International Coming Out Day 2014
It's never exactly the right date (Oct 11) when I write one of these annual posts, because the date is never the reason I'm writing. An event will happen unexpectedly somewhere around this time of year, a prompt that will suddenly fill me with fire. This year it was a book (Two Boys Kissing, by David Levithan - highly recommended). I know from long experience that that fire only lasts so long, and if left for another minute, another hour, it will dwindle. Soon enough, the urge will pass, until something that was ephemeral and urgently pressing for existence will sputter out, unremarked upon. The sadder part is that it was surely something essential, something pivotal, lost forever. I've grasped similar moments before - skived off a class, interrupted a good night's sleep, delayed a deadline, because I just had to leap on the spark and fan it to life right that second. It was always worth it. I remember those moments. And I remember the ones I missed, and wonder what they might have been, what impression they might have lit in the underbrush of life. Ignored, each one is just a wooded patch of dirt like any other patch of dirt where a campfire might have been.
Campfires are about intimacy and common warmth. They are about connecting with others or yourself around a central source of heat and half-light. Every time I'm stirred to write one of these yearly posts, it is in the hope that it will be like a campfire. A centerpiece for a conversation, for shared feelings, for kindredspiritship (shh, I know that's not a word). I write them because I know what it's like to feel alienated, and some part of me is always seeking reassurance that that's not the case anymore, that I'm not alone, and in turn, I'm seeking to impart a sense of belonging to others. People who survive on self-validation alone are rare creatures, I suspect. For the rest of us who rely on a sense of connection, whether with one person or with many, emotional support is key. To be sent away, or denied access, forbidden the chance to belong, that is rejection.
Rejection. It's an ejection, and then it's a repetition of that loss, a re-ejection, because it keeps happening over and over again. Whether memory or a new reality triggers that visceral forcefield, the feeling of being pushed away is the same. It's there in the bad times, and it's there in the good times too - each in their own way are reminders of what you no longer have. All campfires cast a shadow. Anywhere intimacy and acceptance are on clear display, burning brightly, that shadow falls, triggering flashbacks of deprivation, absence, abandonment, the cold, the dark, unwanted, alone. Worse than simply being blocked off, ejection implies a state of having once been inside. How much worse it is to have intimacy and then be expelled from it.
I just typed "family rejection" into Google Image Search and LGBTQ+ issues were in the majority from the very first image. I didn't even have to make the connection. It's there already.
In 2014, coming out as LGBTQ+ still means rejection for so many people, still means being ejected from the intimate support group you've known your whole life simply for loving someone or for being born into the wrong body. 40% of homeless youth in America are LGBTQ+. That's a staggering statistic. To have no home is the ultimate form of rejection. To belong nowhere. To have been cast out from every possible sanctuary. To have no hope of finding one.
I can't really talk about suicide this year. It's too raw a topic. But consider it written that being rejected for who you are opens a pit of despair to which, for some, only one solution seems possible. LGBTQ+ suicide rates are disproportionately high and they are preventable.
Q: How?
A: Don't reject someone you love for being queer.
Most especially don't reject your children. They will never fully recover.
Of course, I'm speaking to the wrong audience. Anyone reading this is going to be strongly on the side of diversity and support anyway. Therefore, a message of awareness is a bit beside the point.
Instead, I'll extrapolate and make the assumption that at some point each of us will encounter someone who is suffering from rejection. One of the most basic salves for rejection is acceptance. It doesn't matter where that acceptance comes from, only that it's there. It doesn't even matter that we recognize the need for it when it crosses our path, only that we exemplify it in our daily life. You never know when you'll brighten someone's day, or provide a ledge to grip when their pit seems unscalable.
LGBTQ+ acceptance is of a specific kind and not difficult to apply:
- A stranger smiling at two boys or two girls holding hands on the street.
- A medical professional saying "he or she" without prompting when the subject of a date/partner/spouse comes up.
- A coworker, in a conversation about the holidays or Mother's Day or parents in general, allowing space for people who don't have close or even civil ties to family.
- A friend listening for a while after you've been triggered into doubt and sadness.
- A team leader defusing derogatory remarks about gender and sexuality.
- A teacher using inclusive language (e.g. pronouns) and perspectives on the future (e.g. gay marriage) in everyday conversation with students and parents.
- A school peer speaking with casual ordinariness about a LGBTQ+ family member.
- A passerby wearing a novelty slogan t-shirt.
- A store with a rainbow sticker on the door.
- An octogenarian slyly revealing a same-sex kiss or affair in their youth. "We all did that once, dearie, or wish we had!" (true story)
The list goes on. Often it is our subconscious actions and attitudes that make a difference without us even knowing it, to people we will probably never see again, for whom our smile or words or novelty slogan t-shirt eased the pain of rejection. There is a place around a campfire for all of us. No one should have to feel on the outside, unwanted. Of course we all do from time to time. But that doesn't mean the feeling is deserved or permanent. Be kind, rewind discrimination. The simplest gestures of acceptance can help heal the damage caused by abandonment.