On Being an "Ally" during Pride

“Just this past month while taking AP exams at my high school I was filling out the student information section of the test when I came across a section with two boxes.  One said, “fathers information” and the other said “mother’s information”.  Used to this by now I crossed out the word father and wrote mother next to it.  The proctor of the test, while going around to check that everyone had completed the section made me erase the word mother I had written in because it was an “irregularity” on the paper.  

Now, the fact of the matter is, having two moms is irregular.  However, it is an irregularity that I could not possibly be more proud of.  It is not something that I want to erase or hide, it something I want to write everywhere in sharpie and let the world read.  That is really what this day is all about, not just looking for acceptance under the law but looking for Pride.” 

This is an excerpt from a speech I gave at North Jersey Pride as a senior in high school.  At the time my understanding of pride involved telling everyone I met that I had two moms.   It meant wearing “Love=Love” shirts and my personal favorite “Got Moms.” shirt to school without a second thought.  Pride meant never saying “my parents” but instead boldly stating “my moms” and then explaining to the questioning looks that sometimes followed.  

In essence, pride meant claiming my stake in the LGBT community out loud, for the world to hear, in sharpie. 

This past weekend was Pride in San Francisco.  Trans March, Dyke March, and the all famous San Francisco pride parade.  An entire weekend filled with people determined to graffiti the world in sharpie, claiming their pride for their sexual orientation, gender identity and allyship.  

I want to focus in on that last term.  Allyship.  Ally.  Me. 

LGBT. LGBTQ. LGBTQQ. LGBTQQI. LGBTQQIA. 

You have to add a whole lot of letters to this acronym before you get to the A for “Ally”.  

(Fun fact: that last one stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, questioning, intersex, ally.) 

Since I began working at the center this summer I have felt myself reassessing my role as an ally.  I have tried to understand the nuanced situations in which I can and should use my privilege to advocate for the more oppressed, and the times in which I can and should step back, understand that this isn’t always about me.  

I’ve kept some notes on coworkers who have questioned my sexual orientation and gender identity, who have questioned my commitment to the LGBT community.  I have often felt as though those around me were determining if I was worthy.  If they were gonna take the time to write what has got to be the world’s longest acronym to get all the way to the A.  Deciding whether I was truly a part of the community, or instead an outsider looking in.  

“Jess, are you queer? I’m not judging I’m just asking. I have always assumed you have to be at least a little queer to work here…” 

“So are you yourself gay? Or would you say it’s more of a family affair?”

“Get ready Jess, coming out as straight to this office is like coming out as gay to your catholic grandfather.”

I used to be so sure that I was a part of the community.  So positive that because I cared so deeply, felt so strongly, and felt so closely tied, largely because of my moms, that there was no question as to whether or not I truly belonged.  Now, I’m not so sure. 

Last week I attended “Musical Mondays” at Edge, a gay bar here in San Francisco.  The Edge caters to an audience of older gay men.  Standing there, gin and tonic in hand, surrounded by my DukeEngage cohort of 8 other people my age, we stood out like a sore thumb.  There is no way that the men in the bar could’ve known we were in San Francisco working directly with the LGBT community.  No way they could’ve known that among us we had three gay men, a bisexual woman and several other “allies”.  No way they could’ve known that I have two lesbian moms.  That I work at the LGBT Center.  

No. To the men at The Edge, I was a straight, white, cis gendered girl infringing upon their territory.  And they let me know it. 

“You don’t belong here.  Just go home.”

One of my bosses owns a gay bar, not The Edge, but his bar services a similar clientele.  At lunch yesterday he told me that this weekend his bar was packed to the brim with young, white, straight girls, drunk of their asses and dressed in rainbow.  He seemed so frustrated, to the point of being disgusted that those who were not truly a part of the community were making the weekend about them. 

I told him about my experience at The Edge.  I could actually see the wheels in his head back pedaling. “Well, um, no, not you! You would’ve been welcome, of course!”

But just from looking at me, I don’t belong at a gay bar.  Just from looking at me, I could be a straight girl looking to be liberal and trendy, spend a night not getting hit on by sweaty strangers, and flaunting my rainbow colored spandex on Instagram with a caption titled “SF PRIDE!”

I have spent a large part of my life defining myself by my work with the LGBT community, my investment in the fight for same sex marriage and involvement with various pride festivals.  I am someone who defines myself largely by my passions and equality has been the pinnacle of my passions in life.  

It is a difficult position for me to be in.  Realizing that what I have defined myself by for so long may not be an identity that I can fully claim.  Because I am not gay, I have not experienced the oppression, discrimination, and harassment that accompanies such an identity.  Sure, I have had some second hand stuff. Peers who disapprove of me having two moms, and let me know it, but never have I faced the direct oppression that accompanies an LGBTQ identity.  Instead, I am privileged enough to receive only the second hand burns that come with an LGBTQQIA identity, emphasis on the “A”, and in truth, those don’t even compare.  

So I’ve realized that some spaces are not for me to occupy.  No matter how deeply invested I feel, or how passionate I am.  Some spaces are not for me.  As an ally, there are times where I can speak up, use my privilege to the advantage of the community I care so deeply about.  But there are other times, where I have to step back. 

This past Friday was Trans March, a day dedicated specifically to transgender pride.  I spent the day in Dolores Park, tabling for the Center’s Trans Employment Program.  I had my elevator pitch down pat and it was beautiful out, a perfect day to celebrate one of the most overtly marginalized communities that we serve here.  

About half way through the day a newscaster approached our table.  He held the microphone up to me and asked what we were here for.  “Hi! We’re here with the SF LGBT Center tabling for our Trans Employment Program,” I responded.  

I was surrounded by about 6 coworkers, at least 3 of whom were trans themselves.  

The newscaster pulled me aside, “I’d love to ask you a few more questions.” I told him my colleagues would be better equip to answer, I was just an intern.  

“Ah, but you’ll be the most digestible to our audience, people will want to hear from you more.” 

I declined to comment. 

I felt guilty as I walked back to my table, as if everyone else knew exactly why the 60 year old, white, male newscaster had chosen to speak to me.  

I look back at my speech from 2014 Pride. I see a me, wracked with anxiety about AP exams, brimming with excitement about prom and graduation.  I see a me, that was brazen, bold and proud.  Who would’ve jumped at the opportunity to speak to a newscaster.  I would’ve thought to myself “Hell yeah! We’re getting the word out, our message is going to reach more people… and if I get a little airtime while we’re at it no complaints there!” 

I wouldn’t have questioned the message that is being sent when in an entire park of transgender individuals of every age, race, and gender identity, the white, straight, cis girl is the one on the news.  It wouldn’t have even crossed my mind.  I would’ve been off, sharpie-ing the world with my Pride.  

But now, I think sometimes us “allies” have to know when put our sharpies away.  We have to know when it is no longer our time, or space, to be the ones writing.  

My Complex Thoughts on Homelessness

My office is under construction. There are quite a few reasons that this is inconvenient.  First, because a lot of the services offered to clients are now only available by appointment.  Second, because there is very limited office space so they were only able to hire one intern.  And third, because it means that we can’t come in through the front door.

Instead, we use the service entrance.  My office is on Market Street, one of the longest and arguably the gayest street in San Francisco.  It is lined with pride flags and bustling with people.  The service entrance is on Waller Street.  It is a side street, not a lot of activity.

Earlier this week a group of homeless people pitched a tent on Waller Street.  Their backyard is the service entrance to the Center.  So each day, I walk into my office and through a group of  people who have temporarily made that sidewalk their home. 

At first I felt uncomfortable walking through the group.  The cat calls and whistles made me feel objectified and unsafe and I resented the fact that I had endure them to get into the office.  Next I felt fear, an experience earlier in the week in the Tenderloin had left me feeling vulnerable to the homeless men outside of my office. After the fear came guilt.  Guilt that I was afraid of the exact population I am supposed to be in San Francisco helping this summer. Guilt that I wasn’t offering help, a solution, or at least some spare change.  And finally, I felt pain, compassionate aching pain.

The whirlwind of changing emotions that came with quite literally having to step over human beings to get into my office this week has forced me to confront my own relationship with the homeless in a way that I never have before. 

Tent outside of the office

Cat calls

What is our duty

Tenderloin experience

 Orange is the new black

This is a list that I compiled before sitting down to write this.  A list of thoughts, experiences and feelings that I wanted to touch on.  I think the list displays my range of conflicting emotions well.

So let’s start from the beginning.  First I felt uncomfortable.  I think women have a complex relationship with cat calls. I very clearly remember the first time someone yelled some obscenity at me to let me know they found me attractive.  I was a freshman in high school in Penn Station.  “Hey baby, you look tasty.” I blushed, averted my gaze and walked away.  And then I felt a tiny bit of self satisfaction. Me? Tasty?

I was really small when I was younger.  Like really really small.  So I wasn’t exactly used to male attention.  Most people assumed I was much younger than I actually was and I didn’t yet have the characteristics that normally elicit cat calls (BOOBS!).  In hindsight, it is totally possible this man was a pedophile because I probably looked about twelve at the time, but none the less I felt all warm and fuzzy inside that a stranger in the subway thought I was “tasty.”  We could endlessly analyze the pressures society puts on women that could result in their first experience being objectified by a stranger making them feel good and attractive and desirable, but I’ll save that for another time. 

To be clear, I no longer feel warm and fuzzy when being cat called.  I feel violated.  I have never experienced such blatant and forward obscenities being shouted at me than here in San Francisco.

I kept a running tab in the notes on my phone of some of the quotes shouted at me last week.

“I’d like to fuck you in half” and “Let me put my cock in your mouth you skinny white bitch” are two of the less crude.  The list gets pretty weird, some highlights being, “My wife would love to come all over you” and “I’d tattoo your name onto my ass.”

So when I say that my initial reaction to the group of homeless people outside of my office was feeling uncomfortable maybe what I really mean was dread.  I was dreading having to walk through these shouted obscenities to get into my office.  The truth is I was stereotyping, assuming that every homeless man I passed was going to be crude.  But regardless, upon first walking past the tent deep dread overcame me.

This dread quickly transformed into fear.  This emotion of fear is tied to the item on the list entitled “Tenderloin experience.”

Late last week I was walking home from the apple store.  I was listening to “Friends” on my phone and absentmindedly strolling while I laughed along to Chandler’s lines.  I unknowingly walked directly into the heart of the Tenderloin.  An area of San Francisco infamously known for the high incidence of drugs, sex workers and homeless people.  It was about 7:30 at night.  I was wearing a dress and I was alone. 

I have certainly felt objectified and degraded by shouts from people on the street before but this was the first time that I felt true and unbridled fear.  I had never been to the tenderloin and its reputation had not prepared me for what I was walked into.  I watched strangers shooting heroin, men grabbed my ankles, weapons lay visible on the sidewalk and a seemingly unending stream of obscenities followed me as I walked down the block.  This was a bad decision on my part.  I should not have ended up in this area while walking alone.  The closest uber was 17 minutes away.  I called it and stepped into a restaurant to wait. 

I was very scared.  My heart was beating quickly and I practically ran across the street when “Edwin” showed up in his Toyota Prius 17 minutes later to take me home. 

According to the DukeEngage Website the service theme of DukeEngage in San Francisco is “Youth Homelessness.” Because I am here in San Francisco to try to assist with the severe issue of homelessness, my feelings of fear very quickly led me to guilt.  I felt so intensely guilty that the population I was meant to be helping I was having such an adverse reaction to.  In fact, I feel guilty writing this.  Like these are the kinds of things we’re allowed to think but not say, and certainly not write down.  I felt guilty that I wasn’t offering a solution.  That I wasn’t asking the people outside of my office to come in, have some water and stay inside for the day.  At the very least shouldn’t I be giving out money, spare change? I don’t know. 

The truth is, this feeling of guilt is one that has stuck with me.  Because I’m not exactly sure how to navigate this.  I feel ridiculous walking in with three coffee cups, Starbucks logo glaring and visible, and not offering something to the people I have to walk through.  I don’t know if a friendly smile is too little or too much.  I feel bad wondering if I am in danger.  I feel confused not knowing how I should react.  I am inside researching policy reform for the homeless in San Francisco while the embodiment of this problem sits at my backdoor.  It feels ironic and tragic all at the same time. 

Despite this tumultuous cycle of conflicting emotions I think the one that now stands out to me as the strongest is pain.  I feel this ache to make things better and I don’t know how. 

On Friday, Orange is the New Black season 4 came out on Netflix.  I have binge watched 11 of the 13 episodes.  However, the episode “It Sounded Nicer in My Head” stood out to me.  This episode focuses on a character named Lolly.  Lolly is a paranoid schizophrenic convinced that government agencies are out to get her.  She is a quirky and endearing character who spent most of her life living on the streets.  In the flashbacks to her life before prison, Lolly is shown carrying around a long stick with bells on the end.  Whenever she hears the unwanted voices in her head she shakes the stick and the bells drown out the voices. 

Yesterday while walking to work I watched a man on the street hold up a soda can that sounded like it was filled rice and shake it aggressively around his head.  He seemed so distraught. 

The truth is, I have no idea what this man’s story was and no idea why he was shaking the can next to his head but it made me think of Lolly trying to drown out the voices.  I know, it seems ridiculous to think that a TV show could illicit such a response from me but my eyes filled with tears. 

Because every single person I have passed on the street has a story. Whether it be someone cat calling me as I walk by, or those lining the sidewalks in the tenderloin, or the 6 people camped outside of the service entry to my office, they all have a story. 

And it crystallized the fact for me that these are people with families, and childhoods and friends and histories.  And yet they are living on the street, forced to remain outside while I get to swipe my key card and walk in.  The blatant unfairness and seeming randomness of who's story ends where is almost more pain than I can handle.

Week Two: Fear

It takes me an hour and twelve minutes to walk home from work.  If you’ve met me, which you probably have because who else is spending their time reading this blog, it seems pretty out of the question that I would ever attempt to walk for more than an hour.  But an unlikely combination of a broken laptop and an overused Uber account, and a deep hatred for the muni bus system, has led me to spending this week walking the one hour and twelve minutes home. 

Worse things have happened, in fact my walk is pretty great.  I begin on Market Street and then walk all the way up Haight.  I walk home from The Center right through the historically gay, and currently alternative district of the city.  I have been offered marijuana by no less than four kind young men. I have passed more pride flags then I can be bothered to count.  I have gotten hopelessly out of breath while trying to walk up some of the steeper hills along the way.  I have seen the true character of this city.

In my hour and twelve minutes I have facetimed, watched friends, listened to podcasts, called my mom, thought about work, reflected on my day.  I see the value in taking time to stop and think.  I have found the walk to be peaceful and restorative. 

I have never once felt in danger or at risk.

********

“On Sunday, I started carrying a knife with me again.”

“I am scared, because I don’t think I will be able to get away.”

“I’m always afraid I am going to get attacked on the street.”

********

Fear.  I have been thinking a lot about it lately.  Following the Orlando shooting I felt the kind of fear that sits deep inside of you and makes your stomach hurt.  The truth is, I don’t think this was fear for personal safety, more a generalized fear for the state of our world at large.  Nonetheless, it made my stomach hurt. I ached at the thought of the families’ mourning, the unpredictability of life, that expressing any identity that diverges from the norm inherently carries risk. 

However, as a woman, I am not a stranger to fear regarding personal safety.  Few things scare me more than walking around central campus at night.  I would never leave a bar alone.  I have felt stares from men that feel more than objectifying and instead feel downright dangerous. 

But these moments are brief and passing.  Fear has never been my constant state of being.  It has been a feeling that ebbs and flows. 

*******

“On Sunday, I started carrying a knife with me again.”

“I am scared, because I don’t think I will be able to get away.”

“I’m always afraid I am going to get attacked on the street.”

*******

These are direct quotes from the past week at The Center.  Quotes from coworkers, not clients. 

I think fear has been the central focus here at The Center this past week.

First in very concrete ways.  We are putting ourselves at risk working in a space that identifies itself as queer and in service of the queer community.  So let’s talk safety protocol. 

And then a little more abstract.  How do we show up at Pride? San Francisco Pride is one of the largest gatherings of the LGBT community in the country.  How do we show up and stand tall.  How do we avoid compromising the character and the pride of this community in the face of hatred and potential risk?

And then fear as an emotion, a crippling emotion that gives you a stomach ache.  And my coworkers told stories of constant, unwavering fear.

The truth is, I’m not really sure what to do with this.  On the one hand, I feel myself getting angry. Angry and restless.  That so much of our world isn’t granted the basic human right of safety.  On the other hand I feel myself once again confronting a privilege that I had never even acknowledged was there.  The privilege of a pleasant one hour and twelve minute walk home uninterrupted by any feelings of fear.

My Thoughts and Feelings in the Wake of the Orlando Shooting

Today is my mom’s birthday.  I woke up and called her and, as part of a cheesy family tradition, answered the phone with a perfectly out of tune rendition of “Happy Birthday” followed up by a bonus track of “How Old Are You Now”.  She responded by telling me that 50 people were killed in a gay bar last night in Orlando.  A mass shooting. 

Today I deleted the Facebook app off of my phone.  As a very stereotypical millennial I did not think that this day would ever come.  But after the 10th or 11th time of opening Facebook, more out of habit then a desire to see anyone’s latest profile picture, and being confronted by countless articles, status’s, words of grief, of fear, of xenophobia, of homophobia, of pain, of a country at war with itself, I deleted the app. 

50 people killed. 53 injured.  103 families.  But grief radiates out from the victims, it does not stay contained. 

My mind feels blank and numb.  There’s a dull ache in the back threatening to burst open.  And I can feel myself actively trying to stop that dam from coming down.  Because I don’t know how to process something like this.  The skills to handle emotions this intense and this painful just aren’t there.

Today a friend texted me: “Did you hear about Orlando??” My response? “Yes, horrible.”

It is almost comical that all I could muster were two words.  But comical in a sick, twisted sense because I am bursting on the inside with so many words and feelings and I don’t know how to arrange them into coherent sentences or thoughts or productive actions.  Instead they are reeking havoc within me and when I open my mouth to speak all that comes out is “Yes, horrible.”

I have the tendency to act very callous when something feels so tragic to me that I don’t have the means to engage it.

Today, my DukeEngage group came together to reflect and try to put words to what had happened, to what we were feeling.  One of our program directors staged the question: “Have any of you talked to your parents about this today?”

My mind flashed back to my birthday call to my mom this morning.  A call in which she was supportive and comforting, felt the depth of the pain that I was experiencing, and provided me with a safety net in the midst of tragedy. 

A friend began to talk.  Her parents are here now, visiting San Francisco.  She’s out to them but I got the sense they haven’t totally accepted her sexuality.  “An ongoing conversation we aren’t having,” is the way she phrased it.  She said that in talking to her parents, they had expressed their hope that the deaths of 53 others would finally be enough to scare her out of being gay. 

Another friend: My dad reminded me that any person choosing to enter a gay bar was choosing to enter a protest, and as a result voluntarily putting themselves at risk.  She reminded her dad that being bisexual, she was a regular at gay bars herself.  Maybe not in Orlando, but the sentiment still applies.  His response? Well maybe it’s time to stop. 

Victim blaming and fear mongoling are NO response to a tragedy of such caliber.  It is our job to band together in support, to hold close the community that has been stricken by this hate crime. 

And in the brink of all of this, I felt overwhelmingly lucky.  My moms have never been anything but supportive of me.  And then I felt overwhelmingly scared, because my moms, the two people I hold dearest and love most in this world, were inadvertently the targets of this crime.  A crime against the gay and lesbian community feels like a personal offense against my family and my moms.  And then, for the first time today, I started to cry. 

 

That’s really all I can muster right now.  I’m having a hard time even putting pen to paper.  I wish there was something active I could do.  I feel the need to stand and act rather than sit and think.  The more I think the more I am overwhelmed with the number of thoughts pulsing through me.  Gun control, xenophobia, victim blaming, Donald Fucking Trump.  How, to make it by in this world, it seems like you just have to get really lucky and hope tragedy doesn’t strike too close to home.  How that is so insanely random and terrifying that I don’t know what to do next. I'm conflicted by the impulse to call everyone I love, to keep them safe, to fight hatred with the strength of community, and the desire to just scream and rant and make sure everyone knows what a truly fucked up world we are living in.  But instead, I am sitting in my bed thinking about how, from now on, my mom’s birthday is going to be tainted as the anniversary of 53 deaths. And that thought is sad enough to keep the anger at bay for now. 


My family's response:
I felt this was worth publishing because it gives further insight into collective grief and processing- and the familial context that I am coming from when writing.

Hi Jess,

I'm so glad you put your feelings into words. Very poignant and your piece made me cry because you are now completely aware of the depths of hatred in this world. Not that you weren't before, but it seems like you're seeing and feeling it at a deeper level now, and for sure, expressing it so articulately.

 I think this whole horrible tragedy is hitting me worse this morning as I'm slowly able to process the magnitude of the attack.

I am overwhelmed with grief and I fear for gays, our country, the world and, now -- you too -- since you're working at the SF LGBT Center.    Please be very vigilant if you see something amiss, some package unattended, some person spewing unintelligible bigoted words. Be mindful of those around you and whether they have a legitimate reason to be at the Center. Please ask them if they are doing anything to increase security and let us know.

But while you figure that out, dear Jessie, think about being that loud cis gendered woman that you are and what you can do to advocate for those in need who walk through the doors at the LGBT center. You can make a difference in combating hate against the LGBT community this summer doing the work you are doing! Don't hold back!! Do everything you can to make this world a less hateful place.

Love,
Mama

Jess,

 

Wow, mama really said it all. I feel very similar to how she feels and what she expressed. I had started to write to back before clients this morning so here I what I have to share as well. 

Thank you for sharing your feelings with us. I totally understand the onslaught of chaotic feelings and numbness at the same time. It's hard to take in the breadth of what happened yesterday all at once. It's way too much for anyone, especially those who have a personal connection to the LGBTQ community. 

I understand and have similar feelings around wanting to keep love ones close and shake the world and say wake up, stop the fear of difference and stop the hating. I'm sorry this happened, I'm sorry this happened on my birthday but I have become very strong and can have many conflicting feelings and can choose where I put my focus. I don't have to deny my feelings, any of them, I can have them all, just not at the very same time. That trips my circuits. Over time, I will and I believe you will have and sort out all sorts of feelings and impulses. I wish the world  were further along in acceptance of all people as they are but although we've come a long way since the early 80's when mama and I were coming out, there is more distance to cover and more work to be done. 

I am pained to hear the responses of the parents of you fellow duke engage students. I'm very glad they are part of the duke engage program which allows them to mobilize and act in support of the LGBTQ community and themselves. 

What I have found is that these sort of attacks bring communities together in love and solidarity and have strengthened my resolve to stand up and not shrink in fear but to live stronger and be out and proud. Being gay and Jewish has given me many opportunities to say never again, not without a fight!

I agree with mama, keep your eyes and ears open and stay aware to the best of your ability and be aware of your surroundings and safety. 

I love you very much, I couldn't be more proud of you and the adult you are becoming. Keep writing, keep looking inward, because taking the time to look inward, is the opposite of thoughtless reactivity and ultimately better informs our beliefs and actions.

Talk to you later. 

Love you

Mom

Week 1

I’m loud.  It’s realistically one of the first personality traits any of my friends or family would use to describe me.  I have a loud laugh. I have loud and freely voiced opinions. I have no problem being the center of attention. In essence, I have no trouble being the loudest person in the room. 

My privilege is abundant and obvious.  I am white.  I am wealthy.  I am straight.  I am cis gendered.  These facts were never something that evaded me.  But it wasn’t until I arrived at the San Francisco LGBT Center that I realized exactly what these privileges, each of these traits that I was born into, had no control over, and yet so strongly dictate the way that world perceives me, have allowed me to do.  My privilege allows me to feel comfortable being the loudest person in the room. 

I sat in Sally Kornbluth’s office earlier this year discussing ways in which the administration could make Duke a safer, and more welcoming place to the LGBTQ community.  A student requested that Sally and the other administrators set a precedent by introducing themselves using their pronouns when addressing the school.  Sally Kornbluth looked at her with utter disbelief: “Oh! I think that would make me too uncomfortable.”

I truly don’t believe that this response was coming from a place of animosity or bigotry.  It is entirely possible that Sally Kornbluth would have felt uncomfortable introducing herself using her pronouns as that may have been a practice that was new to her.  That being said, that doesn’t make the response any less bigoted. 

A few brief seconds of feeling uncomfortable pale overwhelmingly in comparison to living as a trans individual in a society that is built for those who fall traditionally along the gender binary. 

And I said that to Sally.  Because I believed it to be true.  And, because as a straight, cis gendered woman, I felt comfortable being the loudest person in the room and expressing exactly what was on my mind. 

Flash forward to this summer.  I am participating in Duke Engage in San Francisco and interning at the San Francisco LGBT center. And for the first few days, I felt deeply deeply uncomfortable.

Never before had I entered a community in which I did not feel comfortable being loud.  Never had I felt that my sexual orientation or gender identity could be something that set me apart. As a straight woman I have never been fetishized for my sexual orientation, never faced discrimination and bigotry as a response to who I love.  As a cis gendered woman, I have never had someone question my gender, question my pronouns, or question any part of this fundamental aspect of who I am.  In these two areas, I am overwhelmingly privileged.

And here I was, one of the only, if not the only, straight women in the office.  Being cis gendered placed me in the minority at The Center.  I spent my entire life surrounded by the LGBT community and I truly didn’t expect this to phase me.  But it did. I called my mom and told her my office was stand offish, that they didn’t get me, that they seemed guarded and unfriendly. 

And in telling my sob story to my fellow duke engagers a few nights later it dawned on me.  This is what white, straight, cis gendered privilege is.  It is the fact that not being comfortable being the loudest person in the room was new  to me.  I had never been in the minority before. 

The Center is a truly special place.  They have cultivated an environment of diverse, lively and personable people.  Today I spent my lunch break at “Fun Friday” a weekly tradition in which the office eats lunch together and plays cards.  I sat across from my desk mate, Fresh! (yes exclamation point included - which is something I’ve taken a real liking to and am considering punctuating my own name to be Jessie?), and played cards against humanity.  I felt overwhelmed by how lucky I am to be a part of this community for the coming 2 months.

Earlier today I had a remarkable conversation with a trans co worker who just began her transition from male to female.  She asked me if I would feel comfortable discussing with her what it was like to grow up with two moms.  She told me that having children had always been a dream of hers but that being trans, she was worried she wasn’t fit to be a parent. She told me she was scared that her children would grow up confused and that having a transgender parent would do them a disservice. 

 

Once again, after the initial shock of the conversation wore off, I was forced to confront how remarkably privileged I am.  It has always been a dream of mine to have children, a dream that I have never questioned or thought too deeply about because I’ve always assumed it would come true.  And yet here is someone who is scared that they would be incapable of raising a child well because of their gender identity.  The thought makes my heart hurt, it shows the depth of self doubt that an unaccepting society can drill into someone.

I have never been forced to confront my privilege in such a manner before being here.  I think it was a much needed wake up call.  Because I am someone who prides myself in being thoughtful and progressive, hell I’m a Bernie supporter (RIP). But even so, I had never truly confronted the role that my sexual orientation and gender identity play in my day to day life.  There are few other jobs in the country where I would have walking in and felt that being straight and cis gendered was going make it harder to be accepted at the office. The opposite would have been true if I were gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, or any orientation or identity that doesn’t fit neatly into the boxes that society has deemed acceptable and in doing so handed all of the privilege to. 

I think if you asked any of my coworkers, loud would probably be one of the last words they would use to describe me.  I have been observing and listening rather than speaking out and it’s a change that I think will force me to grow.  I am listening to the experiences and stories of people who have faced oppression and bigotry in ways that I can only imagine.  I had never seen my loudness as a result of my privilege but the realization has shown me how truly all encompassing privilege can be. 

I keep thinking back to being in that room with Sally Kornbluth.  Because my advice to her, to stick out a few moments of being uncomfortable and to realize how lucky we are that these moments are rare, was exactly the advice that I needed to hear myself.

It’s been a week at the center and I am brimming with anticipation. I am excited to immerse myself in this eclectic, unique and accepting community of people.  And perhaps I will not spend this summer as the loudest one in the office, but I am starting to learn that there are other ways to engage.