The chorus, gender and (my) identity
Tue, May. 24th, 2005 11:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scarlettinaWhen I joined the Seattle Lesbian and Gay Chorus, I did it for a couple of very simple reasons: 1) I wanted to spend more time with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ironymaiden and all the lovely people I'd met when I narrated the "Faraway Places" concert, and 2) I wanted to start singing again after years of not singing at least in public anyway. That was my plan. But the experience has turned into something much richer and much deeper than simply singing with friends and it’s provoked a lot of thought. I didn't expect this. (I know: silly me.)
Remember a couple of months back when I said I was going to make a post about gender and identity? Well, this is it. If it's not a rumination that interests you, don’t click the cut.
The first bar I ever went to was a gay bar. I was 16 years old, part of the local Rocky Horror Picture Show floor show, and the buzz was all over the cast: we were going to Equus after the midnight show. Equus was a pretty notorious Long Island gay bar. It was 1978, so this was a scandalous thing for me to be doing for all sorts of reasons. Mostly, I was worried about being under age. All my friends told me to just walk in like I belonged there and not to worry about it. I vaguely knew it was a gay bar, but it didn't really sink in until I was sitting at the bar, colored lights cascading over me from the dance floor. I drank my Long Island Ice Tea and watched two sandy-haired, shirtless men making out in a corner. The bathroom was unisex. No one was looking at my cute 16-year-old ass. I wasn't in Kansas anymore.
That was the shock treatment. The subtler lessons were sinking in at the same time, though. Some of my high school friends were gay. I loved them for all the reasons we love our friends; I didn't think about it especially hard. It also helped that my mother was totally cool about my going to "Rocky." She let us rehearse and get into our costumes at the house, even W, our Frank'n'furter, who was clearly very much Out. My mom even came with us a couple of nights to check out the scene. I think she understood what kind of an outlet this was for many of the people in the cast. Most of my friends were older than me and extremely protective. And what I got from all this was that people are people and some are gay and some are straight, end of story.
Fast forward to, oh, 1997. I'm living in Bellevue and trying to move into Seattle proper. I don't really know the area that well, soladyjestocost takes me apartment hunting. We go to one woman's house and she shows me her upstairs apartment. She asks me how many bedrooms I need, I tell her one, and suddenly I find out that she's got a prospective tenant she's just waiting to get a credit check back on; the apartment's not available. I was vaguely disappointed. We left, and as the woman shut the door behind us ladyjestocost says to me, “You know what just happened, don’t you?” And I really didn't. She said, "You know what she thought, right?" And that’s when the lightbulb went on.
I turned back toward the door and my dear good friend stopped me. I was furious. And I was furious not because the woman thought we were a lesbian couple. I was furious because that would somehow make a difference. I genuinely wanted to hit her, to beat the hell out of her for being such a bigot. As it was, I ended up getting a teeny matchbox apartment in Capitol Hill for two years before I bought my condo. I'm virtually certain I was happier there than I ever would have been living in the same house as that nasty woman.
Cut forward to this past winter. If you've read this journal at all, then you know how much fun I had narrating the Seattle Lesbian and Gay Chorus concert "Faraway Places," and how delighted I was to be asked if I was going to audition. It’s been so much fun and a real gift.
When I attended the chorus retreat a couple of months ago, I remember being excited and at the same time a little self-conscious about going. I knew it would be a good weekend and experience proved me right. I had a wonderful time and we got a lot of good work done. At the same time, I found myself looking at the other group at the retreat center—a Christian mens' 12 Step group as it turned out—and feeling self conscious about total strangers making assumptions about me because of the company I kept. I did not want to be mistaken for what I was not. I even made a point of dropping it into conversation with someone at the retreat center that I was one of the only straight people in the chorus. It was reassuring somehow. And then I got angry at myself about that self consciousness, and having to go out of my way to assert my gender identity like that. What difference did it make? Why should it make a difference? Especially since I was spending the weekend with people I liked and cared about and respected. Especially since in this company it really doesn't matter.
That's when I found myself thinking about that nasty woman and her assumptions about me.
Despite all of my experience with gay and lesbian friends, this was the first time that I realized—in a very particular way—just how much being straight is a part of who I am. No big shock to the rest of you, I'm sure. It's practically tattooed across my forehead that I Like Men. But I'm not talking about that, really. I'm talking about what we take for granted about every day interactions, what we assume that we're seeing when we look at the world and when the world looks at us. And I'm talking about what we assume we communicate in the company of others. There is a certain safety in a world where we assume certain things based on what we see, based on what we're trained into thinking. I don't think that the average human being is much of a risk-taker, so when his or her basic assumptions are challenged, such challenges feel unsafe and scary. It was unsafe and scary to me to be perceived as other than what I am. That's where that behavior came from. (In the end, it was somewhat freeing as well because, well, no one really did care which way I swing; it was fun to think about playing with their minds a bit—only for a moment, of course. ::grin::) And that's why prejudice works the way it does: the unknown is scary and it's hell to be suddenly faced with an unknown you weren't prepared for, especially if all you're interested in is being safe-safe-safe. I'm Jewish; I've faced this before. This was, for me, a whole different flavor of learning the lesson.
The concert the chorus is preparing for now is on the theme of gay heroes and allies calledUnSung Heroes. Being one of the few straight people in the chorus, I was asked to write a piece of the narration about being same. I was honored and pretty humbled by this partly because the invitation was so kind and partly because I was being asked to be The Voice of the Straight Members.
And now I've been asked to read the piece I wrote at each performance. Far be it from me to say no to the opportunity to get up in front of a crowd! ::grin:: But as I drove home tonight, I found myself experiencing an odd, unexpected reluctance. It's not because I don't believe in what I wrote; I do, very much. I want to do this. But oddly (and entertainingly), I've realized that the reluctance comes from the fact that I'll be "outing" myself in a completely opposite way: I'm the straight girl in a community of gays and lesbians. Everyone will be looking at me with regard to this very particular thing. Usually being the center of attention is a place I'm extremely comfortable with. But this is new. I don't mind it; I just have to get used to the idea. I suspect that my inner risk-taker will kick in and take care of it all for me.
It's all just sort of fascinating to me how this thing I've taken so much for granted—my straightness—is something that has suddenly provoked so much cogitation for me now. And it's all sort of fascinating that my doing something I really didn't go into as a socio-political statement has become a study of that very thing for me. I know I'm going to be thinking about this a lot more, about why I think gay marriage is right and important, about why some people are uncomfortable with the idea of a straight person singing with a gay and lesbian chorus. It's work that is worthy to be done. I want to do more.
ironymaiden and all the lovely people I'd met when I narrated the "Faraway Places" concert, and 2) I wanted to start singing again after years of not singing at least in public anyway. That was my plan. But the experience has turned into something much richer and much deeper than simply singing with friends and it’s provoked a lot of thought. I didn't expect this. (I know: silly me.) Remember a couple of months back when I said I was going to make a post about gender and identity? Well, this is it. If it's not a rumination that interests you, don’t click the cut.
The first bar I ever went to was a gay bar. I was 16 years old, part of the local Rocky Horror Picture Show floor show, and the buzz was all over the cast: we were going to Equus after the midnight show. Equus was a pretty notorious Long Island gay bar. It was 1978, so this was a scandalous thing for me to be doing for all sorts of reasons. Mostly, I was worried about being under age. All my friends told me to just walk in like I belonged there and not to worry about it. I vaguely knew it was a gay bar, but it didn't really sink in until I was sitting at the bar, colored lights cascading over me from the dance floor. I drank my Long Island Ice Tea and watched two sandy-haired, shirtless men making out in a corner. The bathroom was unisex. No one was looking at my cute 16-year-old ass. I wasn't in Kansas anymore.
That was the shock treatment. The subtler lessons were sinking in at the same time, though. Some of my high school friends were gay. I loved them for all the reasons we love our friends; I didn't think about it especially hard. It also helped that my mother was totally cool about my going to "Rocky." She let us rehearse and get into our costumes at the house, even W, our Frank'n'furter, who was clearly very much Out. My mom even came with us a couple of nights to check out the scene. I think she understood what kind of an outlet this was for many of the people in the cast. Most of my friends were older than me and extremely protective. And what I got from all this was that people are people and some are gay and some are straight, end of story.
Fast forward to, oh, 1997. I'm living in Bellevue and trying to move into Seattle proper. I don't really know the area that well, so
ladyjestocost takes me apartment hunting. We go to one woman's house and she shows me her upstairs apartment. She asks me how many bedrooms I need, I tell her one, and suddenly I find out that she's got a prospective tenant she's just waiting to get a credit check back on; the apartment's not available. I was vaguely disappointed. We left, and as the woman shut the door behind us ladyjestocost says to me, “You know what just happened, don’t you?” And I really didn't. She said, "You know what she thought, right?" And that’s when the lightbulb went on. I turned back toward the door and my dear good friend stopped me. I was furious. And I was furious not because the woman thought we were a lesbian couple. I was furious because that would somehow make a difference. I genuinely wanted to hit her, to beat the hell out of her for being such a bigot. As it was, I ended up getting a teeny matchbox apartment in Capitol Hill for two years before I bought my condo. I'm virtually certain I was happier there than I ever would have been living in the same house as that nasty woman.
Cut forward to this past winter. If you've read this journal at all, then you know how much fun I had narrating the Seattle Lesbian and Gay Chorus concert "Faraway Places," and how delighted I was to be asked if I was going to audition. It’s been so much fun and a real gift.
When I attended the chorus retreat a couple of months ago, I remember being excited and at the same time a little self-conscious about going. I knew it would be a good weekend and experience proved me right. I had a wonderful time and we got a lot of good work done. At the same time, I found myself looking at the other group at the retreat center—a Christian mens' 12 Step group as it turned out—and feeling self conscious about total strangers making assumptions about me because of the company I kept. I did not want to be mistaken for what I was not. I even made a point of dropping it into conversation with someone at the retreat center that I was one of the only straight people in the chorus. It was reassuring somehow. And then I got angry at myself about that self consciousness, and having to go out of my way to assert my gender identity like that. What difference did it make? Why should it make a difference? Especially since I was spending the weekend with people I liked and cared about and respected. Especially since in this company it really doesn't matter.
That's when I found myself thinking about that nasty woman and her assumptions about me.
Despite all of my experience with gay and lesbian friends, this was the first time that I realized—in a very particular way—just how much being straight is a part of who I am. No big shock to the rest of you, I'm sure. It's practically tattooed across my forehead that I Like Men. But I'm not talking about that, really. I'm talking about what we take for granted about every day interactions, what we assume that we're seeing when we look at the world and when the world looks at us. And I'm talking about what we assume we communicate in the company of others. There is a certain safety in a world where we assume certain things based on what we see, based on what we're trained into thinking. I don't think that the average human being is much of a risk-taker, so when his or her basic assumptions are challenged, such challenges feel unsafe and scary. It was unsafe and scary to me to be perceived as other than what I am. That's where that behavior came from. (In the end, it was somewhat freeing as well because, well, no one really did care which way I swing; it was fun to think about playing with their minds a bit—only for a moment, of course. ::grin::) And that's why prejudice works the way it does: the unknown is scary and it's hell to be suddenly faced with an unknown you weren't prepared for, especially if all you're interested in is being safe-safe-safe. I'm Jewish; I've faced this before. This was, for me, a whole different flavor of learning the lesson.
The concert the chorus is preparing for now is on the theme of gay heroes and allies called
And now I've been asked to read the piece I wrote at each performance. Far be it from me to say no to the opportunity to get up in front of a crowd! ::grin:: But as I drove home tonight, I found myself experiencing an odd, unexpected reluctance. It's not because I don't believe in what I wrote; I do, very much. I want to do this. But oddly (and entertainingly), I've realized that the reluctance comes from the fact that I'll be "outing" myself in a completely opposite way: I'm the straight girl in a community of gays and lesbians. Everyone will be looking at me with regard to this very particular thing. Usually being the center of attention is a place I'm extremely comfortable with. But this is new. I don't mind it; I just have to get used to the idea. I suspect that my inner risk-taker will kick in and take care of it all for me.
It's all just sort of fascinating to me how this thing I've taken so much for granted—my straightness—is something that has suddenly provoked so much cogitation for me now. And it's all sort of fascinating that my doing something I really didn't go into as a socio-political statement has become a study of that very thing for me. I know I'm going to be thinking about this a lot more, about why I think gay marriage is right and important, about why some people are uncomfortable with the idea of a straight person singing with a gay and lesbian chorus. It's work that is worthy to be done. I want to do more.