Homophobia. Again.

So my background is in anti-homophobia education and now I work training teachers.  Oddly enough, I don’t talk much about my old work, often because it’s not relevant, and often because it requires coming out all over again. While I am by no means in the closet, it’s feasible I’m not (explicitly) out to some of the teachers I work with.  Which is fine.

Until I actually have to come out.  So now I am running an anti-homophobia workshop and feel like a teenager all over again.  I have to explicitly come out and talk about what got me into education and how I now have something to teach you.

It’s awkward on two fronts.  One is coming out and talking about sexuality in general.  Everyone shuffles, even if they’re ok with it.  Sometimes I think I even shuffle a bit.  The second part is being ‘an expert’.  Potentially in something others feel weird about.  I'll let you know how it goes..

Musings from the back row

I was in a science class the other day, and the kids were in various stages of an experiment.  Some of the boys were lounging, waiting for their thingy to boil (note: I am not a science teacher).  The girls were chatting too.  All very lovely.

Now in Australia, most students wear uniforms.  No big deal.  Girls have a dress in summer and shirt and skirt in winter.  Boys have long or short sleeve shirt (sometimes a t-shirt) and pants. Most schools give girls the option of pants, but less than 1% take up the offer.  It’s just not done.*

So looking round I saw these boys in shorts and a t-shirt, and the girls in dresses, and I got mad all over again. Of course I wore the same in high school and while I hated it, it was just what you do**.  But I can see teenagers already so well versed in the way they hold themselves so differently and have such different concepts of personal space.  Even in the supremely awkward stages of adolescence, they have their gender performance down pat.  The boys are slouching and taking up space and the girls are perching and limiting themselves.  Even the weird, shy kids (I say this with love as one of them) perform the gender stuff unthinkingly, because they’re so well trained.  Some are less trained in personal hygiene or fashion, but they know what their gender should and shouldn’t do.

And they knew that WAY better than they knew the science-y thingy they were supposed to be learning.

*A quick fashion segue – the pants are often just the boys’ pants, or the most ugly cut of pants possible.  Sure, the summer dress is just a cotton sack, but at least all shapes and stages of development can pull it off.  The pants they offer girls would make Cindy Crawford look lumpy and Marilyn Monroe look dumpy.  Even a butch would look girly in them.  I don’t know how they do it, but they make every clothing option for girls truly awful.

**Until you leave high school and swear never to wear a dress again and burn all your school uniforms on the last day, cackling and realising it is about to get sooo much better.  Or something like that.

Newbies

I get a bunch of new teachers soon, as the school year approaches.  Bright eyed fresh faced.  I feel young for my job, and I look different.  I spend so much time thinking about that fact, that I think I make it harder for myself.  If only I could let that go, walk into the room unencumbered by my own preconceptions I would be so light.  Free.  And no doubt better at my job.

Teachable moments

I think, perhaps, I’m getting immune to it all.  The other day I was in a class, helping out and a student asked ‘what’s he doing here’.  It wasn’t calculated, it was just a suburban kid making assumptions.  Perhaps for this reason, I didn’t flinch, I just ignored the pronoun and explained what I was doing.  Thankfully the teacher also took it in her stride.  I don’t know if the boy worked it out or not.  We just got on with the class. I could have missed a teachable moment.  But the most important thing for me was that I missed an awkward moment. 

What is homophobia when it's not homophobia?

I work in schools, but I don’t work for them.  I with a team of others who also go into schools, and work with teachers. We meet semi-regularity, and this is what happened last time we met.

It’s never come up before, but one of the teachers we worked with was worried about starting at a news school as a gay guy.  There was some discussion as to what the legal issues were (you can be out, but you have to be appropriate.  Usual vagaries that could protect or screw you, depending on who’s in power).  A senior staff member on this point said.:

“It’s ok (then she screws up her nose) as long as you don’t mention it to the kids”.  Because then you will contaminate their pure minds and recruit them like the deviant you are.

Before I rant, a disclaimer: I don’t get along overly well with this person.  And secondly, I have a post grad thesis with a focus on lesbian and gay teachers experiences in heteronormative environments.  I therefore feel superior in many ways.

That aside, she raises a common trope as well as my ire. She wouldn’t consider herself a homophobe and many observers would not either.  And what she said isn’t – there is no way I could call that homophobic to my HR department without looking like a hyper sensitive queer.  BUT.  But.  What she was implying was the ‘lesser than’ argument.  Or as I like to call it, the borrowed time implication.  For my mind, she may as well have said you are here and that’s fine, but it’s by my good grace, not your own natural humanity and inherent value as a member of society.

It (clearly) enrages me.  The lip curl.  The distain.  The inability to comprehend others difficulty.  This poor guy. He’s going into a straight, white environment.  And he is neither.  And this straight white woman is dismissive of him, and his queer brothers and sisters.  And she’s dismissive because she can be.

That was nearly the end of the conversation.  I said his concerns were valid, everyone nodded sagely.  We've come this far at least - perhaps 10 years ago it would have been a different response, or the issue would not have been raised. But now the overt homophobia is gone, and only it's sneak insidious silent cousin remains.

Jewish butches

It was Jewish New Year the other week, so I did the right thing and went to synagogue.  I ended up going with some Jewish dykes I know.  We made a day of it, as much as you can. 

Despite not being particularly connected to the community, I still knew a few people.  Most don’t recognise me.  Or perhaps I don’t recognise them. An awkward nod seems enough, anyway.  I dressed in work clothes – nice pants, nice shirt, pretty straight forward.  I got introduced to a few people by my friends, one being 80. We had a nice chat about the service, the rabbi and the weather. No confusion on her face, no drama, just an opportunity to have a nice chat. The reason there was no confusion, as it turns out, is because she thought I was a lovely young man. 

At least I have manners, no matter the gender.

Airports

Beyond my gender struggles in schools, I also have a problem with airports.  I like them – all full of possibility and potential.  They don’t like me so much, or at least the security team doesn’t.  I get stopped every single time.  I made a mini bet on my last overseas trip that I would be stopped at every one of the ten or so airports we’d be passing though…and I missed it by one. And that was only because the woman in front of me was arrested for drug trafficking and was being cuffed, so they didn’t look too closely at me.

Why?  I really don’t know.  As mentioned, I’m not the most feminine of women.  Do I look like a ‘terrorist’?  I really don’t know what that means anyway, but I don’t think I fit the profile.  Regardless, I have better conspiracy theory.

In August of 2001 I went on my big, post uni round the world trip, and found myself in Canada on September 11.  Ten days later, as scheduled prior to world events, I was due to fly to New York City.  Air space was reopened in time, and off I went.  Well, by then security had changed and was in a scramble to change even more. Everyone was getting looked at twice, and people were pretty jumpy.  I went to check in Vancouver in their special Canada to USA section and handed my ticket to the woman, then my passport.

It took one glance at the ticket, before the passport.  The ticket had my (quite girly) name.  The woman glanced at my not so girly 21 year old butch/ teenage boy traveller look, and the oh so close to the surface alarm bells went nuts.  She grabbed my passport, she double checked me, she got my hat and shoes off in a heart beat (for those of you who remember, this was unheard of pre-2001) and then got security and went through my gear etc etc.

Where is the conspiracy?  I’m convinced they tagged my passport from that in some way.  It was brand new, so for the following ten years of my intrepid 20’s, I was frisked, patted down, glared at, stared at and generally given a hard time in every airport I set foot in.

Then again, it happens here domestically, where I don’t need my passport, so perhaps I am being a little paranoid.  Then again, perhaps I just inspire paranoia in those who work in airport security.

Other teachers

In one school, there was another out dyke on staff. She was only there for a term and I later found out she’d been fired from her previous school.

For taping a kids mouth shut and locking him in a cupboard.

Anyway, she (let’s call her Jenny) took a shine to me.  Now, I’m not the world’s most perceptive person, but I could see the ‘locking kids in cupboards’ crazy coming a mile off.   I was still polite, and that was enough of an invitation for her to seek me out in the main staffroom come by my desk a lot. 

I think we got to know each other when I had car trouble and she drove me to school one day.  It was not my first choice for a ride I assure you, but  she lived in the same dykey neighbourhood.  I get in and she’s blaring Pink’s ‘Fingers’ at top volume and grinning at me.  Being behind all pop culture curves, I didn’t know the song but still managed to feel uncomfortable just listening to the distortion and her singing.

Such an overt display of lesbian ‘friendship’ was unprecedented at my school.  My staffroom was abuzz with innuendo and titters (I never understood ‘tittering’ til I heard it happen.  Unmistakable).  When I revealed I was not thrilled by the attentions of the lady in question, well, that was even better. We had entered lesbian stalker territory!

Now when Jenny visited, other staff would smirk and generally humiliate the woman behind her back.  Awkward for me though.  Don’t like the crazy lady, don’t like the homophobes.  And, as we know by now, I was always going to take the path of least courage…I said nothing. To either party.  I ducked my colleagues comments, I weaved her and I felt shitty about both.

In the end, she was de-registered by the powers that be.  Maybe it was the Facebook photo hugging students, or perhaps the rumours of the affairs that followed.  Either way, she left under a cloud.

The moral here?  Well, there is none.  And there is no winner when your allays are not you people and your people are not your allays.

Passing acquaintances

Despite the challenges, I love my job.  And when something gets difficult, or doesn’t go right, I have some good people inside and outside work that I can talk to.  However, when I tell people I have trouble with kids reading my gender, they don’t get it.  Everyone I know (and most of them are queer) know me as female and can not fathom that other people struggle with it.

They have the best of intentions – they see me as someone they care about who has a rough time over something they can’t see.  So they dismiss it, tell me I look feminine (not really the answer I’m after) or laugh it off (sometimes it’s a good laugh, I’ll admit).  Anyway, without a queer/butch/etc community in a similar context, it’s hard to find solace.  I don’t know many gender non-conformists, and the ones I do are transmen, who pass, or it is their intention. 

I don’t really want to pass.  I want to be read as female, just not the female you think.  The initial confusion, the embarrassment that leads to them or me feeling humiliated…it’s boring and frustrating.  It’s like coming out ALL the time, even when you don't actually have anything to do with the person you’re ‘coming out to’.

Family

What I look for when I go into schools is the butch lesbians on staff.  Generally, there is at least one, sometimes two.  They’re extremely readable in all the ways you imagine – hair, clothes, subject area (hello PE teachers, I’m talking to you).  And while I may get some lip from the kids, these teachers sometimes don’t.  As I mentioned in a previous post, they become part of the furniture.  Their reputation, after a year or two is all that students in the school.  And when kids come is as fresh faced 12 year olds, they take the lead from the older kids.  That’s not to say they have a good run of it, but sometimes it’s easier when you’re taken for granted.

I, of course, love seeing them.  In the sea of uber hetro teachers and kids, seeing a queer teacher is like a breath of fresh air.  And maybe that’s another reason I haven’t changed either.  If I feel that way, as an adult with a queer circle of friends, how much a little teenage queer feel to see such a visible sister. 

That’s how I met S____.  The campest boy I’ve ever seen.  He’s up the back of the class, with the girls and does a double take when I come in the room.  He’s got locks of curly brown hair and often (I find out later) gets mistaken for a girl.  It could be anything; his high-pitched voice, his soft hands, his school scarf, plumped up and tied slightly to the side – an effort to make the drab uniform a little more dapper.  He’s glorious, and so not made for this school system.

And as soon as they’re onto student centred work, he’s talking to me.  Invoking the modern incantation of the secret gay handshake/blue star/code word etc.

“Do you like Glee Miss?”

‘Family’ pops up in the strangest of places.

Travel

I had the awesome opportunity to go to India for a work event.  I know, totally awesome. After being accosted in the women’s toilets for the third time, it was less awesome.

We all had to wear pants and shirts, so it wasn’t the clothes that gave me away (a slightly different cut here or there, but really. Linen pants and light shirts really are much of a muchness, and it’s hot over there, so light linen. I don’t bind, so should be pretty readable). They take gender very seriously over there.  I knew this, so I tried my scarf trick, and draped it gently over my head, like I am super modest.  It didn’t work, because there were enough western men buying pashminas and wearing them with such abandon that most Indians probably just think foreigners are weird.

It might have been the hair.  It’s not a short back and sides…but it’s pretty short. But even with the scarf, and lose clothes… they just knew.  I don’t walk like a girl, I don’t defer like a girl.  I don’t…something in the right way. So even though my usual butch markers were all out of whack, they still knew.  Which makes me think me feel better about myself, I think.  When I get frustrated and think it’s my own fault because I don’t look right, I realise it’s not that.  I look how I feel I am, and that feeling, that’s what doesn’t fit.  Somehow it being innate makes it feel more authentic and less like I am to blame.  In fact, it makes me feel like I am the most honest person out there.

The Script

It’s generally 14 year old boys.  They’re often functionally illiterate and school is the last place they want to be.  Even worse is being in this class. And I have entered their territory.  I’m new to them and have no authority or place in the hierarchy.  And I am up the back, where all the action happens.

I’m generally there before class starts.  Sitting. Minding my own business.  They tumble in, assert their space and look at me.  Sometimes the teacher introduces me, which is good.  The ‘Ms’ gives them a clue, if not a laugh.  But if not, it’s me…and the boys. 

As soon as they can, they’ll give me a hard look.  Perhaps lift a chin, or wave at me smugly.  I might nod back, or point to the front (where the teacher is, you know, teaching).  That’s never enough though.  Regularly, a version of this occurs:

Boy: Hey

Me: Hi

Boy: What you doin here?

Me: I’m just watching the lesson.  You should too.

(Often a pause here.  They’re still scoping me out.  This pause leads to muttered conversation with fellow boys and much pointing and giggling.)

Boy (same one, different one): Are you a boy or a girl?

The decent into chaos after this has different flavours, depending on the class, school or teacher.  Or even me.  See, I still think I don’t exist in this conversation, even though it’s about me.  Too me. And I have yet to find the right way to head it off at the pass, before I’m visible in all the wrong ways.

In the classroom

I work with several other teachers, who visit similar schools.  They’re pretty straight looking, and don’t necessarily have a ‘gender analysis’.  Which is fine – they’re good teachers and they do a good job.  But it’s difficult to take what they do and apply it.

I was in class recently with a colleague.  Both up the back, taking notes.  The kids then had a task to do, and they were moving round a bit, getting in to it.  My colleague got up and moved round, asking questions and helping out.  I was pinned to my chair. If I engage, if I break the back wall, I become visible.  And visible means a potential target. I know, it sounds paranoid.  But then:

Boy: Hey bro.

Me, Option 1: Hey.

Me, Option 2: Pull your head out of your gender normative arse and realise that just because I have short hair I am not your bro.

I take option 1.  I’ll let you know how that generally pans out next post.  It's not great.

A history of teaching

Before I began classroom teaching, I was a diversity educator.  I went into schools and talked about not being straight. Even then, I was worried that looking too dykey would work against me, because not all dykes are so readable. I could talk about discrimination, visibility and the importance of inclusivity.  My personal experience was central and kids love a different teacher, a different topic, especially when it’s a bit taboo.

Fast forward to teaching my own kids. In many ways it was better.  My own class, my own school.  After about six months the kids forgot I didn’t really look like a girl and they knew me as their teacher.  My gender was not confounding, but to me, my silence around it was.  They knew, I knew.  It was not spoken of.  To them, I had a partner, but beyond that the silence was deafening.  A lie of omission.  This is nothing new – the coming out, the not coming out.  I was out to staff and some students.  It’s a glass closet, and what is also visible is your shame.  I look butch, but I’m not willing to speak it.

So I left full time teaching and now I teach teachers.  As with my old students, the teachers I work with know me as a professional and we work well together.  The fodder for this blog is their students.  They see me on random occasions, and they have no idea who I am or what I am doing there.  So they take me on face value.  

Options

I thought about growing my hair.  And then I thought about wearing pastels.  I tried scarves, because they’re kind of girly.  But I felt ridiculous and the metrosexuals keep ruining good unisex clothes through appropriation.  I keep going, as I am, waiting for the inevitable.

Why go back to school at all, especially when you fit in even less the second time around?  I like it, I’m good at it.  But it’s like the outside world.  Not my world – I’ve managed to cloister myself, and am surrounded by queers and leftys and live in a place where I look mainstream in comparison to others.  But that’s not where I work.  I work in the mainstream.  In the suburbs.  In tough schools where gender and nationality are the defining features.  There’s no time for mamby pambey gender analysis.  This is survival, and that is done through extreme performance of all that is expected.  And part of that performance is weeding out those who don’t fit in.  I’m a visitor, and I’m suspect looking.  And that’s worth throwing down a challenge to.

How it is

Schools are their own microcosm, a petri dish of hormones and half-baked people.  I mean that with affection.  The order alluded to in the rest of society is clear here.  There is a hierarchy.  There are people with clear levels of explicit authority.  Regardless of the lip service, it’s not a democracy.  Students must stay in line, or face the consequences.  Same goes for staff.

Personally, I like the order and structure.  The bells, the timetable, the clear expectation (whether they are met or not) and the general orderliness.  It’s neat, reliable.  And more than a little stifling.

I am teacher and I work across a few schools. I walk into new classes daily and sit up the back, trying to be invisible. But I’m not. I am so visible, in all the wrong ways, for teenagers at least.  They can’t work out why I’m there.  But more importantly, they can’t work out what gender I am.  So, being teenagers, they ask.  Loudly.

Clearly, I am not invisible.