It feels wrong for me to be living in Boston during an LGBTQ crisis. I am supposed to be in New York. I want to be at Stonewall, or anywhere in Greenwich Village, with my community. My community. This distance is compounded by the reality that the shooting in Orlando, and any crisis or hate that is directed towards the LGBTQ community is directed towards me as a queer woman.
I have come out to close friends very slowly, over time. In a perfect world, there would be one ceremonious outing because it is a conversation that is perpetually exhausting to have over and over again. Yet, proof of what keeps people in the closet for so long is evidenced by the massacre in Orlando. Our community is not safe, even in gay clubs, one of our most familiar sanctuaries.
As I told some friends last fall, I felt wrong for not coming out sooner. As a vocal advocate for women, I felt there was a fundamental dishonesty in refusing to publicly recognize another intersection of my identities. As a woman, I already exist in protest but my story was bigger and more complicated than that. Womanhood compounded by queerness is a different story altogether, and it is one I am willing to tell.
I want to stand with the families and victims of the shooting in Orlando and my fellow queers across the nation, but I cannot do that from inside a closet. It was dark in here for all of these years.
In glitter and solidarity,