I apologize for not getting a post written and published for pride month. Before the comments begin, this is a public apology to myself. I have had this waiting for me, half uncovered and completely unpolished, for three weeks now. One of my favorite things to say about pride is that I am still queer in July, so I guess it fits that I’m writing about it today.
In the words of my kiddo, “Pride is my favorite!” Of course, as only a four year old can make space for favorites, this joins a revolving list of craft items, activities, and occasionally, the refrigerator.
Truly though, June is absolutely one of my favorite times. The advent of summer, the sudden drop in traffic as schools close, the rainbows that wash across communities and corporations.
I’ve been navigating the world as woman for my whole life; a queer woman for most of it and a solo mom for over three years. None of those spaces feel inherently safe to me. Pride, and the spaces where it is celebrated, give me a level of safety that I don’t often get to experience. In the midst of the throngs of rainbows and glitter, I can feel my guards come down, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that I am safe to be myself – unapologetically, unabashedly, unrelentingly myself.
I have a friend who is going to be traveling to the Midwest later this summer and it struck me the difference in our experiences and how there’s not going to be anyone in her family slipping her the phone numbers of service buddies who would be safe havens, in case she “runs into trouble” (I still have them picked out along most of her route, though). There’s not going to be the discussion on whether or not to remove certain stickers from the car; there’s not going to be a pact between her and her traveling companion for safety in numbers to use the truck stop bathroom.
It is not paranoia or a persecution complex that makes me realize these things. It’s lived experience; I have made that drive with my butch, genderqueer wife. I’ve felt the stares and animosity and the threat that hangs in the air.
It can be easy to forget the differences in the amount of privilege we each carry, my friend and I, in moments like this. I love her with every beat of my heart, she is my family; and still, I long for the understanding of my community. With my friend, I know I am able to safely talk about what I am living through in the context of being a queer woman. I also need to be able to not have to say it, and simply have it be understood as inescapable background. Pride allows me to do that. I don’t begrudge my friend the ability to go on a trip like this to not have to wonder if it’s a state safe to be in or if they’re going to be walking into the scene of a hate crime; I am so grateful, so glad that she will never know that. At the same time I yearn for my queer community, who already deeply understand what’s so hard to put words to, because it’s intangible and elusive; that feeling of safety that I get from simply being around queer folks, even more than I get from being surrounded by women.
I was talking about this with another friend, one of the few cis-men in my life whom I trust implicitly, about the differences between a boardroom full of powerful women versus powerful men. He said he would definitely be more comfortable being in a boardroom full of women because in a boardroom full of men, he knows that at least somebody in there is going to say something stupid and he’s going to have to deal with that. But in a boardroom full of women, he said his only thought is along the lines of great, now we can get shit done. The safety of his person doesn’t even factor into his thoughts.
(In keeping with the theme of this being 2-3 weeks late, I would take the bear, no question.)
I operate with the understanding that in this fictional board room – in any random sampling of men – at least one has committed assault on a woman. If it’s full of women however, the dangers are different. The danger to my physical person is much, much lower; I’m not concerned that I’m going to be assaulted or overtly sexualized. Instead my hackles rise when I voice my opinion and I am met with softer weapons: disdain or dismissal, tokenism or favoritism, or a general disagreement about how I live my life and navigate the world.
Safety is never just about the body.
By looking at me, any stranger on the street may or may not assume I am queer. I usually wear dresses and Doc Martens, have long hair and can usually be found chasing a four-year-old. In my experience, I’m assumed straight until proven otherwise, especially by men. I never forget that I’m queer and as I have gotten older, I am more comfortable with making sure other people don’t forget either. I keep up my rainbows on my team border on my Zoom screen. I also carry femme invisibility and the privilege that comes with that and so I feel it is my duty to proclaim and own my queerness. There is a lawn sign in one of the neighborhoods that I drive through that says, “if you have privilege, use it for good.” I try to do that.
(An incredibly important aside: Being queer is not something I ever put down, however, it is part of my identity that I am able to hide if I choose. I am not equivocating my experience to that of folks who are Black, indigenous, people of color, disabled, or otherwise marginalized based on visible characteristics. I implore you to seek out and listen to those voices. Some of the authors, activists, and creators who’ve enriched my understanding include Imani Barbarin (www.crutchesandspice.com) Sandra Yellowstone (first discovered at Disability Visibility Project), Alexis Nicole Nelson (@blackforager), Silvia Moreno-Garcia (www.silviamoreno-garcia.com), and Stephen Graham Jones (https://www.demontheory.net).)
Pride does not exist in a vacuum. It’s not over when the flags come down, when the rainbow washing disappears and rabid patriotism takes over in red, white, and blue just days later. Love doesn’t win without a fight. I know Pride doesn’t happen without corporate sponsors and police. Pride doesn’t happen without asshole evangelicals and capitalism, without other power structures, without other oppression. We are not there yet, and I don’t know if we will be in my lifetime, or ever. It’s nice to think about, sure. I absolutely envision a world for my kid where pronouns aren’t a discussion, they’re simply accepted. Where my kid will be safe no matter who they love or who they are. I can make that the reality at home, obviously, but I still have to prepare them for what’s beyond the walls, and the different world that dawns July 1, to say nothing of the morning of November 6.
This Project 2025 bullshit is absolutely fucking terrifying. I have a lot to lose in a revolution, whether ThE lEfT aLlOwS iT tO bE bloodless or not. Life has already irrevocably changed after the 45th president. I watched and screamed and marched and donated while my rights were stripped away and threatened further, while my community fights across the country for their lives.
There’s a screenshot going around the writing communities I’m in, that if Project 2025 goes through, there will be bans on pornography (good luck, assholes, and call me a bootlegger) including smut. I write smut. I read smut. Gay smut. Taboo smut. Absolute porno scenes strung together with varying levels of plot with zero apologies. One writer, who is (rightfully) scared asked if she should finish her book, or make it less spicy.
Finish it, I said. Absolutely finish it. Write more smut. Write it in dissent. Write it filthier, more explicit, more taboo the more they rattle their dicks at us. Write the banned books.
Someone has to.
Do I want safety? Do I want to be able to walk through this world and not be afraid of how it will harm me? To not always know that there is someone out there willing to commit violence against me for being me, knowing that “me” is a sailor-mouthed, relentlessly queer, smut-writing feminist with a minimal amount of puritanical blood coursing through my gay ass veins? A divorcee, a widow, a solo mom, a whitewashed adoptee, a solo mom who supports my kid in any and all fabulous gender expressions and identities?
Of fucking course I do.
But maybe safety is relative.
I feel safe (enough) in my neighborhood. I feel safe (enough) in my friends’ houses, in my communities. My kid feels safe (enough) at school. I feel safe (enough) at my local library, at the grocery store, at the hospital. It’s not the same as being in the midst of queer folks, but it’s enough for now, and it’s enough to fight for.
Queer Mama Rising 