The rainbow paradox

It's time for a gay post. 

That's right, dear readers - the time has come for me to talk about gay things.  A gay confession, of sorts. 

I don't tend to talk at length about being a lesbian, and in fact, that's probably part of the problem.  I am miserably out of practice at being 'gay.'  I don't think I ever really learned.  I came out some time ago, but my attempts to interject myself into what was the gay/lesbian social space at my university was an abysmal failure.  The idea of "lesbian community" at the time was weekly screenings of The L-Word.  I can only recollect one meeting of the gay/lesbian student group that I attended, and what I remember is being overwhelmed by the hip-hop music blaring in a room packed with bobbing white heads and the Costco-sized jug of lube given away via a raffle.  No, no, no, I was not cut out for this.  My "anti-porn feminism" workshop at Pat Califia key-noted conference organized by the gay/lesbian student group pretty much destroyed any chance I had at being considered down with the social scene.  Oh, the irony!  I was just too feminist to be a good lesbian.  And it's true - I wasn't interested in the meat market...I wanted change. 

That's not to say that I skipped out on gays and lesbians entirely.  I just got along so much better with straight feminists (which makes sense, because, after all, I used to be one).  When I moved for graduate school, I made the promise to myself that, as long as I felt safe, I would not conceal my relationship with my partner.   For the most part, that has been true.  But after my disillusionment with the lesbian/gay scene at my undergrad, and after realizing that it's pretty much the same as the lesbian/gay scene every where else, I never really pursued any organizing agenda around that part of my identity. As one of my lesbian friends said recently, "I'm out, but I'm not rainbow!"  To put it plainly, I never planned on being a professional gay. 

But now things have changed.  I am embarking on a lengthy project studying the intersections of whiteness/white privilege with being lesbian, gay, and bisexual.  There is no way around it - I am writing a 'gay' dissertation.  Through this project, I have had to acknowledge and confront my own internalized homophobia.  The ferocity and rapidity with which it rages has caught me off guard...I did not expect for it to still have so violent a grip on how I see myself and other lesbians and gays.

It began when I first decided, yes, I would take on this topic for long term research.  It took a lot to get to that 'yes.'  Not because I didn't think the topic was substantial, sociologically awesome, and very much worthy of study, but because I had three looming fears.  1) I was afraid of studying myself.  2) I was afraid of studying my partner and our relationship (we are an interracial couple).  3) I was afraid of writing a 'gay' dissertation.  Those fears delayed my commitment and prevented me from feeling at peace with what I had chosen.  I still wonder what I've gotten myself into.

Flash forward a month.  I was at the library, up in the stacks, checking out the selection.  I realized I was in the lesbian/gay section, because all the books had LESBIAN and GAY written in gynormous letters as their titles, and pictures of kissing white people or outlines of naked bodies or leather chaps on the covers.  I'm fairly sure that rainbows spewed out of them every time I turned the page.  This aisle, for some unfortunate organizational reason, is positioned right beside the stairwell, so every time anyone walks up the stairs and onto the floor, they would face this aisle.  More specifically, they would see me amid a pile of rainbows.  As I was looking through these books, I was hyper conscious every time I heard footfalls on the stairs.  What if they see me?

The saga of the rainbow books continued.  When I checked them out, I put them face down on the counter.  When I walked with the books, I was aware of whether or not the cover or spine was visible, and even, at times, tried to casually conceal them.  It would be comical if it weren't true.  (Actually, you might still think it is comical, and you'd be right).  When I returned them, I glanced up awkwardly at the librarian as they flipped them over, suddenly wondering - do they think I'm a lesbian? 

The illogic of these thoughts did not escape me.  Many lesbians would like to be thought of as lesbians, because that is indeed what we are.  Why would it matter if the librarian thinks I am a lesbian when I am one?  But it is not so simple - the question "do they think I'm a lesbian," is not "do they think I am a woman who loves women" but "do they associate me with all of the stereotypes of a stigmatized group."  Do they think I am those stereotypes.  And what is difficult about that thought is that my first reaction was that I did not want to be associated with the stigmatized group.  This was a difficult moment to swallow. 

Flash forward another month.  I am asked by a stranger in the laundromat who I am, what I do, etc.  He has a doctorate in civil engineering, and he wants to know what I'm writing my dissertation on.  "Oh, race relations," I say.  This is a variation of what I have said to many different people.  "Oh, racism."  "Oh, race."  And if they are more of the sociological persuasion, I might say "Oh, white privilege." 

You see, I keep leaving the gay part out.  Or perhaps, more aptly, closeted.  It is far easier for me as a white person to say that I am writing about race than, as a lesbian, to say I am writing about gays and lesbians.  Writing a 'gay' dissertation means I've been faced with outing myself far more regularly than ever before.  And I have to say I have been found wanting.  There is the illusion of safety in passing, or at least the illusion of safety in no one pressing you to announce your sexual identity - and they, poor hapless creatures, don't even know that asking me about my dissertation is asking me my identity, even my politics.  But the few times I have said it to someone who is not lesbian or gay, I can tell from their faces that they know that is what I am saying.  My elision of the "gay part" has been a way of avoiding those facial expressions.  I have been trying to escape those moments.

I see a paradox here, a double-bind - do I out myself and afford greater visibility to all gay and lesbian people but risk social censure (or worse), or do I closet myself and perpetuate the marginalization of gay and lesbian people but feel, in that moment, safe?   There is no easy answer - neither is all that comfortable.  I do know that one is probably the braver, higher, more ethical road, for myself and for other women who love women.  And it's not the road I've been taking. 

In other words, I might have to start being a little more rainbow.