Words of Wood

I will write a thing for National Coming Out Day this year too.

I'm gay and ace. It took me several painful years and painful experiences before I knew that I was, and that I was allowed to be either of those things. But you probably already knew that about me. It's not the point of this post, really.

Here is the thing: coming out, for me, is a choice. And not an irrevocable, one-time thing, but a thing I have to do pretty much for each new person/situation I meet. I'm femme-presenting, and my body is in the range of shapes judged acceptable to be presented in that way. It's pretty easy for me not to "look" queer. And that can be incredibly frustrating: it's an endless social dance around oblique questions to new acquaintances to try and get a handle on their views, and bosses who ask casual questions about my assumed-male partner, and the moment of baffled confusion from every single estate agent when my girlfriend and I, who walked in holding hands, assure them that we're looking for a one-bed not a two-bed place.

(For weeks last year I was being harassed on my way into work by a group of young teenage boys. Their insult of choice as I biked past was "lesbian!". When I eventually mentioned this to the office boss he was horrified to learn about the harassment -- and also that I was being insulted specifically like that. But he was very very Christian, so I didn't feel I could say anything.)

But usually it's in my control. And that is a privilege, one that I can depend on and that keeps me safe.

For many, many others in my QUILTBAG community, it isn't a choice. She's too butch, he's too femme, she's too obviously trans*, ze's read differently by different people in the group ze's talking to.

Those of us who pass can hide behind those who can't. We use them, intentionally and accidentally, as shields between us and those who would harm us. (He looks queer, not her.) We talk about generalised statistics of violence against our community as if the burden doesn't fall with obscene disproportion on trans* women, and trans* women of colour at that. And it's not fucking good enough. It isn't.

This is one of the reasons I support the philosophy that those of us who can stay hidden should try to be out, assuming it's safe for us to do so (and what comprises "safe" is exclusively for an individual to decide). It can feel frightening and uncomfortable. But. We can help everyone by widening the umbrella of who's seen as queer, and by widening acceptance. We can help by boosting voices too much ignored, and by sharing resources, and by showing that ze's not alone in this group of people, in this room, in this company.

If we're going to claim community we need to be a community. This means no one gets thrown under buses because their needs are different, or more complicated, or less photogenic. This includes things like education and support -- those of us who get passing privilege need to take our share of this.

We talk about wanting better allies. We need to be better allies.

I have some thoughts for (Inter)National Coming Out Day.

If I'd posted this when I opened this tab, a few hours ago, it would be a happier post. About 70% of my facebook feed today has been taken up friends posting statuses about it, and it's fun, you know, to actually see a load of us all being vocal at once. To talk about issues in public, and have people who normally refuse to listen read the threads because we're talking about something positive. (That said, the thread on my status has devolved into a discussion on tea and on whether it's unforgivably antisocial to read a book during sex.)

But. Something about getting quick, supportive "Likes" or comments from people who feel happy tossing around identities as pejoratives, or from the guy in my gaming group who I've had long, long arguments with about his "right" to call people f*ggots or to be a racist douche -- well. It's that easy, is it, to do your bit and assert you support us. Today. Just today.

There is an LGBTQsoc stand at Freshers' Fair. And every year, lots and lots of straight people come up and say something along the lines of, "I'm not queer, but am I allowed to sign up anyway?"

"Oh yes," the people on the stand say. "In fact, you can also sign onto the mailing list for the activism branch of the society! We're working towards things like improving the uni environment for queer people, writing political letters, and all that sort of stuff. We always need more allies."

"Oh. Actually, I only want to join in on the social side of things. You know, the drinks nights?"

Lots and lots and lots of people. Every time. We'll be your allies while it's fun for us. Not when it's work. When you have to sit back sometimes, and give up things you like, and speak up when no one else does.

I am remarkably privileged. I am white and my parents are comfortably middle-class and I can usually hide my crazy and I can talk about being gay and poly and ace because it's safe for me to do so. I get angry about microaggressions and slurs and I am so incredibly lucky because I am safe.

Acceptance is good. Acceptance is important. Action is more important, because this world is so far from good enough. I can come out, but we have gay kids and trans* kids living on the streets and we have people being murdered in all these countries we live in and we are not doing enough. I am not doing enough. We all need to work so much harder.

Days of Things are all very well, but it's the rest of the year that's important. What you're doing then. Who you're remembering. What actions you're taking to make the world better on all those other days.

Protest report!

( Lots of words and several pictures! )

/flops.

The UK government is currently running a public consultation on whether same-sex couples should be allowed to marry.

Go and reply to it. It's very quick - you can just check the boxes, even. (I'm assuming you're all in favour - if you aren't I have to wonder if I'm on your flist by accident :P)

I don't see anything that says you have to be a UK citizen to reply.