights.

The Pattern Emerges

Betty Who’s recent podcast appearance exemplifies this trend. Her speculation about Renée Rapp potentially dating men in the future – stating she “holds space” for Rapp to potentially discover love with a man – wasn’t just inappropriate commentary. It was a bisexual woman, married to a man, imposing a fluid framework onto a lesbian’s fixed identity without consent, feeding directly into lesbophobic myths that we simply haven’t “found the right man yet.”

This pattern extends beyond Betty Who, of course. JoJo Siwa claimed she felt “pressured by lesbians” to identify as one, when the reality is that she was 17 with a massive platform, making her own public statements. Fletcher’s release of “Boy” during Pride Month framed her relationship with a man as something requiring bravery, suggesting that bisexual experiences need to be centered even during a month dedicated to celebrating all LGBTQ+ identities.

Perhaps most concerning is the recurring insistence from primarily white queer women that Chappell Roan is “faking” being a lesbian, attempting to use her dating history as “proof” that her identity is invalid. This manages to come from both lesbian and bisexual voices, creating a toxic cycle of identity policing that serves no one.

What connects these incidents isn’t just poor judgment alone – it’s the deployment of white privilege within queer spaces, using marginalized identity as both sword and shield.

Understanding Intersectional Oppression

Patricia Hill Collins’s work on intersectional consciousness provides insight into why these patterns emerge primarily from white queer voices. When you’re marginalized on multiple axes – race, sexuality, often class – you develop an understanding of how different systems of oppression interconnect and reinforce each other.

White queer people, however, often hold onto their queerness as their primary “oppression card,” leveraging it against other minorities when they feel threatened or defensive. This isn’t necessarily conscious malice, but it reflects a fundamental misunderstanding of how privilege operates even within marginalized communities.

Research by scholars like Nikki Hayfield demonstrates that bisexuals do face legitimate marginalization within both straight and gay communities. However, weaponizing that experience specifically against lesbians – particularly when coming from positions of relative privilege – moves legitimate grievance into harmful rhetoric.

The historical context here matters immensely. Lesbian feminist scholars documented in the 1990s how some white bisexual women positioned themselves as more “evolved” or less “rigid” than lesbians. In this piece, a more controversial figure, Sheila Jeffreys, noted patterns where bisexual activism sometimes relied on lesbophobic frameworks to establish legitimacy.

I do not support Jeffreys’ overall views or endorse her work – you can read more about why here – but this particular piece of hers cites several direct quotes from lesbophobic white queer women during that time, and the sources are all provided within her document, which is why I chose to include it. She is a deeply flawed academic, but this piece just happens to be a good reflection of the Bisexual-Lesbian tension of the late 90s. 

For example, Amber Ault wrote in 1996: “I wish monosexuals – lesbians and straights – were more tolerant of bisexuals. I wonder how they would feel, knowing that in my mind these diverse groups can be lumped together as ‘monosexuals,’ that is, people who choose to limit their sexuality.”

This “limiting sexuality” narrative that is mentioned persists today in the harmful insistence that lesbians should remain “open” to loving men, that we’re somehow incomplete in our fixed orientation. It’s worth noting that you rarely hear similar pressure applied to straight people to remain “open” to same-gender attraction, or even the same level of pressure on gay men to consider dating women again.

The 1990s Precedent

The tensions we’re seeing aren’t new; none of these arguments are. As mentioned, the 1990s witnessed significant conflict between lesbian and bisexual activists, much of it rooted in dynamics similar to what we’re observing today. If we examine that history, we can learn important lessons about coalition-building and community accountability.

During the “sex wars” of the 1980s and 1990s, some bisexual activists positioned their identities in opposition to lesbian “rigidity” or “exclusivity.” This framing, while perhaps unintentional, reinforced harmful stereotypes about lesbians being close-minded or incomplete.

But voices did emerge during this period advocating for intersectional approaches. Cherríe Moraga’s and Gloria E. Anzaldu’s work in “This Bridge Called My Back” and other writings by queer women of color consistently emphasized that our liberation was interconnected, that fighting among marginalized communities only serves dominant power structures.

The resolution of many 1990s conflicts came not through one group “winning”, but through developing more sophisticated analyses of how different forms of oppression intersect. Communities that embraced intersectional frameworks – often led by women of color – created more sustainable, inclusive organizing models.

For a more overarching look that dives into political lesbianism, the sex wars, and feminist theory at that time, read “Bisexuality and the Challenge to Lesbian Politics: Sex, Loyalty, and Revolution”.

Why This Comes Primarily from White Voices

You will basically never hear queer people of color with platforms speaking as carelessly about community identity politics as white queer people do. Why? Because intersectional marginalization gives you a different outlook on solidarity and accountability.

When you face racism, homophobia, classism, and sometimes additional marginalizations simultaneously, you understand that our community’s strength comes from coalition-building, not from tearing each other down.

Sharon Dale Stone’s research on “Bisexual Women and the ‘Threat’ to Lesbian Space” documented that anti-bisexual sentiment within lesbian communities was real, but noted that she was operating primarily in overwhelmingly white spaces. This aligns with broader patterns where white-dominated communities often struggle with intersectional analysis, even outside of the queer community.

The difference isn’t that queer people of color are inherently more enlightened, but rather that our lived experiences with these intersecting oppressions allows us to form different opinions on overcoming oppression and community accountability. Most of us understand viscerally that marginalization doesn’t give you a free pass to marginalize others.

Why This Matters Right Now

While these conversations might seem like nothing but online drama, the stakes couldn’t be higher. The Supreme Court has signaled openness to reconsidering Obergefell v. Hodges – our right to marriage. We’re facing unprecedented legislative attacks on LGBTQ+ rights, with over 500 anti-LGBTQ+ bills introduced in state legislatures in recent years.

Empirical evidence shows that lesbian visibility and rights remain particularly precarious. GLAAD’s research showed that there were only 20 lesbian characters counted on broadcast in 2023-2024, a decrease of 13 characters and two percentage points from the 2022-23 report. Cable fared worse, with only 19 of the LGBTQ characters on cable (25 percent) being lesbians, a decrease of 21 characters and four percentage points from 2022-2023.

This is already predicted to drop again next year, as political attacks often target lesbian identity right after trans identity, also framing us as predatory or threatening to traditional gender roles, just like they did 30 years ago.

When white queer celebrities with massive platforms perpetuate these myths about lesbian identity, it undermines decades of advocacy work establishing sexual orientation as an inherent characteristic deserving protection. 

When they suggest that sexuality is always fluid, that lesbians are “pressuring” people, or that fixed orientations are somehow limiting, they are providing ammunition to the conservatives who want to dismiss all LGBTQ+ identities as “phases” or “choices.”

Platform, Race, and Access

Betty Who, JoJo Siwa, and Fletcher all share certain characteristics beyond their sexuality: they’re white, they have significant platforms, and they operate within multiple forms of cultural and economic privilege.

When Kenji Yoshino wrote about the “epistemic contract of bisexual erasure” in 2000, he predicted that attitudes toward bisexuality would improve significantly – a prediction that has largely proved accurate. Bisexual visibility and acceptance have increased dramatically, particularly in mainstream media and popular culture.

This improvement makes current rhetoric all the more puzzling and concerning. Why are we seeing renewed attacks on lesbian identity precisely when bisexual acceptance has grown? The answer, in my opinion, lies in the intersection of white privilege and platform access.

White queer celebrities often have the luxury of treating identity politics as abstract intellectual exercises rather than life-or-death matters. They can speculate about others’ orientations, claim victimhood from more marginalized groups, and frame their relationships as brave political statements because the material consequences of anti-LGBTQ+ violence disproportionately affect LGBTQ+ people of color, trans people, and those without class privilege.

Their voices have an immense impact, especially in today’s social media-focused world. Young queer people internalize this rhetoric and begin believing it earnestly, turning around and imposing it on others.

Community Response and Accountability

The response to these controversies has been mixed, revealing fault lines within LGBTQ+ communities about accountability, solidarity, and platform responsibility. Some defend the celebrities’ right to “explore their truth,” and suggest that the criticism represents nothing but intolerance.

Many, particularly LGBTQ+ people of color and others with intersectional marginalization, recognize these incidents as part of broader patterns requiring community accountability. People have the right to identify however they choose – that’s a given. But we must address the responsibility that comes with platform access and community membership.

Adrienne Maree Brown’s work on “emergent strategy” gives us frameworks for community accountability that center relationship-building and collective growth rather than punishment or cancellation. Applying these principles means creating spaces for white queer people with platforms to understand their impact while centering the voices of those most harmed.

This requires acknowledging that your queerness doesn’t exempt you from causing harm to other queer people, especially when you’re operating from positions of racial, class, or platform privilege. It means understanding that solidarity isn’t about people with a shared identity hanging out, it’s about our shared commitment to liberation for all marginalized people.

The path forward requires white queer people – especially those with large platforms – to develop more sophisticated analyses of privilege and oppression. They must take the time to learn more about how race, class, and cultural access intersect with sexuality to create different relationships to safety and visibility.

It also means recognizing that the lesbian identity faces specific vulnerabilities that the bisexual identity doesn’t share. While bisexual people absolutely face legitimate discrimination, the response isn’t to minimize lesbians’ experiences in return or suggest that fixed orientations are somehow limiting.

Most importantly, though, it means centering the voices and leadership of LGBTQ+ people of color, who have consistently been the ones to develop the most effective intersectional organizing models. Communities that have successfully navigated these tensions have done so by embracing complexity, acknowledging multiple truths, and prioritizing collective liberation over individual comfort.

As we face these unprecedented attacks on LGBTQ+ rights, we cannot afford internal conflicts that serve only our opponents, but we also cannot achieve meaningful solidarity by ignoring how privilege operates within our communities.

Our strength has always come from embracing the complexity of identity while centering the leadership of those most marginalized within our communities, and from understanding that our liberation is interconnected. The question now is whether we’ll choose solidarity or let privileges like race and class fracture the coalitions we desperately need to survive.

What do you think? Do you think we can come together as a community? Let me know in the comments!