Do you ever find yourself wanting to reveal only what is “normal” about you? I know I do. But sometimes secrecy conflicts with my activist impulses.
It is easier for me to advocate when society has given me the traditional position of power. Take migrant rights. I have been exposed to the international community my whole life—the fight for equity regardless of nationality or race is the social struggle closest to my heart. As a white U.S. native, I already have an “in” with the power keepers. By supporting the rights of non-citizens, I may add legitimacy to their cause or one more point of access to the current power structure.
But there are identities that I don’t often broadcast. My identity as a queer man is one I seldom share beyond my family and circle of friends. Personal matters like sexuality and political opinion often need the framework of a relationship to avoid forming a simplified stereotype. People are complex and can’t be summed up in a bumper sticker slogan.
It takes a great deal of courage to publicize unpopular identities. Undocumented migrants risk legal repercussions and negative social stigmas by “revealing” their identity. Similarly, social stigmas create immense anxiety for many young queer girls and boys in the United States.
Perhaps it’s because I don’t want to be backed into a closet of who and what I am…
Perhaps it’s that I think people should get to know me as a person before they know matters of my private life…
Perhaps I fear the potential repercussions as I work internationally or aspire to gain respect as a professional voice of wisdom within the United States…
Perhaps it’s because I invest more in my work and friendships than romantic relationships…
Perhaps I resent how some particularly flamboyant queers seem disingenuous to me…
Or perhaps it’s because when I am called “faggot” or “fruit loop,” even by middle school kids, I don’t know how to respond constructively…
Whatever the explanation, I hesitate even to post this blog because I don’t know what consequences may result.
In many respects my beliefs have traditionally aligned with the Mattachine Society—a group of LGBT people who came together in 1950 in response to the firing of thousands of government and military personnel, the APA’s listing of homosexuality as a sociopathic personality disturbance, and the FBI’s tracking of “sexual deviants,” their friends and favored establishments. The Mattachine Society’s goal was to learn collaboratively, advocate, and promote homosexuals as no different than heterosexuals.
But this past weekend at the Pride March in New York City, something shifted. At the site of the Stonewall raids, I realized I knew very little of the history of the gay rights struggle. In conversation with friends and following an encounter with a man touting the Bible at us “sodomites,” I found myself defending the church as more than an oppressive epicenter of hatred. After the fifth float playing Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” passed, I wondered why we must still justify—even to ourselves—that we were made exactly as God intended us to be. Watching Governor Cuomo followed by a throng of recently married couples, I was struck by our government’s ability to condone or bless the private life of two committed lovers. Throughout the March I saw community support and sheer joy.
Pride is one day in the year when queers can let it all hang out. 364 days we feel compelled to follow hetero-normative standards of conduct and self-expression. At Pride we say that, despite past and continued government-sponsored marginalization of sexual minorities, we are not going away. As with the first trembling of resistance at Stonewall, queers refuse to be pacified. My initial reaction to events like Pride is similar to Randy Wicker’s thoughts about the Stonewall riots, “screaming queens forming chorus lines and kicking went against everything that I wanted people to think about homosexuals … that we were a bunch of drag queens in the Village acting disorderly and tacky and cheap.” As a man who marched in the first gay picket lines before the White House in 1965, Randy valued conventionally speaking out. But we need to have the” radicals” parading in little more than heels. If I do not stand behind those individuals who are willing to boldly act out, the queer movement is only a bunch of extreme voices speaking in isolation. There is no movement. The movement needs both the modest members and the flamin’ fairies.
Despite my aversion, part of the reason I am sharing this post is to learn to walk courageously. My sexuality is a personal matter but it is not something of which to be ashamed. Unafraid to walk in my skin, I set an example for other queers who may be struggling with their own identity. My openness normalizes our orientation.
One of the most wonderful things for me about Pride is that it cuts across all sectors of society. Queer identity touches every race, age, culture, economic class, and level of modesty. It’s beautiful, really. In the New York parade there are “Dykes on Bikes,” queer athletes, musicians, foster parents, lawyers, church-goers, policewomen and firemen. We are vastly different people—we come together to acknowledge a common identity.
I desire for heterosexuals and churches to take as much ownership in the queer rights movement as I take in the struggle for migrant rights. It was an act love when, in 2009, the ELCA affirmed the right of partnered LGBT persons to be ministers. I think there are further steps we in the ELCA can take; but this is the right trajectory. Ultimately we are talking about human rights. Pride is not a show of hubris. We are not arrogantly gloating. We only demand recognition of our humanity. A church proclaiming the humanity of all God’s creatures is powerful. It is personally affirmative and globally transformative to say we are all cast from the same clay. Because I believe that God did not screw up when he made me, I am proud to embrace my queer identity. Baby, I was born this way!
