Believing in Pride After Shame

A few years ago, I used to joke that I was on a “Pride Tour,” visiting city after city during their Pride celebrations. Some of my personal favorites were San Diego, New York City, and Atlanta. The unique connections I made and experiences I had at each celebration are fond memories that I often recall during times of turmoil and struggle– and they go down as some of the happier times from my 20s.

One particular memory stands out as a prominent moment from those times, not because it is particularly the happiest, but because of how striking it was.

It was in mid-October on a rainy Sunday morning in Atlanta, Georgia. You see, Pride in Atlanta happens a bit later in the year, ensuring that attendees won’t cook in the harsh humidity of the summer months when festivities usually occur. Despite the rain, spectators had gathered en masse to witness the annual parade that always proved to be a worthwhile event.

Anyone who’s ever been to any Pride event knows that there is a particular group of folks who never misses a single event– and no, I’m not talking about anyone specific to the LGBTQ+ community. In this case, I refer to the homophobic, sign-bearing, and megaphone-yielding protesters who scream religious phrases and hurl insults at anyone within a quarter mile radius.

In response, a brave group of people show up every year to stand in front of the loud and hateful crew holding up oversized cutouts of flowers and other beautiful plants– growing something beautiful where hatred once ruled. It’s an incredible sight, and has become a tradition that attendees of the parade are very familiar with.

Despite the protection that day, the insults progressed. At one point, one of the megaphone-wielding protestors posed the question, “If being gay is so great, why is there such a high rate of suicide amongst the gays?”

It was like a bomb went off. In unison, the entire crowd stopped what they were doing, turned to the angry protestors, and shouted back, “BECAUSE OF YOU!”

That moment in time has never left me.

It’s true– being part of the LGBTQ+ community is pretty great. I’m biased, of course, having lived as an openly gay man since I was 18 and fresh out of high school. The privilege I carry is that I was born into an incredibly loving and welcoming family– one that never gaslit me or threatened to disown me over who I was. They embraced me and allowed me the grace, space, and time to discover myself in my own way and on my own terms. Not everyone has this experience…in fact, most have an exceptionally different one.

The crowd on the corner of Peachtree and 10th street on that rainy Atlanta morning wasn’t wrong. Despite the pride we feel in ourselves and the love we have for being part of such a beautiful community, we also carry some pretty heavy emotional trauma with us. One major burden just about everyone in the LGBTQ+ community is tasked with is reconciling with a level of shame we carry. For those unfamiliar with this concept, no– we are not ashamed of ourselves, but rather, we are tasked with working to undo the damage of growing up in a world that led us to believe that something about us was inherently wrong.

As I stood on that crowded, rain-soaked Atlanta intersection, I thought back to my experiences of being a young gay boy growing up in rural, small-town North Dakota. In those days, I worshiped the ground Britney Spears walked upon, fell in love with the movie Titanic at the age of six, and would rather spend my time surrounded by girls on the playground, gossiping about others rather than play sports with the boys. To anyone who noticed, it was pretty clear what was going on.

I remember noticing that I was the recipient of many scowls and other disapproving looks at this early, impressionable phase in my life. I first noticed it in my peers– ones who were less experienced in handling their exasperation. Every time they would sigh at me or roll their eyes I would wonder, “what am I doing wrong here?”

Adults were another source of disapproval. My third grade teacher seemed to make it her mission to shut me down in every which way, ensuring my personality would never bloom or even begin to sprout in her classroom. She was cold, short, and acted as though she’d been directly assigned to push every piece of my soul into the dirt. Years later while I worked at a hotel’s front desk in college, I checked her into a room and asked if she remembered me. When she responded with, “oh, we’ve met before?,” I knew I hadn’t imagined or exaggerated it.

But I’ll never forget the night I first was referred to as that word. I was twelve years old, on an around-town bike ride with my best friend at the time. We’d run into a few boys who were a handful of years older than us, and she decided to start trash talking with them. Being the socially-awkward kid with glasses and a 90% overbite, I stayed quiet. That is, until one of them told my friend to “get outta here, and take your f*ggot friend with you.”

I’d actually never heard the word before, and in the first few moments after the fact, they continued to float over my head as made-up words that had no meaning whatsoever. It actually wasn’t until I repeated the words to my mom later that evening when I told her what we’d been up to that I realized something horrible had been said to me. My mom’s reaction told me that whatever that word was, it meant something horrible.

Unfortunately, it was the first of many times I’d be referred to as this word. I’m sure most folks who have ever had one of “those words” hurled their way can easily recall the very first time it happened. Each time I hear a story of someone being called one of these “unforgivable” words, my heart breaks for that person, and I’m immediately overcome by the desire to reach out and hug that person– doing whatever I can to heal that previously broken and hurt part of them.

The disapproving looks, the hurtful words, the outward aggression toward folks who are “other than the ‘norm–’” these all have drastic and devastating effects on those whom they’re directed toward. Just about any person in the LGBTQ+ community is all-too familiar with the impossible task of unlearning the identity you assumed in order to stay safe (and sometimes, to survive), and learning instead who you are in your most authentic form.

As Pride Month is on the horizon, particularly in a year in which we have seen unprecedented attacks on our community, I beseech you, the reader, for one thing: lead with love in all walks of life. Remember that you’ve earned the right to celebrate, but don’t forget how much work remains. Attend the parades, dance at the parties, hug those around you– but forget not those who still feel forced to hide in the shadows, or closets, fearful for what might happen to them if they should let anyone see their truth.

If there’s one thing I learned that rainy day in Atlanta, it was this: hatred always looks ugly and feels impossible to shut out– but love is louder, brighter, and stronger than the darkness of hatred ever will be.

Until next time,

Stay strong.

Stay together.

Stay in the light.

–Ben the Blogger