My friend Kevin, a 40-something (whoops, I mean 30-something), gay man, never ceases to be amazed by the idea that today's teenagers can be openly gay in high school with few, if any, repercussions. He's also awed by the fact that they would have the "presence of mind" to own their own sexual identity at such a young age. For teenagers today, sexual orientation is largely a non-issue, and even students who are uncomfortable with homosexuality, at the very least, ignore it.
It wasn't like that for Kevin, and it wasn't like that for me, a 40-something-who-looks-30-something, straight ally. Kevin would have sooner died than come out in high school, and I would have sooner died than have openly supported him for it. Of course, in the early 80s when we met, you literally could die for being openly gay. Before the era of AIDS, "gay bashing" was likely the second cause of death for gay people, after suicide.
I'm here to tell you that things are different now, especially here in Massachusetts where gay people have had full civil rights since 2004. What I want you to understand is that things are different at the grass roots level. Things are different with the kids.
This is not your gay friend Kevin's public high school.
One of the main reasons for this change is the Gay-Straight Alliance. GSAs are after-school clubs which offer a supportive environment for gay students and their straight allies to meet, socialize, vent and educate. The first Gay Straight Alliance in a public high school was formed at Newton South in Massachusetts in 1987. How safe your school is and how big your GSA may be dependent on both geography and rulings of your local district courts. I don't think that it's a coincidence that Massachusetts was the first state to allow GSAs in public schools and that we were also the first state to allow gay marriage. (It's also worth noting that there are GSAs in Salt Lake City, so keep your fingers crossed for gay Sealing Ordinances in our lifetime.)
The GSA at the high school at which I work is less than ten years old, and I became a co-advisor of it this September. My involvement with the BHS GSA, also called Spectrum, came about through a series of coincidences. Last year, two of my co-counselors and I decided to attend a Spectrum meeting to show support from the guidance department. We meandered down the music hallway and found the meeting taking place in the In-School Suspension room. Huh?!? The In-School Suspension room is an ugly, faded room, curiously lit by dull fluorescent lights. It's not well-maintained and for good reason: it's where kids are sent to be punished. But why were the gay kids and their straight allies living the gay man's nightmare by meeting in a room with no paint and bad lighting?
We counselors were concerned. I immediately offered the conference room in our department as an alternate space, and they leapt at the offer. Our new boss, much more gay-sympathetic and 30 years younger than our previous boss, barely blinked an eye when we ran this by him. (Though our former boss had been a counselor and was respectful of all students, he came from a don't ask/don't tell generation, - ironically comprised of hippies and flower children - and would not have supported this move. Our former principal, also 60ish, was of the same mindset: tolerant only, but not openly supportive or encouraging.) Because my office was next door to this new meeting space, I often checked in with the students, especially if John, the advisor, had drama rehearsal after school.
Despite my years in theater and being the daughter of a gay man, I confess I didn't always know what to make of these kids. Well, I knew what to make of them: they were the same fringe element that you'd find in the social margins of any high school, half of them "misfits" and half of them in the band and/or drama club, i.e. "talented misfits." But I didn't always like their attitude. I couldn't abide their continually self-identifying as victims. I sometimes got the impression that they were reveling in the idea being outcasts and got a palpable sense of annoyance when they talked about how unpopular the club was. "One kid told me," a student said, "that she'd join GSA if it weren't social suicide."
Social suicide? I thought to myself. Why are they buying into this mindset? Gay people pave the way for all things cool in this country: fashion, music, movies, advertising, hair styles and theater. (I include theater, not because it's considered "cool" but because it's generally an accurate predictor of social change and where you will find the most cutting edge ideas about politics and cultural issues before they become mainstream.) In any case, I didn't understand the paradox of why coolness in the real world is considered to be "social suicide" in high school. I believe, with every fiber of my being, that negativity only buys you more negativity. If you decide you live in a hostile universe, it will be hostile. If you choose to live in a friendly universe, it will be friendly. As the saying goes, "If you want a friend, be a friend," and if I may add a second part to it, "If you don't want any friends, be an asshole." It's your choice. But you can't preach to teenagers. (Duh!) You can't "tell" them how it should be or God forbid, tell them how they "should" be. So I let them vent and gently tried to challenge their internal beliefs, hoping that eventually the collective energy of the club might shift.
Then came "Day of Silence," and everything did change, but from the outside in.
"Day of Silence" is a national "student-led day of action when concerned students, from middle school to college, take some form of a vow of silence to bring attention to the name-calling, bullying and harassment -- in effect, the silencing -- experienced by LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender) students and their allies" (www.glsen.com). Yes, the act of students' not speaking in school is frustrating to teachers (no more frustrating to anyone than the GSA advisor, John, who teaches frickin' chorus). Parameters were drawn up by the GSA, in cooperation with the principal, to help facilitate written communication between students and teachers in class, if need be. I was cautiously optimistic about how the day would go, mostly because there had been no backlash or questioning at the faculty meeting when the principal informed the staff about the upcoming event. Still, it was anyone's guess. With only a handful of students in the GSA to begin with, they were truly in the minority of minorities.
With the encouragement of this new and more enlightened school administration, Day of Silence was held. Students put up signs, made announcements and about 10 of them pledged to be full, silent participants. The kids had also made about 150 rainbow ribbons, and I offered put some in the teachers' room for staff to take and wear. The rest would be distributed to students who might want to support the effort. We were not overly optimistic as to the response but had our sights set on merely raising awareness. The Spectrum students were happy that they were going to be allowed to have a Day of Silence, regardless of the level of its success.
But something happened that changed the gloom and doom predictions of the students who'd assumed they'd be made fun of/harassed/ bullied/teased/embarrassed, etc. WE RAN OUT OF RIBBONS. Despite an emergency run to a craft store, and the creation of 100 more, we still didn't have enough ribbons for everyone in the school who wanted one. Can I say it again? We ran out of ribbons. Because more people supported these students than we'd anticipated.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when our high school held its annual Activities Fair. This is an after-school event during which all the clubs in school set up tables in the cafeteria and let the freshmen, newly enrolled students, and curious upperclassmen explore what the clubs are all about.
I stood at our table with my co-advisor, John, and about 5 students. There was no missing the Spectrum table. John and the kids had hung a giant rainbow banner on the wall which was visible from across the entire caf. They'd also hung a glitzy "Mystic Players-esque" tube of colored streamers from the ceiling that fell right in the center of the table. We had a basket of Rainbow Twizzlers and fun-size Skittles to pass out to students. The kids had made yet another 150 ribbons to distribute as well. The principal took a ribbon and wore it on his lapel. The superintendent of schools took a Mass Equality bumper sticker and immediately hung it in the window of his office. Despite the support of these school leaders, what we really wanted was the support of more students. Optimistically, we were ready with a sign-up sheet for any students who might want to join our club (should they be brave enough to put it in writing).
There's an interesting phenomenon that occurs around the Spectrum table at an Activities Fair. Prospective members look at our table curiously, and then when they realize what the club is, turn away. Avert their eyes. Blush and look to see if anyone noticed. After 10 minutes, I got fed up with this, so I decided to meet these prospective members where they were at, meaning I was going to embarrass them even more. I acknowledged that they didn't want to come over by throwing Rainbow Twizzlers and Skittles at them and then eventually, to them. "You don't have to join our club," I said, " but you can still have our candy." Soon the kids joined me and began throwing candy to their peers saying, "Taste the rainbow! Taste the rainbow!" (Witnessing my lobbing candy directly into eager students' hands, John said, "Wow, you're good at sports." Sardonically, I replied, "Well, someone in this club has to be.") John and I then stepped back and let the students work their quirky, charismatic, artsy magic with their more reluctant classmates.
Much to the horror of conservative right-wingers, our recruitment tactics have worked. I'm happy to report that 36 students signed up to join the club, email addresses and all. About half of them have been showing up to meetings on a regular basis.
It's still not as easy to be "out" in a politically moderate, suburban, 'bedroom community' as it is on, say, West 44th Street between Broadway and 8th, but it's easier than it used to be. And more often than not, it's just fun.
This recipe is dedicated to my aforementioned friend, Kevin, who first showed me how to work with phyllo dough in 1990. Though this recipe isn't mine, it rocks. At your next cocktail party, it will make you a hit among your gay friends and/or straight allies. Difficulty level for Kevin and me: easy peasy. Difficulty level for everyone else: potentially challenging and time-consuming but worth it for its fabulousness. Click on recipe to link to Epicurious.com.
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