Tag Archives: Ally Support

June 5, 2018 · 1:59 pm

Pride Month And Ally Support

Welcome to Pride Month! 

I feel tremendous joy and gratitude about the contributions of the LGBTQ+ community to my personal world and beyond. At the same time, I’m acutely aware that we’re living in a strange and dangerous time. Too many are openly hostile toward the LGBTQ+ community — a hostility sanctioned, endorsed and perpetuated by our country’s previous administration. As Pride Month begins, I’m thinking about the meaning of being a straight, cisgender ally as my country takes its early steps to emerge from the Trump era.  

Entering LGBTQ+ Pride Month, I pledge to treat every month as Pride Month.

While resistance against bigotry is vital, I fully celebrate Pride Month, because the heart and soul of Pride have nothing to do with Donald Trump, Mike Pence, or any of their followers. 

As I celebrate, I’ll respect that Pride Month is not about me or for me. It’s my moment to support others, and their moment to shine.

I offer equal support to those who are completely out, partially out and not out. For those who don’t feel safe coming out, please know that even if we’ve never met, I’m a part of your safe zone of acceptance.

If I see anyone being bullied, I’ll step in. If I’m afraid, I’ll still step in.

I’ll honor the people whose lives have been stolen, with the black trans population at particularly high risk.

I’ll continue to write my resistance against the policies that target people for being themselves, the values that threaten the rights that should be inalienable.

I’ll welcome people who want to become allies, but don’t know how. If you have questions or concerns, feel free to reach out. There’s a place for you.

I’ll remain open to learning. Through the past few years, I’ve become comfortable with the singular pronoun “they.” I’ve expanded my definition of “gender identity” to be much more inclusive. I’ve let go of what I now consider a rigid definition of a “female body” or a “male body.” A body is a body, and how each person defines his/her/their relationship to that body is highly individualized. I no longer view “male anatomy” as strictly male, or “female anatomy” as strictly female. The person owns the body and defines the body, including the gender of the body. I’ve learned to make no assumptions about gender identity based on appearance; I offer my own pronouns, ask for people’s pronouns, and accept without judgment. I’m ready to learn more, and I’m grateful to everyone who has helped me along the way.

If I make a mistake, I’ll apologize. I’ll try to do better. 

I’ll ask questions, starting now: Anyone of any gender and any sexuality — do you want to add something that I’ve missed? Feel free to comment.

Finally — to everyone on the LGBTQ+ spectrum, I see you and accept you. You enrich our world every day. And to my LGBTQ+ friends — I can’t imagine my life without you. 

Happy Pride Month! 

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September 26, 2016 · 2:09 pm

GLSEN Ally Week — Let’s Open The Conversation

At a dinner party, an elderly woman found her path to becoming an LGBTQ ally.

I was seated next to “Erica” – 91-years-old, college educated, Catholic, a “homemaker,” 3 grown children, 5 grandchildren. She asked about my work, and I told her I was an author. She wanted to know what inspired me to write my first novel. I explained that when I was 15 years old, I was extremely upset seeing gay students bullied in my high school. Decades ago, in 10th grade, I knew I’d write about it some day. Erica looked down at her plate, then met my eyes and spoke quietly.

“I’m not comfortable with gay people.”

We had barely sampled our appetizers, and I wondered how in the name of Harvey Milk I was going to get through this meal. But there was something in the way Erica looked at me that made me think twice. She was trying to open a conversation, not close one. So I asked what made her uncomfortable about gay people.

“It’s just,” Erica shifted, painfully embarrassed, “whenever I find out someone is gay, I can’t stop thinking about them having sex, and it makes me kind of sick. Then I don’t want to be around them.”

Erica looked at me expectantly. Was she waiting for me to to agree that gay sex is “kind of sick”? Was I supposed to reassure her that it was okay that she was a bigot? She was 91, and cultural mores would demand that I respond politely, accept her as set in her ways. But apparently I’m not very good at politely accepting homophobia.

“Seems to me, if you can’t look at a gay couple without imagining them in bed, having sex — I can see why that would make you uncomfortable. I mean, if I looked at you and ‘Cameron’ (her 92-year-old husband sitting across the table), and all I could think of was the two of you naked, rocking it out in the sack, then I don’t think I’d want to be around you either.”

Erica stared. I felt myself turning icy, harnessing my anger, ready to turn my back on her for the rest of the evening. Then her lips twitched, and she began to laugh. I don’t know which one of us was more surprised.

A productive series of communications followed over the next several weeks. She asked me to recommend one of my blog posts, to help her “understand being gay.” She read it, and asked for more. Several posts later, she emailed: “I think I get it. It’s not just about being gay. It’s about the whole person.”

A few months later, we ran into each other. Erica told me about meeting a gay couple at a fundraiser for a museum. She started to imagine them in bed, then caught herself. Instead, she asked what they did for a living. It turned out one was in the same field as Cameron (biology professor), and the other had completed a doctoral dissertation on Erica’s favorite author. By the time the evening ended, she had stopped thinking of them as gay and just enjoyed their company.

When many people hear gay, they’re bombarded by sexual images, obliterating the whole person standing in front of them. Many have no interest in challenging themselves to evolve into a new way of thinking. But Erica did. Even though she was embarrassed, she admitted her own homophobia. Next, she allowed the two of us to open the conversation. Then she followed through, asking for more information, trying to learn. Finally, she pushed herself to interact differently with a gay couple, who validated her new perspective.

Many people are unwilling to give up their stereotypes – but not all. Erica now calls herself an LGBTQ Ally. Sure, for every productive conversation there are many that send me into a fury. I still haven’t figured out how to handle my anger when people cling to their view of LGBTQ as a perversion, their aggressive allegiance to ignorance, their primitive urge to target someone simply for being LGBTQ. But Erica reminded me to give people a chance. If someone is ready to rethink homophobia, then I’m ready to offer support.

Let’s open the conversation.

*All names and identifying information in this post have been changed.

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June 1, 2015 · 10:43 am

I Wish He Had Told Me

Greg was the boy I’d been waiting to find – bright, funny, and he didn’t think I was weird because I read a ton and liked Latin. He had thick, black curls and best of all, a hint of facial hair. We were both sixteen.

We sat in my family’s living room, sipping Ginger Ale, and I told him about my public high school with over forty native languages. He told me about his Catholic school, affiliated with his church. I told him how upset I was by the violence targeting gay boys. He said his school had no gay students. I stated that was impossible, that maybe the environment didn’t allow students to feel okay coming out. He looked down, then faced me and said quietly, “It would be okay with me”.

I talked about growing up in the film industry with a screenwriter dad – how my parents’ actor friends, haute couture mavens, were alarmed because I refused to wear make-up. He talked about his family, observant in a way I’d never experienced — with his grandfather jetting around the world, helping priests interpret tricky passages of the Bible. He grinned, describing his parents’ horror when he snuck into a community theatre audition and scored the lead in Hair — which included several references to sex and singing the word “ass”.

I wondered if I had found my first boyfriend. I was such a good girl – excellent grades, never smoked pot, always polite. I would have loved to date a guy who belted out “ASS” for a packed auditorium, and still thought it was cool that I took Latin. He confessed that our friendship would be seen as a form of “rebellion”. I smiled, liking the idea of being his rebellion.

But even as we connected, I could sense that Greg held back. We said goodnight, and as I prepared to experience my first “real” kiss, he put out his hand to shake. I closed the door and 15 seconds later, he knocked. He kissed me, and asked if he could take me to dinner the following night.

The next day, he called to say he “had to tell me something” when we met that evening, but he didn’t want to say it over the phone. An hour later, he called to cancel. I never saw him again.

Years later, I learned Greg was gay. I’ll never know for sure what the “something” was he wanted to tell me, but I can guess. Growing up in his home, at his school, coming out was not a safe option. The irony is that if he had visited my home that night, he would have met my parents’ two dinner guests: a gay couple.

When I became pregnant with my first child, my thoughts turned to Greg. I promised myself that my husband and I would build a home where our children and their friends could be their full selves. The first time a boy from their high school came out to me, I felt honored by his trust. Recently, a high school senior, questioning her sexuality, called my home “safe”, and I found myself thinking of Greg again. I wish I could thank him for his guidance, helping me create a home of acceptance. I wonder if he found a safe person as a teen, or if he had to carry an important part of himself as a secret. I hope he found someone he could trust. I gladly would have given up being his girlfriend, in exchange for being his someone.

I wish he had told me.

All names and identifying information in this piece have been changed.

 

 

 

 

 

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April 2, 2015 · 12:03 am

Huge Mistake

The “Religious Freedom Restoration Act” was signed by Governor Mike Pence. If you’re behind the counter at a coffee shop in Indiana, you can refuse to sell a double macchiato and a cup of decaf to two men, because…well, just because. Two women who were looking forward to sitting at the corner table, reading the New York Times with a latte and a croissant…well, they can take their New York Times elsewhere.

I hope that at some point, Governor Pence will realize that he has made a mistake. A huge mistake. I hope that over time, he’ll think back to the day he put his signature on that paper, and feel painfully embarrassed. Sadly, I doubt it.

The title of this bill bothers me. Including the word “religious” is an insult to any belief system promoting values of decency. I live in The South, with the majority worshipping some form of Christianity. I’m Jewish. Whether you believe Jesus was a man or a God, he was a good guy, with exemplary values of acceptance, decent to the bone. To attach the word “religious” to this bill is blatantly disrespectful to the teachings of Jesus.

As for “freedom,” I just don’t get it. I’m reading through the lines, between the lines, above and below the lines. I’m searching for “freedom,” even a hint. I’m certain that over time, this bill will be viewed with the same contempt as the efforts to fight Women Suffragists. Mike Pence will be grouped with the people who tripped and shoved the women marching for the right to vote. The governor of Indiana and his bill are nowhere close to “freedom.”

And “restoration” – often that word has a positive connotation, like preserving historical artifacts. But in this case, the word just means that Governor Pence and his followers are moving backwards.

Yes, I’m angry. But I’m also hopeful and determined. When I was in high school, my U.S. History class studied Magellan and Columbus. The unit was called “Great Explorers”; now, my children study those same men in a unit called “Pirates.” I learned nothing in school about Lucy Stone or Julia Ward Howe (women suffragists), but my children know their names well. My children and I studied the Civil Rights Movement, although I hope my children’s children will never see the Confederate Flags that still fly in The South.

Progressive change is inevitable, as are those who fight for oppression in the name of “religious freedom.” But as I said, for every pound of anger I carry, I hold equal amounts of hope and determination. I believe that if my children have children, when they study U.S. history, there will be a section on the Gay Rights Movement. The unit will include the Stonewall Riots and Gavin Newsom, mayor of San Francisco who legalized Same Sex Marriage in 2004. Teachers will guide their students to understand the roles of Harvey Milk and Larry Kramer, speaking their names with the same respect as Frederick Douglass and Harriet Beecher Stowe. Every step toward LGBTQ+ rights will be taught as progress toward “freedom.”

We’ll get there.

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May 15, 2014 · 12:56 pm

All Love Is Created Equal

I was raised in a home with straight parents, whose friends were bi, straight, lesbian, gay and one trans couple. All were in committed relationships. Most stayed together for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until parted by death.

These couples shared homes, triumphs and failures. They celebrated holidays and birthdays. They went out to dinner, to concerts, to sports events. Sometimes they chose a quiet evening at home, reading by firelight. They formed a group of friends who often gathered in my parents’ home. During good times, they relaxed and celebrated. During tough times, they united in support.

One couple gardened. Another lived at the beach and collected sea glass. A third loved antiques. Can you guess which was the gay couple? The lesbian couple? The straight couple? Does it matter?

I was 8 years old when I discovered that I was supposed to view LGBTQ+ folks and LGBTQ+ love as damaged. I remember saying to my parents, over and over, “It doesn’t make sense.” They agreed. They tried to explain ignorance and bigotry, but I became more confused.

To sort it out, I began an observational research study. For two weeks, I watched my parents’ friends — how they behaved, how they spoke, how they interacted. I asked questions: What’s your favorite color? Favorite ice cream? Favorite song? Favorite pizza? I entered my data in a yellow binder with silver glitter, using a color coded system and a new box of crayons. I pored over my results. After several days, I arrived at my conclusion: I couldn’t find one single significant difference between LGBTQ+ love and straight love.

As an adult, my perspective on many aspects of relationships has changed. I now understand that long-lasting love takes work. I now understand the extremely private, powerfully passionate piece that renews the bond again and again. I now understand that each love is a unique, complex, multi-dimensional tapestry. But the view that LGBTQ+ love is fundamentally different from straight love, that it’s somehow lesser, that it’s a distortion of “real” love – that made no sense to me as a kid, and it still doesn’t.

Back then at age 8 and today at age 59, my conclusion remains the same.

All love is created equal.

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December 14, 2013 · 7:43 pm

Everyone Can Be An Ally

I was born in 1958, to heterosexual parents.  I grew up in a home where gay and straight folks sat side by side at dinner parties.  Friendships formed around personal and intellectual connections.

I never gave it a thought, until third grade.

In a kickball game, a girl I’ll call “Susannah” crushed the ball and drove in three runs.  “Cory,” admired even by the fifth graders for his spectacular use of profanity, shouted a new insult.  I asked my mother what it meant; “It’s a rude, ignorant word for a gay man.”  I looked up, puzzled; “What’s gay?”  My parents never categorized people by sexuality, but that day, my vocabulary expanded to include “gay,” “straight,” “lesbian,” “homosexual” and “heterosexual.”

High school was an eye-opener.  The atmosphere radiated an edgy tension, with gang violence always ready to erupt.  The gay students were targeted continuously.  One day, a girl nudged me as a tall, thin boy walked by, frothy blond hair down his back.  “The jocks beat him up last week,” she whispered.  “He was in the hospital for three days.”  She skipped off to class.  A month later, she again took my elbow.  “Remember the blond guy?  I heard he died.  Beaten to death.  The jocks.”  She smiled sweetly, and shrugged.  “Who cares, one less—“ and she used the word I learned in third grade.

I cried that night.  I had no words to explain my tears for a boy I never knew, the possible victim of a piece of gossip that might not be true.  I promised myself that some day, I would write a book about that boy.  I would not allow my readers to be indifferent.  I would name the book after my high school, and its motto.

Years later, my husband and I were raising our children in Mill Valley, California, across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco, and I began to write.  I created gay and lesbian characters.  I surrounded them with supporters who rallied for them, shoulder to shoulder, triumphing over a judgmental world.

I completed the final edits in 2008, and prepared to publish.

A few months later, I voted on the losing side of Prop 8, which banned same-sex marriage. My reaction to the election was odd: I stopped publication of my book.  Something was wrong, and I was still figuring it out when my family moved to Chapel Hill, North Carolina.  I was pleased to live in a beautiful area, with such respect for education.  Then with a nauseating sense of déjà vu, I found myself voting on the losing side of Amendment 1, which prohibited gay marriages and civil unions.

The next morning, I knew how to fix my novel.  I had portrayed the road to full acceptance for the LGBTQ+ characters as much too smooth.  I rewrote the story, rebuilt the road, offered avenues for people of differing mindsets to become Allies.  As I promised myself back in 1973, I wrote about that blond boy, whose name I never knew.  I called my novel, Hollywood High: Achieve The Honorable.

I hope my book will be read by people who feel ready to question their own beliefs, who want to become more accepting but don’t know how.  There’s a path for everyone to become an ally.  All you have to do is take the first step.

You’ll find me waiting for you.

“Everyone Can Be An Ally” was first published in September, 2013, by the Chapel Hill News.

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December 14, 2013 · 6:59 pm

A Real Couple

In 2004, Gavin Newsom (San Francisco’s Mayor) became a soldier for marriage equality.  For a brief window of time, before lesbian and gay marriages were temporarily shut down, same-sex couples obtained licenses and exchanged vows throughout California.  My husband and I were living in Mill Valley, across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco, and we attended two weddings during that pivotal period.

Hillary and Kathy walked down the aisle wearing classic black suits. My husband sang an a cappella Hebrew prayer. The wedding took place before fifty people, in a restaurant, with many guests participating in the ceremony.  I was honored to officiate, standing under a huppa (a hand-stitched canopy).  Hillary stomped on a glass, and Mazel Tov filled the room. People heaped their plates from the buffet, and mingled on the deck.

A few weeks later, Trixie dressed in a traditional wedding gown; her bride, Carla, wore a tux. They were married by a judge, in City Hall, with a sit-down dinner for 200 guests.  They walked down the aisle to The Crystals, “Going To The Chapel.” Carla led Trixie through the first dance, replete with twirls and dips.  They invited “anyone who is married, who couldn’t marry before” to join them. Five couples walked onto the dance floor, two gay, three lesbian. Nobody dancing, not a single person, grew up expecting to marry.  Not one of them took this moment for granted.  The quality of joy was elemental.

At a certain point, both couples toasted their guests.  Curiously, these women, so different in style, chose the exact same words.  “We want to thank all of you for always treating us like a real couple.”

As a straight woman, I never experienced the casual chipping away at the spirit, being treated as less than a full person, less that a real couple.  Now, two couples, four fine people, stood empowered before their loved ones, celebrating their unions, finally recognized as real.

Today, nearly two decades later, both of these couples remain together and strong. I carry their weddings within me, the validation they experienced, the empowerment. They were a part of history, today’s yesterday, two real couples paving the way for a better tomorrow.

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