Here, queer, etc.
The other night I watched Luca, the story of a young sea creature who dreamed of the world outside of his ocean – a world to experience and one to feel free in. He meets another sea creature named Alberto and the two of them start to live a new life with humans in a small coastal Italian town. Without even the friendship and relationship between Luca and Alberto, you can read this as a queer story. A colorful being who’s deemed a monster by those who aren’t like him must blend in and change himself to survive in the dominant society. Even the ocean itself, where Luca lives, can been seen as a metaphor for the collective unconscious as the things we try to hide about ourselves we keep deeper inside.
As Pride month comes to a close, I have been thinking a lot about what it means to be proud and queer in a society that still doesn’t fully accept it. The first Pride celebration I’d ever been to was years ago, I believe my second summer back in America. I was coming into the city from Connecticut to get brunch with friends and I wondered why everyone on the train had been wearing rainbow clothing. I was also reading Giovanni’s Room at the time, so they probably were like, this pretentious guy is coming in for Pride too. When I finally arrived in the city, I realized that it was the weekend of the parade and ended up walking a few blocks by it to get to our brunch spot. At the time, I was uncomfortable really expressing my identity in a meaningful way – although I had been out and dated and felt my identity within myself, being back in the town where I was so deeply closeted pushed me back in the closet as a result. I fell into old feelings and old emotions and saw myself again as that young, confused 16 year old.
When people (mostly straight) think about coming out, it always sounds like this one and done kinda thing. One day you let it out, and instantly, you’re supposed to become fully yourself. But the reality is, you come out every single day in new situations and with new people. You have to constantly renegotiate your identity. Some days I don’t feel like coming out knowing it’d be easier to just “pass” and carry on with my life. In my old barbershop in Philly, I never once came out to my barber. Whenever we chatted, he’d ask me about girls and I’d make up some lie. I never told him the truth. I worried how he’d respond even though he never blatantly said anything homophobic in our interactions and his barbershop was on the edge of the Gayborhood. You never know. I just wanted to get my haircut and to go home. Now at least, in Brooklyn, I’m lucky to have a queer-owned barbershop a few blocks down from me where I can talk openly about men, dates, and anything queer that I want.
Even when I first moved to Philly, I was hesitant to express my identity. I was in a new city where I didn’t know anyone, new to graduate school, and new to living on my own in America. I knew that there were queer spaces I could go to in Philadelphia like the Gayborhood or the LGBTQ Center on campus. However, I was afraid to go – I still felt some residual shame from living at home for a year. Here and there I’d come out to people. I met and befriended other gay people. But, nothing really pushed me out to be myself again until my therapist at the time had me complete a series of exercises. First, she had me walk around the Gayborhood so I’d feel more comfortable going. She then suggested heading to Giovanni’s Room, a queer bookstore, and find something that I’d enjoy reading. From there on, I started reading more and more queer literature, started watching queer movies I lovingly called my “Sad Gay Boy Movies,” and started watching shows like RuPaul’s Drag Race. For me, the representation really mattered. I read and I watched and I submerged myself within all this queer media to feel less alone. And it worked.
One of her last exercises for me was to try and mentor LGBTQ youth. I had been in graduate school for education, so it was a fitting request. I told her I wasn’t ready, that I didn’t know enough about being gay to help anyone else. She said that if you think that way you’ll never be ready. Luckily, the literal next day, I received a newsletter from the LGBTQ Center and saw an ad for a part-time job mentoring queer youth as part of a research project. I applied. Interviewed. I started working there a few weeks later. There, I was able to work alongside other queer people in an almost entirely queer office. Over the course of the next few weeks, I got close to my coworkers – the nature of the work lended itself to telling each other about ourselves, about our struggles, and traumas, and joys, and happiness. We went out in the Gayborhood frequently, looking like an absolutely powerful squad. For the first time in my life, I really felt part of a queer community, a part of something greater and one that really understood me.
In the queer community, we talk a lot about our Chosen Families. A Chosen Family is a group of friends and loved ones that act like a support system in a way that a family typically does. When I talk about my Chosen Family, I usually refer to my own network of close queer friends. While I still have the support of my biological family and my non-queer friends, there’s a difference and a nuance to all my queer friendships that makes them special and unique. They feel like deeper friendships. I can feel them in my heart. I feel more understood when I’m with them. There are few things I have to explain. There’s this hidden language between us all.
At times, my straight friendships can fall short. This is not to say that queer people and straight people can’t be friends or can’t understand each other. But, there are times when I’m with straight friends and a topic will come up or some sort of conversation about gay people happens that ends up being a microaggression. I try to give people the benefit of the doubt, that maybe they meant well but just fully crashed the landing. I try to understand that everyone’s on their own journey of understanding and learning. But, man, nothing hits you harder than hearing some stereotype or vaguely homophobic comment from someone you thought you could trust and thought understands you. I sometimes wonder if maybe I’m just more sensitive to it growing up as a queer person and being so vigilant about how I’m perceived or what I’m talking about or how I’m presenting myself as to not intentionally out myself, but I also think that there should just be much more self-awareness out there in general.
One question I was asked recently was: How do I become a better ally? Which, I think the answer will depend on who you ask. For me, I think it’s rather simple. Support people. Listen. Never assume. And, just love people unconditionally. Queer experiences are not all the same. We’re not a monolith. It’s our diversity that gives us depth. Having gay friends won’t make you an expert and neither will consuming gay media. We aren’t stereotypes or caricatures or here to be entertainment and play things for dominant society. We’re real people with real lived experiences.
In an interview with Bryan Washington for A24 Films, writer Ocean Vuong talks about his queerness and states:
Queerness in a way saved my life…Often we see queerness as a deprivation, but when I look at my life, I saw that queerness demanded an alternative innovation from me, I had to make alternative routes. It made me curious, it made me ask this is not enough for me because there's nothing here for me.
Realizing and acting on my queerness gave my life so much more depth and vibrancy than being in the closet ever did. Being queer allows you the room to question what works for you and what doesn’t. It allows you to see alternatives and new ways of living that break away from conventions. I love being gay. I sometimes say this jokingly but in all seriousness I wouldn’t trade it for anything else. I love gay culture. I love my gay friends. I love so much about being gay. I wish I had the capacity to have come out and live my life fully much sooner. I don’t think of my years in the closet as a waste. I think of them as a safety net against a society that wouldn’t allow me to truly express myself. I’m thankful for the loving friendships I’ve had in my life that elevated what meaningful relationships could look like. I’m thankful for the chance to live in cities that have large and supportive gay communities. I’m thankful that I’m still here and still alive and able to truly be myself.
Happy Pride!