and the hate crime bill passes!
Finally, 10 years after Matthew Shepherd's murder, the federal hate crimes bill is signed into law by Obama. It's hard to believe. So hard, actually, that I found myself watching the footage over and over--I couldn't get enough of it. There are other signs that things are getting better: there's hope that the Defense of Marriage Act will be repealed, that Don't Ask, Don't Tell will be repealed.
And yet, I can't help but reflect on the fact that in the last two weeks, two GLBT students at the college where I teach have dropped out of school, both of them dealing with fallout related to coming out.
When we lose queer students--and it happens every year, without fail (and those are just the ones I can count, not including any who silently slip away, in pain and in the closet)--all of the faces of the kids I tried to "save" come back to me. Last night, I dreamed them all, marching in a parade for justice, waving the rainbow flag. At the end was the man who started E-Quality, the GLBT group here, who endured receiving boxes of dog shit and threatening notes, and never even considered calling the police--and who didn't graduate. This was 15 years ago, and things are better now--but not good enough, not really.
I wasn't in the dream. Or maybe I was, but if so, I was filming from a perspective above them all, as if I couldn't quite reach them or have the effect I hoped to have.
OK, so these students maybe weren't "save-able"--they were suffering from years of mental health issues that related to their coming out process, their shame. But certainly they wouldn't have suffered as much if they had lived in a different family, a different kind of society. Certainly we are all responsible for creating that society.
I go back and forth between sounding really old, telling stories about how things were when I was in college and explaining how lucky the young people are--and feeling hopeless (how could it have taken 10 years to include the words "sexual orientation and gender identity"--not to mention disability--in a hate crimes bill?)
And whenever I begin to think that these kinds of symbolic changes don't matter, I remember how I responded when I heard my supervisor at the college bookstore proclaim, after a request to do a book display for pride week, that she wasn't about to give any space to a "bunch of faggots." I sat there, at the counter, and just took it, didn't even think it was at all peculiar that she'd say this, as much as it hurt. Now I'd be making some calls if someone on my campus said something like this. Have I changed on my own, or has my tolerance for hate been affected by the progress we've made in the last 20 years?
But the hate is often more subtle these days, and harder to nail down. If a student can't afford to pay her tuition, and her parents cut her off when she comes out (or when they find out she has a girlfriend), what's she supposed to do? It takes time to declare independence from one's parents--it can't happen overnight. When a student has faced self-hatred for years because of his parent's treatment of him--if he's suffered verbal and physical abuse--why would we expect him to be able to put all that behind him and step into college a new man? That kind of grief and horror will catch up with anyone. Not having a support system when one's roommate or friends do--that stings. More to the point: what about the student who is out and confident, mostly, except that every so often, there are people who are cool to her, who say things, off-handedly, that show they aren't true supporters of GLBT equality--how long is she supposed to take this pervasive hate before she breaks?
We are even more responsible now, I think, for responding to hate--for being present, for seeing ourselves and others with clarity, for challenging and educating before hate gets to the level of a hate crime.
I can't help but believe, though, that any stride to make our country, our world, less tolerant of hate and more tolerant of difference (yes, tolerance is the first step toward acceptance)...well, that's something we ought to celebrate, right?
And yet, I can't help but reflect on the fact that in the last two weeks, two GLBT students at the college where I teach have dropped out of school, both of them dealing with fallout related to coming out.
When we lose queer students--and it happens every year, without fail (and those are just the ones I can count, not including any who silently slip away, in pain and in the closet)--all of the faces of the kids I tried to "save" come back to me. Last night, I dreamed them all, marching in a parade for justice, waving the rainbow flag. At the end was the man who started E-Quality, the GLBT group here, who endured receiving boxes of dog shit and threatening notes, and never even considered calling the police--and who didn't graduate. This was 15 years ago, and things are better now--but not good enough, not really.
I wasn't in the dream. Or maybe I was, but if so, I was filming from a perspective above them all, as if I couldn't quite reach them or have the effect I hoped to have.
OK, so these students maybe weren't "save-able"--they were suffering from years of mental health issues that related to their coming out process, their shame. But certainly they wouldn't have suffered as much if they had lived in a different family, a different kind of society. Certainly we are all responsible for creating that society.
I go back and forth between sounding really old, telling stories about how things were when I was in college and explaining how lucky the young people are--and feeling hopeless (how could it have taken 10 years to include the words "sexual orientation and gender identity"--not to mention disability--in a hate crimes bill?)
And whenever I begin to think that these kinds of symbolic changes don't matter, I remember how I responded when I heard my supervisor at the college bookstore proclaim, after a request to do a book display for pride week, that she wasn't about to give any space to a "bunch of faggots." I sat there, at the counter, and just took it, didn't even think it was at all peculiar that she'd say this, as much as it hurt. Now I'd be making some calls if someone on my campus said something like this. Have I changed on my own, or has my tolerance for hate been affected by the progress we've made in the last 20 years?
But the hate is often more subtle these days, and harder to nail down. If a student can't afford to pay her tuition, and her parents cut her off when she comes out (or when they find out she has a girlfriend), what's she supposed to do? It takes time to declare independence from one's parents--it can't happen overnight. When a student has faced self-hatred for years because of his parent's treatment of him--if he's suffered verbal and physical abuse--why would we expect him to be able to put all that behind him and step into college a new man? That kind of grief and horror will catch up with anyone. Not having a support system when one's roommate or friends do--that stings. More to the point: what about the student who is out and confident, mostly, except that every so often, there are people who are cool to her, who say things, off-handedly, that show they aren't true supporters of GLBT equality--how long is she supposed to take this pervasive hate before she breaks?
We are even more responsible now, I think, for responding to hate--for being present, for seeing ourselves and others with clarity, for challenging and educating before hate gets to the level of a hate crime.
I can't help but believe, though, that any stride to make our country, our world, less tolerant of hate and more tolerant of difference (yes, tolerance is the first step toward acceptance)...well, that's something we ought to celebrate, right?
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