On Friday, I witnessed what might have been the defining event of my generation: the Supreme Court's nationwide legalization of same-sex marriage. Since then, I've been very vocally celebrating this news with a bunch of status updates on my Facebook. "Vocal" might not be the right word; my celebration might, in fact, be better described as "polemical," since several of my comments are excoriating take-downs of opponents of same-sex marriage. In a way, perhaps this isn't my conversation to have: I'm straight, though I've had many wonderful gay and lesbian friends over the years, and I have the privilege of being happy for them now that this good news has been broken. In defending the Supreme Court's decision, perhaps I'm wasting my breath by arguing a point that need no longer be made.
I realize, however, that there's something else at stake in my feelings on this issue, and it starts with some autobiography. Throughout much of my middle and high-school years, I was bullied. Chronically. I was on the fence about speaking publically about this--if you're not familiar with the psychological effects of bullying, it will suffice to say that the impact is profound--almost a decade out of high school, I still feel a lingering, if irrational, humiliation in admitting it. It cuts very deeply in a way that those unaffected by it can never appreciate, as evinced when they talk about how "soft-skinned" and "hypersensitive" children in my situation must be. But I assume enough time has elapsed, and my audience is mature and compassionate enough, that I can say this without fear.
What I found peculiar at the time is that most, if not the entirety, of what I had to endure took the form of homophobic hate speech. Day in and out, I was repeatedly, relentless told I was a faggot, a cocksucker, and other things that I have no desire to repeat here. For whatever reason, my enemies were intent on telling me that I was gay. What's crucial to note here is the strong connection in their minds between a person's supposedly being gay and the right to treat that person as though they were worthless--as though they did not have the basic dignity and moral status owed to other humans. It was as if the two somehow ran together. Moreover, it was a point that was condoned by the authorities in my school, in that it was never punished or called out by my teachers (who witnessed a great deal of it) in the way that, say, racist hate speech would have been if used on a black student. When I was a kid, it was acceptable to hate gay people, and it was acceptable to hurt them. They did not yet fully count as persons.
You might think that this is not my story to tell, since, as mentioned, I'm not gay, and therefore couldn't feel the full brunt of homophobia as a gay student would. I'm fortunate in that I was not--in that I could never feel the incredible pain and despair that a gay student in my situation would feel.
But here is my important point: somewhere, elsewhere, in another classroom, there was a kid being called exactly the same things I was. And that kid was gay. Just as it was acceptable for my abusers to say the sorts of things they did to me, it was acceptable for them to say those things to that other kid, too. It was condoned. It was unpunished. What I went through was painful. Unbearable, even. I can't begin to fathom what it would have been like were I a gay student.
Things are finally different. We're reaching the point where it's no longer acceptable to call someone a faggot in a public school--where it doesn't command the indifference and lack of disapprobation that it did when I was a kid. I look around now--at depictions of gays and lesbians in the media and in the public eye, and at this nation's overwhelming outburst of joy and exhiliration after the event on Friday--and realize that so much has changed in the sparse ten years that have passed since then. I have the pleasure to find myself among a generation of rising adults who are going to teach their children what my abusers in school were never taught, who will find themselves in positions that allow them to change the world for the better--teachers, principals, politicians. The Supreme Court's decision represents so much more than just the bestowal of legal privileges. It represents a turning point in our society's moral development: the demand by gays and lesbians to be accorded the dignity and fundamental respect owed to every human being is now being recognized. This is not to say that there isn't a great deal of work to be done; marriage equality will not solve all of the challenges faced by gays and lesbians. But things are on the upswing, and much sooner than I would have expected a decade ago. I am embarrassed to admit that, years ago, part of me was pessimistic about ever seeing the legalization of same-sex marriage in my lifetime. I saw the furious opposition, the intransigence, of conservatives in the Bush era and concluded that there was no overcoming such deep-seated hatred and fear. Oftentimes, when I am pessimistic, I have a terrible habit of being right. I am pleased that, for once, I was wrong.
I firmly believe that no caring, just person in this day and age could truly be opposed to the Supreme Court's decision. In the end, I think there are no good arguments against gay marriage--only rationalizations--and that when you strip away the verbiage and all the talk of states' rights and judicial tyranny, what remains is a presumption against gay people. Ultimately it's about so much more than the Fourteenth Amendment and constitutional rights: it's about making progress in our capacity to accept and respect other people, and using the resources that we have to promote that progress. The change in our nation's attitude that I have witnessed affirms my belief that people are good and are capable of grasping the priority of the ethical to the legal. It's that sort of wisdom that Scalia and his ilk, complaining about the legal trappings of this situation, do not understand.
I realize, however, that there's something else at stake in my feelings on this issue, and it starts with some autobiography. Throughout much of my middle and high-school years, I was bullied. Chronically. I was on the fence about speaking publically about this--if you're not familiar with the psychological effects of bullying, it will suffice to say that the impact is profound--almost a decade out of high school, I still feel a lingering, if irrational, humiliation in admitting it. It cuts very deeply in a way that those unaffected by it can never appreciate, as evinced when they talk about how "soft-skinned" and "hypersensitive" children in my situation must be. But I assume enough time has elapsed, and my audience is mature and compassionate enough, that I can say this without fear.
What I found peculiar at the time is that most, if not the entirety, of what I had to endure took the form of homophobic hate speech. Day in and out, I was repeatedly, relentless told I was a faggot, a cocksucker, and other things that I have no desire to repeat here. For whatever reason, my enemies were intent on telling me that I was gay. What's crucial to note here is the strong connection in their minds between a person's supposedly being gay and the right to treat that person as though they were worthless--as though they did not have the basic dignity and moral status owed to other humans. It was as if the two somehow ran together. Moreover, it was a point that was condoned by the authorities in my school, in that it was never punished or called out by my teachers (who witnessed a great deal of it) in the way that, say, racist hate speech would have been if used on a black student. When I was a kid, it was acceptable to hate gay people, and it was acceptable to hurt them. They did not yet fully count as persons.
You might think that this is not my story to tell, since, as mentioned, I'm not gay, and therefore couldn't feel the full brunt of homophobia as a gay student would. I'm fortunate in that I was not--in that I could never feel the incredible pain and despair that a gay student in my situation would feel.
But here is my important point: somewhere, elsewhere, in another classroom, there was a kid being called exactly the same things I was. And that kid was gay. Just as it was acceptable for my abusers to say the sorts of things they did to me, it was acceptable for them to say those things to that other kid, too. It was condoned. It was unpunished. What I went through was painful. Unbearable, even. I can't begin to fathom what it would have been like were I a gay student.
Things are finally different. We're reaching the point where it's no longer acceptable to call someone a faggot in a public school--where it doesn't command the indifference and lack of disapprobation that it did when I was a kid. I look around now--at depictions of gays and lesbians in the media and in the public eye, and at this nation's overwhelming outburst of joy and exhiliration after the event on Friday--and realize that so much has changed in the sparse ten years that have passed since then. I have the pleasure to find myself among a generation of rising adults who are going to teach their children what my abusers in school were never taught, who will find themselves in positions that allow them to change the world for the better--teachers, principals, politicians. The Supreme Court's decision represents so much more than just the bestowal of legal privileges. It represents a turning point in our society's moral development: the demand by gays and lesbians to be accorded the dignity and fundamental respect owed to every human being is now being recognized. This is not to say that there isn't a great deal of work to be done; marriage equality will not solve all of the challenges faced by gays and lesbians. But things are on the upswing, and much sooner than I would have expected a decade ago. I am embarrassed to admit that, years ago, part of me was pessimistic about ever seeing the legalization of same-sex marriage in my lifetime. I saw the furious opposition, the intransigence, of conservatives in the Bush era and concluded that there was no overcoming such deep-seated hatred and fear. Oftentimes, when I am pessimistic, I have a terrible habit of being right. I am pleased that, for once, I was wrong.
I firmly believe that no caring, just person in this day and age could truly be opposed to the Supreme Court's decision. In the end, I think there are no good arguments against gay marriage--only rationalizations--and that when you strip away the verbiage and all the talk of states' rights and judicial tyranny, what remains is a presumption against gay people. Ultimately it's about so much more than the Fourteenth Amendment and constitutional rights: it's about making progress in our capacity to accept and respect other people, and using the resources that we have to promote that progress. The change in our nation's attitude that I have witnessed affirms my belief that people are good and are capable of grasping the priority of the ethical to the legal. It's that sort of wisdom that Scalia and his ilk, complaining about the legal trappings of this situation, do not understand.
I live in a generation intelligent enough to see these things for themselves, now, with the sensitivity to notice forms of hatred and prejudice in places where they used to not be obvious. And I'm confident that what happened this weekend represents genuine human progress and that a heightened sense of justice and compassion in this nation has finally taken hold.
