I host a weekly radio show called Affirmative Reaction on SiriusXM, and after almost every episode, my baby boomer mother will message me to tell me about something new she’s learned from my guests, most of whom identify as queer. I definitely received that note after welcoming a trans young adult bouncing between homeless shelters during Pride Month and, separately, a non-binary ex-nun comedian in September. It’d be hard to say that my mom has encountered many people who identify similarly in our small hometown along the US-Mexico border. But that has never stopped her from keeping an open mind during my show.
My family has come a long way since I first came out to them as gay in 2010. What started off as an introduction to basic ideas about queerness almost ten years ago quickly became an advanced tutorial in LGBTQ+ wokeness (“yes, we’ve reclaimed the word ‘queer,’ and I like using it for myself”).
Much of this education has happened because of my program, which I designed last spring as an opportunity to regularly expose my audience to a myriad of diverse topics, namely LGBTQ+ issues. For instance, I was talking about self-realization and self-acceptance in the age of Trump earlier this month with a Jewish lesbian comedian and Black gay therapist when we heard from two curious callers. Once on the air, both were quick to note that they were progressive LGBTQ+ advocates who actively supported the community’s causes. But they each carried a concern: they were afraid of coming across as bigots because of a few questions that they assumed my guests and I would consider “beneath us” to answer, as out and proud individuals who seemingly already “knew this stuff.”
The first caller, from Indiana, simply wanted to know what it meant to be gender non-binary and how that differed from one's gender identity. The second, a woman from Florida, was a bit confused about the difference between body dysmorphia and being transgender. The three of us did our best to answer their inquiries with compassion while also assuring them that we weren’t upset or offended. If anything, we appreciated that two cisgender, straight Americans sought out members of the community to provide them with the most accurate information we could provide based off our own queer journeys. Plus, it helped that we had a medical professional in studio to assist with responding.
Now, even though I’ve dedicated a good portion of my professional life to serving as an LGBTQ+ educator, it’s a role I choose to employ depending on a given situation. This means I control when the world becomes my classroom and I carefully select my students, my radio show and listeners being the prime example. Some queer people may similarly feel it's their mission to serve as vocal advocates for our community, even if it comes at the expense of their patience or sanity. Others, though, may be incredibly content with passing that responsibility off to their LGBTQ+ brethren.
But is any of it really fair to us? A week after receiving those two phone calls, I appeared on a panel at a Latinx Catholic conference in El Paso, Texas, where a young attendee asked me the following question: Why is it the job of the oppressed to educate the oppressor?
As the only queer person on the panel, I said that, for me, my investment in turning a casual interaction into a teachable moment depends on intent and audience, among other factors. Take my cisgender, straight parents; because of their sexual and gender identities, they might be considered by some in the LGBTQ+ community to be “the oppressor.” But their proven support over the years for me, their queer child, shows an actual desire to learn the right terminology, understand the appropriate questions, and care about the pertinent issues specifically affecting my community. In other words, my ally parents didn’t choose to be oppressors insomuch as I didn’t choose to be gay and oppressed. So naturally, I tried to help them see that distinction and move past it with time. But again, I had an investment there to do so.
I continued my answer by saying that it all boils down to folks like my parents taking advantage of growth opportunities presented by queer people they encounter (be them relatives, friends, or strangers) and rising to the occasion as best they can. Remember how I said that Margie has never met a gender non-binary person in our tiny, sheltered community? Regardless, she still understands that they exist and are deserving of full recognition and equality, just like her gay son.
I genuinely feel we have to accept the fact that straight cisgender people have their own limitations that preclude them from fully understanding the nuances of modern-day queerness. This can include factors like age, geographical boundaries, educational level, religious affiliation, and racial/ethnic background. I’d argue that none of these characteristics make someone purposefully ignorant, and we, as LGBTQ+ people, have to acknowledge that such limitations exist and could ultimately impede our goal of getting all of society on the same queer page that we’ve been on for months, or even years.
Because the truth is, for an Asian-American grandparent in the Midwest, it might be quite progressive for them to know or use they/them as pronouns. Or for a Mexican-American Catholic in the South to know what cisgender means. We, as queer people, do our best to know as much about our own lived experiences as possible, and sometimes we forget that others are trailing behind, and not necessarily by choice. Societal changes are oftentimes felt much more strongly in metropolises than other areas, so can anyone struggling to keep up with queer liberation actually be blamed for that phenomenon? What happened to giving people the benefit of the doubt?
The same can be said of ourselves. The LGBTQ+ community can certainly have blindspots, even if they’re not as noticeable as those found among cisgender straight folks. Because being openly gay for almost half my life doesn’t make me perfect, nor does it make me the only reliable source for all LGBTQ+ material (though I’m constantly holding myself to pretty high standards considering my work and platform). Just the other day, I accidentally referred to award-winning singer Sam Smith by the wrong pronouns. And that slip-up literally came a day after I spoke to TV actor and activist Nico Tortorella about their new memoir Space Between, which addresses their non-binary identity, the fluidity of gender and sexuality, and how we’re sometimes called to inform those who are unsure of what it all means.
We must understand that being unsure isn’t the same as being unsympathetic, and that the true bigots aren't the ones taking the time to ask for our help. Which is why I eventually told that young El Paso conference attendee that everything would change if “an oppressor” approached me with hate and vitriol. I told them that I have absolutely no time or energy to tell a phobic person that their ignorance is both unwelcome and unnecessary, especially if we don’t have a relationship. Their perceived need to shout down my existence either with political or religious rhetoric doesn’t motivate me to make them a better person. Plus, there’s no incentive for me, a marginalized person in today’s society, to place myself in harm’s way (either physical or emotional) to fuel one’s undeniable bias, especially one that’s propagated by an “oppressor” / “oppressed” dynamic.
And although it’s a dynamic I’m hoping we can all unlearn at some point, the truth is we’ll have to continue informing the outside world about our authentic selves, since the alternative is either partial or full-blown erasure. Believe me, I can’t have Margie see that happen. We’ve already come so far.
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