In the wake of New York becoming the six state to extend the right of marriage to same-sex couples, the president's position on marriage equality has been the subject of some debate here. Some of the president's supporters--here and elsewhere--have argued that he does support equality--in the form of civil unions which the same benefits as marriage (ie, marriage in all but name only) and they don't seem to understand why that isn't enough for some of us. This is why it matters to me.
I started thinking about this when I watched the "It Gets Better" video from Netroots Nation. I really identified with one person who lamented having waited so long to come out to family. I grew up in a conservative part of the country, raised in a church that was very anti-gay. From the moment I realized that I was different, I was never allowed to forget that I was the other. I was gender non-conforming, so I was shunned both at church and at school.
I could tell you the stories of having no friends to play with on the playground, of sitting in the auditorium reading books during lunch instead of walking around the school yard alone. I could tell you about the members of my church who refused to sit next to me on the van when we traveled for some event, or the anti-gay bullying I suffered at an one weekend trip that so distressed my parents that we left the church. I could tell you about the anxiety I suffer as an adult and my sometimes hypersensitivity to social exclusion that likely stems from the ostracism I faced as a child.
But what I most want to tell you is how this fear paralyzed me as a young adult. It kept me in the closet until well past my college graduation. When my friends were dating, falling in love, I was alone, or worse, working on relationships with women, trying to pretend I was somebody I was not. I drank a lot and did lots of drugs. I cried myself to sleep a lot. I engaged in a lot of self-destructive behaviors, most of which my closest friends and family remain unaware.
I grew up the other, and it damaged me as an adult. I delayed coming out until my mid-twenties, and I discovered something that almost horrified me. Nobody who knew me cared. At all. My parents accepted me. My friends were thrilled. It was a non-event for everybody but me, who was left wondering why I waited so long.
And this is what nobody knows. I went into alcohol-filled tailspin after I came out. I later told my friends that it was a mix of work stress (I was teaching and running a restaurant), school stress (I was working on my thesis), and my own insecurities (from a bad breakup). Mostly I hated myself for waiting so long before coming out. I looked around and saw younger gay men and women living the open life that I denied myself. I couldn't help but think of what could have been back in college if I'd just had to courage to come out.
But I was too afraid of being the other.
It has taken me a long time to forgive myself. I'm not sure that I actually have forgiven myself. But I try.
So what does this have to do with marriage equality? Put simply, I'm tired of being the other.
On election night 2008, when everybody else was rejoicing the election of Barack Obama, my celebration had an asterisk, as anti-marriage equality ballot measures passed in Arizona, California, and Florida. Some of my friends could not understand my angst on President Obama's Innauguration, when Rev. Rick Warren--a proposition 8 proponent--was invited to give the invocation. On such a historic day, another reminder that I was the other.
What marriage equality means is that I'm no longer the other. Sexual minorities are full and equal American citizens. We are the same as our cissexual, heterosexual compatriots. Civil unions isn't just separate. Its not equal. It means that we are not worthy of the institution of marriage, that heterosexual relationships between a cissexual man and woman are a superior form of relationship that cannot be tainted by the other.
But its also just not about me. I've been a teacher--as either a grad school teaching assistant or a high school teacher--for almost ten years. Every time I walk into the classroom, I see the youth of America. I've worked with LGBT youth. And I don't want for them the struggle that I faced. I don't want them to grow up with the constant reminder that their love is somehow less than others. I don't want them to suffer through the years I suffered as the other.
I realize that for some of you this is a semantic argument, and I respect that your point of view doesn't reflect any malice. But for me this more than semantics. It's about acceptance. It's personal.