pride

Written By Bill Hulseman

weekly reflection, updates & good stuff 6.1.2021

Rabbit, rabbit!

This week’s newsletter is a little different: I’m starting with the prologue to my month-long reflection series that will be on Medium. Since it’s a little longer than most weekly reflections, I’m keeping updates and good stuff at the minimum.

…

“This could be the first funny revolution,” Lou said. “Aren’t these guys great, Bunny? Lily Law should never have messed with us on the day Judy died. Look, they’ve turned the parking meter into a battering ram.”

...

The riot squad was called in. It marched like a Roman army behind shields down Christopher from the women’s prison, which was loud with catcalls and the clatter of metal drinking cups against steel bars. The squad, clubs flying, drove the gay men down Christopher, but everyone doubled back through Gay Street and emerged behind the squad in a chorus line, dancing the can-can. “Yoo-hoo, yoo-hoo,” they called. 

Lou and I stayed out all night, whooping like kids, huddling in groups to plan tomorrow’s strategy, heckling the army of cops who were closing off all of Sheridan Square as a riot zone and refusing to let cars or pedestrians pass through it.

I stayed over at Lou’s. We hugged each other in bed like brothers, but we were too excited to sleep. We rushed down to buy the morning papers to see how the Stonewall Uprising had been described. “It’s really our Bastille Day,” Lou said. But we couldn’t find a single mention in the press of the turning point of our lives. 

Edmund White, The Beautiful Room is Empty

In the final chapter of his semi-autobiographical novel about coming of age (and coming out) in 1950s and 1960s America, White’s narrator paints quite a picture: a kickline affronting riot shields, adrenaline-driven solidarity, and utter hopefulness confronting a world that doesn’t want to talk about the most important moment in his life. There are a few problems with White’s description of the Stonewall riots, including the suggestion that they began the day that Judy Garland died (in fact, it was the day of her funeral), but more importantly his description is incomplete. Thousands have told and retold (and mistold) the story - no description could be complete, could it? A description is limited by what we can see and hear and feel - and when someone asks, or when no one asks, we piece together what we can. Putting together the pieces of the Stonewall puzzle is complicated by the question of who owns the narrative. To some, Stonewall looked like the liberation of gay white men; to others, it was a rebellion of transgender folx and drag queen, mostly people of color, finding strength to resist for the first time. It depends on not only who is telling the story, but also who is hearing it, who is seeing her/him/themself reflected or rooted in it, who is claiming the legacy of resistance to the raid of a small bar in the Village on the night of Judy Garland’s burial.

I read The Beautiful Room is Empty in college in the late 1990s, and it was my introduction to Stonewall. When I came out, I could count on two hands the number of students who were out on campus. I didn’t feel particularly unsafe - no more unsafe than in any other environment - but I also didn’t have access to gay culture. During summers, I’d return home to Chicago and find ways to sneak down to Boystown, find the bars that didn’t card, and, well, do all the things that 19 year old gay kids do. The summer after my first year in college, I’d already planned an elaborate ruse to explain why I’d be out of the house all day one Saturday in June when my sister called and invited me down to her place in the city and to join her at the Pride parade. By the end of the day, I had come out to my sister (the first person in my family) and my mother had started the silent treatment on my sister for taking me to, what she called at the time, “that lesbian thing.” It was a quick and double-edged lesson: on one side, Pride was all about claiming my identity, naming myself, and finding others who helped me with that along the way. On the other, though, claiming my identity would spur consequences. When I was introduced to the phrase “Politics is personal, and the personal is political” in grad school, I understood it through the lens I acquired by coming out.

June 28, 2019, marked the 50th anniversary of the start of the Stonewall Riots in New York City. This anniversary was preceded by years of slow but steady success toward achieving equality for LGBTQIA people in the US, including pivotal Supreme Court decisions like US v. Windsor and Obergefell v. Hodges and growing representation in various media. Throughout that year’s “Pride season,” companies capitalized by rebranding themselves as Pride-centered organizations. Walking through a mall during the month of June was like navigating an obnoxiously-rainbow jungle. With all this energy swirling, it was easy to get sentimental about the anniversary of Stonewall, but two things bothered me: first, while there’s much to celebrate, 2020 provided ample reminders that we haven’t achieved total equality. We’ve seen a rise in hate crimes against queer people, not to mention the aggressive and insulting rhetoric coming from multiple directions. We’ve seen state legislatures move to restrict voting rights and target transgender people (in particularly, most disgustingly, trans kids). As those voices get louder, it’s harder and harder to drown them out, making me all the more grateful for and inspired by folx who speak up, who brave the backlash, and who shout from the rooftops the injustices perpetuated against queer folx and other marginalized and vulnerable people. Still, the fact that we, or anyone on our behalf, has to shout to assert basic human dignity tells us that the work is not and may never be complete. 

Second, I felt that consumer culture coopted Pride, perhaps irreversibly. In the 1980s and 1990s, it was a risk for companies to be present at Pride festivals - it was a statement. But since then, too many parades have been miles-long advertisements of flashy and well-stocked floats for banks and airlines and other businesses hoping to build their credibility as inclusive and queer-friendly companies, relegating the churches and synagogues and PFLAG chapters and activists to filler status along the route (a shift brilliantly skewered in the SNL’s Pride song). The most dangerous consequence of this is that marketing efforts not only tell a story - they frame a story, they shape the worldview of the engaged audience. Too many corporate presences at Pride events have shady histories (to both overgeneralize and understate) when it comes to support of their LGBTQIA employees both in business culture and in public policy, but they have the resources to tell a story. The story I heard from all those ads, though, wasn’t my story - actually, my story didn’t seem to fit into the worldview of all those ads. 

As an antidote to this, I found myself in a pattern of daily reflection on people, events, and experiences that shaped my story, influenced how I thought about myself and the world around me, provided a bridge to me during lonely times, and gave me language for the joyous ones. It was a simple practice: set aside half an hour, re-watch a few clips or look up some information, think critically about how I’ve been shaped and challenged and supported in my life, and be grateful. I posted my reflections (almost) daily during the month of June, leading up to the 50th anniversary, and this became my way of personalizing Pride. I tailored it to my style and needs, I didn’t try to claim someone else’s perspective or experience as my own, and I shared it with my friends on Facebook. Sometimes, friends responded with gratitude - my reflection triggered a happy memory or introduced them to a new idea or figure - which was lovely to see, but the practice was really one of discernment for me, to help me articulate who I am, what my identity means for me, and what I need and desire. 

Things have changed since then. I’m returning to these reflections fifteen months into the COVID-19 pandemic and a year after the murder of George Floyd. For the second year, the Pride celebrations, parades, and festivals we used to know and love (or at least tolerate) have been rightfully cancelled, though, with the resumption of something-like-normal for many due to the rising vaccination rate, the spaces that tied the LGBTQIA community together (bars, restaurants, gayborhoods, community centers, choruses, athletic leagues, chosen families, support groups, those spaces we’ve created to be safe, to be ourselves that evaporated last year) are coming back to life, and I wonder whether and how those spaces will reflect the things we’ve endured, the changes we’ve navigated, the scars we bore, the mistakes we made. Rather, I wonder whether we’ll make the effort to resist the narratives imposed on us, to construct our own stories, and to listen to the stories we have the privilege to hear.

Gay men faced a plague 40 years ago, another plague that was ignored and played down, that seemed to target an already vulnerable group, that was treated by leaders and neighbors alike as a justified punishment or at least a natural consequence of the “lifestyle” we lived. The AIDS crisis added urgency and fuel and anger to the movement for equal rights that started well before Stonewall and that led us to equal marriage in the US. Queer folx established safe neighborhoods, those “gayborhoods” through which our Pride parades once traveled, and spurred economic revivals and returns of services to neglected urban areas. As that crisis relented, queer folx were visible in a new way. Harvey Milk’s legacy and murder revealed a need for queer representation in local and national politics. Ellen came out. Will & Grace joined the prime time lineup. When I joined the Boston Gay Men’s Chorus in 1999, though more and more folx started to see themselves reflected in our institutions and visible in our culture, coming out and standing out, claiming our space, was still a political act. 

After an experience that rocks us, we search for what’s steady, and I’m optimistic that we will be able to discern both what’s at the core of our celebrations and identify new ways to visibly and meaningfully mark Pride. The parties and interfaith services and parades and brunches and performances were cancelled last year, and while I hope they return, we do have the chance to shift away from the highly externalized celebrations toward something more personal. Instead of waiting for advertisers to tell us what to be proud of, we can do that for ourselves. We can take ourselves seriously and look at our lives critically. We can open our minds and hearts to a few minutes of reflection. We can tell each other about the people who shaped us, about the experiences we’ve had and the insights we’ve gleaned. We can articulate our own desires and needs. In short, we can make Pride personal again. 

This month, I’m reviving my daily Pride reflection, and I’ll be posting brief reflections (almost) daily on Medium. This is not the Pride story, and it is not an attempt to be exhaustively inclusive or broadly researched. In fact, stepping back I can see that many of the people and experiences I’ve identified add to a stereotype of gay men of a certain age. I’ve never thought of myself as an old, campy queen whose every reference calls back to a diva or a script, but if the shoe fits, I’ll gladly try it on. Besides, isn’t it the ordinary things that open our eyes to the deepest insights? Isn’t it always what Liza sang about, “a quiet thing,” that changes us most profoundly? I love to swim in the world of high art and philosophy, but it’s the popular culture and the very ordinary media that grab me, that stick with me. In fact, I find great comfort knowing that the things that once made me stand out are the things that now make me feel quite ordinary because they are the things that connected and continue to connect me to people I admire and love and to people I’ve never and will never meet. They may not all be “high art,” but they are building blocks for my corner of the world. So, no, this is not the Pride story. It is part of my story. 

Follow along with my (almost) daily updates in the coming month (I’ll post occasional reminders on social media), and if there are any people, events, or experiences that shaped you, I’d love to hear about it! 

UPCOMING

UPDATES

Later this month, I’m participating in the NWAIS Leadership Institute. If you’re in an independent school in the Pacific Northwest, check out this year’s program which will provide space for educators to breathe and reflect after the last two academic years and to envision the year ahead. I’m offering sessions titled “Moments of Serenity, and Other Myths” and “If you want to change the system, change your system,”  and other sessions with Whitney Benns on negotiation and Lori Cohen on leadership after 2020 prove to be meaningful. Check out the page or reach out to me directly with any questions!

Looking for meaningful conversation without having to prove, disprove, or accomplish anything? Join a Symposium! Symposia bring people together to explore a topic from different angles. Check out my website for more information and to sign up. Symposia are limited to 10 participants and need 4 to run. Upcoming Symposia:  

  • Good Stuff: talking about listening, seeing, feeling, and other ings. Good Stuff VI (Wednesdays: July 14, 21, 28 & August 4); Good Stuff VII (Wednesdays, August 11, 18, 25 & September 1; Good Stuff VIII (Wednesdays: August 8, 15, 22 & 29)

  • Rituals, ceremonies, traditions: starting points for understanding, engaging, and constructing ritual life (Thursdays: July 15, July 22, July 29, August 5) 

  • Madonna: a case study in religion & pop culture (Thursdays: August 12, 19, 26 & September 2)

  • Miss Jean Brodie is past her prime: teachers in film (Thursdays: September 9, 16, 23 & 30)

Guided meditations via Zoom continue on Mondays at 4:00pm PST and on Thursdays at 9:00am PST! These morning (on the West Coast)/mid-day (on the East Coast)/evening (wherever else you might be) sessions will be just like the Monday session - our aim is to practice being present and finding a little peace and quiet. If you or someone you know could use a 20-30 minute dose of peace and quiet on Mondays or Thursdays, visit the meditation page on my site to sign up! 

GOOD STUFF

Listen 
There’s no better way to kick off Pride month (or to kickstart a good mood) than Kim English’s “Unspeakable Joy.” Listen while you’re out for a run, or folding laundry, or having a drink, or chopping veggies, and I dare you not smile and start moving to the beat. 

If you stream music on Spotify, I’ve started a playlist called “Bill’s Good Stuff,” including music I’ve loved for a long time as well as things I’ve come across more recently. Feel free to add the playlist to your favorites! Bill’s Good Stuff Spotify Playlist

Read
For this week’s meditation, I used an excerpt of a letter by Gerard Vann, OP. 

At the bar of heaven, shall we be expected only to say how we have done with our fasting and almsdeeds, our pursuit of virtue? Shall we not also be expected to say, You gave me a love of music, and I have tried a little to deepen it and sanctify it: to love the magic you put into the souls of your children - John Sebastian and Wolfgang and Ludwig and Johannes - and to praise you through it; you gave me a love of words, and of the magic you make through men’s lips, and I have tried not to belittle your gift; you gave me a love of colour and I have tried to use your gift creatively in a sad, drab world? And shall we not, still more, be expected to say: You gave me, though unworthy, the love of these your children, to keep me young and joyful in heart, and to help me in dark places, and I tried to be prudent and let no harm come to them or me, but also, I tried not to disparage the gift or refuse its responsibilities?

Bill Hulseman
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