Struggle Olympics

Photo Credit: Author

To be LGBTQ+ and a person of color is a struggle that often gets overlooked. Overwhelmingly, the portrayal of the LGBTQ+ community in the American media centers on white LGBTs and their experiences. LGBTQ+ persons of color are severely underrepresented in the media in comparison to their actual population within the community. In GLAAD’s annual “We are on TV” report, it was found that out of the 813 broadcast network’s series regular characters, only 13% are black, 8% Latino/Latina, 4% Asian, and 2% multi-racial. Out of the 74 LGBT-identified characters on mainstream broadcast networks, only 11% are black, 11% Latina/Latino, and 5% Asian. People of color therefore make up 27% of characters and 34% of LGBT characters. What people see on television are white stories and experiences.

When I attended a students of color conference, I went expecting to only entertain discussions with the other participants about my experience as a student of color in a predominantly white private school. What I found instead was an enlightening conversation at a caucus for LGBTQ+ people of color. As we sat around in an unused lecture hall for a few hours I heard so many different stories that ended revolving around the same themes, time and time again. Stories of their white counterparts having taken up the whole of the space and subjecting them to strict scrutiny for both skin tone and sometimes even their sexual or gender identity. Themes of being treated lesser or being made to feel as though they couldn’t share their personal struggles in those spaces unless it was with other LGBTQ people of color.

J. told a story of an experience he had with another gay friend. In it, J. had been trying to tell the friend about how he was struggling to find a relationship due to some of the rampant racism he faced as a gay Asian man. Only to have that friend turn on J. and say how he also struggled equally if not more than the student because he was gay. All of us sitting in the circle exclaimed in annoyance that someone could have been so brazen like that. But in the end, we all knew someone who said something similar to us at one point in our lives. That there are white people in the LGBTQ+ community who don’t understand that for people like the ones in this group, they had to fight the unending racism in the LGBTQ+ community on top of daily racism in their lives and the struggles with being LGBTQ+. We all knew how often talking about this subject suddenly made it a “Struggle Olympics,” as we coined it, with white LGBT people.

I detailed a story of my personal struggles with being fetishized as a bisexual Asian woman. Messages riddling my inbox asking for threesomes, and calling me “a born slut,” and even a few death threats from lesbians due to a long-term relationship with a man. And I wasn’t the only one as a few other students, some Black and others Latina, chimed in with similar encounters in their lives. Because of media representation of women of color who are LGBTQ being highly sexualized, these students suffer from those stereotypes and images despite having done nothing.

And the story that nearly all of us could recount was one of being told that we weren’t struggling but rather we just want to be more “special.” That struck with me as how in the world was being marginalized twice or ever three times over beneficial in anyone’s eyes. Who of us would want to be subjected to cruel words and treatment for our skin tone, our sexuality, and for some our gender identity? No one in their right mind, obviously.

The more we discussed it the more we concluded that it was because for many white LGBTQ+ people, their entire identity revolved around being LGBTQ+. Unlike us who viewed our sexual identity and/or gender identity as simply being one facet of our overall identity along with our cultural backgrounds. We joked around at discussions of how suffocating that must be at times to have your entire identity just be about who your romantically and sexually attracted to. That it was really no different than some straight white people we’ve encountered in our lives.

At the very beginning of the conference, the student chair in charge of organizing the conference, Rani, broached to us about spaces of color. In her speech to the room came the notion of how this conference was not intended as a way for students of color to learn how to better include and maintain strong communities of color at their respective schools. While that might be nice of the students to do so what was more important in her mind was the fact that it should never be on the students themselves to maintain an environment of diversity and inclusion, but the school administration.

At the end of the 3-hour long caucus, even though the events of the conference were, for the most part, done for the chilly day, we in the circle weren’t quite done. Instead, we linger draped over chairs and sprawled on the floor, slowly grabbing our coats and bags spread around the room. Someone chimes in to follow his Instagram. Another rushes to write her Twitter handle on the white board with a hot pink marker. Few of us joke about creating a group chat so that we can keep talking, read complaining. The moderator, J, starts talking about heading to a bar for dinner so that we can all keep riding on the high mood of the afternoon. A few underage kids respectfully bow out, a few others pout at not being able to drink with their new friends. I shake my head at the offer, explaining that I’m a month underage, which got me some shocked looks given my status as a senior. Grabbing a few stickers being offered, I catch up with another student on the way out and we chatter about our athletic rivalry before I end up running into students from my group. I never found out what got discussed that night in the bar. But that’s just another struggle to deal with next time.

Coming up Aces

Photo Credit: Chili Print

2011, middle school, I find myself receiving the obligational invite to a class slumber party. I went to a small school, only 20 or so kids in my grade, and had the misfortune of sharing exactly zero interests with the other girls in my class. And, as I was about to find out, I had one more dissimilarity to add to the pile.

“Aidan,” starts one of the girls. Simmy. She points across the small circle at me, light from the flashlight illuminating her face. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” I answer. Always a safe choice for someone with nothing to hide.

“Who’s your crush?”

I grin. This one’s easy. “Nobody!”

To my surprise, the other girls give me a flat look. “Is it Devon?” Simmy presses. Why? Do they not believe me? Not everyone has a crush, right? That’s high school stuff. I frown and shake my head, insisting that no, really, I don’t have a crush on anyone. I don’t get picked again that night.

Asexuality is one of those extra A’s hanging off the end of the LGBTQIAA+ alphabet soup, and it’s a funny one. Instead of being attracted to men or women or any of the above, asexuals (or “aces”) find themselves attracted to nothing and nobody. Crazy, I know. And yet, current estimates claim that asexuals make up over 1% of the human population (for reference, roughly the same number of humans are redheaded— though not all asexuals are redheads. That would be silly.)

2013, high school, I’m in the first half of my sophomore year. Crushes aren’t high school stuff either, apparently. Well, I had one “boyfriend,” a few weeks during freshman year: a friend of mine who had asked me out. I’d said yes— that’s what you do, right? But the gooey, romantic feelings I’d expected had never happened. I still don’t know the word “asexual” yet, and so I’m convinced that I’m an abnormality. A lifetime of Disney and well-meaning tv shows have taught me that the difference between ‘good and heroic’ and ‘evil and monstrous’ is the ability to love.

So what does that make me?

I fear I have an answer, and when the time comes to set a new password for the year on the school’s computers, I choose something that I know no one will guess, but that I’m sure I’ll never forget.

Choose a prompt: “What are you?”

Password: 0Heartless0

In my defense, I was raised by a drama teacher.

Turns out, feelings of isolation and brokenness are pretty standard fare for asexuals. Almost every person has a “before” story— before they knew that “asexual” was even a word, and the relief at finding out that there were other people like them. The first thing that one asexual will say to another who is struggling is “you are valid,” and I think that says a lot.

2017, college, my roommate (a completely fabulous woman whom I adore) has brought over a classmate to study for their music exam the next day. When they leave for class, I send a text to my roommate’s phone:

“Your friend is cute. You should bring her over more!”

I later learn that she showed the text to her friend, who asked if I was flirting with her.

“No,” said my roommate. “Well, yeah, she is. But she’s also ace, so don’t worry about it.”

I sometimes call myself a “bad asexual” for my habit of flirting with just about everyone I meet, but my self image has never been better. I’ve been out and proud for a couple of years now, ever since I found the word “asexual” while skimming an internet article and coming to the stuttering realisation that hey, that kind of sounds like me. My parents worried when I told them— was I sure it wasn’t just a phase? Surely I might just be a late-bloomer.

Since coming to college, my Completely Fabulous Roommate, along with an increasing number of friends in-the-know, sometimes act as my “anti-wingman” so I can live out my “bad asexual” dreams without fear of letting someone down. Everywhere I go, I’ve taken to wearing a black ring on the middle finger of my right hand— a symbol of asexual pride, and a birthday gift from my father.

By: Aidan Peterson

My Easiest Decision

Photo Credit: Mama Holz (Bennett Holz)

My parents were kind enough to include me in most major life decisions, even at a young age. Or they kept me informed, at the very least. I was always warned before a big move, which happened most every year back then, and only towards the end of a given school semester, so I could say goodbye to all my friends. They talked to me about the political choices they made, decisions to put down family pets, and asked where we should vacation each summer. I can’t remember if I was truly involved in these decisions. I don’t know if what I said really made a difference in their choices, or if their plans for the family were set in stone. But I was always asked, and I was usually happy with the results. Whether I had a say or not, I was given the illusion of choice.

One year, when I was nine, my parents presented me with a big choice. Would I like to go on vacations, or would I rather have a little sister? My parents had asked me to make either/or decisions before: karate classes or book-orders, pancakes or waffles, roller-skates or roller-blades? Those were trivial choices, but this was the easiest one I had ever made.

F*ck yeah, I want a baby sister.

Turns out, adoption is a big pain and takes a long time, especially when you’re trying to navigate the corrupt adoption systems of pre-reform Guatemala. Kidnappings and child trafficking were very real occurrences, and many foster shelters didn’t provide proper care for the children they housed. The process took nearly a year, with my parents working hard to know the agency, my sister’s birth mother, and the foster mother who was raising her at the time. All to ensure that we were adopting from a safe and honest agency. There were video calls and pictures. Piles of documents and forms to fill out. We each had blood draws: my father, mother, little brother, and me. And I remember a phone call that drove my mother to tears. I still don’t know if those tears were happy or sad.

But everything came through eventually. My parents were able to schedule a trip to Guatemala, to finally meet my sister in person, and to finally bring her home. My grandmother came to to stay with my brother and I for that week, cooking us meals and making sure I got to school on time. I rode my bike to and from school every day while living there, and I could barely contain myself in class for that entire week. I was already an overactive kid, and I was excited to meet the little sister that I had only seen through a computer screen. Friday came around, and my parents brought her to meet me at school. I got out of class that final day and met them waiting for me just outside the building. I smiled, and she smiled back because she recognized me from pictures. She’s never been anything but my baby sister ever since.

I love my siblings. They’re the two most important people in the world to me, and they’re what I miss most about home. I’m in a bizarre period of my life right now. My family moved from my hometown two years ago, and I don’t spend enough time at the new house to consider it a home. I’ve left all my friends behind in Arizona and Montana, and I don’t know where my life will lead from here. But my brother and sister are constant anchors in my life. They are the people that I will always have and who I will always be there for. Because even when everything else in life passes, I have them and they have me.

By: Parker Holz