Every Dartmouth student probably remembers the day they arrived on campus as a wide-eyed freshman. For me, however, the day I flew up to Dartmouth for Dartmouth Outing Club First-Year Trips was also the day I came out of the closet as gay. In addition to feeling the ubiquitous first-year sentiments of anxiety, pride and anticipation, I dreaded the possible repercussions of my recent revelation. Would my sexuality define me in other students’ eyes? Would people treat me differently now that I was out? Would Dartmouth be more accepting of gay people than Texas, the place that I had always called home but had been so eager to leave? Even though I had a great time on my trip, I was too scared to talk about my sexuality with my tripees for fear that it would change their perceptions of me.
Flash forward two years, five months and six days. I’m now a jaded junior who is much more intimately acquainted with both Dartmouth and myself. I’m no longer worried about whether my sexuality is the first thing people notice about me. In fact, I hope people notice. Though my sexuality does not encompass my whole identity, there is no aspect of my life that is not affected by it. Why, then, should I hide?
Before I proceed any further, I think it’s important that I qualify the terms that I intend to use. First, I use the word “queer” to refer to identities such as lesbian, gay, bisexual and trans that do not conform to “conventional” sexualities and/or genders. Gender is all of the traits, actions and expressions of identity that have been traditionally tied to biological sex (masculinity and femininity).
Contrary to the popular conception of gender and sexuality as binaries of male-female and straight-gay, respectively, I see them as spectrums without poles. I argue that no person can be purely straight or gay, masculine or feminine. What’s more, I subscribe to the idea of the performativity of gender pioneered by Judith Butler, who proposed that gender is a performance whose imitation precedes its existence. This means that rather than being concrete, gender is a constant process of emulation with no original.
Someone who fits into the mold of the gender that is associated with their sex is called cisgender, while those who identify with the gender linked to the opposite sex are transgender. Homophobia is the latent or expressed fear of queer people, while heterosexism is the preference for heterosexual identities, acts or expressions over others.
Now that we’ve had a (very) brief introduction to queer theory, let’s put it to use. What could the performativity of gender and the fluidity of sexuality possibly have to do with the average straight cisgender Dartmouth student? A lot, actually. Homophobia is going out of style as more and more people are coming out all across campus. In fact, it’s becoming socially acceptable and even sometimes expected to be tolerant of gay (if not queer) people. But what forms the difference between basic tolerance and true allyship?
Being an ally to any oppressed group or minority is not a certificate or status that one simply receives after doing a certain number of good deeds. It is a constant process that requires one to acknowledge one’s privilege, listen to others’ stories and needs and make space for others rather than taking it up. Just saying that you’re not homophobic or heteronormative doesn’t make you an ally. Actions speak louder than words.
I’m always shocked but pleased to see a straight friend or acquaintance wearing a Dartmouth Pride or DartmOUTh T-shirt. It takes a great deal of courage to publicly associate oneself with the queer community in an often homophobic and heteronormative society.
But what if allies went even further? What if straight allies, in order to acknowledge that sexuality and gender are spectrums whose ends are unattainable, identified as queer themselves? Chaos, some might say. Absurdity even. How terrifying, to have to discover people’s identities on an individual basis rather than being able to assume they’re straight until proven gay. In such a world, homosexual and heterosexual would just be adjectives describing actions, not identities. I don’t expect to see such a world anytime soon, of course — why would people who can comfortably fit into the majority give up their privilege to identify with an oppressed minority?
I’ve heard that in the “old days” at Dartmouth, all the queer students knew and protected one another against a hostile and homophobic environment. As more people started to come out and be accepted by their straight peers, however, queer people (or at least cisgender gays) began to find other supportive sources of community. The Dartmouth that I have come to know is one where gay students may be found even in traditional bastions of heterosexuality and “normal”-cy (sports teams, other single-sex institutions, et cetera). There is no longer an urgency to form community based on a unifying queer identity.
In fact, there is a palpable lack of queer community at Dartmouth. Many people feel this absence, but few seem to be ready to commit to building such a community. Last fall, when I started Dartmouth Spectra, a social group for queer and allied students, I felt this absence most sharply. The effort it has taken to work toward a strong sense of community has made Dartmouth’s current lack thereof glaringly apparent.
Some might argue that if there is no expressed desire for community between queer students, then there is no point in trying to make it happen. I think, however, that many queer students across campus wish they were part of a stronger community, but refrain from associating themselves with anything explicitly queer because they either prioritize other commitments and communities or don’t want to associate themselves with their sexuality. They don’t want to be “that gay kid.” They want to be that bro who doesn’t mess with the status quo except when doing things with other bros in the privacy of their rooms.
Since my first nerve-wracking day at Dartmouth, I have found numerous sources of community that love me for who I am and keep me going when times get rough. I have come to feel safe and comfortable coming out to just about anyone. But does that mean that Dartmouth is some kind of queer paradise? That it’s easy coming out and feeling accepted here? No.
So I end with a call to Dartmouth. To the straight cisgender Dartmouth student — realize how your identity predisposes you to be accepted as a “typical” Dartmouth student. Be conscious of how you can strive to be a better ally.
To the out cisgender gay Dartmouth student — don’t be afraid of your identity. Embrace it. Coming out is a lifelong process. But also, check your cisgender privilege, and don’t project your stories onto the whole queer community.
To the closeted Dartmouth student — know that you are not alone. In fact, there are a lot of you. If and when you decide to come out, you will be in good company.
To all other queer Dartmouth students — hang in there. This place wasn’t designed with people like us in mind, but little by little, we’re changing it. We’re here, and we’re queer. Don’t forget it.
