The other day, while I was out with my daughter, a man struck up conversation with us. And—I’m not sure if it’s because Chick-Fil-A and the surrounding controversy is on a lot of people’s minds, or the man was a bigoted busy body, or if he truly was just curious—he in time asked if I was afraid of what the Gay Agenda was teaching my child.
Well.
I can’t say I really thought about it.
So I went home, and I thought about it. And I kept thinking. And here is what I wish I would have said to him, to satiate his curiosity:
My daughter was born at the end of LGBTQ pride month. In fact, I went into labor on the 42nd anniversary of the Stonewall Riots—which I never even heard of until I began doing a bit of research for this post.
The quick summary of what happened was this. The morning on Saturday, June 28, 1969, four plainclothes policemen in dark suits, two patrol officers in uniform, and two detectives—backed up by a Public Morals Squad—arrived at the Stonewall Inn. Standard operating procedure in raids like this was to line up the patrons, check their ID, and take customers dressed as women to the bathroom to verify their sex. Any men found dressed as women would be arrested. But that night, those dressed as women that night refused to go with the officers and patrons in line began to refuse to produce their identification. Officers frisking the women present were later accused of assault by some by "feeling some of them up inappropriately" while frisking them. Those who were not arrested were released from the front door, but they did not leave; they stopped outside and a crowd of 100 and 150 people began to congregate outside (a crowd that would later grow into hundreds, then, the next night, over a thousand). Punches were thrown. Beer bottles were thrown. An angry crowd attempted to overturn the police cars. Tires were slashed. A scuffle broke out when a woman in handcuffs was escorted escaped repeatedly and fought with four of the police, swearing and shouting, for about ten minutes. Described as "a typical New York butch" and "a dyke—stone butch", she had been hit on the head earlier by an officer with a billy club for, as one witness claimed, complaining that her handcuffs were too tight. . .
This sounds like something from another time and another place, right? Things like this don’t happen in America any more. Oh, wait. . .from Texas, July 31 2012: another lesbian of color killed. Another? Yes, another. That’s the third in recent weeks. From Nebraska, July 23, 2012: men entered a lesbian’s home, stripped her, tied her up, carved DYKE on her stomach, then set her house on fire. She managed to escape, despite being left, naked and bound, in her burning home.
My point is, violence, hatred, and ignorance still colors the way that many people, here, in the 21st century, in America, treat my loved ones—my friends, my family, my teachers and community members.
Like the aforementioned business about the Gay Agenda.
For the sake of argument, I’m going to assume that by “gay,” my neighbor meant any LGBTQ identifying person—lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered, queer and questioning. I’m also assuming by “agenda”, my neighbor is referring to the insidious homosexual plot to advocate the cultural acceptance and normalization of non-heterosexual relationships, breaking up traditional gender roles--feminizing men, masculinizing women--and in the process, turning our youth gay.
But what have the representatives of the Gay Agenda, those lesbians, gays, transgendered, queer, and questioning folk I associate with, really been teaching my child? I thought about the last year of my daughter’s life, and came up with a few examples.
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Let’s start with God-des and She, a hip-hop/pop/soul duo whos mission, on their website, simply states “freedom, liberty, fun, and equality [should] reign supreme. We are real people that stand for social and political change and we use music as our weapon.”
The duo was kind enough to come to my university, the Santa Fe University of Art and Design, earlier in 2012, as part of the Artists for Positive Social Change series. They talked to the students about art, music, passions, and how to succeed in their chosen disciplines. They talked about human rights, women’s rights, and yes, the rights of the LBGTQ community, as well.
Then they spoke with interested students one on one before going on to give an amazing concert!
So what did they teach my daughter, who was in the front row for both the talk and the concert?
To stand up for what she believes in. That people are people.
Along the same musical thread, folk musician (and lesbian!) Kate Reid has also taught my daughter a thing or two.
Her concert in Santa Fe University of Art and Design’s O’Shaunessy Hall was another that my daughter—then 7 months old—and I attended together. In between songs, she fielded questions, recounted side-splitting anecdotes, and bantered with the students. Genuinely warm, funny, and smart as a whip, she even let my daughter, who was just starting to crawl and wriggled away from me, fascinated by her, come sit at the edge of the low stage for the remainder of the concert.
So what did Kate Reid teach my daughter? That’s it’s ok to be who you are. That women can be funny. To shake up expectations.
At that concert with me was my then roommate, and fellow blogger, Jeselyn (Oh yeah. She likes girls, too). Snarky but loveable, she’s watched my daughter more times than I can count, sat with her late at night with me, played in the snow with us, listened to my crazy mommy rambling. . .
What has she taught my daughter?
A love of yarn. Of fabric. Of homemade and handcrafted.
Jeselyn has quilted her blankets that kept her warm through the winter, hats to wear when it’s windy and cold.
But more than that, she’s taught my daughter to roar like a monster, to laugh and giggle and make some noise.
I have many other friends in the LBGTQ community that deserve applause now, as well.
There’s the girl who would bring her puppy to the grassy quad between classes, who taught my daughter and I both not to be scared of dogs.
Or the (bisexual) girl who would work late in the barracks, where our studios were located, building amazing sculptures. She showed my daughter that steel and wood aren’t just a man’s medium. That girls can like power tools, too.
Or the teacher who never made me choose between being a student and being a mom, who allowed my crazy 6mo to audit my classes with me, playing happily on a blanket by my chair.
Or the boy I met in early high school, who is one of the kindest, most well-meaning people I have ever met. He recently finished a university degree for teaching elementary school. Him and his boyfriend and I, along with half a dozen other people, celebrated that accomplishment just last week. He’s helped teach my daughter to swim. To build with Legos. To run around and yell like the Sharktopus.
Fantastic.
There’s the girl who fed my daughter’s (albeit, adorable) cheese puff ball addiction to the point that if she sees them in the store, she will break away from me and go hug the barrels as if they were a long lost friend.
There’s the zookeeper (and the set of gay penguins) who inspired the book, And Tango Makes Three, one of Madi’s favorite books.
Then of course, there’s George Takei. Do we know him personally? Well, no. But his appearance on the screen in any old Star Trek episode prompts my daughter (who had a blue starfleet uniform well before the age of one) to clap wildly.
I’d call that a win.
In fact, cheese balls barred, I’d chalk it all up as a win.
Let’s review. Respect your fellow human beings. Stand up for what’s right. Be strong. Be fearless. Be yourself. Shake up expectations. Laugh, roar, giggle. Swim, read, build, dance.
Enjoy cheesy sci-fi.
That’s what representatives of the Gay Agenda have taught my daughter. That, and that she is loved.
Not loved, because. . .
Not loved, if. . .
Loved. Period.
And for that, I express my sincerest appreciation.
