Peter Freeman, MPH
Public Health Strategist & Senior Advisor
It is June, which means many around the world, including here in the United States, are celebrating Pride Month. In this year’s proclamation of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, and Intersex Pride Month, President Biden calls on us to, “honor the resilience of LGBTQI+ people, who are fighting to live authentically and freely,” “reaffirm our belief that LGBTQI+ rights are human rights,” and “recommit to delivering protections, safety, and equality to LGBTQI+ families.”
In previous years, I have viewed Pride Month through one of two lenses: one focused on me and my individual needs, or one focused on the larger ethos of the various LGBTQI+ communities. Regardless of the lens, however, the mantras remained pretty consistent:
“Members of my community continue to have rights withheld and removed due to discriminatory legislation.”
“My community experiences health disparities resulting from damaging, right-revoking legislation.”
“There are places around the world that would throw me in jail (or worse) just because of who I love.”
Yes, these mantras are macro-level and potentially hard for some to really grab and understand the implications of. But they all speak to part of my reality: there are spaces in this world (country, state, city, or neighborhood; take your pick, as they all apply) where I cannot assume I am safe to be if I openly show affection towards my husband. There are people around me that carry violent ideologies about what should happen to someone like me. Some in positions of power believe I should be sterilized or “converted” to a heterosexual lifestyle. (Note the purposeful use of quotation marks to acknowledge conversion therapy Is. Not. Ethical. And. Does. Not. Work.).
For some of you, it may be impossible to know how it feels to walk into a room and have to decide, there and then, how you are going to move through the experience safely. Unfortunately, I, and members of all LGBTQI+ communities, carry that decision with us always, especially those who are Black, Indigenous, or other people of color or those socially ascribed as non-binary.
For the majority of my life, I remained fairly resilient in the face of the discrimination and overall vitriol LGBTQI+ communities are forced to manage. (Because it is just that – we are forced to manage others’ views, perceptions, ideas, and actions. For those in the back – this is, in part, how identity-based trauma becomes sustained and internalized.) I have a beautifully supportive family who view my husband as a true extension of our nuclear relationships. My community of friends know no other reality than the partnership between my husband and I. For them, it’s not about my being married to a male, but instead my being married to someone I love and someone who loves me back; for them, it is that simple.
I am privileged. I’ve always had a substantial support system, access to healthful resources, and the ability to choose where I live, among other things. I am able to shape my surroundings in ways that minimize my exposure to situations where I am vulnerable. I do not rely on anyone, be they family, friends, employers, or others, for my well-being that views my identity negatively, or as something that needs eradicating.
I am spending this Pride Month recognizing all of my supports. I honor the generations who came before me and stood up to powerful, intimidating, and dangerous forces to say, “We’re Here. We’re Queer. Get used to it!” I am thankful for those in positions of power for taking a stand for what they knew was right (and, honestly, largely aligned with public opinion). I am indebted to my family and friends for providing me the platform to become who I am without needing to justify who I love along the way.
BUT THIS PRIDE MONTH IS ALSO DIFFERENT.
Within a matter of weeks, I will be a parent. After a journey that has spanned the entire COVID-19 Public Health Emergency, my husband and I have matched for an adoption. In the very immediate future, we will be crossing the country to meet the newest addition to our family.
Like most soon-to-be parents, I am a mixture of excited, uneasy, elated, and a little bit of, “What did we just do?”
Unlike many soon-to-be parents, however, I am also facing the reality that the struggles, discrimination, and trauma I face because of my identity are now things I must teach my child. I have decades of experience in navigating this world and learning where to place my trust. Come July, I will have an infant with only days of experience being alive, but who will undoubtedly receive feedback from someone at some point that their parents are “less than.” Or, perhaps even worse, that THEY are less than. My child, regardless of their identity, is going to have to manage the negativity directed at me. This child – my child – is coming into this world already discriminated against for something that has nothing to do with them.
This is also how identity-based trauma works: it is not just my trauma in play, but also the trauma of those associated with me.
So this Pride Month, I add a third lens through which I view the drag shows, the parades, and the out-and-proudness of LGBTQI+ communities: the lens of those who have yet to arrive.
We’re getting closer to an equal and just society. But we aren’t there yet.
This Pride Month, hug your family and friends who are members of a LGBTQI+ community. Be a safe space for someone who, just for a little while, needs to express themselves authentically and be heard And, above all, make sure you are doing all that you can to shut those out of power who have decided that anyone is less than.