This post was submitted by ejacksonindc

Last week Jason stirred up a much needed dialogue on in his column, “Inherited Voices.” This week The Reluctant Activist refocuses the spotlight, and Ed explores whether or not the LGBTQ community is squandering our legacy of victory and asks what voice will baby queers inherit from us?

Victory

Last week, a young man named Jason wrote one of the most inspirational posts I’ve seen on TNG. Yes, he did discuss a segment of our community known as “chicken hawks,” youth-obsessed older men who prey on younger guys. We all know them, and it is intellectually dishonest to pretend like they don’t exist. Somehow, others read the column and projected, transposed and extrapolated all kinds of ideas and ways to be offended that, quite frankly, were a stretch. Jason was maligned by members of the “cult of victimization,” a segment of our community afflicted with a malignant failure of imagination. It is that point of view – not the specific individuals – that is the single greatest threat to the future of the LGBTQ community.

Jason wrote, “Inundated by pessimism, we mistake the worst of what we have been for what we will be,” and I think he’s right. Our community only seems to be able to see 12 inches (one step) in front of us and 36 inches (one stride) behind us. What happened to our hopes, our dreams and our reverence for our history? Instead of being the heirs of one of the handful of social movements that changed the course of our nation’s history, we wallow in our mediocrity completely unaware of the dynamic greatness and colossal strength within each one of us.

When we were children, we aspired to be anything our minds could imagine, but then we were confronted with the terrifying reality of our alternate sexual orientation or gender identity. Suddenly, our innermost desires, the things that sent our souls soaring and made us giddy with joy, became unattainable, or we felt like we were being forced to settle for “Plan B.” It was the first time many of us gave up, but it’s understandable. When we were young we were indirectly told that we were degenerates, sinful, and doomed to a life of misery, disease and damnation. We felt like our options had become significantly restricted. Instead of soaring souls, we felt grounded, alone and isolated. We struggled with the possibility that there might actually be something wrong with us. That, my friends, is the exact moment we took our first step into the closet.

In the claustrophobic, oppressive darkness of the closet, we perfect our ability to hide and to take the path of least resistance. We become hyper-sensitive to pick up on the slightest suggestion that someone might know our secret. We wonder if that group of young guys walking behind us is the group that is going to bash and beat us, and we wonder how long we will lay on the street before someone finds us, if we will wake up in the hospital, why we never asked out that special someone, or why we never came out to the important people in our lives.

Like anything that is neglected, our imaginations become weakened and more susceptible to being overwhelmed by fear. They atrophy, and, for some of us, we completely lose the ability to remember there are things in the world beyond those immediately in front of us. We suffer a catastrophic failure of imagination. When that happens, we’re crippled by that nagging voice in the back of our heads that tells us, “Don’t dream. You’ll get hurt. Don’t ask her out. She’ll reject you. Don’t tell them. They won’t accept you.” We become the mediocrity and cynicism we see all around us because we do not dare to aim our hearts toward love, happiness, and fulfillment. Caring about something would leave us exposed to having our hearts crushed. So we accept fear; we embrace it. It is our most trusted and influential adviser. Then we listen to fear when it tells us to come down like a 10-ton house of bricks on anyone who expresses a sense of “entitlement” or dares to want more. When in actuality, the behavior that is far more toxic is our tacit approval of our own inequality. Our predecessors understood that we are entitled to “equal justice under law,” and they took to the streets to demand their rights, clearing a path for us to exercise our rights.

My faith teaches me that where there is no vision the people perish. I think that axiom speaks to the greatness inside each of us. It warns that if we do not endeavor to unleash our limitless potential and strength and to grasp the rewards located just beyond our understanding of what is possible, a part of us dies everyday, and our ability to be fulfilled erodes, washed away by the undulating tides of bitterness and fear. When I am trapped in that moment it feels like I am a child, and I am once again making the decision to either step into the closet or stand still and be beaten down by the onslaught of bigoted zealotry that would have me believe that I am not worthy of love and equality. However, I’ve made peace with my closet. Its door is closed, and I have nailed it shut.

Because hiding there is no longer an option for me, I have to face my fears, and there are plenty of things that scare the heck out of me: people; clowns; Maryland drivers; and people who wear the hood on their hoodies at night to name a few. Perhaps my greatest fear continues to be, although to a much lesser degree, the fear of failure. I didn’t try because failure would diminish my worth as a human being. If I failed, then all the things others said about me being inadequate because I am Black and gay became true. But, a long time ago, my Mother told me that I was never allowed to come home and say I failed at anything because I am Black. She told me that people will discriminate against me, and, when it happens, I was expected to find ways to overcome it. My grandparents echoed that sentiment, and it established for me a moral imperative.

Which leads me to another point. A mentor is nothing more than “an experienced and trusted adviser.” I have many of them in my life. Some I sought out. Some found me. Some were thrust upon me at birth, and some were brought into my life at a special time for a special purpose. Understanding that my skin color is never an excuse to fail, has carried me through a number of difficult situations, but, perhaps, it has been the most useful when applied to my experiences as a gay man.

I’ve adopted the values system passed down from my grandparents, to my mother, and then to me. One day, God willing, I will be able to pass those same ideas on to children of my own.

We know that people discriminate against the LGBTQ community. It is a fact. I think rehashing that which we already know to be true is an exercise in futility perpetuated by a distorted need to remain inextricably chained to our inequality. Extended conversations about the level of our oppression serve no purpose. We already know that we cannot get married, serve openly in the military, can be denied housing and/or fired from our jobs. We know all that; it’s not new, but the conversation that never seems get off the ground before a chorus of nay-sayers weighs in with ten-thousand reasons why it won’t work, is what the “F” are we going to do about it?

In his column, Jason wrote, “… let us expand the parameters of our possibility, let us diversify our image of what it is we can become” and now I am challenging you to try to reclaim your childlike sense of curiosity. Make no mistake. Our community was robbed; we have been oppressed, beaten, murdered, terrorized and discarded for being LGBTQ people, but somewhere along the way we lost our desire to overcome adversity and to follow in the victorious footsteps of our predecessors.

It isn’t a mistake to point out that there has been a break down in the transition of inter-generational knowledge in our community, and I would like to offer an explanation other than the one seen through the lens of victimization. Our community’s elders may not have passed on their strength, resolve, and strategies for victory because it isn’t, as yet, part of our culture. My biological family mentored me. It is one of the many roles of a parent, but they are heterosexual and lack the knowledge I needed to learn in order to survive as an openly gay man and to successfully navigate my choice to be in a long-term, monogamous relationship.

Furthermore, to the extent that our desire to parent is not a pervasive part of our community. The idea of transferring inter-generational knowledge is generally outside the realm of what we knew to be components essential to the continuity and survival of a community. Similarly, if you come from communities that place a heavy value on mentoring young people, it is natural to look for trusted guidance upon entering new environments, and it is not unreasonable to expect those individuals to be easy to find. Consequently, LGBTQ youth face the prospect of learning how to traverse our community on their own. Sometimes they fall victim to an individual who preys on youth and inexperience, or, in the rare case, they find the real deal – a genuine trailblazer in the LGBTQ movement who is willing to share their hope, strength and experience.

People were offended by Jason’s post, some with good reason, others because they are offended by something as innocuous as a glass of water. However, if they are going to protest on behalf of our community’s elders, feigning self-righteous indignation misses the mark. The best way to honor and show our gratitude to the men and women who stood on the front lines and carry the battle scars of our liberation (to the degree it currently exists), is by picking up their mantle and becoming worthy of the legacy we have inherited from them. As Jason said, “When we fail to nurture new images of what it means to be gay in our community, we fail to honor the very spirit on which our community was founded.”

So, I put it to you now. Don’t simply maintain the community we have; break the mold. No matter your age, start dreaming big and let those marvelous visions be the seeds of the community you want, and they will bear fruit (no pun intended) to sustain the baby queers running around in Osh Kosh, whose parents are telling them they are wrong for kissing other little boys or girls and setting them on a collision course with the closet’s claustrophobic, oppressive darkness. What voice will they inherit from us?

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