Pride and Prejudice

I attended the annual Pride festivities this year for the first time. When my children were younger I worried the event, and some of its sights, might be difficult to explain or even traumatizing to them. But this year one of my children expressed interest in going. After consulting a good friend who goes every year, I took them and a few of their other pre-pubescent friends.

We went in the early afternoon on the weekend and wandered down Church Street. Rainbowed stalls of crafts, information booths, music, dancing, hoola-hooping, and food vendors greeted us along our way. There was an air of jubilation: It felt celebratory, accepting, and free. You could be who you wanted to be, dress how you wanted to dress, look like a man, a woman, or neither, and love who you wanted to love – it was all good. I was surprised just how positive and loving the atmosphere was surrounding us. One of my children and her friend didn't want to leave and made me promise to bring them back the next day.

Underpinning that sense of jubilation, I realized, was the contrast that atmosphere provided with normal life. I wondered about the personal stories that could be told by those who’d come to Pride. I wondered what they had endured on their path there, and whether part of the joy and freedom I sensed was due to its absence in the possibly deep pain that preceded their self and social acceptance.

My kids were some of the only ones I saw and I wondered why there weren’t more. Maybe for the same reasons I hadn’t brought mine before. I made a mental note to let other parents know how positive the event felt with kids. And if early on children were made aware of this community, this option, this freedom and acceptance, then perhaps some could avoid the pain and loneliness others had endured. I wondered why Pride wasn’t more of an outreach event for youth, rather than mainly a survivor's party for adults.

A painful memory came back to me unexpectedly. I went to elementary through junior high school with a girl named Leslie. Leslie had relatively masculine facial and physical features, a deep voice, and was a dominant athlete on my basketball team. I remember feeling a little uncomfortable around her, but the reason for my discomfort was subconscious, not anything she had done. Others seemed to feel the same way. Leslie was lonely except for one friend. She worked the concession stand at my junior high during lunch, and one day she gave the candy away for free. She didn't announce or advertise it, she just didn't take my money for the candy bar I wanted. She told me, with her freckled smile and a loving generosity, that it was her gift to me, and she wanted me to enjoy it.

Later that night Leslie shot herself in the phone booth of Albertson’s parking lot. She’d called a few people, including her favorite teachers, to say good-bye. We all secretly knew why she did it, but no one said it out loud. Leslie was 14 years old. There weren’t "out" kids in those days (late 70s, early 80s) – especially at that tender age of developmental insecurity -- even in my liberal university town of Eugene Oregon. I don’t remember the school offering counseling or a “message” to the community about her loss. I do remember being appalled when I read Leslie’s parents quoted in the newspaper saying they “respected” her decision, and that it was her right to make that choice.

Thirty years later a lot has changed, but not nearly enough. Our return home from Church Street Pride to the Annex felt a bit like leaving a magical matinee and being hit by glaring reality. We looked and felt somewhat like aliens. Parents with strollers gave us puzzled looks as the kids with me waved their rainbow flags. Two of the kids had come back wearing pro-gay t-shirts and received open-mouthed stares at the park. The parents of one were furious when they saw it, and immediately removed and confiscated the offending (and inaccurate, the kid was told) shirt. That child, once the inseparable best friend of one of mine, has not been available to play since.

Most parents I know (granted, most are rather left of center) seem fine with the idea that other people are gay. But they are most definitely not fine with the idea that their own child (especially if male) is gay. The reaction to the t-shirt and sudden social cut-off suggests a fear that, with encouragement, the child might be converted, or turned, gay. The growing recognition that being gay isn’t a choice but how one is born also has uncomfortable implications for parents: Who contributed the “gay” gene?

Being gay as a contagious disease or as an inherited stigma aren’t promising models for prejudice reduction. The first leads to avoiding LGBTQ people (they shouldn’t be friends and they certainly should not be teachers), while the other leads to tolerating homosexuality in others but fearing it in oneself and one’s family members. Why do we need a model, or an explanation, at all? Why not embrace freedom of gender identity, expression, and love? Who cares? How can this be in any way bad, or something to fear?

As a feminist it seems pretty clear to me: We need a model to explain the unexpected -- that biological sex often does not correspond to gender performance or sexuality. If being a biological male (female) guaranteed social masculinity (femininity) and sexual attraction to women (men), there would be no LGBTQ people and nothing to explain. The fact that biological sex often does not predict these aspects of identity is why they continue to be socialized, policed, and enforced. I think ultimately homophobia stems from the fear of gender anarchy -- the fear of the dissolution of traditional gender roles and boundaries, and the male supremacy and dominance these roles and boundaries support. It makes sense that homophobia is most pronounced in those who have vested interests in these roles because they benefit from them and/or have sacrificed for them. Given how many people have such vested interests, we have a long way to go indeed.