Dear Putzy Politician:
I’m not one for self-promotion, for tooting my own horn. It’s unseemly, and doesn’t really jive with the southern gentleman I was groomed to be. But every now and then this southern belle has to let the fro free and tell Ms. Manners to take a hike.
And while I wish I had an incredibly engaging and riveting anecdote to segue into the meat of it all, it’s been a long day, and not even a jar of Nutella has enough sugar to keep me sharp. But I think the point I’ll try to make will be gleaned from a little tale about a kid named Matt. Why, that’s you! you exclaim. Well, buckaroo, you’re right! That’s an A+ for you. Now, shut up and listen.
Like I was saying before my ADHD got in the way: I’m not one for self-promotion. I prefer self-deprecation; it’s much more apropos, and it’s easier to employ when I eat my feelings. Perhaps this penchant stems from my late-bloomer status–the feeling that I was always behind the proverbial curve, that I never quite fit in. I was always the last to be picked for four square, the first to get bloodied in a “friendly” game of dodgeball. Even now when I laugh or smile, I still partially cover my mouth, as if to prevent a rogue piece of food from being launched by phantom headgear-like contraptions that haunted my adolescence. I still lisp occasionally, or stutter mildly with my Ss and Cs; still, I think two years of speech therapy in lieu of PE was the way to go. Had I tossed a ball instead of rolling my Rs, maybe I wouldn’t have had to devour Boost bars to speed the puberty fairy along. Regardless of being the boy who was never considered “relationship material” by most middle school girls, warranting a decided “No” to be circled heavy handedly on every romantic epistle passed in class, that blob of braces and low self-esteem blossomed into the awkwardly quirky late twenty-something writing this recollection and staving off sleep in the hopes that a point will come out of all of this rambling and smack you across the face.
Sure, back then I might not have been the hottest thing with my oversized glasses, generic Air Jordans, pastel Duckheads, and bright green Umbros. But I have a few more things to offer now; and I’m not talking about my ridiculous penchant for zippered shoes or amazing hair. I have pride. What, you demand, that’s it?! That’s your point? Well, sort of.
Pride is a tricky devil that informs a litany of unmentionable behaviors and takes a variety of guises. I sometimes anthropomorphize my pride as one of Dorothy’s confidants, the Cowardly Lion. From that, it might not sound as though I’d be the one you’d want by your side in a bar fight. But if Dirty Dancing taught us nothing else, it was that nobody puts Baby in a corner. When his friends are in danger, ye olde Cowardly Lion steps up the game, and Baby takes center stage. And that’s what I do. No, not dance. Pay attention! I step it up, wrench myself from my comfort zone, and make it work–defend the Scarecrow from fire, oil the Tin Man, and tell Dorothy to get a TomTom, stop and smell the poppies, and let me try on those shiny shoes. What I’m saying is that each of my friends knows that I’m in the fight to the end, and then some.
And I am. Regardless of what you and other bigots intend to enshrine with legislative zeal, I’m not budging. It took 27 years, but I’ve finally found somewhere that fits my definition of “home;” and it’s Raleigh. While you may claim to defend god-fearing married heterosexual North Carolinians from me and my deviant ways–my alleged corruptive powers of persuasion, subterfuge, and immorality–I defend the state I know North Carolina can be from you and your unconstitutional attempts to impose your archaic interpretations of history and religion onto the state’s population. I implore you to hear me: I am not going anywhere. I will continue to stare each of you hateful, ignorant people in the face and demand to know why I–a living, breathing, bleeding, tax-paying, volunteering citizen–am somehow inferior. I am not a gay man. I am a man. I am a person. And I will be treated like one.
If I can survive dental contraptions, puberty, car accidents, fire, broken bones, shouted epithets, physical confrontations, and emotional slander, I can assuredly survive whatever you and your ilk throw at me. Sure, I never made a game-winning pass in flag football. But I scored once.
And on May 8th, I plan to score again. And again. And keep pushing for more victories until we’re all united.
Even if we don’t play for the same team.
Moving Gaily Forward
A little over six years ago, I sat my parents and sister down at our large antique dining room table in an incredibly dramatic fashion and announced that I had something to tell them, something that’d been eating away at me, eroding my relationship with them. I’d informed my sister of my plans, and she stood by me stoically.
Being gay in a small Alabama town isn’t easy. It’s not easy anywhere, really. But watching others who identified as members of the LGBT community being persecuted at my high school made me close the closet door tighter, shove a chair under its knob even. But I always knew, just like you always hear. From the time I was about eight or nine years old, I knew I wasn’t like other boys. Contact sports were never my thing, but I craved the attention boys would give me, even if they were about the tackle me because I actually caught a football (this happened exactly once, and I ran to the wrong end zone). But then we got older, and any semblance of prolonged contact was automatically suspect. Either tacit or explicit, the assumption was clear: he’s a fag.
I wasn’t called a fag until high school. I even used it in my own jeers among peers. Because that’s what you do when you’re desperate to hide a part of yourself, when you see other, prouder, braver people demoralized in front of the lunchtime crowds. I became grateful that, somehow, I passed. But everyone’s time comes due. And then you become the fag people laugh at when you walk down the hall, the fag people impersonate with overly embellished, lispy inflections and limp wrists. But you deny it; it’s the only way you know how to cope.
And then you graduate, and move away from the small town to a bona fide city, still in Alabama. There, you make life-long friends during heartfelt conversations and experiences, and leave others behind in quintessentially angsty tirades. You grow a little over the years. More people come into your life: first crushes, first exes. You realize through these experiences that who you are at your core isn’t problematic or immoral; it’s just a part of you–not the whole shebang, but a crucial building-block to use as a basis for constructing your future self.
And then you prepare to tell the people who’ve been there from the beginning, and hope they accept you. Because, during the ride back to that small Alabama town, you steel your nerves for the potential fallout–what you’ll grab and leave with, how hard you’ll try not to let them see you fall apart. You stay as distant as you’ve been for the past few years during those first few days back, trying to wrap your mind around the fact that this is it: the moment of truth.
Then we all sit down. We’re all here, at the table. And I stare at my plate. I trip over my introductory blurb–memorized for months now, but as distant as Pluto. The silence becomes palpable. I glance up every now and then to make sure they’re still there, that I’m not still in my Tuscaloosa apartment talking into the dark. And then my voice cracks at the precipice of that final phrase. But I fall in, the words following me down and out.
“I’m gay.”
Silence. I look up, straight into their eyes, catch a tear or two. And I want to scream. But then, another voice breaks the silence.
“I hope you know that this doesn’t mean that we love you any less.” Mom: the champion.
Still, it takes time for it to sink in. There’re more tears and questions, and all the typical things that follow. And there’s a bit of distance. But then, gradually, there’s more acceptance and interest in my romantic life. There’s the usual prodding about “getting out there” and questions about “seeing anyone.” They express an interest in becoming more involved, educating others. They want to make a difference for others like me. They talk about opening their home in the middle of the Alabama woods to disowned, homeless, or threatened LGBT youth. They are no longer the “them” against “us.” I’m immensely proud.
And I think to myself, and say aloud, “I’m fucking lucky.” I’m out, proud, and loved.
And I love each and every one of you.
Calling All Allies: Yes, You.
I looked down at the three LGBTQ encyclopedia volumes donated to the LGBT Center of Raleigh in my name and could feel the lump form in my throat. Stoicism and I have a complicated history, and I’m usually able to buck up and tough it out. But these three shrink-wrapped books laid waste to any resolve I had not to cry. Maybe it was my vodka cran. Maybe it was the chilly weather. Maybe I was a gay, unhinged.
No; not really. What crystallized in that moment and got the waterworks going was the realization that my family had made tangible their complicity in the fight for LGBTQ equality. My family has been behind me for six years, since the moment after I sat across from them at our dining room table, summoned the courage, and squeaked out, “I’m gay.” But these books were something else. They were a call to arms.
A call to LGBTQ allies: “Y’all are up to bat!” With the passage of the anti-LGBTQ bill through the NC Senate last Tuesday, on the heels of a well-attended rally against the amendment, it’s more evident than ever that we need support, not just from renowned equality groups, but from every single friend, relative, acquaintance, and coworker. Sometimes the LGBTQ community can be overly insular, a leave-it-to-us mentality undoubtedly borne from historical precedent. Bigotry targeting LGBTQ individuals has tracked through time: From concentration camps, where pink and black triangles relegated LGBTQ individuals to some of the most intensive, tortuous work details; to the streets outside the Stonewall Inn, where emotional thresholds were reached and trampled over; to last Tuesday on Halifax Mall, where I stood with friends and supporters rallying against bigotry being ensconced in constitutional terms.
Nothing is accomplished by looking dejected and shaking your head when you hear news defaming LGBTQ individuals. To effect real, meaningful change, you have to act. Whether that means contending with a bigot bullying someone, or driving that extra mile past Chick-fil-A to eat at an establishment that doesn’t discriminate against a minority group, you have to commit wholeheartedly; there’s no room for half-assed activism. You may not think little things like that do anything. But for every persecuted person who learns they have allies in strangers, for every cent that goes into the pockets of another business that promotes equality in lieu of funding discriminatory legislation, we all become stronger. We show the bigots that we’re still here. That we’re not going anywhere. That it is they who will have to leave.
I’m not asking much–only to do your part. Everyone can. In the wake of the NC Senate’s vote, I’ve been heartened by responses from my straight friends, new and old. Some of them have had their eyes opened; some have had enough of the hateful rhetoric. One even sparred with a coworker over the issue when the subject came up in my absence. Yet some allies act as though it’s not their battle. Perhaps it’s a matter of reflexivity: they subscribe to the notion that “I’m not part of the community, so why should I care?” While you may not be, you likely know someone who identifies as a member of the LGBTQ community. You may have children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, godchildren who are questioning. Take action for them, for those who haven’t yet found their voice. And when you feel that slightest bit of hesitation to take up the activist mantle, just imagine a legislator pointing to your loved one and declaring, “You are not my equal.” Let that sink in. Think about how such hateful ignorance has reverberated through time, and what problematic practices and events have been guided by it. And imagine that being inflicted on someone whom you hold dear.
It’s not easy to be different. I can surely tell some tales. And it’s also not easy to stand with the minority. But the fact of the matter is plenty of people are doing just that, and are becoming more informed and are reaching more people. My mother is attending a conference with other parents of LGBTQ children to promote LGBTQ tolerance within the Catholic Church. One of my dearest friends told me that she plans to collaborate with other educators to initiate the formation of a Safe Space at her university. And another friend told me today that she is becoming a volunteer at the LGBT Center of Raleigh; she’s no longer content to watch the show from the sidelines–she’s had enough.
Unknowingly, each of these brave individuals may be saving the lives of those who feel as though they have nowhere to turn, who’ve become victims of silence. Silence is bigotry’s bedfellow and deafens more than a hundred Westboro bullhorns. Because in that silence, people are lost; they are forgotten; they are deemed unworthy of support. Moreover, overt, senseless violence and apathy share a disturbingly thematic thread: an inability to empathize, to realize the consequences of what you choose to do or not do. If you see or experience injustice, do something about it–devote your voice to chants of LGBTQ solidarity, informed debate, and biting wit requisite of ripostes to close encounters of the bigoted kind. Don’t back down to hate. Fear-mongers spewing hatred deserve to be called on their accusations. Because their arguments have no legislative or constitutional grounding; it’s all theological, which has no place in government.
Now, nothing I’ve written is groundbreaking, and I didn’t intend it to be. I’m not a bleeding-heart liberal; I’m a hemorrhaging liberal. Because I hope the mess will attract some attention to the scene and prompt others to ask why I’m bleeding out so forcefully. And I’ll tell them, let them chew on my message–really digest it.
And hope they’ll do something about it.
Pride
With just a few weeks until the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots–the pivotal confrontations referenced as the impetuses for the US LGBT rights movement–I’ve noticed a gradual increase in Facebook posts by LGBTQ allies and LGBTQ individuals, the messages of which are infused with support and calls for acceptance. For those posts and those allies, I am grateful.
But one thing that gives me pause, not just with these messages, but in many rally speeches and calls for equality, is the attention given to people who identify as GAY–in all caps. GAY, not LESBIAN, not BISEXUAL, not TRANSGENDER, not QUEER. But GAY.
Debates about rhetoric plague every identity group and community, and the LGBTQ community isn’t immune. “Gay” has seemingly become the semantic blanket-term for all LGBTQ people, even though it most commonly references gay men. To map “GAY” onto these various identity groups adds to the welter of misunderstanding about how LGBTQ individuals identify themselves; only LGBTQ individuals can identify themselves as such, and decide if they want to be a part of a “community”–a term which is simultaneously inclusive and exclusive, a quintessential example of the us:them binary opposition entangled in one word.
And it’s when I start to deconstruct the nitty-gritty, ask myself the hard questions, that I come to realize the great differences within the LGBTQ community: the power dynamics, the alliances, the ambiguity. All too often gay men are given more attention than lesbians, and lesbians and gay men garner much more of the public spotlight than bisexual or transgender individuals. And then there are those who prefer to identify as queer rather than gay, lesbian, transgender, or bisexual.
Perhaps this “GAY” mapping is because it is “easier” for news anchors, reporters, and even members of the LGBTQ community to “get” the relationship between two men or two women than it is to understand a woman who has partners of different sexes, or an individual born male who identifies as female, who is in-transition to becoming the woman she has always felt she has been and is in a relationship with a woman who identifies as a lesbian. Identity isn’t easy; it’s always in flux. But everyone deserves recognition. We’re all people, with the only perceived differences between us being equal parts melanin and social stigma.
So, let’s not forget the “B,” “T,” and “Q.” Because between them and the “L” and “G” is where pride thrives, bound up in the connective threads that unite us, make us a community with committed allies, and not just jumbled letters. However you identify yourself, own it.
And be proud.
Billed
I should be in bed. But then I realize that tomorrow I, along with other second-class citizens, will fight for my civil rights. So, as sleep escapes me, I visualize signs and slogans, fists raised aloft in solidarity. All for equality. All for recognition.
But there’s something else bubbling beneath my insomnia: anger. As right and just as it is to take the high ground, be mature, channel reason and optimism in lieu of cynicism and doubt, what I really want to do is scream, “Wake up, bigots! It’s 2011!” And why shouldn’t screaming work for our side? After all, the slurs, taunts, and biblical verses conservatives blast through bullhorns resound in the halls of the state capitol, contorting a very straightforward decision into a sick, religiously-tainted, “morality”-governed bout of tug-of-war. But the victors’ prize isn’t a trophy; it’s the continued subjugation of a minority, the dissolution of their basic rights and privileges–the same afforded to drunken couples in Vegas drive-thru chapels, but denied to committed partners.
A variation of love shared by the majority should not be mapped onto us all or given precedence. After all, everyone loves another in multiple, complicated ways; there is no one way to practice love, no one way to express it. Love is nebulous and messy. But we all deserve to have it recognized, not just by our friends and families, but by the legislators and other elected officials that we, their constituents, look to as arbiters of justice and equality.
Hope as currency has been financing the LGBT community for decades. Let us all fund a better tomorrow.