This month begins national
pride month, which depending on your beliefs, is either a really beautiful or
a really awful month. I find it to be both.
I don’t like celebrating pride month, at least not in the way that many of my queer friends or allies do. Sure, it’s a great
excuse to have fun with a like-minded community, but there’s something I can’t
quite name that nags at me when I see it represented in the wider media. Perhaps it’s the political or religious agendas that always seem to take the
spotlight. Someone always has an opinion about how we all should feel about
“queer pride”, and most often I find myself embarrassed that I do not feel how anyone believes I should.
I don’t like making others feel ashamed for their convictions because I have lived too long like that myself. I don’t like the sense of arrogance associated with the word “pride”. I don’t like the idea that queer people or allies are better than anyone else. And I don’t like the political assumptions behind the celebration, especially when my straight friends mean no harm in their interactions, but simply want to feel equally respected in their identities.
But I also don’t like seeing death threats directed towards the community, or blatant acts of vandalism directed at allies. I don’t like the assumption that queer people are inherently immoral, mentally ill, or evil. I know I certainly am not (although I don’t pretend to be perfect). I don’t like the shame that is hurled on me for simply being honest about wanting to love another woman, because shame has no place in true love.
For this reason, and many others, it’s simply a month that reminds me that I don’t quite fit in to any box that I am expected to. Maybe others feel like this too, and maybe I’m not alone in this sentiment. Or maybe I am. Either way, I feel this is important to share.
To me, this month represents personal mourning alongside personal celebration. It represents a deep sense of brokenness and a beautiful redemption, a solemn sadness soaked in joy. It’s a paradoxical way to feel, I admit, but it doesn’t make it any less true for me.
Unlike many queer people I know, I didn’t have a lot of negative experiences or trauma growing up as a direct result of my sexual orientation. This was mainly because I grew up believing I was straight, and living as if I were. When I came out, I was surrounded by people who, for the most part, I already knew would accept me.
However, I did grow up in an environment that taught me from a young age that the only acceptable way to live life was by going to church, finding a husband, settling down, popping out a few kids, and working hard to achieve a humble “Christian” life. I knew early on that path would never be fulfilling to me. I tried it, nonetheless, in hopes that I was wrong. When I realized this prescribed lifestyle felt like a depraved prison, I decided to give my entire life away to embrace who I truly was, and that didn’t come with consequence.
It took many years of agonizing contemplation to decide to abandon the “good Christian girl” lifestyle for a queer one, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to embrace a wayward or depraved one. I simply wanted to be happy in my own skin. I wanted to love who I had always dreamed of loving, no matter what the people around me thought. Sure, that took courage and sacrifice, but it didn’t strip me of my dignity. In fact, leaving a relationship that was more harmful than helpful for something more honest and fulfilling gave me my dignity back. It gave me a sense of confidence in myself and helped me appreciate myself and my design tenfold. To me, that is what pride in my sexuality means.
I had plenty of people there to support me. I made new and beautiful friendships because I was honest about who I was. I know I disappointed some, but my decision to come out was never about making a political or religious statement. It was always about living my most honest life as the best version of myself. I craved integrity, honesty, and wholesomeness, something that a “straight” lifestyle could never give me because at the core of that was dishonesty and deceit. I was lying about who I was to keep everyone else but myself happy. To me, that was more despicable than anything my queer truth was.
I never wanted to hurt my family or friends who viewed homosexuality as a sin, and in fact hid from them for as long as I could because of my fear of harming them. In the end, I chose honesty over image, and I have never regretted it.
(Side note: I certainly don’t hold it against anyone who believes queerness is wrong. After all, I did too for a time. I simply wish to show them that maybe their preconceived notions of what is right and wrong are false. Just as I wish to show my queer friends that faith in a higher power doesn’t necessitate queer opposition. Sometimes life is much more varied and gray-scaled than black and white. I believe black and white thinking is what got us on this mess to begin with. But I digress.)
I still believe that loving a woman despite being one is more beautiful than pretending to love someone I don’t. I still believe I’m honoring my Creator in being honest about myself. I still crave the essence of goodness. I still desire to choose light over dark, love over hate, what is righteous over perverse ever single day. To me, the best way to do that is to love a woman.
Despite my relatively positive experience coming out, I’m painfully aware my experience is not always the norm. I know of people whose entire family cut them off and still refuse to speak to them. I know people who lost their college scholarships and job prospects, who were shunned and publically shamed, who were horribly bullied, emotionally abused, or sent to conversation therapy. All because they decided to be honest about who they were and who they wanted to fall in love with.
This is the reason why pride is important to me. Not because I want to wave a rainbow flag in everyone’s face and make them feel bad for being straight. Not because I want to offend and convert all of the Christians and their children. Not because I want an excuse to behave provacatively and engage in sexual acts in public (all of which are reasons I’ve heard people say pride month exists, by the way).
It’s important to me because people still live in fear every day of because they love someone with the same parts. Children still kill themselves because they believe God could never love them the way He made them, or by doing so they’d be too lonely. Because they never knew being anything other than straight was an option. People still want to die because the’ve locked themselves up in a life they never wanted out of fear and can see no way out. People still hide who they love out of shame and self-hatred. People still believe they’d be better off dead than the honest version of themselves. That is the definition of evil and perverse to me, not being queer.
Pride month isn’t about towing a political agenda to me, or convincing anyone to change their beliefs. It’s about unlearning the shame of a past where we were not welcome in our own skin. That’s why it’s called “pride” to begin with. Because once upon time there existed nothing but shame and hate for ourselves. That’s a human right, to exist without inherent shame of our existence. We celebrate a sense of finally feeling worthy of our lives and the love we need – a sense of self-esteem that never existed before. And it’s about inviting you to celebrate with us, to be happy for us when we fall in love with someone who shares our own chromosomes, to acknowledge our hurt and pain and healing regardless of your own feelings or beliefs about homosexuality. Because at the end of the day we’re all just trying to make it in this life, and we all want to be happy. I want all of my straight friends to be happy with the people they love, to feel confident in their own skin and feel a sense of worthiness. All pride month asks is that the sentiment is returned to queer people, not just in words but in actions.
So, with that said, happy pride month my friends. May you feel a sense of belonging, acceptance, and worthiness for your deep and genuine love for others, no matter the label the world gives it.
Terrah Holly Writes 