The first time I watched V for Vendetta I was 17 years old. I was on my very first Real Adult Roadtrip, driving to Seattle for a Melissa Ferrick concert with my new college friends. We were staying with a friend of theirs in the city, and after a few PBRs everybody had stumbled off to their respective sleeping spaces, leaving me wide awake and alone in a stranger’s living room.
That stranger’s parting words to me had thankfully been a tutorial on working her DVD player. So there I huddled, cross-legged on her floor, watching a movie whose title caught my eye because an English teacher I admire had once proclaimed it the greatest film ever made. In that sleeping house I kept the volume low and sat too-close to the screen so I could hear every word. When I got to Valerie’s letter, I cried. I cried quietly and for a long time. I cried because I had recognized a deep, unacknowledged desire wrapped around the core of me. I cried because I was also immediately confronted with the hatred and violence that desire could inspire.
I have lived the past 10 years of my life as an Out and Proud lesbian. I realize how much privilege I am exercising when I write that sentence. I am able to write this as a white, cisgender, able-bodied lesbian who spent the last five years in Portland, Oregon. I have lived in geographic locations, and in a body, where my orientation might not always be lauded, but it’s always been tolerated. I've marched in parades, and held hands with my partners walking down streets and streets and streets. I've kissed in cafes, and coffee shops, and theaters, and bars. I stood on the steps of the Supreme Court the morning marriage was legalized, and I cried literal tears of joy while the gay men's choir sang the Star-Spangled Banner, because for the first time I felt a sense of alignment between my identity as a lesbian and my identity as an American.
Still, Wednesday I woke up to the very real prospect of a future with no roses; a future where the people I love are in danger because of the people they love. A future where I am potentially in danger for loving. I’m sorry, this post is a lot about me just crying on various floors.
As reports of LGBT+ specific hate crimes flooded my social media, something broke inside me. It continues to break for each and every member of my chosen family experiencing violence and trauma in the wake of election night. Wednesday afternoon, I weighed my clothing options a little more carefully, afraid I’d draw hostile attention. Because I’m legitimately scared. Scared of the men who think my attraction to other women is for their pleasure and consumption. The men who think my love for women threatens their masculinity. The men who don’t accept the first, second, or even third No. The men who have claimed the right fuck will “fix” me. The men I have been afraid of defending myself against because they might try to prove that claim.
Wednesday, for the first time in ten years, I considered tucking my identity safely out of sight.
I realize this too is a privilege. But it’s not one I’m willing to exercise. To my LGBT+ family in places where it is not currently safe to exist and love the way you were born to exist and love, I’m so sorry. Please do what you have to do to stay safe. There is no shame in self-preservation, and I need you all to make it through this madness with me. To my LGBT+ family struggling with anxiety, depression, and self-harming or suicidal impulses, I’m here. I see you. I love you. Keep calling the hotlines, keep looking out for each other. To those of you making yourselves vocal and visible, thank you for your courage. Thank you for becoming rallying points so that others can be courageous too. To my straight allies, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Let’s keep doing this hard work, ok?
My heart says she is afraid for me. Honestly, I am afraid for me too. But I'm more afraid of what my silence means for my community.
"I shall die here. Every inch of me shall perish. Every inch. But one. An inch. It is small and it is fragile, and it is the only thing in the world worth having. We must never lose it or give it away. We must never let them take it from us. I hope that - whoever you are - you escape this place. I hope that the world turns, and that things get better. But what I hope most of all is that you understand what I mean when I tell you that even though I do not know you, and even though I may not meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or kiss you: I love you. With all my heart. I love you. -Valerie."
So, there it is: I’m here, I’m queer, I probably need a beer… And I’m not going anywhere.
Be safe, my darlings.
-b
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