I am the keeper of countless little love stories. And every student who trusted me your truth over the years has helped me stay brave and open. This Sunday (28), which marks the anniversary of Stonewall uprisingI also remember that their trust fueled my motivation to do and discuss difficult things.
A college student stays in the room after class, when everyone else has left. She asks an unimportant question, hesitates. Then finally she says: “I think I might be gay.”
Another person asks to talk to me about a missed deadline. She’s awkward and speaks quickly: “I’ve been really distracted. I started seeing someone who is non-binary and now I’m trying to understand what that means about me. I need to talk about it, but I don’t know who.”
No matter how proudly queer a student may feel, at that moment they will almost always be afraid.
I smile. “I’m honored that you told me,” I say. “I’m proud to have earned your trust.”
I am a university professor and have worked with university students for over 25 years. I am also an openly queer woman. Every semester, in the first class, I introduce myself completely. My slides about the course syllabus and classroom expectations are displayed, and a few photos appear: a camping trip, a baseball game, someone’s graduation.
For some students, my “boring” and “ordinary” middle-aged life with a wife and two teenage children is extraordinary. That’s because I’m the first openly queer educator many of them have ever met.
Each time a student confides in me, I am reminded that the pride that motivates me is not just personal; It’s collective and it’s the fuel that drives me. It is this pride that sustains the courage to stand up for yourself, your child, or your community — especially in times of uncertainty.
What my students don’t know is that my own story of accepting my sexuality is similar to theirs. As a college student in the late ’90s, my anxieties revolved around my identity while the rest of the world seemed to worry about the millennium bug. I knew I was attracted to women. I wanted to meet other people with similar experiences and I was terrified of being found out. I needed to process my thoughts and feelings, but I wasn’t sure how, where, or with whom.
In the 1990s, my Catholic college in the Midwest did not have a thriving LGBTQIA+ community. The only support group for gays and lesbians was confidential, and you had to make an appointment with a member of the university pastoral team to find out the time and location. I couldn’t Google “Does this mean I’m gay?” or find the “closest LGBTQIA+ bar to me”.
I also came out to one of my teachers. Or, more accurately, I came out to this professor for an academic job. A friend quietly shared a romance with a queer protagonist who hadn’t come out. Reading this novel was the first time my own thoughts and experiences were reflected in a book. I read it all in one morning.
That afternoon, I decided to use that same novel as a source for a communication course work on the concept of self-revelation. I incorporated examples from my own experience as a queer person who was not out on campus into the analysis. I described the weight of my anxiety about being discovered and the attempt to control what I revealed or hid through every thing I wore, said, or did. It was the work I put the most effort into in my life. I got a D. The professor considered the novel “an inappropriate text” and suggested that I didn’t understand the concept of self-revelation.
Of course. The article itself was a self-declaration.
Writing that work was a way of understanding myself. It was fundamental to the formation of my identity, regardless of the teacher’s reaction, and I have since come out as gay.
Revealing one’s sexuality is an act of self-discovery. Before we can tell the truth about ourselves to the world, we often spend a lot of time reflecting on what that truth is—in our thoughts, on paper, and eventually in conversations with people we trust.
Throughout my career, I have always been openly gay, not as a great act of courage or for political reasons, but because hiding is so much work. Constant surveillance and self-censorship are exhausting. I would rather invest my energy in my family, my community, and my work than in dealing with other people’s discomfort with who I am. As a result, college students have often come out to me. The conversations varied according to time, place and popular culture, although, in most cases, they still present the characteristics of .
These days, I’m closer to their parents’ age. The conversations changed; more students come to me as a sort of parent representative. I’m the stand-in or the extra for the most important conversation they want to have at home. It is a role that I take very seriously, both for the student and for any parent.
And maybe that’s why, when a nervous student tries to appear relaxed and discreetly approaches me to say, “Sorry I’m late. I came from my boyfriend’s house this morning,” I notice the quick glance he gives me to gauge my reaction.
I smile and raise an eyebrow. “Is this new?” I ask.
He gets a little shy, blushes and nods his head yes.
I thank you for trusting me. I tell him I’m proud of him.
He lets out a sigh. Straighten up a little.
“And how are things?” I ask.
“It’s really good,” he says, “but also, um, kind of scary.”
Yes, it can be scary. But we cannot prioritize comfort over growth.
Just turn on the television or scroll through social media to realize that the country is in a constant struggle that has lasted for years. Us against them. Red against blue. Good versus evil.
My students and young people around the world are not naive about the ways in which LGBTQ+ people have been demonized by political commentators, or that books featuring queer characters or stories have been pulled from their library shelves. Gen Z hears the rhetoric and notices how their loved ones react (or don’t). Even as they begin to develop their own sense of pride, they are not immune to messages of shame, disgust, and intolerance.
When my students trust me to share their thoughts, I respond in the way I would like: I thank them, ask thoughtful questions, and share some basic resources. I know these young people are looking for recognition, security and a sense of community.
I am hospitable, welcoming and I like to celebrate. Sometimes I’m one of the first people they tell. Some have already spoken to their parents; others are gathering courage. Generally, they suspect that the parents already know, that they accept the situation or that they eventually change their mind. My students are not afraid of outright rejection, but rather of being a source of anxiety or disappointment.
Many feel ashamed that the people they love can suddenly be affected by hateful messages and speech. My students don’t want anyone to worry about their future, their safety, or their happiness. They want their parents to really know them; they want to be honest and share their authentic stories with their loved ones. They want to be seen and understood.
This is why we still need pride, even after June. Pride is bigger than a float or a drag queen show — although those are undoubtedly central and festive elements. Pride is also fundamental to the feeling of belonging. It’s knowing that people care about you. That you are valuable and have value. Pride is also about developing confidence and security to face challenges.
Shame diminishes us and silences our stories. Pride allows us to grow. And after years of collecting these small acts of courage, I know this: the world always needs more love stories, today, during Pride Month and every day.
