Article by Abigail Garner

I was recently at a queer-related function where I was talking to a woman from the South who was considering coming out at work. She asked me what kind of experience I had had coming out to employers. That’s when I told her I wasn’t gay.

“You’re straight?!!” she asked. “Then what are you doing here?”

Her candid response was out of shock, not hostility. And when I told her that it was because I believed in the issues even though I wasn’t gay myself, she was speechless. She hadn’t met someone who identified as an ally before. Or maybe she had, but she just didn’t know it.

A common assumption is that if you care about GLBT issues, you must be GLBT yourself. As a result, when I am at queer conferences, meetings, or lobby days, people who don’t know me usually think I am lesbian or bisexual.

I tend to make the same assumption about everyone else in those settings. At one queer conference I attended they asked all the straight allies to stand up. Much to my surprise, the huge meeting room was sprinkled with supportive heterosexuals.

For those who believe that the only “safe space” is that which is void of heterosexuals, there is little incentive to include straights, regardless of how supportive they might say they are. Why bother building alliances with straight people?

Here’s why: Straight people typically have access to systems of power that queer people do not. That is what heterosexual privilege is. Queerly affiliated allies, then, can leverage heterosexual privilege for positive social change.

Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays is a perfect example. P-FLAG parents — assumed to be straight — talk about homosexuality in churches and schools that wouldn’t dare invite a real live homosexual. When people are so homophobic that they think gay people are sub-human, their ears immediately close to anything gay people have to say. Straight parents, however, have more credibility and clout in the eyes of homophobes and they at least have a shot at communicating a message of acceptance.

I have seen this happen with my lectures, too. When I don’t explicitly state that I’m straight, I am assumed to be lesbian, and treated accordingly by homophobes. One time I was a guest lecturer in a writers’ workshop where I didn’t bother to state my sexuality, but did talk about my queer writings. Throughout my presentation, one student silently prayed as tears streamed down her face. She refused to shake my hand or even touch any of my handouts. Would she have agreed to read some of my queer-positive writings — even if only out of curiosity — if she had known I wasn’t “one of them”?

Staunchly conservative audience members have admitted to attending my talks about LGBT equality because I am “less controversial” and “non-threatening.” Such words seem to serve as euphemisms for “heterosexual.” I’m not saying it’s right. I’m saying that if that’s the pitiful reality of prejudice, let’s consciously use it to our advantage in educating the ignorant.

Deciding when to let people know the whole truth can be tricky. It’s not like I start out every sentence with the words, “As a heterosexual…” There are plenty of times when I am part of an entire conversation and my sexual orientation never comes up (nor does theirs, for that matter).

Other times, it feels deceptive not to clarify. When I do, some GLBT individuals assume that my “coming out” as straight is defensive: “Oh yeah, you just had to say that you’re straight. Wouldn’t want anyone for a moment to mistake you for one of us.” Other individuals think I’m going out of my way to let people know I’m heterosexual to gain martyr status: “So you’re straight. What do you want from us, a gold star?”

No, I don’t want a gold star, or a cookie, or a pat on the back, all of which have been sarcastically offered to me by GLBT folks who would prefer I keep my sexual orientation to myself. What I would like, however, are more straight people who are vocal about equal rights as human rights. I would also like more GLBT activists who are open to incorporating allies into social change strategies.

I think one reason for resistance to the idea of allies is that too often the standards for being considered an ally have been set miserably low. For example, simply signing a pro-gay petition or putting a pink triangle sticker on a dorm room door does not necessarily mean people are allies; sometimes it only means they succumbed to peer pressure.

True allies don’t mind being mistaken for queer. They might, from time to time, face discrimination because they are believed to be queer. But they also know when it is important to “come out” as straight. There is added power for queer-rights advocates who are “openly heterosexual.” Both GLBT people and allies need to leverage that power.

Originally published in Queue Press

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