As an ally, I had a wake-up call this past month, Poppets,
in the form of two separate events, a thousand miles apart. One took place
among people from the Pacific Northwest . The other,
among people from the Louisiana and Mississippi . Let’s start
with the happy one…
David and I were out one night when we met three women. Two,
Sarah and Trisha (not their real names), were a young couple. The third was
Mama, Sarah’s mother. Sarah and Trisha were young, articulate, happy,
ambitious, gorgeous, you name it. They were confident in themselves, each
other, and their place in the world. Mama spoke of both of them with great
pride, telling us about each of their accomplishments and goals. As the evening
wore on, Trisha invited us to her family’s picnic the next weekend. Her mom
would be cooking and her dad always had a couple kegs of beer. It was a huge
event with friends and family from all over. Mama could drive us all in and
drive us home again. It was the epitome of family and love and hospitality at
its finest. And yes, two young lesbians were at its core. Now, I admit, I don’t
know their story. I don’t know if coming out and acceptance was easy or hard,
loving or painful. I can tell you that the kind of confidence and comfort these
two young women have does not grow in a vacuum. If it was hard or easy, they
know they are loved and supported by their families and friends. They have the
strength of knowing they are okay behind them, and that’s a powerful gift.
Which brings us to the second event. A friend of mine, who
happens to be a gay, Black man, got into a discussion with acquaintances of
his. One of these people made racially derogatory and anti-gay statements. My
friend called him out on them. Not rudely, but appropriately. The situation
escalated until the bigot stormed off in a huff. At which point, the rest of
the group got on my friend’s case about hurting the other man’s feelings. About
not embracing the teaching moment. About being divisive instead of inclusive.
Really? A straight, white man says nasty things about gay
people and people of color and his feelings are the ones to be
considered? Again, let me be clear. This wasn’t someone making a good faith
effort or who spoke out of ignorance and was willing to learn. This was someone
who used derogatory language and then escalated when he was told he was being
inappropriate. But the gay, Black man should watch his tone.
Neither of these events is particularly noteworthy, or
surprising. Until I tell you that Trisha and Sarah are from Mississippi
and Louisiana , and the group who were more
concerned about the bigot were the ones from the Pacific
Northwest . That’s when it becomes a wake-up call.
We need to remember, each one of us is an ally to someone,
in that each one of us carries privilege somewhere. Maybe you are gay, but
male. Female, but able-bodied. A person of color, but straight. Each of us is
an ally to someone. But this doesn’t give us carte blanche to pat ourselves on
the backs and know we’re “the good guys” because we’re aware, or we reject out
and out prejudice, or because we hang out with the other good guys. Just
because we’re from the “right” part of the country, or we don’t run around
using slurs, doesn’t make us the good guys. Being part of one marginalized
group doesn’t absolve us from having to be sensitive to another. How are we
raising our lesbian daughters? Our transgendered sons? How are we treating our
children’s Black boyfriend or their Hispanic girlfriend? In situations where we
have the privilege, who are we more concerned about? The person who was rude?
Or the person who defended themselves?
It’s easy to stop asking ourselves these questions. It’s
easy to rest on our laurels and point the finger at others. Too easy, Poppets.
So this month, let’s not rest. Let’s take note of the times and places where we
have privilege and make sure we are actually being allies, not just claiming to
be. Let’s stop lumping everyone together and making assumptions. Let’s work on
making our corner of the world a safer place, by starting with ourselves.
Until next month, Poppets, take care of you.
