Me, Robin

A few months back, I optimistically¹ asked for ideas on the burden of understanding. I had a lot of great conversations on the topic, mostly in person, with a range of friends. Some queer friends shared their own stories, and some straight friends explained how they’ve dealt with concepts new to them.

My straight friends focused mostly on exposing people to diversity. And this is a pretty effective idea. People who actually know a greater variety of people (heritages, sexualities, gender identities, physical and mental divergencies) tend to be open to increasing that. At the same time, people who have never met a single black person tend to vote the most racist. But this approaches the idea from the top down: it says, if people just knew you, they’d care. But it ignores that if they don’t care yet, they won’t care to get to know you. The question remains, how do you get somebody to listen?²

The narrative from the queer friends was universal: you can’t convince family. They will either get it or they won’t. Every single queer person told me the same thing. So for a few months, I struggled with this matter.

A few weeks ago, my dad called. He told me he’d been having a few ‘illuminating conversations’. I told him that he was ironically vague with that statement. Then he explained that he had talked to old friends. A lesbian couple he’s known for years, and a drag performer he’s known for decades³. They, essentially, told him the ‘let people be people’ angle. They told him about the haters, about how a lot of people simply don’t fit in the expectations others have of them, and how that isn’t their fault (sound familiar?). They talked about being your genuine self, and how it’s worse for me than for him.

And with that, my straight friends and queer friends meet in the middle. What my parents needed to hear, they heard from someone they trusted. When they heard it, it opened their hearts to me again.

I don’t recall ever having talked to these people. Maybe I did, when I was younger. I have a spotty memory of my youth. But they defended me, in my absence and in a position that was clearly beleaguered. They’re the greatest ally I didn’t know I had, and it moves me to tears just thinking about that. And I’ve thought about this idea of an ally. An ally is someone who defends your rights when you’re not there; a great ally is someone who also defends your humanity.

When I asked for help, everybody told me it was out of my hands, and I learned to accept that. It gave me the distance I needed to just… let it take some time. And then, by sheer chance, somebody else spoke for me.