Freedom to Marry Week Conversations

I signed up for this.

I didn't have to have a voice in the gay rights movement. I didn't for a long time. I sat quietly in my elementary, junior high, and high school classes and tried to ignore the nasty things said about people like my parents. I didn't call my friends out when they said "faggot" or "homo", "queer" or "dyke" - I might have even used the words myself. I even dated a boy who was admittedly against gay rights and was vocal about it too. I have a video of him from my 15th birthday and he's shouting into the camera, "Yes on 9! Yes, yes, yes!" which was the anti-gay legislation that Oregon voters had before them that year. I also briefly dated a boy who put his finger in my face in the dark back room of a party where we were supposed to be making out and said, with regard to his anti-gay rights thinking, that I would think like he did, or else...

I left the room that night, but I didn't leave the silence of the closet. My parents, by then, were separated; divorced if you will. Ellen came out, Matthew Shepard was beaten and killed, Teena Brandon was shot, and I didn't so much as blink a few times at the TV. I was straight, my biological mother was dating a man, and my other mother's mental health was in decline so my contact with her was sparse. My only impulse in my early twenties was to get drunk, get high, fill my bed with strangers and keep a full-time job so I could keep the lifestyle I had. I wasn't interested speaking out about my parents or my experiences. There was a complete disconnect between our lives, my life, and the lives of other LGBTQ people. All that mattered was me.
I'd like to blame that on age, but I also think that while I recognized that we were, that I was, surrounded by the gay community, I also felt like we were in our own bubble. Only when the political discourse became so inflamed did I recognize that my family, my experience, was not an island. Only then did I recognize that I was floating in the sea amidst thousands of people, millions of people, who had my family, my community, on their mind.

This became especially apparent when I started working for the Women's Resource Center at my community college, and most of the women who sat on the student leadership board with me were queer or lesbian or bi-identified. It was that year that I realized I too did not fit into the heterosexual box. I was scrambling to figure out how to date a woman and be from a lesbian headed household. I was trying to figure out how to be an activist, to be vocal about my experiences growing up amidst political turmoil. I wanted a voice in the movement. I'd been silent too long.

My first speaking engagement was terrible. In the college cafeteria during LGBTQ history month I said some sing-songy rhyme that tokenized just about every queer identified person in the room. I said, "Everybody should befriend a gay or lesbian." Ugh. Embarrassing. Thank goodness my friends were kind enough to just make fun of me for years afterward. But then, in 2005, I was invited to speak at Portland City Hall for Freedom to Marry week. I was nervous. I wrote out my entire speech. I read it verbatim stumbling over my words, poor spelling, and bad punctuation. Consequently, a lesbian columnist for About.com published this terribly written speech on the Internet. I had no idea how to write, or how to be a public speaker. I was just starting.

Six years later, I've spoken at conferences, in classrooms, in public arenas, on panels. My list of speaking engagements is longer than my publications. But those opportunities to speak are often opportunities to speak to the choir. It's the more personal exchanges that end up being more powerful, more stirring, more memorable, and sometimes more frightening.

Today, a colleague told me that fear is what the dominant culture wants me to feel, and that I should not feel fear; to overcome that impulse is success. While I appreciate that offering, it's also not so easy to just overcome fear and say to myself, "Nothing to fear." It's not easy to have conversations, whether civilized or not, and leave them as just conversations. I carry them with me for days. I remember what was said to me. I ask myself what I could have done differently. I think about how when something happens in the gay community, when there is news about the gay rights movement in the minds of the broader community, how the language (both positive and negative) seeps into the psyches of everyone. And it seems, when the rhetoric is most prevalent, that is when I get to have more one on one exchanges.

These are people that come to me. I don't often say, "Hey, let's talk about gay rights!" Most of these exchanges are with complete strangers. The young girl who sat next to me at a Rev. Jesse Jackson lecture on Monday night and said, "I grew up in a small town. I'm really uncomfortable around diversity" and so we talked about that experience, how she might confront that. She made me nervous what with how bold she was to just tell me about her prejudices. But it was a calm conversation, one that was difficult to have with all of the stereotypes and assumptions that she was putting on black people, people of color, gays, and Indians. Still, I stayed present for the conversation. I said "Bye" to her when she left. Then yesterday, on campus in front of a map of the states that showed where gay marriage, civil unions, and domestic partnerships existed and didn't, a man is ranting about how it shouldn't say "anti-gay legislation" because that would imply that the states are against gays, not against marriage. For a while we have civilized conversation, mostly because there is a third woman nearby who is keeping the tenor of the conversation balanced. Then he says something about how unlikely children of gay people are to be normal, not gay, successful. I tap him on the shoulder and say, "Pst. My parents are gay." I tape up a statement of support on the poster, one that says my full name, gives some of my story, when another man walks up and starts reading it while I return to the conversation. We start to argue about rights LGBTQ people don't have because they don't have access to marriage. I mention that partners and their families are sometimes kept from their partners in medical settings during emergencies, and that some people have died without their partners and children being told.

He says, "There is not one documented case of that happening" and I fucking lost it.

"Are you fucking kidding me!?" I squealed, and told him I'd bring him 15 documented cases if he wanted, and while I was yelling I told him about me and Brandy's motorcycle accident and how we were separated in the hospital and I was refused access to the Emergency room even though I could clearly hear her yelling that she wanted me there from behind the locked doors.

On the peripheral, a woman is walking in circles and fiddling with her cell phone, listening to us yell at one another. The other two people are telling us to calm down. She walks up to me and touches my hand, asks me if Brandy is ok.

I tell her yes and she tells me, "It's okay to walk away..."

It takes me a moment to realize where I am. There is no one in that space but me, him, and her, though I know there were others around, as the Commons are a main building on campus and student traffic is heavy. I thank her. I have no idea what my face might have been saying that told her she needed to remind me of other options. I turned away from him, from her, and walked out of the building. But on that wall in the Commons is my full name and my story. I walked away and kept looking over my shoulder. I thought about it as I sat at home that night. Where might a stranger find my personal information. Might I be harmed?

And then, this morning, a stranger messages me through Facebook. Says, "I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but I just read your article, "Growing Up with Lesbian Moms" and I wanted to know if I could ask you a few questions. I'm 26 and considering having children."

I reply, "Shoot from the hip."

I signed up for this.

Though I am tired of being self-deprecating, I'm tired of having civil discourse, I'm tired of being careful with my words and trying to convince people of how necessary it is that me and my community have access to and the privileges that hetero folk do. There are no excuses for the oppression, for the fear that me and others experience when we feel compelled to be vocal, or even when we cannot bear being civilized in our approaches to blatant bigotry. I'm fucking tired of being nice because for so long I've taken the offensive remarks, I've been careful with my words, I'm been a diligent and calm protestor. I don't want to write a nice memoir that doesn't point fingers, I don't want to be balanced in my approach to what has happened and what is happening. I want to pen a fucking diatribe, revenge prose, an angry essay that is unforgiving and vindictive.

I'm tired of being marginalized and oppressed.I'm tired of being unequal and treated unfairly. And I wish I wasn't so damn angry and scared.

When I return to my Facebook page today, a friend has posted the following quote: "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter. "-Martin Luther King, Jr. It gives me pause, a moment to sigh. Even though it feels like I might be dying because of all the energy that I am sapped of when I am asked to speak about this issues, maybe it's true that the only time I am actually decomposing is when I am not speaking out...

A nod to you, Dr. King.