It has taken me a year to write this. It feels important to me. Some pieces of it have been posted on my blog already. I have edited this down to as short as I feel comfortable with. I just can't make it any shorter. I hope that you will find a time when you can read it all, or take the time to read it in short sections as you're able.
This started out being about the massacre at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, on June 12, 2016. And it has turned into so much more. It has caused a great deal of emotion and change in me.
I wanted to be able to explain to heterosexual people why this mass murder caused gut-wrenching pain in our community. I want to explain why LGBTQ people feel a sense of global community, despite our many differences and the fact that we don't even know each other and will likely never meet.
They are still our people. My people.
I want to explain why this hate crime felt different to me than hate crimes based on faith, race, culture, and non-queer marginalized groups.
Last year, I spent several days processing what happened and why it made me so sick to my stomach. Why it made me cry myself to sleep.
In the past, I have written about the attacks in Paris. I wrote about other global atrocities. No atrocity is worse than another. You can't rank them in order of importance, or affect, or meaning.
Hatred and violence always make me both sad and angry. You can't compare one atrocity to another. They all hold their own pain. They all affect multiple lives.
They all hurt.
Orlando hit me differently. One year ago, my global community was punched in the stomach and was sent into waves of fear, panic, pride, strength, connection, sadness, anger, devastation, and heart aching pain.
It isn't easy to explain the connectedness that many LGBTQ people feel towards each other. To understand this feeling of global connection, I need to first define the concept of "community".
Community, according to the Collins English Dictionary, is "a group of people, having cultural, religious, ethnic or other characteristics in common".
Community, however, can be thought of in many different ways.
The "Queer Community" is a sometimes contested term that can be used in a global context linking all queer people whose common experiences, or even fear of experiences, connect them.
Barrett-Lennard defined community by: physical proximity, socialization, regulations, common language, self-sufficiency, interdependence, and belonging.
I assert that my definition of queer community does not necessitate physical proximity.
"Gaydar" is one aspect of the global queer community. It is a recognition, or assumption, that someone else is queer because of their words, actions, appearance, or other characteristics. This recognition is often accompanied by a feeling of community because of the feeling of not being "the only one."
I have heard people talk about that feeling based on their culture, faith, or heritage. The recognition of a common ancestral experience, and/or the current climate towards their group of people.
I don't believe that it is the same with LGBTQ people. "Gaydar" is a sometimes life-saving experience. Seeing another queer person removes feelings of isolation. It means knowing you aren't alone, even if you and the person you see don't speak and never see each other again. One friend calls in "the butch nod".
I interviewed some queer folk on this sense of community. The question was:
When you see someone and you recognize they are queer, and they recognize it in you ... what's that like for you?
"Short answer - Yes, a lot of the time, it does feel like some kind of gaydar for trans folk. And it feels amazing. I feel drawn to them, and almost immediately comfortable. I seek them out and reveal things about myself that they might also experience - put out feelers, sort of. Vague things so that it doesn't turn out weird if the person is cis or not out." - Lee
"There is an instant sense of kinship and safety. While I know our lives may be totally different and we aren't necessarily similar simply due to our queerness, I can't help but smile. We share something; a sister/brotherhood of sorts. I cannot explain the feeling I get at Pride for example - I'm overcome with love and groundedness. That said, when I see another queer person I can't help but feel slightly saddened as I know queerness often comes hand in hand with pain and alienation. I guess I just want to say, I'm here, I'm queer, and I support you. I see you and I support you." - Emily
"Hm. If they're cute, I check them out. Lol
But usually it depends on the context. If it's somewhere where it's not a surprise, usually downtown or whatever, I barely have any reaction at all. But if I'm out in Scarborough visiting my mom, say, there's a moment of "I see you, and I know you see me too." Also, "what the heck are you doing here?!" - AC
"Like a knowing comfort that we have something in common and when you are struggling with who you are, it gave the feeling of not being alone. It's also kind of fun like belonging to a secret club that others don't quite get." - Michael
"It makes me feel at home and I automatically feel a sense of community and acceptance - especially since I get mistaken for hetero a lot which can make me feel invisible sometimes, it makes me feel seen and almost legitimizes my personhood if that makes any sense." - KO
"It's like being in a secret society with someone. like recognizing 'there goes my people' (like if they walk past you or something like that)." - JG
We often live complacently in our little city of Toronto. Go a couple of hours outside of the city, and look for rainbow flags, same sex couples holding hands, trans folks in positions of authority and privilege, or non-binary folks who don't have to reassert their pronouns daily. Go a little further, and you can see the homelessness of LGBTQ youth who have no where else to go.
The first national climate survey on homophobia, biphobia, and transphobia in Canadian schools found:
Physical Harassment
- More than one in five (21%) LGBTQ students reported being physically harassed or assaulted due to their sexual orientation. 20% of LGBTQ students and almost 10% of non-LGBTQ students reported being physically harassed or assaulted about their perceived sexual orientation or gender identity.
- 37% of trans students, 21% of sexual minority students, and 10% of non-LGBTQ students reported being physically harassed or assaulted because of their gender expression.
- Over a quarter (27%) of youth with LGBTQ parents reported being physically harassed about the sexual orientation of their parents. They are also more likely than their peers to be physically harassed or assaulted in connection with their own gender expression (30% versus 13% of other students), perceived sexual orientation or gender identity (27% versus 12%), gender (25% versus 10%), and sexual orientation (25% versus 11%).
Sexual Harassment
Levels of sexual harassment are high across the board for LGBTQ students. The following groups of students reported having experienced sexual harassment in school in the last year:
- 49% of trans students
- 45% of students with LGBTQ parents
- 43% of female bisexual students
- 42% of male bisexual students
- 40% of gay male students
- 33% of lesbian students
The higher levels of sexual harassment for gay male than for lesbian students may be attributable to greater exposure to sexual humiliation as a distinct form of unwanted sexual attention. Also, lesbian students may be less likely than gay male or trans students to perceive their experiences of harassment as sexual. Further analysis will explore the experiences included in this finding.
Having a sense of belonging gives hope to people who are struggling to be safe.
According to Robert Park (1936) a community is made up of a group of people who are deeply invested in the physical space they occupy. A physical space was posited as a central defining characteristic of community. But what if you DO NOT live in a city like Toronto that has a "Gay Village"? What if you live outside of a city with a visible queer space, where your existence becomes even more isolated and invisible?
I am arguing that the queer community does not exist because of a shared physical space. Instead, I define it as "those in the know": meaning a group of people with a subculture consisting of codes of behaviour, dress, icons, and language. (Note that many queer people do not adhere to queer stereotypes or icons and may not relate. Despite that, I bet every queer in North America knows who Ellen is ... I don't even have to say her last name ...).
Despite the fact that queer people do not always have an automatic affinity for each other simply by virtue of their queerness, I argue that the sense of community is of utmost importance for queer folk.
We may not always like each other, but that doesn't mean we aren't a community ... that doesn't mean we don't experience feelings of connection, of belonging, of being allowed to exist.
Gill Valentine is my favourite researcher. She wrote that lesbians create communities "through collective imaginings and sometimes fantasies focused upon social networks". This was written before the development of social media which, in my opinion, opened up a whole new meaning of community. Valentine explained that it wasn't a physical space that created the community, it was an assertion of identity that created the FEELING of community.
The creation of a community among queer people in geographical proximity can be created by what Valentine called "the dropping of pins". Meaning, disclosure of one's sexuality can have negative and sometimes violent consequences. So dropping hints like places or icons that other queers might pick up on is a way to safely discover each other. Like me saying that I like the Indigo Girls, or that I saw Melissa Etheridge play once, or that I go to the community centre on Church Street.
Gill Valentine stated that oppression of sexual identities is oppressed in different places which restricts the development of particular spaces. There is a shared experience of queer people having to negotiate their sexuality in a variety of places and spaces. This shared experience creates a sense of connectedness.
When my partner and I traveled to Hungary, Austria, and Germany, we did not feel safe to hold hands or show any affection in public. I felt that same way in the airport in Colorado.
Barret-lennard suggested that a shared bond unites a community in certain circumstances such as an emergency. The hashtag "OrlandoUnited" was used globally this week, to recognize how strong our community can be, despite attempts to silence us, or to exterminate us.
He also suggested that communities have a particular lexicon. This language often has an idiom distinctive to the community. This assists in the recognition of communal affiliation and contributes to a community or group feeling. He also wrote that "a sense of community includes a felt experience of belonging, connection, shared meanings or identity, of being in relation with fellow members."
Abstractly, queer communities offer a sense of belonging based in shared meanings of identity.
Despite the acceptance in some parts of the world, a common aspect of the queer experience is the feeling of fear.
When a man went into a queer night club in Orlando, and killed 49 people, and wounded 58 people, the feelings of fear and terror swept through queer communities. What if it happened here? What if someone I knew was there? What if it had been me? Or someone I love? What will happen to all those families, loved ones, friends, neighbours ... who will reach out to them? Who will take care of them? What do we DO with our anger, our sorrow, our fear?
Hate and hate crimes against LGBTQ people is not isolated to particular countries. It is a Canadian problem.
Hate crimes against LGBTQ folks, reported to the police, are more likely to be violent than hate crimes targeting other groups. 44% of hate crimes against LGBTQ people involve assault, versus 16% of reported hate crimes against visible minorities.
Being Gay remains illegal in many countries around the world. At the bottom of this piece I have listed these countries and their penalties which range from jail time, to whipping, to stoning, to the death penalty.
In July 2016, I had the incredible opportunity to see the Orlando Gay Chorus in person, with about 3000 other queers and a few thousand more standing outside the theatre.
Being less than a month after the massacre, the thousands of queers gathered together for the international LGBTQ choral music festival, had a strong affinity and deep connection to this choir - to the people standing on stage that we didn't know. They were our people. They are our people.
They are us.
The choir couldn't simply stand on stage and sing. The director spoke about the devastation, the fear, and the strength. He invited the audience to sing "You'll Never Walk Alone." I have included a video of his speech and the performance.
The video could never do justice to the palatable grief, strength, and connection that this moment evoked. I stood at the front of the balcony, with one arm around my partner's waist, and the other holding the hand of a stranger. Together, thousands of queers in the theatre, in the lobby, and gathered outside, sang together, cried together, grieved together.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=U1urPSxm7Gc
As Pride month is coming to an end and Pride weekend approaches, I can't help but think about what it means to me. I attended my first Pride parade when I was 13. At that time it was weird. At 17 it was like coming home. At 24 it was all about love and a new relationship. At 30, it was boring and commercialized. At 35, I was so over it. At 38, I began to speak out about how Pride started as a riot, followed by protests. And now, at 40, I want to be there. To be visible. To be part of the community. To take up visible space in the city. To say, we are here and have every right to exist. To say that the torture and murder of LGBTQ people in any country is unacceptable.
Be kind
To yourself too
xoxo
The following 54 countries have laws that make homosexuality illegal (this list excludes countries that have laws against homosexual acts, but do not enforce the them. And, I gathered this list in June 2016):
Belize: 10 years imprisonment
Algeria: fine and 2 years imprisonment
Antigua and Barbuda: 15 years imprisonment
Grenada: 10 years imprisonment
Saint Kitts and Nevis: 10 years imprisonment
Saint Vincent and the Grenadines: 10 years imprisonment
Turkmenistan: 10 years imprisonment
Uzbekistan: 3 years imprisonment
Iran: For men 74 lashes for immature men and death penalty for mature men of sound mind and is consenting. For women 50 lashes for women of mature sound mind and is consenting. Death penalty offense after fourth conviction
Kuwait: 6 years imprisonment
Qatar: death penalty
Saudi Arabia: Prison sentences of several months to life, fines and/or whipping/flogging, castration, torture or death can be sentenced on first conviction. A second conviction merits execution.
United Arab Emirates: 14 years imprisonment
Yemen: Unmarried men punished
with 100 lashes of the whip or a maximum of one year of imprisonment, married men with death by stoning. Women punished up to three years of imprisonment; where the offense has been committed under duress, the punishment is up to seven years detention.
Afghanistan: long imprisonment (death penalty when under Taliban rule)
Bangladesh: 10 years to life imprisonment
India: 10 years imprisonment (sporadically enforced)
Maldives: For men the punishment is banishment for nine months to one year or a whipping of 10 to 30 strokes. For women is house arrest for nine months to one year.
Egypt: 17 years imprisonment with or without hard labour
Libya: death penalty
Pakistan: life imprisonment
Burma: life imprisonment
Malaysia: 2-20 years imprisonment or whippings
Gaza: 10 years imprisonment
Solomon Islands: 10 years imprisonment
Kiribati: 14 years imprisonment
Tuvalu: 14 years imprisonment
Morocco: 3 years imprisonment
South Sudan: 10 years imprisonment
Sudan: death penalty on 3rd offence for men and 4th offence for women
Tunisia: 3 years imprisonment
Gambia: life imprisonment
Ghana: 10 years imprisonment
Guinea: 3 years imprisonment
Liberia: 1 year imprisonment
Mauritania: death penalty
Nigeria: illegal, some states death penalty for men and imprisonment and/or whipping for women
Senegal: 1-5 years imprisonment
Togo: fine and 3 years imprisonment
Cameroon: 5 years imprisonment
Burundi: 2 years imprisonment
Kenya: 14 years imprisonment
Uganda: 14 years imprisonment for men and 7 years imprisonment for women
Tanzania: life imprisonment
Eritrea: 3 years imprisonment
Ethiopia: minimum 10 years imprisonment
Somalia: death penalty
Comoros: 5 years imprisonment
Zambia: 14 years imprisonment
Sahrawi: 3 years imprisonment
Somaliand: death penalty
