Straight Up Queer Spaces

Grace Woodruff, Web Editor

I clearly remember the first time I went to the Gay-Straight Alliance, more commonly known as GSA. I was in middle school, and I was just figuring out that I might not be straight (childhood obsession with Ariel, anyone?). At this time, I was also questioning my gender identity, feeling as though the dichotomy of the feminine and masculine just didnโ€™t fit me. And so I went to a place that, theoretically, would have people who were experiencing the same things as me, people who could help me out. But when I arrived, I was surrounded by cisgender heterosexuals who, despite their allyship, didnโ€™t really know how I was feeling or how to help me.

It was a uniquely uncomfortable experience. I mentioned an attraction to women, and suddenly, all eyes were on me. It seemed as though every straight person in the room was looking for aย  โ€œgay best friend,โ€ and they had finally found the perfect prey. It didnโ€™t get better as the years went on. In 7th grade, I mentioned my girlfriend to a then-friend, who promptly laughed and said, โ€œHot. Lesbians.โ€ As unfortunate as it is, it often feels as though the only alternative to hatred is fetishization and laughter.

I canโ€™t help but suspect that a lot of young queer people feel this way. For all the good that allies do, they also have the tendency to take up space, time and energy that isnโ€™t theirs. And I understand why allies are required, I really do. No one should be forced to come out in order to join a community that embraces acceptance, but it can be so disheartening to come to a space that was quite literally designed for people like you and find that there isnโ€™t enough room for you. Or even worse, to find the space is only available for those willing to fulfill the stereotypes and be the butt of jokes.

I think that a large part of the problem is that people donโ€™t know what being an ally really means or looks like. And while Iโ€™m not the authority, this has been my lived experience. People tend to think that just showing up is enough to be a good ally, and while thatโ€™s important, thereโ€™s a lot more to it. Contributing financially is part of it, but largely, itโ€™s about the attitude you have going in. Hot Rabbit, an LGBTQ+ events organizer, says it well: โ€œItโ€™s about cultural humility. Allies should act as if they are in someone elseโ€™s home.โ€ย 

This means that if youโ€™re not queer, itโ€™s probably best to just be quiet. Listen to the queer voices surrounding you, and donโ€™t talk over them to provide anecdotes about your one queer friend or the time you went to pride. Fetishizing queer couples or talking about a desire for a โ€œGBFโ€ should not be confused with allyship. Itโ€™s not cute, itโ€™s not supportive โ€” itโ€™s creepy.

Another issue is that, especially for young people, there are very few spaces that are actually designated as queer-friendly. Unless you live in a major metropolitan area, you are highly unlikely to find queer book stores, queer coffee shops or even queer bars. So if youโ€™re not a member of the LGBTQ+ community, please just leave the few spaces that there are for the people who need them.

The most important thing to remember is that these spaces arenโ€™t for non-LGBTQ+ people. Pride and GSA and queer spaces in all their forms should be centered around listening to and uplifting queer people, and thatโ€™s a lot harder when they have to shout to be heard.