Being Gay in 2005
Tonight, I was part of an anti-homophobia workshop for a summer program of 18-24 year-olds from around the world. Though I've done things like it before, tonight I was mostly observing. And I'm so glad I did, because it was so great to be able to see their different facial expressions: some were really into it, and excited, and others looked sort of surly, and others like they were really struggling and thinking about oppression and sexism and homophobia and it was really pretty great.
At the end of the night, we did the "privilege walk." Everyone lines up across the back of the room, and the facilitator reads statements, like "I never feel afraid to walk alone at night" or "I have never been yelled at for being in the wrong sex bathroom" or "My family accepts the partners I bring home into our family." The idea is for it to be a visual representation of the way oppression and disenfranchisement work in our society: some people end up way in the front, and others in the back, just like in real life.
It made me think about how being a lesbian has shaped, and continues to shape, my life. I am openly gay to everyone in my life, because it was the only thing that made sense for me. I spent a long time trying to be someone else, and it didn't go very well. I am politically aware and active, mostly because I am mad at the ways that I am continually discriminated against, and I hope that maybe one day, it won't be like that. I live in an area of the city that is gay-friendly. But it goes deeper than that. Sometimes, in these times in particular, it just feels so frustratingly sad to be gay.
To be sure, it's better to be gay now in the U.S. than at any other time in history. And my privilege in other ways sometimes shields me from homophobia. But I am also acutely aware of the ways that my second-class citizenship impacts not only my decisionmaking process, but also, my relationships. My brother recently brought a new girlfriend to a family gathering, and my parents fawned over her, as perhaps they should. They asked her questions, and were friendly, and generally made her feel welcome. I thought back over the last three years, and how they treated my now ex-girlfriend. And though they tried to make her feel welcome, they often failed. They didn't know how to talk about our relationship together. They didn't really ask about our relationship, except in the most cursory ways, until it was over. And now that it is over, they aren't quite sure how to act.
The result is that this impacts my relationship not only with them, but also with my brother and his new girlfriend, and with my (now ex-) girlfriend. I don't entirely, or even mostly, fault my parents for this dynamic. I expect that they will continue to learn and grow to the extent that I ask them to. But sometimes, I wish it weren't so fucking hard. And here's the thing: this experience is not unique. It's one of the hidden costs of institutional homophobia and heterosexism. It plays itself out between families and friends and co-workers and colleagues and acquaintances every day, again and again and again. And tonight, that's what makes it feel so sad.
At the end of the night, we did the "privilege walk." Everyone lines up across the back of the room, and the facilitator reads statements, like "I never feel afraid to walk alone at night" or "I have never been yelled at for being in the wrong sex bathroom" or "My family accepts the partners I bring home into our family." The idea is for it to be a visual representation of the way oppression and disenfranchisement work in our society: some people end up way in the front, and others in the back, just like in real life.
It made me think about how being a lesbian has shaped, and continues to shape, my life. I am openly gay to everyone in my life, because it was the only thing that made sense for me. I spent a long time trying to be someone else, and it didn't go very well. I am politically aware and active, mostly because I am mad at the ways that I am continually discriminated against, and I hope that maybe one day, it won't be like that. I live in an area of the city that is gay-friendly. But it goes deeper than that. Sometimes, in these times in particular, it just feels so frustratingly sad to be gay.
To be sure, it's better to be gay now in the U.S. than at any other time in history. And my privilege in other ways sometimes shields me from homophobia. But I am also acutely aware of the ways that my second-class citizenship impacts not only my decisionmaking process, but also, my relationships. My brother recently brought a new girlfriend to a family gathering, and my parents fawned over her, as perhaps they should. They asked her questions, and were friendly, and generally made her feel welcome. I thought back over the last three years, and how they treated my now ex-girlfriend. And though they tried to make her feel welcome, they often failed. They didn't know how to talk about our relationship together. They didn't really ask about our relationship, except in the most cursory ways, until it was over. And now that it is over, they aren't quite sure how to act.
The result is that this impacts my relationship not only with them, but also with my brother and his new girlfriend, and with my (now ex-) girlfriend. I don't entirely, or even mostly, fault my parents for this dynamic. I expect that they will continue to learn and grow to the extent that I ask them to. But sometimes, I wish it weren't so fucking hard. And here's the thing: this experience is not unique. It's one of the hidden costs of institutional homophobia and heterosexism. It plays itself out between families and friends and co-workers and colleagues and acquaintances every day, again and again and again. And tonight, that's what makes it feel so sad.
posted by Me at 1:21 AM
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