I grew up in
Houston, Texas in the 70s & 80s. This was a time when Houston was the
epicenter of hypermasculine roles typified by John Travolta’s iconic “Bud” in
the film Urban Cowboy ...
...and football’s
legendary Houston Oilers running back, Earl Campbell, who was like the Marshawn Lynch of the 80s...
.
..and we ate the Wheaties with Bruce Jenner's photo on it.
Men across the city (and
the country) aspired to ride a live bull in the Houston International Livestock
Show & Rodeo at the Astrodome...
...or at least the mechanical bull at Mickey Gilley’s infamous
honkey-tonk, and women aspired to date those men.
Homosexuality had only been
recently declassified as a mental disorder (1973), and the general population
still considered it a perversion, a sin, or at least deeply unnatural and
something to be mocked or avoided. So how did this city spawn one of the
largest LGBTQ communities in the US, one that eventually elected the first
openly-lesbian Mayor, Annise Parker, in 2010? That story is closely entwined
with how I became an ally of LGBTQ and other gender-fluid individuals, even though
I myself am just your average heterosexual, and how I came to develop some core
values of acceptance, authenticity, tolerance, and courage.
My family moved from
Los Angeles to Houston when I was a kid, in 1975. The transition was difficult
for me; I had a hard time making friends in its conservative suburbs whose
residents had values based on religion that our atheist family didn’t share. I
was a creative free-thinker who wound up frequently bullied, and I never felt
like I fit in. My parents put a lot of pressure on me to excel academically and
I spent a lot of time reading, which made me even less popular, especially as
the ideas I was exposed to in books diverged from what was accepted as “normal”
in my peer group. My life became intolerable after experiencing acquaintance
rape by a classmate who then told everyone I was a “slut;” I was too mortified
to ever report it. By the time I was old enough to ride a bus alone, I was
spending as much time as possible in the city, where I had discovered Montrose.
Montrose was the
bohemian LGBTQ neighborhood in Houston. In a city where being “different” could
literally get you killed - gay bashing was a popular “past-time” that
culminated in the murder of Paul Broussard in 1991 - people who were different
had found safety in numbers. I had found a community where people didn’t judge
me for being different, because they were all “different” too. I made several
LGBTQ friends, and realized they were all just regular people, trying to make
their way in the world. Actually, they weren’t like regular people at all,
because they seemed so incredibly brave to me.
These were
people who had been persecuted and abandoned just because of who they wanted to
love, or who they felt like inside. As if fighting the stigma of homosexuality
as a mental illness wasn’t bad enough, AIDS came along to make matters worse. These
people couldn’t change who they were, even if they wanted to; they were
literally risking their lives to live authentically, whether it was due to
disease or social stigma. I admired them; I saw grace in their acceptance, not
just of other’s misunderstandings, but of themselves. But acceptance didn’t
equal complacency; I was surrounded by people who were active in changing
people’s attitudes towards the LGBTQ community, with education and
inclusiveness. Implicit was an attitude of tolerance, which is what partly made
it so attractive to me.
As more and more
people who were looking for an oasis of tolerance in intolerant Texas moved to
Montrose, it evolved into a force to be reckoned with, a force that put forth
its own political candidates and eventually worked to enact legislation that
changed the way LGBTQ people were viewed or treated. Twenty-five years later, Montrose and its adjacent neighborhoods is quite the desirable address, and I
still have at least as many LGBTQ friends than “straight” ones.
I think my
values apply especially to people with gender dysphoria. Forty years after
declassifying homosexuality as a disorder, feeling discontent with the gender one was born with is still considered a
medical disorder, and people still mock trans individuals trying to fit in.
The rationale for classifying it as a disorder is to provide a pathway forthese people to receive counseling – not to help them accept the gender theywere born with, but rather to obtain help in navigating gender identity issues,
such as the depression or anxiety that they may feel in the process of transitioning.
However, many trans people and allies support declassification of "gender
dysphoria" because pathologizing it implies that it’s a problem. It minimizes gender variance, reinforcing binary
genders. I can see both sides of the issue. Keeping it as a disorder can allow
for clients to receive assistance in our current paradigm, but it also
reinforces the idea that there is something wrong with them, which is an idea I
strongly oppose. I think we need to change the paradigm, instead of conform to
it.
That is
beginning to happen now, and it makes me feel hopeful. Parents are able to
identify gender dysphoria in their children at younger ages. These parents are
members of my generation, people who have seen firsthand the struggles that LBGTQ
people have had, and would rather support their children’s journey of
self-exploration than risk their assault or self-harm.
Even Girl Scouts reaffirmed
their acceptance and defense of trans girls. Beacuse they recognise that trans girls are girls too. Andrea Bastiani Archibald, the Girl Scouts USA's chief girl expert, said, "if the child is recognized by the family and school/community as a girl and lives culturally as a girl, then Girl Scouts is an organization that can serve her in a setting that is both emotionally and physically safe."
Being
discriminated against for not fitting in is something I can identify with, even
if I’m not LGBTQ. I never felt like there was anything wrong with me, but I
couldn’t change who I was inside, and I didn’t want to; neither do they. Nobody
in the LGBTQ community thought of me as weird, and I flourished there, probably
for the first time in my life. Instead of feeling miserable and trying to find
“a way out,” I began to dream my life could be full of joy and purpose. None of
us were “crazy,” we just wanted to be ourselves, whatever that was. I’m not
saying I understand all LGBTQ people; what I do understand are the values
behind the actions. People who’ve had to come to grips with being LGBTQ have
had to struggle to accept themselves and develop the courage to live an
authentic life. They have to overcome fear at being discriminated against,
people who may be their family. Look at Bruce Jenner, what he’s going through now,
what he’s struggled with for the past 30+ years. He made many choices because
he was trying to please people he loved, often at his own expense. When people around
you are intolerant of something that defines you, you learn how important
tolerance is. I may not be LGBTQ, but I believe in an individual’s right to
pursue self-actualization.
I can’t imagine
anything that would make me change my values. They reflect what’s most
important to me and were established as a result of my accumulated experiences.
They influence my decisions, behaviors, feelings, and how I perceive my
environment. I fought so hard for self-acceptance and the courage to live authentically,
I can’t imagine giving any of that up. It’s made a huge difference in my life
in terms of satisfaction and happiness, and I feel strongly about promoting
tolerance for everyone. In finally feeling free to explore my own identity,
without judgement, I was able to pursue my own self-actualization, and surround
myself with people who accept me for whatever qualities I offer as a human
being, not for what God I worship or whose name is on the label of my jeans - or my genes. In this way, I can identify with a person whose outsides do
not match their insides, and the struggle they endure to achieve some sort of
equanimity.
Mahatma Ghandi
said, "Your beliefs become your thoughts. Your thoughts become your words.
Your words become your actions. Your actions become your habits. Your habits
become your values. Your values become your destiny." It is my destiny to
live my values by example and advocate for others. If I care for a trans
person, I will consider it an honor to provide care with the same compassion
and empathy I would for any other person. I hope my experiences will make me
more sensitive to a trans person’s particular needs, and able to treat them
with the dignity and respect that all people deserve.
The one thing I
have noticed about nursing is that little is black and white, everything is
shades of grey. If anyone should be able to understand the myriad shades of
grey that can make up the various ways that human sexuality can be expressed,
it should be a nurse. I hope I can help
educate my colleagues about the LGBTQ community, so that we can all move
towards normalization of a gender-fluid concept and tolerance for all people.
In fact, not just for trans people, but anyone whose cultural beliefs or
personal affectations may be different from our own. We may not all be the same, but we all deserve
the respect of human decency, even for people we may not understand or agree
with.
Wow, well written, powerful.
ReplyDelete