After a couple of years of mental drafts and revisions, it seems time to share this journey with the world.
In case anyone’s missed it, I’m a nerd—the kind of nerd who misses social cues, reads for fun, and never studies but messes up the curve. The ‘80s weren’t particularly kind to any kids, including—and maybe especially—nerds. So, in the summer after seventh grade, I leapt at a chance to spend three weeks at a camp for gifted kids—all nerds, no bullying? Sign me up!
We were all nerds, for sure, but, unfortunately, we were also middle schoolers of our time. One girl on our hall, who looked different and acted different, soon became the target of the more normal-passing girls. I felt deeply uncomfortable with what the relatively cool nerds did to this child, but I also seized my chance to NOT be a target, hanging in the back of their pack. I did not speak up for her.
Ultimately, the group found out this sweet child had two moms and that became one of the primary targets for their mockery. As an incredibly socially immature child, also young for my grade and from a small rural town, I had almost no idea what having two moms meant. I don’t even know if I connected it with being LGBTQ+ at the time. In my world then, “gay” was just what the boys called each other as they exchanged nuggies. I certainly didn’t get why it constituted anything to harass our hallmate about. But I did not say anything.
I deeply regret how we treated her now. So, so much. I am sorry that I did not speak up.
As I grew, I became aware that the people I admire most stand outside the “norm.” (If you don’t know how I feel about the idea of a norm or normal, read more here.) In high school and college, some of my favorite people happened to be (mostly deeply private, if not closeted) LGBTQ+ folks.
Seven years and a lot of learning later, I walked with Amnesty International at the Gay Pride March on Washington in 1993. Two moments stand out vividly to me. As we walked, I ended up one concrete barrier away from a notorious church hate group, with their hateful chants, their carefully taught children, and their hateful signs. I remember looking at them, hearing their words with utter bafflement. My brain could hold nothing but, Why do you even care? Seriously, what does this have to do with you? I have never been able to answer that question.
The second moment came on the metro later. Many, many marchers took the train to Georgetown after the event—10, 000 Maniacs was playing that night. My friend and I sat behind two motherly-looking women, who seemed old at the time but were probably my age now, fifty-ish. The atmosphere of community had carried over from the mall to the metro, so we chatted. After a few minutes, these lovely women told us the story of how they met.
I have utterly forgotten the story, but I will never forget the quality of it. They spoke with huge, fragile vulnerability, each word fresh, unused. They almost rediscovered their own story as they unfolded it for us. As a writer and a director, I recognized what I was privileged to hear—a decades-long love story that had been cherished in safety between lovers and rarely shared. I felt honored to hear it. I felt devastated by the knowledge that any lovers on this earth felt compelled to hide the story of their joy in one another.
That moment came to my mind decades later, as I stood in line at a grocery store in Florida, well after all marriage became legal. A typical summer afternoon storm popped up, with rain sheeting down in the parking lot. The man in line in front of me turned around and said, with cheerful chagrin, “Oh, my husband is going to be furious. I left the top down.” I sympathized with him, both of us hoping it wouldn’t last long, until he began loading groceries on the belt.
I marveled at the beauty of that moment of careless small talk, such a different beauty than I had seen in the carefully protected love story years earlier.
I reflected on how, when everyone feels free—and safe—in being who they are, we find so much in common as human beings.
I acknowledged, again, the power of words both to bind us together and to separate us from each other.
I gave thanks for the words of activists, which had brought about change in the words of our country’s law; I gave thanks that the words of law created space for me to share moments of everyday irony and joy with all my fellow humans.
Words matter. Say the words that you believe. Say them for freedom, for connection, for joy, and for love.
