Boston, Chicago, Growing Up, LGBTQ, reflections

What is pride to this gay black man?

When was the first time that someone called you beautiful and you believed them? You really heard them and took it in. Do you remember?

I remember it was in 2011 when I was 23. I had just moved to Boston after having come back from living out of the country. It was the first time that I had lived in America as an adult. I was in a new city and I was ready to explore what it meant to be gay even though I was not fully out. I did not have any gay friends in the city, so, wanting to get started on my adventure, I went alone to the first gay bar I ever went to when I was in college–a place called Paradise. It was early in the evening, much earlier than one should ever show up to a gay bar I would learn. I sat at the bar, ordered a drink and stared at my phone, dejectedly. After a few minutes, I heard a voice say “You’re very handsome.” I turned to see who it was, my heart racing, and noticed an older white man who was sitting at the corner of the bar not too far from me. I scoffed. I wasn’t being dismissive as much as I was embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say. “What, you don’t believe me?” “I’m not sure,” I said. “Well, I’ll tell you. You’re really, really beautiful. You should know that.” And for some reason, for the first time, I believed that he was telling the truth. I’m not sure why. I ended up becoming good friends with this older gentleman. He was a regular at the bar and I saw him there over the years that I frequented Paradise. I always gave him a hug. We sat and shared stories. He gave me a lot of advice about the gay community from his many years of experience. He told me about the way things were “back in the day.” And, while I never told him how much those words meant to me, I never forgot what he said. For that, he and Paradise always have and will have a special place in my heart.

Fast forward four years to New Year’s Eve 2015. I was on the dance floor in the basement of Paradise with a group of friends whom I had brought together during my time in Boston. My crew. We were dead-center and dancing like our lives depended on it. I was in the middle of my graduate school experience and, as a result of growing up a little, I was in a point in my life where I felt more confident and self-assured than I ever had felt before. We were nearing the countdown to 2016.  Lights were flashing, parting the fog. Practically everyone was shirtless. And, as I looked around through the darkness, I started to notice that all of my friends are paired up with someone whom they were undoubtedly going to kiss when the clock struck. In fact, it seemed like almost everyone in the basement had someone to kiss. In truth, I wasn’t there for that and so it didn’t bother me too much. But…I’m beautiful…right? Suddenly, it turned into one of those moments where time stopped. As the countdown began, I looked around the basement and noticed that there was something different about me. There was something itching at the back of my mind that might explain why I was the only one who was alone…

I realized I was the only black person I could see in the room. 3…2…1…Happy New Year.

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I focused the bulk of my coursework in graduate school on race/ethnic identity. Through my studies, my eyes were opened for the first time to the idea that everything in our country is impacted by race. Consequently, I started to see everything through race- colored glasses. It made me very sad and very mad. It still does. As I look back on my experiences as a gay man, starting at that first night in Paradise, I can’t help but see how the intersection of my sexuality and my race have colored so many of my experiences:

I remember how often I was the only person of color in queer spaces in Boston. I remember how often I heard in conversations with white guys that they thought I was handsome “for a black guy” or that I was cute but they didn’t “date black guys.” I also remember hearing the opposite: “I’m really into black guys” or “I only date men of color.” I remember how neither seemed to bother me that much at first.

I remember when I first got on dating apps, I noticed how people would put “no blacks, no Asians” on their profiles. I would ignore it and pursue any way. There was a time that I didn’t list my race on dating apps because of it. I messaged a guy on an app and when he asked me what my race was I lied. He stopped the conversation because he knew I wasn’t telling the truth. He told me “you should never have to lie about who you are to get anyone to like you.” I have no idea who that person was, but thank you for saying that to me all those years ago. I always list my race now.

I took a break from dating apps for a while after my New Years experience but have since returned. Now, I entirely dismiss people who list any race-based criteria. But I’ve noticed that I still have to stop myself from swiping on people of color without actually looking at their profile. Mainstream standards of beauty in the gay community–white, fit, young, hairless–have inundated me just like they have so many others. It is something that I try to consciously work against all the time. I try to slow down and look at profiles to see if I really am attracted to the person, whomever they may be. Still, I am surprised when someone whom I find attractive actually finds me attractive back. I worry that if he is white, he swiped because he is fetishizing me and my blackness. I am not as surprised when a person of color finds me attractive. I worry that people of color swipe on me simply because I am black and not because they actually want to get to know who I am. I worry they too are fetishizing me for my blackness. I may quit dating apps again soon.

I remember the first time that I went to an event hosted by The Welcoming Committee in Boston. It’s a group that takes over traditionally heterosexual spaces for a night and makes them into queer event spaces. It was the first time that I felt at home at a queer event. I had the honor of being a volunteer for the group and eventually I helped to run it for a short time. TWC was my first queer family and was where I made my first black gay male friend. While we are not as close as we used to be, the mentorship and advice that he gave me all those years ago has stuck with me. I still think of him as an example of what it looks like to full y live ones truth. TWC was the reason I eventually had the courage to fully come out on this day four years ago.

I remember finally fully ccoming out to my parents and my dad saying “You’re 24, you’re not ugly, and you don’t date; we knew you were gay.” One of my favorite dad quotes to this day. I remember my parents making it clear to me that all they have ever wanted was for me to be happy, to be true to who I am, and to be safe. I came out to my sister first. Over Thai food I stumbled though the words, “I’m gay.” She looked at me blankly and said “Nothing surprises me anymore.” We laughed and continued lunch. I remember thinking I wish I had come out sooner; the people who I was most afraid of turned out to be my biggest advocates, as they always had been.

I remember moving into a new place in Boston and having a gay roommate for the first time. He was a slightly older, extremely muscular Nigerian man and he acted as my first gay sage. I was in awe of his attitude about the gay scene. He was confident and took no bullshit from anyone. They either wanted him or didn’t. He surrounded himself with good people. I wanted to be like him.

I remember meeting the individual who would become my first gay best friend. I had never had a close friend with whom I could talk to about what it was like to be gay. We went everywhere together. He helped build my confidence in ways I never imagined were possible. He was hilarious. We were a mess together. Eventually, we had a falling out over things that gay boys seem to always falling out over. Looking back, they were silly mistakes. We have since made up but I doubt that we will never be as close as we were for many reasons. I look at who he hangs out with now, a wonderful group of guys…but they are all white like him. I don’t hold it against him, but I wonder if he notices. My current best friend is another gay guy. I don’t know anyone who can make me laugh as hard or gross me out as much as he can. He is Latino. And, despite all the time that we have spent together, we rarely talk about what it means to be gay men of color in a white dominated gay scene. I wish we would more. Maybe we are both too scared and too scarred face the reality amidst our joy.

I remember my friends asking me “Why do you always seem to go after pale, skinny, white dudes?” and me not having an answer until I came home to the predominantly white neighborhood I grew up in and looked around. And then I thought about where I went to high school and college; both elite white institutions.

I remember the only two serious relationships that I have ever had. They were both with white guys. The first one was the first time I was crazy about someone. He was goofy and ambitious. He loved to eat and had good taste. But he wasn’t fully out. I never met his straight friends or parents. He always jokingly talked about how much he liked Latino men. Despite the incredible amount of time we spent together, he told me that he wasn’t ready for a relationship. But, I Iiked him so I was okay with all of that. We ended up “breaking up” after a full summer together right before I started grad school. He said it wasn’t fair that he wasn’t ready for a relationship and that I deserved someone who was. I was heartbroken, but he was right. A few months later I learned that he had started dating someone officially. When I found out who it was, I was surprised to learn that the guy wasn’t Latino. He was white too. He is now more out than ever, albeit still not fully. And despite his claims of liking men of color and having friends who identified in that way, all I ever see him in pictures with are white guys. I can’t help thinking that my skin color had something to do with why we couldn’t be together.

I was a bit more balanced when it came to the second of the two. I had a few more experiences under my belt and approached the relationship in a more jaded fashion. I fell pretty hard for him too. He was extremely smart, passionate, and compassionate. He also had fantastic taste, this time in music. Unfortunately because of extenuating circumstances, we had to end our relationship as well. A few months ago,  he lampooned me for having “Ivy League grad” in my dating profile. I tried to explain to him that I felt compelled to have that detail my profile because without it people would look at me and assume I wasn’t smart. On top of that, I was proud of what I had accomplished. Looking back, I see how problematic my thinking was. I know people shouldn’t associate the color of my skin with being anything but excellent and if they do I shouldn’t be around those people anyway. I have since removed that part of my profile where I can. Still, I wanted him to understand why I felt compelled to have it on my profile in the first place. I wanted him to understand that black people are seen as lesser than and these apps exacerbate that discrimination. He proceeded to compare the judgment and dismissal that I receive for the color of my skin to the way he gets treated because of the size of his penis. I was crestfallen and, in an odd turn, couldn’t find it in myself to continue the conversation. He didn’t understand why that comment was so problematic. We haven’t talked about that subject again.

I still have never had an “official” boyfriend.

I remember that before leaving Boston, inspired by one of my graduate school classes and wanting to cocoon myself around other gay black men, I started a group called the Men of Melanin Magic. The group still exists today. We used the same model as The Welcoming Committee initially. The first event drew 40+ people. I was excited by being around other black gay men. I though it felt good. At the events, however, my friends who helped me start the group would always note how I wasn’t acting myself. They wondered why I wasn’t being gregarious and making friends with everyone like I usually do. “People find you attractive! Have you gotten any numbers?” they would ask. I hadn’t. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I know now that my reticence was based in my fear of being judged. In conversations, without knowing me or having any prompting–sometimes without me having said anything–guys at the events would say “You look like someone who only dates white guys.” I was afraid of not being seen as “black enough.” So, I stayed silent. I know that I cannot generalize these experiences to all gay black men, but it has always been hard for me not to. Even now, when among a group of people with whom I should feel kinship I feel like they are all strangers.

I have since made black gay male friends, but there have been many moments where I felt as though some of them were trying to provide with me unsolicited counsel. I felt as though they were trying to hold a mirror up to me to help me “see the error of my ways.” That they wanted to explain to me that there was a way that I should act and a kind of guy I should date. There was a kind of “wokeness” that I should be at. That I should have recognized “all of these things before” and that “I would get there someday.” I remember just wanting to do whatever I wanted to do and be me without any “shoulds.” Maybe they were just trying to help and that I was too afraid to admit that they were right.

I remember how excited I was to move to Chicago. By the end of my time in Boston, I felt like it was a insidious, hyper-racialized place. Moving to Chicago has been a great change for me. That is not to say that it is not hyper-racialized. But, because there are simply more people of color, the gay scene feels slightly different. All gay bars here have a few more black people in them. I’m not alone. In fact, there are gay bars that are heavily frequented by people of color. A year in and I have yet to have someone say to me “you’re cute for a black guy.” My new job has also afforded me the opportunity to travel the country and see new gayborhoods in Houston, San Francisco, and Atlanta. These are all places that have a wider range of queer spaces and more people of color than I was used to in Boston. I have felt much more appreciated in all these places.

I remember being in a straight bar with a new gay friend in the south suburbs of Chicago and being the only black person in the bar. I brought it up to him in passing. He said to me, frustrated, “We are all having a good time, why do you have to bring up race? No one else is thinking about that.” I was.

I remember a recent date I went on a date with someone in Chicago. Things were going well and we were holding hands as we were about to hop on the train. As we started to kiss, a black man who was sitting at the train station looked at me and said, “Man, do you really have to do that in front of me? Can’t you go somewhere else? I don’t want to see you two do that.” My date was livid and proceeded to call the man a “nigger.” I was mortified. He grabbed my hand and pulled me on the train. He commenced to rant about how he hated when people were homophobic. When I finally caught my breath, I asked him how he felt that it was okay to say “the n-word” at all, particularly in front of me. He said he didn’t mean anything by it. He would never call me that. That I wasn’t like that guy. Dumbfounded, I continued on the date, hoping for an opportunity to explain to him how wrong his thinking was. I never got it and I wish I had jumped off at the next stop.

I remember celebrating my first Chicago Pride as a full out gay adult this past June. It was a magical to be able to feel as though I could finally be my true self in a place I have always called home. The day was full of great views, energetic dancing, and love. So much love. I was surrounded by friends, new and old, throughout the day. I felt beautiful.

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So what does this all have to do with pride? Most of these stories are sad memories sad, not happy and full of revelry like the celebratory LGBTQ month of June promises. I know that in many of these instances other factors besides or in addition to race were at play. There is always more than one side to a story, though I don’t know how much that matters. Impact trumps intent. I try not to hold grudges and I do not think that any of these people who made me feel the way I feel or felt are “bad.”  I know that there were many points in these stories where my leaving the situation or listening to signs that I picked up on would have saved me grief. Of course, it is easy to say all of that in hindsight. I acknowledge that these vignettes show many of my own insecurities, self-loathing, internalized racism, and blind spots. In many cases, I am complicit in the racism I am experiencing. At the same time that I may blame others for some of these actions and events, I am not trying to pass blame on anyone for my own flaws. I am trying to work on all of them daily. My journeys from being a gayby (read: gay + baby) to a gaydolescent and from not seeing color to seeing it everywhere have not been easy ones. They have been full of missed opportunities, heartbreak, and mistakes. I’m starting to think that’s okay. I’m starting to think that it’s how I learn best.

To be clear, I have had many, many glorious moments as a gay black many in the years before and coming out fully four years ago. However, after this Pride month, I started to think more critically about what pride really means. The word and the month. When I started to reflect on my experiences, these stories rose to the top. Through putting the side by side I noticed something. Looking back on all of these stories, there was a threaded theme of being seen or not seen–for the right or wrong reasons. I have spent the large majority of my life not being out and running away from who I am. Now that I am out, figuring out what it means to be gay has not ended. My recent recognition of the racialization of my experience as a gay man has only further convoluted and complicated things. And while I am certainly not always sad, this recognition makes me sad a lot of the time. But, as a singer once said, “it’s okay not to be okay.”

So I share these stories, not because I want sympathy or I because want anyone I have mentioned here to feel bad. I relay these stories to say that that these things happened to me and, as a poet once said, “still I rise.” I tell my truth in an effort to be seen by those like me who have had similar experiences and feelings and have never voiced them before. I myself have never told anyone many of these stories. I want those who feel invisible in similar ways to me to know that I see them. I want to understand. I want to find a safe space. I want to help and be helped. I want to help those who don’t see to consider opening their eyes. I tell these stories to be seen because deep down I AM proud of who I am, where I come from, and where I am going in spite of my struggle. For me, pride–the month and the feeling–is about being visible. Unabashedly so. Through the good and the bad. And, on this the fourth anniversary of my coming out, I wanted to write it all down so I wouldn’t forget.

I remember going to the final block party of the Boston Pride celebration the day we all woke up to find out that the Pulse massacre happened in Orlando in 2016. I remember crying and crying, not only because my gay family had been attacked out of hate but because this event reminded me that gay people of color can’t even find safe spaces within the walls of their own community. None of us were safe and I felt even less so as a black man. Still, we raged on. I remember running into one of my professors from graduate school at the block party. He admitted that he was a bit out of place, that people his age did not typically attend this event. He explained that after he woke up and cried in his husbands arms, he called his friends and told them that they had to show up to this event regardless of their age or their fear. He repeated to me what he said to them: “We have to let the world know that they can kill us and we will still be here.”

I’m still here. Can you see me?

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Chicago, Education, Growing Up, LGBTQ, reflections

On Being in the Closet at St. Ignatius

I distinctly remember one gay teacher while I was a student at St. Ignatius College Preparatory School in Chicago. Or, at least we all thought he was gay. He taught Spanish and was unapologetically flamboyant. I never had the pleasure of having him as a teacher, nor did I ever have a teacher who was openly gay until graduate school–I cried when she said it in passing on the first day of class. I don’t know if the Spanish teacher ever came out to students or ever said that he was gay. Frankly, it was none of our business. Even without the “official” confirmation, the students loved him. It was said that he was one of the best Spanish teachers in the department. In particular, the students loved that he was gay. However, students weren’t seemingly obsessed with the fact that he was gay because it was some kind of celebration of identity. They loved that he was gay because of the novelty of it.

I have vivid memories of male students making a sort-of-game out of approaching this teacher. He gave any student a hug when the student asked, and I remember watching male students dare each other to go up to him to get a hug. The male student would always approach timidly and reluctantly while his pack of friends stood back and giggled behind their hands. I wonder now as I wondered then if that teacher knew the spectacle those students were making out of his identity. I saw this exchange happen frequently during passing periods in the hallway. I have one particularly clear memory of a male student getting a hug and then promptly brushing off his clothes and skin as if to say he was wiping off the contact he had just had. He was a popular student, making his actions all the more “important” and the embrace all the more “egregious.” Everyone thought it was hilarious. The message that action sent has stuck with me over 10 years later. I can see that student’s face as he grimaced, wiping away this teacher’s homosexuality like it was contagious. I still know that student now. At one point that student was a teacher himself. I hope he gave hugs to kids that wanted them when he was a teacher. I hope no student ever wiped off his identity, his love.

I never got one of those hugs. I both thought it would be weird since I was never a student of this teacher (though he would hug anyone who asked, pupil of his or not). Moreover, I tried to avoid anything that might lead to the assumption that I myself was gay since I was terrified of the truth that lie latent within me. I now wish I had gotten one. That hug could have been affirming for him and affirming for me in a time when I felt like something was wrong with me; a time when I felt suppressed, confused, and invisible.

I have other vivid memories of a time when this particular teacher was sick. He was out of school for over a week and many students were dismayed. His class was highly liked. “Did you hear about [the teacher]?” I remember being asked by a classmate. “Yeah, he’s out sick, right?” I said, wondering why my classmate brought up this teacher to me in the first place–we took French together, so my classmate knew I wasn’t in his class. “Yep,” my classmate now whispered. “People are saying it’s because he has AIDS.” My heart dropped. Back then, I knew so much less about HIV/AIDS than I do now. We certainly weren’t educated about it fully as students in our limited sex education classes. Regardless, the rumor spread like wildfire. We never found out the truth of it, and, again, it wasn’t our business in the first place. But I remember that all students–boys and girls, who were usually lined up to hug this teacher–were more reluctant to get hugs from him after he finally did come back. There was a little less joy and love in the hallway then.

The culture around homosexuality itself was virulent. We were never taught anything about sexual orientation. The word “fag” was thrown around cavalierly by many students from neighborhood, who made up a sizeable population of the student body. I did everything in my power to not be considered gay. So, for a long time, I didn’t have friends from my own neighborhood as a result of my fear. In fact, I never really had close male friends from my neighborhood in my class. I was always too scared. Instead, I preferred to hang out with students a year behind me or ahead of me. Many of my friends were from the suburbs or the Northside. They seemed a bit more “progressive.” My bias as the Northside of the city being a more “gay-friendly place” still remains today in part because of this trauma.

I still remember all the crushes I had on my fellow male students, whose affections I knew would never be reciprocated. I recall being depressed for a good portion of my sophomore and junior years and not knowing why. I had no desire to dance with my female dates at some of the first events I went to. In fact, I was scared to. I still feel bad about making my dates feel rejected when really I was rejecting myself. I didn’t learn how much I loved to dance until later in life. I now take classes from time to time. I know the guy I would have asked to prom (though my prom date, who was a wonderful young lady, was the absolute best). He would have said no, of course, but it would have been nice to have felt as though I was in an environment that would have supported my action.

Years later, I have heard from some queer friends about how they were able to come out during their time in high school. They would tell stories of how included they felt or, if they weren’t, how they learned to carve out their own space. In doing so, they were able to date at a much younger age and make authentic friendships with people who knew them and loved them for who they were. I didn’t have that experience then and I wonder how I might be different now if I had. I wonder how much bolder and more confident it might have made me at an earlier age.

You know that you have truly been inculcated when even you are afraid to come out to yourself because you are convinced it’s bad or wrong. I will never fully know or be able to quantify it, and I am not blaming the school for the ills of society at large, but I do wonder what role St. Ignatius played in keeping me in the closet for so long. I definitely know the culture and community at the school played some role, or at least staff could have done more to make me feel supported. Yes, I know that the incidents I named that are so firmly burned into my memory were perpetuated by my fellow students, but that culture was only allowed to happen because there was no explicit messaging from the school against it. It is just as important to note what is taught explicitly as it is to note what is taught implicitly or not taught at all.

The recent article on the firing of a St. Ignatius teacher has brought these memories to the forefront of my mind though I have reflected frequently on what it was like to be in the closet at St. Ignatius. I do not know all sides of the story to explain why the teacher, who seemed to be well respected by staff, well-liked by students, and was on his way towards tenure, was fired. He claims that his firing had to do with his sexuality. The facts in the article state that a student found the teacher’s dating profile on OkCupid, spread around pictures, and that student, along with other students, harassed this teacher on social media. There were more developments, but when the issue was said and done, the students involved received small disciplinary slaps on the wrist. The teacher ended up canned.

I understand that I do not have all of the details and I plan to seek them out from all sides before jumping to conclusions about this being a wrongful and discriminatory termination. I understand that religious schools have exemptions from Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which allows religious institutions to discriminate in regards to the hiring and firing ministerial staff (or, in this case, staff that teaches religion), so even if this teacher was fired because of his sexuality, the school may be within their right to do so. I understand that Catholicism does not condone or endorse homosexuality (though the pope, a Jesuit himself, has expressed the need for more tolerance and less judgement of individuals who identify as gay or lesbian), and that we live in a country where individuals and institutions have the right to believe whatever they want to believe. But I also understand as a former educator and proud, fully-out gay man the importance of modeling for young people. The failure of the school to model proper behavior in this situation is what I am most concerned about. Modeling can literally save lives.

Data from the most recent report from the CDC on risk factors for youth shows heartbreaking statistics on how much worse rates of bullying, physical dating violence, and suicide attempts  are for high school youth who identify as LGB versus youth who identify as heterosexual (about 2 times, greater than 2 times, and greater than 4 times, respectively). There is research that shows how having an adult who is a role model can help to lower rates of risk factors for LGBT youth. There are data that show that explicit anti-discrimination statements and gay-straight alliances also help to reduce suicidal thoughts and attempts for queer students. St. Ignatius, to my knowledge, does not have either. And now, this incident–whatever the reasons behind it–shows all students, but in particular those students who may be struggling with their sexuality at St. Ignatius, what could potentially happen to people simply because they are gay. It also shows how there are little to few repercussions for those who perpetuate discriminatory actions towards gay people.

What kind of modeling is this for young people? For a school whose motto is “men and women for others,” these actions by the students and the response by the school do not seem to uphold these values. As I said, it is totally within the rights of a Catholic school to not condone homosexuality. You can believe whatever you want to believe. But as an educational institution that holds itself to the standard of teaching God’s love, the school is obligated to teach respect for all people, to decry bullying, to promote justice, and to protect its young people, regardless of beliefs or identities. This is a failed teaching moment. Or, at least, the lessons taught were not ones of love.

This incident brings to mind other questions and comments that I have around the difficulty of being a gay male teacher in general, but for me, that isn’t the focus here. Despite how problematic this situation might be in regards to HR and publicity, I imagine that this teacher will be able to land on his feet. I do not say that to diminish the gravity of his accusation or the pain that he, his loved ones, his peers, and his students must be feeling right now. I say it because I can tell he is a good teacher. I can tell that because of his public response which focused on the kids and their learning, despite all this other noise. He will most likely get another teaching job if he so chooses, and I really, really hope he does.

Who I am worried about is the student like me who is walking the halls of St. Ignatius feeling even less supported and loved than they felt before because of this incident. That student who is even more scared about being bullied. That student who doesn’t know if St. Ignatius is the place for them. That student who is wondering if there is a place for them anywhere. That student who wishes there was a teacher like them who could give them a hug and tell them that it does get better (and, if that student is reading, it does get better–I promise).

I want answers for that student and I plan on holding the school accountable. I want to not only know more about this incident but more importantly what are the next steps? I don’t go there currently and I am hurting, so I know members of the community more directly involved must be as well. How does the school plan on rebuilding a community that is broken over this? What kind of professional development is in place to help staff appropriately and proactively mitigate situations like this? What curriculum is in place to teach students to not just be allies but “upstanders” in situations of bullying and discrimination? How is everyone being taught to have dialogue and work across difference, particularly when it comes to issues that are not aligned with one’s beliefs? There needs to be explicit programming around teaching students and staff respect for all people, including individuals who identify as gay.

To be clear, I loved attending St. Ignatius. Despite the concerns and negative experiences I have expressed here, I thoroughly enjoyed my time at the institution. It is a fantastic school that provides a high-quality education and was full of caring, passionate teachers. I write this as a concerned alum who wants to see the school I love grow and reflect the values it espouses. As such, I plan on being a firestarter and a resource for change. If you are interested in following up with me, please feel free to reach out. I want St. Ignatius to do better for that kid like me. Because, at the end of the day, creating an environment where that kid feels safe, valued, and loved is the type of work that truly embodies what it means to be a person for others.

Andrew Rayner
SICP Class of 2006

Note: Members of the SICP community have written a petition to the administration asking for policy and structural changes at the school to promote a safer environment for people who identify as LGBT and for people of color. If you feel so inclined, please sign the petition found here. Thank you.

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reflections

If You Care About Your Mother, Your Ancestors, or People Like Me, Vote Hillary

Yesterday, an acquaintance of mine from college wrote an eloquent post on Facebook about why he was voting for Donald Trump. In it, he denounced the liberal left as “witch hunters” who used arguments from their moral high ground to demonize the right and their policies. Now, despite my objections to his political proclivities, I realized that he had somewhat of a point. Politicians must be more than just beliefs. They should also be logical and informed people who based their decisions on fact. All three of those elements—morals, logic, and facts—can change based on who is wielding the information and from what vantage point they are looking from, but that doesn’t change the fact that it is the combination of the three that yield a truly strong candidate.

On the eve of the 2016 Election Day, this acquaintance’s post has caused me to stop and think even more deeply about the choice we are being asked to make through voting tomorrow. To be honest, if elections were just a matter of logic and facts, I feel like the choice would be incredibly obvious. There may never have been a more experienced candidate to run for the office of President. And, despite what you may think of the quality of that experience, I would rather have someone who can make educated, experienced guesses and be wrong at the helm than someone with no experience whatsoever. But, in truth, this election is not about logic and facts. It never really has been. Because of his lack of experience, early on Trump changed the rhetoric in this election from one of logic and facts to one of morals and emotion. One article of many from early on the campaign trail explains basically how if you appeal to emotion, you don’t have to have logic on your side. And that is just what the Trump campaign, somewhat expertly, has done. So, with less than 24 hours to go until we as a nation cast our votes for the next President of the United States, I am going to do the same thing—appeal to emotion—and tell you what I believe in the hopes that you too will make the morally righteous choice tomorrow.

I want you to know that I believe in my mother, my grandmother, my sister. I know that I would not be the person I am today if it was not for them. They are some of the smartest, bravest, kindest, and hardest working people I have ever known. A lawyer and rare cancer survivor who says her greatest accomplishment is her children. A compassionate woman who never says no to helping others even at almost 80; she did not graduate college and yet helped start two grandchildren down the path to top 10 universities. A consultant-turned-librarian who knows more about anything than you probably do. For them to live in a country where they aren’t paid the same as men because of their sex is unimaginable. For them to live in a country where they do not get to decide what to do with their own bodies is abominable. For them to live in a country where someone who is in the running for the highest office of the land can speak about them as if they were objects is unacceptable. I also believe in my new baby niece. I hope that one day the boy or girl that falls in love with her treats her with the respect she fully deserves. I want my President to be a model of that respect. If you care about your mother, your grandmother, your sister, your niece, or any of the other women in your life, you must vote for Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.

I believe in my ancestors. I believe in my African ancestors, who were brought over here against their will and made to toil and work to literally build the foundations of our country. And I believe in their children and grandchildren, some of whom are my great-grandparents and grandparents—ones who endured segregation, lynching, burning crosses, and hate. They dared to live despite the concentrated efforts of others and in the midst of it all still managed to make the world a better place, creating innovating in field like science and music that revolutionized the world in ways that still have ripples today. It was their willingness to endure that allows me to be here and cast a vote tomorrow in the first place. And their story, though specialized, is not unique. The narratives of a people of color in this country are fraught with disenfranchisement and triumph in the face of unlikely odds. While they mostly helped themselves, they were were also spurred on by people who were willing to be allies and upstanders. They were helped by people who knew that our differences are what make us beautiful. They were helped by people that knew that our differences are not as great as those things that made us the same. If you believe in people of color, you must vote for Secretary Hillary Clinton.

I also want to be clear that I believe in my ancestors who came here willingly. My great-grandmother came across the Atlantic from Norway as a graduation present and so fell in love with America that she decided to not go back home. If our boarders were closed, people like her who were seeking a better life on our shores would not have been able to find it. As a country built on immigrants, willing and unwilling, we all would not be here if it weren’t for them. It is her and people like her who help to make our country a mélange of cultures and ideas, which is the backbone of the American soul. If you believe in the journey your bloodline has made to get you here today, you must vote for Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.

I believe in Harvey Milk, Marsha P. Johnson, Brandon Teena, Matthew Shepard, CeCe McDonald, and so many others who have fought and/or died in the struggle so that someone like me can walk down the street holding the hand of someone I love and not be persecuted for it. Marriage equality is certainly not the apex of the Queer Rights Movement; it is only a simple beginning and a victory for few. But to take steps back would be unethical and unfair. It would say to me that this country believes that the way that I was made to love is wrong. If you believe that love is love is love, you must vote for Secretary of State Hillary Clinton,

I say to that acquaintance from college that you are right. That we have to make politics about more than just morality. We have to give fair examinations to positions and legislation from all sides of the fence. But when a candidate for the highest office in this land claims that he will make America great again by undermining and invalidating my humanity, I cannot help but to cry foul, and cry foul loudly. When a candidate wants to build walls and divide over bringing us together, I have to say that he is objectively wrong. If you want to claim that those who oppose Trump are on a “witch hunt” against him and his supporters, then call me Puritanical. I am only treating this as a battle versus good and evil because that is what it is. When you have children who are afraid to learn in school because of the rhetoric of a presidential candidate, the debate has to be a moral one over all else.When you have someone who is planning on taking away liberties that ensure the pursuit of happiness for some American citizens for the sake of others, the conversation has to be one about morality. When you have a candidate who is advocating for war crimes, the conversation has to be one about what is right and wrong.

So I ask and plead of you, if you care for the women in your life, your ancestors, people of color, the LGBTQ community, any and all those who have been disenfranchised, you must vote for Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.

If you care for all that is good and right in this world, you must vote for Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.

If you care at all about me and my humanity, you must vote for Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.

 

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Chicago, reflections, Uncategorized

Fatigue from Building Bridges between Segregated Spaces, or Why I am Not Rooting for the Chicago Cubs

Border crossing, as my grad school professor Sara Lawrence-Lightfoot calls it, is a part of all our lives in some way or another. We have all had to cross from spaces where one norm or belief that is held by the group or most salient is shocked and challenged through the process of transcending into another space. This could be moving from one neighborhood to another, changing jobs, visiting a new place or country, or even experiencing an activity in a different way. I have always taken pride in my ability to cross borders. W.E.B. Dubois calls it the “seeing through the veil.” Rudyard Kipling calls it “walking with kings and keeping the common touch.” And in truth, I believe that the ability to transcend borders and unite people is the noblest endeavor that we can embrace in the battle to build coalitions of diverse minds, attitudes, origins, demographics, and beliefs. I truly enjoy engaging in the fight to close the gaps. Through facilitating conversations about race at school, helping to design workshops around race for work, and planning events within the queer community in the hopes of bringing people of different backgrounds together, I see the work as challenging, fulfilling, and rewarding.

Except when it’s not. Because it frequently isn’t.

Despite the best efforts of many equity and equality warriors, spaces still remain distinct. Rivers remain un-forded. Due to forces greater than the sum of the efforts of those trying to build bridges, divisive systemic structures seem too deeply rooted to unearth. I don’t believe this to be a cause to give up or stop the work, but it can be incredibly frustrating and invalidating. Some scholars characterize the feeling of being exhausted from the plight of building bridges across difference as a sort of “fatigue” (I am most familiar with this term when it is referring to “racial fatigue”). I have seen some of the greatest equality warriors and racial advocates I have had the honor of knowing needing to sit down and back off from encounters due to their fatigue. In the past, it has always somewhat confused me. How can we aspire to make a difference by bridging difference if we find ourselves tired of having the conversations and doing the work? I liken it to teaching, which at many points felt like a fruitless, uphill battle. Regardless of your fatigue, you had to show up to work every day and give your all.

Recently, an article I read refocused my attention on an idea that I had forgotten while in the trenches of doing the work of bridging gaps. In the article, Marlon James writes about how problematic it is that when attempting to work across difference the rhetoric always turns to expecting or wanting the marginalized or out-group to do the work to meet the in-group halfway, when the burden of the work should really be on those in power. “If QPOCs are so concerned about why gay bars aren’t more diverse, then why don’t they come to the bars more often?” “All the black kids don’t have to sit at the same lunch table if they don’t want to; why don’t they come sit over here with us?” “It’s totally fine for gay people to come into this venue. I don’t get why they feel so uncomfortable.” “Yeah Chicago is segregated, but the Northside is just better. I don’t get why more people aren’t trying to move up here and leave the Southside.” All of these statements are ridiculous and insulting. They ignore and erase the perspectives of those marginalized and take no accountability for the systems that marginalize in the first place. In working to bridge gaps, we have to stop expecting one side to work harder and reach further. Moreover, it is way past time that we acknowledge that those marginalized are frequently asked to stretch to reach those in positions of privilege, and those who are in positions of privilege have not been reaching back.

Enter the Chicago Cubs and their fans.

Let me start this part of the conversation by making it clear that I reaaaaally don’t care about baseball at all. I think that it is the most boring major professional sport on earth. In fact, the shame that I have in America is less rooted in our foreign policy or our lack of never having had a female president (yet) and more rooted in the fact that baseball, of all sports, is our “national pastime” when there are so many other cool sports like football (soccer) or jai-alai. With that being said…

Chicago has always been said to be one of the most segregated cities in America. Chicago’s rank on most segregated lists varies depending on where you look and the methodology used, but it is always in the top 10 (Drumpf keeps stating that it is THE most segregated city, and the report that many currently turn to say that that is not true as of right now; however, the visual still tells a sad, sad story). The borders to be crossed in Chicago are blatantly and explicitly geographic. This is reflected in all types of demographics, but particularly in race and class. The Northside is predominantly white, upper-middle class, and white collar. The Southside being predominantly black and Latino, middle to lower class, and blue collar.

There are consistent and constant efforts to distinguish the Northside and the Southside of Chicago from both parties. I, myself, am a Southsider (though, I must be honest and say that I grew up in a neighborhood that was predominantly white and upper-middle class, making it an exception to the rule on the Southside). Going to school up North, I was constantly plagued by the fact that my Northside friends never wanted to come down to the Southside. “There is nothing to do there” or “It’s really dangerous” they would say. That there is nothing to do is not entirely true, but one can look at distinctions between the violence and existence of gangs in the neighborhoods, the availability of restaurants and other amenities, or even attractions that exist in the city to see that there is a clear bias in resources in Chicago towards the Northside (even this Chicago-as-Game-of-Thrones article completely ignores the existence of the Southside ). In media, the Southside of Chicago also has a terrible reputation. Chicago rappers like Kanye and Chance the Rapper talk about the plights of life on the streets. The nickname “Chi-raq” has become popular in recent years and was cemented by the Spike Lee film of the same name. Add that to things such as food deserts, Southside school closures of recent, and housing discrimination of yesteryear; it’s clear to see why the Southside of Chicago is known worldwide as some kind of destitute, barren, violent wasteland. As a result, the rivalry between Northsiders and Southsiders is a real and tangible thing. Anecdotally, I’ve experienced that Northsiders disassociate themselves with the Southside almost as if it was a different city. Growing up, my Southside friends had no interest even in interacting with Northsiders and vice versa. Even now, as an adult, most people from one part of the city stay in that part of the city and rarely travel to the other.

The cusp around which I have seen the Chicago rivalry rear its head most vitrulently has always been baseball (since no one wants to explicitly talk about race or class, smh). Each side has its own team, and each side claims that’s that team as the end-all-be-all. The Cubs are the Northside team. Their stadium, Wrigley Field, is nestled in a neighborhood known as Wrigleyville. The White Sox are the Southside team. Their stadium, U.S. Cellular Field (name soon to be changed to something unspeakable) is located in Bridgeport. Sources contend that for the most part the teams’ fans follow the same demographic breakdown as their geographic affiliations. As a result, this rivalry, which actually spans over a century, has become more than league competition. Woe be unto you if you walk into Sox country wearing Cubs gear and vice-verse. Fights literally break out over this

So, it is strange to me that fans are now calling for the city to come together and support the Cubs as they enter the World Series for the first time in 71 years seeking a trophy they have not had since 1908. This fight, to me, is an example of so much more than just sports (and sorry to suck the joy out of something that is supposed to technically be fun). The Cubs abysmal track record for winning this coveted award is a common butt of jokes in comedy and now that the team is closer than they have ever been in my (or many other’s) lifetime, Southsiders are asked to band together with the North. We are being called to come together as a city and “Fly the W.” Again, I am not a baseball fan at all, but I was in high school when the White Sox won the World Series in 2005. I remember the vitriol from Northsiders. I don’t remember any camaraderie at all. I do remember walking outside that night on October 26th when the White Sox swept the series. I remember hearing the shouts and the clanging of pots and pans. I remember kids and adults alike running around the streets of Beverly celebrating because the Southside, the little guy, the side without, finally won. We had something (else) that the North didn’t.

So, despite being someone who believes in building bridges, and despite being someone who tries not to let “fatigue” get to me, I am going to go on record to say that I am, in this purported instance of bridge-building, tired. I am taking an ideological stance. I, as a Southsider, will not reach a little bit further to bridge gaps with the North simply because we are being asked to do so. I think the burden is on them. Again, the little guy, the marginalized Southsiders are being asked to work a little bit harder to bring our city together and I don’t think that is fair. After  years of degradation and even recent erasure (ESPN literally failed to note the White Sox had won the World Series in 2005), I will not be supporting the Cubs*. I will cherish in my Southside roots. On this, the day of the 11 year anniversary of our World Series victory, I will relish what we have and they don’t. Here’s to hoping that a loss will finally force the North to value the other side of their city a little bit more.

*Let me also be clear that I wouldn’t be able to support the Cubs even if I didn’t care about the North/South rivalry because their owner donated $1 million dollars to the Trump campaign; I also wouldn’t support the Cleveland Indians because of their racist mascot. There are really no winners here…
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reflections

Where the Boom Bands Play or Re-envisioning 28

Years ago, when I was a young burgeoning ingénue, I always said that 28 was my dream age. Definitely a strange choice, I know. It’s not a milestone like 16, 18, or 21, where you can drive, get recruited, or legally drink. It’s not  even 30, 35, or 40, which some might choose because of the idea that you’re a “real adult” at those ages. No, I always thought to myself, “Twenty-eight is gonna be the best year of my life.” I believed this for three reasons. I thought by the time I was 28, I would (1) be living in the city of my dreams where I would want to be settled for the rest of my life, (2) I would be with a significant other with whom I would want to spend the rest of me life, (3) and I would have a master’s degree from Harvard University. With today being my 28th birthday, I can say with confidence that I have accomplished one of my three goals (the third, for those keeping track). While I have no strong grievances with Chicago, I have just moved back here after being gone for 10 years, so I am still trying to get used to and understand the city again. It’s too fresh of a move to say I want to stay forever. And, as far as having a significant other is concerned, I still have never been in a serious, long-term relationship. Neither of these two things are bad and I certainly don’t think I have failed my young self by not reaching all three of these goals. However, waking up this morning, and even lingering in the back of my mind last night, I couldn’t help but to think “I can’t believe I’m this old” and “I should have accomplished more.”

Look, I know I have accomplished a tremendous amount in my life thus far, but that still doesn’t help the fact that I thought things—even little things—would be different when I got to this age. It is always so funny to me how we constantly have visions for our lives and those visions frequently do not come to fruition in the way we thought they would. Despite the fact that this inconsistency seems to be one of the only constants in life, we still dream, and we still get disappointed when what we saw in our mind’s eye isn’t what manifests itself in reality. I am a huge dreamer and romantic, and so I think these inconsistencies hit me harder than others sometimes. I think the first manifestation of this that really sticks out in my mind is a few years ago when I went to the wedding of a close family friend a few months after coming out to my parents. I always imagined myself marrying this girl—our parents even joked about it constantly throughout our childhood—and as my family got ready to get into the car to go to her wedding, I couldn’t help but stare at myself in the mirror of the bathroom and cry. I was extremely happy and proud to be out. I was very happy for her. I didn’t have any sort of romantic feelings for her (in fact, she had become more of a sister to me). But, it was the first time I really felt like the life I had envisioned for myself was not coming to pass, and that was a hard truth to face.

My mother is an ever-flowing font of wisdom and can always make me feel better with a witty adage or straight-talk. As I shuffled my feet into my parents’ room this morning to give my mom a hug and thank her for bringing me into this world, in her all-knowing magical mom way, she asked me if something was the matter. When I told her about my concerns about wishing I had done more with my life now that I’m 28, she looked at me as though I was crazy. “What is wrong with you? You’ve done so much! You just got a master’s degree and you have an amazing job that was exactly what you wanted. You’re also not even that old…what on earth did you expect from yourself?” I saved myself from regaling her with the woes of my love life or how I felt somewhat lame for living at home even though it has been shown to be a very common move for millennials after finishing grad school. She went on to say,  “let go of what was, accept what is, and look expectantly towards the future…and remember that its all about the attitude you chose to carry with you. Choose to be happy and have a good day.”

These are all pieces of advice that my mother has given me before, but on this day of the start of my 28th year of life, they have particular resonance. Again, it is curious  to me how we expect to have life happen to us instead of realizing that we happen to it as well. I find myself getting frustrated all the time at things that haven’t come to pass—I haven’t gone on a trip here, I haven’t made music in a while, I haven’t found a boyfriend, I haven’t yadda-yadda—when really, these are all things within my circle of control and I need to ask myself what am I actually doing to make these things come to light? Am I saving money (no…well, now that I am living at home, yes)? Am I taking time to record songs on the weekends (no…but I did last week and it was awesome)? Are you putting yourself in places where you can find the people that you want to be around (kinda…though it’s probably not bars and clubs)? I need to remember that I have the power and ability to make my dreams actualize. It sounds so silly to say since it is a piece of advice we hear over and over again from a young age. But sometimes the most seemingly trite expressions are overused because they are, in fact, very true. I think my mom’s advice about attitude is the most important part for me today. It is incredibly easy to beat yourself up, to not see the forest for the trees that you plant all the time every day, to be too hard on yourself. This is something I know I am guilty of all of the time. I’ve got to remember that the attitude you bring to any situation, be it good or bad, can color the entire experience. It is so much less productive to have a self-defeatist attitude about what my life isn’t instead of being excited about what my life is and can be.

So, I say all of this to say that I am making a new promise to myself on this first day of my 28th year of life. I’m making this promise to that younger version of myself whose head was in the clouds and thought he knew what life would look like when really he had no clue at all (except for the Harvard thing…you killed that one, bro). I promise to reengage in those things that make me happy, to put effort towards the things that I dream of, and carry a positive and productive attitude to the things that I want that may or may not be actualized just yet. I made a new friend during my last year in Boston who had such an air of peace and confidence about him that I grew to truly respect and admire. Once on an afternoon we were hanging out, this friend told me that one day he decided to stop saying “ I wish I had” or “ I should have done” and just started doing things. That’s what I want to do with my 28th year of life. This blog is the start. In truth, I went to school to be a writer and it never really came to be. I have always been disappointed with that. Not any more. My hope is that this can be a space where I can share my dreams, interests, and passions for my own sake and hopefully can empower others to do the same as well.

The name of the blog, “Where the Boom Bands Play,” comes from one of my favorite books, “Oh, The Places You’ll Go!” by Dr. Seuss. It’s a book that I return to frequently during transitions in my life and it seems incredibly important to reflect on that book today (if you haven’t read it, go get it right now). In the book, Dr. Seuss starts by congratulating you, the reader, by saying, “Today is your day. You’re off to Great Places! You’re off and away!” The doctor reminds you that, “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.” He describes how wonderful where you are going will be; he describes how successful you will be. However, the doctor also warns that slumps, bang-ups, and hang-ups will happen to you, as they do to everyone. When they do, the doctor states that people frequently find themselves in what he calls “The Waiting Place,” where people are waiting for anything and everything. I like to think that the good ol’ doctor was talking about those of us—myself included—who sit around waiting for life to happen instead of making it happen themselves. Luckily, in a glorious page turn, the doctor proclaims that “The Waiting Place” is not for you. He writes that you’ll escape The Waiting Place and “You’ll find the bright places where Boom Bands are playing.”

I found it. It’s right here, right now. Twenty-eight is going to be the best year yet.

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