My Queer Joy

When I taught LGBTQ+ Literature this past fall, many students were so locked in on queer oppression and trauma that they overlooked queer hope and joy. Their negative focus was partly because of the pandemic and political climate, but also because of my text choices and teaching strategies. So I wrote a post about the steps I’ll take next time to help my students explore both the hardships and the perks of being queer.

The first step (which I did not write about in the aforementioned post) is to reflect on my own queer joy!

What is queer joy?

At its most basic, it’s the joy I feel because I’m queer. It stems from my perspective and experience as a queer woman.

Excuse my binary thinking (and pardon me for stating the obvious?), but I believe that queer joy is a type of joy that straight folks tend not to feel—or at least not as intensely as queer folks.

Take the joy of seeing Pride flags in my neighborhood. Of course, these flags bring straight allies joy. “Hey,” they may think, “it’s great to live in a cool progressive neighborhood.” But me, I’m also thinking, “It’s wonderful to have people like me—or people who support and celebrate me—in my own neighborhood.”

Depending on my mood, I may remember growing up in a neighborhood and town with no rainbow flags. No out queer folk. A small Iowa town in the seventies and eighties. I may remember feeling lost, confused, and alone.

When I really let myself feel the difference between then and now—and when I see that Pride flag flying—I almost feel like I’m flying.

Some queer joy—maybe a lot of it—stems from queer sorrow. From the contrast of then and now. From our community’s progress. From our own progress. From the striking difference between isolation and solidarity, between shame and pride.

A Question for Young LGBTQ+ Folks

My age and experience make me curious about the queer joy of younger folk. As I’ve stated, some of my current joy is intensified by some of my early struggles. So I wonder: what does queer joy feel like for lucky young people who haven’t struggled much with their sexuality or gender? Who have always seen themselves represented? Whose family and friends have mostly embraced their queerness? If you’re one of these young people, I’d love to hear about your queer joy!

Another Definition

Here is a great definition of queer joy from Jaime Woo, writing in the Canadian magazine IN: “Queer joy is that exhilarating feeling that comes from being able to express our queerness clearly and with force.”

Those of us who are lucky enough to regularly experience this sort of exhilaration know that we are, well, lucky. (Or blessed. Or privileged.) We understand that lots of queer people are not in a safe enough space to be fully themselves. We may have once been one of those people.

In other words, we don’t take it for granted—the joy of coming out and being out. The joy of living openly, honestly, authentically. We savor this joy, and we need to share it. Sharing it is part of the joy.

So now I’m going to share. First, my demographics. Then my joys!

I’m a 57-year-old queer cis white woman who was raised Catholic and came out in my late twenties. This August my beloved partner and I will celebrate our 26^th anniversary!

Ben! Partner Extraordinaire!

My biggest joys stem from my relationship with my partner, Benjamin Thiel, and all our glorious milestones. Our first meeting, him then a seeming lesbian and me wondering whether I looked lesbian enough. Our first date, me wondering whether he knew it was a date. Our first kiss, our first lovemaking. Our commitment ceremony, looking into each other’s eyes and saying the vows we’d written together.

Then, nearly nine years later, in a surgical recovery room in San Francisco, me looking into his eyes, speechless. He had just woken up from his top surgery, but he didn’t look wan or exhausted. He looked triumphant, sitting up and beaming in his hospital gown.

Transformative Joy!

Ben’s joy was transformative. Even though I had wanted him to be happy and I had wanted to be happy for him and with him, I had cried in the waiting room during his surgery. I was still mired in the emotions that had nearly caused me to leave him. Fear of change. Grief about no longer being two women together. But when I saw Ben in that recovery room, his joy was so vast and palpable, so unlike any other joy I’d ever seen, it outshone my uncertainty and sorrow. It wasn’t that my feelings vanished or that I discounted their importance; I was simply bowled over by Ben’s joy. I was filled with gratitude that I’d had a chance to witness it and that I’d been able to help make it happen.

This moment of life-changing joy has sustained me through many hard times. I wish my words could do it justice. I wish that everyone could experience something like it.

A few months later, on Valentines Day 2005, after Ben’s gender change became legal—and after being married for nine and a half years—we made our marriage legal. We called this celebration our Uncle Sam wedding.

Celebrating!

Our two weddings remind me of a fun perk of queer life: our penchant for celebrating, especially when it comes to our relationships. Queer folks tend to mark lots of anniversaries. And not just the folks who married before marriage equality. Couples celebrate their first meeting, first kiss, first lovemaking… Ben and I purposefully scheduled our first wedding for the day after the anniversary of our first kiss so that every year, we could have a two-day celebration. And, of course, we mark both our wedding anniversaries.

Chosen Families

One other thing that I love about my life with Ben is that he and I and our cats are an entirely chosen family. Ben and I obviously chose each other. Then we chose our cats, and they chose us, mostly by clambering up our legs when we first met them.

After our strong, small family, the hugest source of my joy is the rest of my chosen family.

My chosen family buoyed me up long before I came out—long before I’d heard the phrase chosen family. In high school, I had the debate team, and in college, other English and theatre majors. We had lots in common, we had fun together, we had each other’s backs.

But after I came out, such tribes, such friend networks, became even more necessary.

In her wonderful list “Things Queer Culture Teaches That Straight Culture Doesn’t,” Serah Eley writes “Family is a choice. Loyalty is a two-way street.”

Respect and joy are also two-way streets. If you’ve given people in your family of origin time to embrace your newly declared identity, and they do not even try to accept it—or worse yet, they attempt to undermine it—then you really need a chosen family. You need other LGBTQ+ folks and allies who like and respect the real you. These chosen families support you when you’re in crisis. They celebrate with you. They find joy in your joy.  

When Ben and I first got married, my honorary parents for the day were two nuns from my alma mater, Saint Mary College. Sister Marie was my beloved professor and mentor, and Sister Susan became a friend when we found ourselves in grad school together. When I first came out to Susan, she went to the library and checked out all the books she could find about lesbianism so she could understand and support me.

Having friends like that in your corner—knowing that you’ve chosen them and they’ve chosen you—is empowering, liberating, invigorating.

What could be better than a chosen family? You create it, nurture it, and enjoy the hell out of it.

Like many queer people, I could go on and on about my tribes, but I’ll limit myself to only one more example: Kate and Kelli, who are best couple friends with Ben and me. We’ve shared so many hilarious, hard, and happy times together. When Ben and I got our Uncle Sam wedding license, Kate was a witness (a “disinterested party,” a humorous catch phrase she uses every time she wishes us a happy anniversary).

Kate and Kelli also generously chose to include us in their larger chosen family. For over a decade, we’ve celebrated “Christmas in Coralville” with Kelli’s sister, Kate’s mom, and many of Kate’s friends from grad school. Of these friends, one is the mother of Kate’s goddaughter, who is in turn the mother of Kate and Kelli’s two grand-godchildren (who are also part of the gang).  

It’s been a privilege to watch these kids grow up and so much fun hanging out with this group beyond Christmas. During the pandemic, we sometimes Zoomed together, and once we were treated to the sight of children’s parakeet, Blip, flapping its way across the screen.

Community

Beyond chosen families, there is the bliss of belonging to the larger LGBTQ+ community.

Sometimes that sense of belonging is subtle—a glance of recognition in a coffee shop or a wink in a waiting room—and sometimes it’s a gigantic over-the-top party. Like Pride in London. The revelers jamming the streets—their music, their energy—made the usual London seem like a sleepy village. Even the traffic lights flashed queer symbols.

Coming Out

Discovering this expansive, playful community is a joyous part of coming out. Your social awakening and sexual awakening fuel each other. And both include so many firsts.

Most of my firsts were characteristically nerdy. I lurked in the back of a lesbian poetry reading. I let myself linger in the gay and lesbian section at Prairie Lights Books.I danced at a gay bar. I realized that there are softball and volleyball teams comprised of nearly all lesbians. I joined a volleyball team, and met the first woman I’d make love with. Some of the other players invited me to their Open and Affirming Church, and there, I met Ben…

Another joyous part of coming out is the actual telling. Yes, a few folks will not want to hear your news, but most are honored that you’ve been honest and vulnerable with them, and most tend to share some of their own important truths with you.

This exchange of truths was so striking to me that I published a short essay about it a few years after I came out. Bottom line, when you come out, you not only give yourself the freedom to be authentic, but you also give others “permission,” and you deepen your relationships.

Being A Queer Elder

When I came out, I thought I was old (hilarious!), but now that I am old—or older—I adore being a queer elder.

The older you are, the easier it is to see the big picture and where you fit. The easier it is to understand that lots of queer joy is intergenerational.

When I was coming out, I was emboldened by the semi-closeted lesbians I had encountered in high school. Take, for example, my English teacher who lived with the superintendent’s secretary. Were these two women truly lesbians? None of my business. And what does that even mean? But they sure sowed some seeds of possibility in my sub-conscious.

Now, I’m delighted to help my students dwell in possibility. My earliest students saw me as a happily married lesbian while more recent ones see me as a queer woman happily married to a trans man. Happy, period.  And capable of changing when I need to.

Simply by being myself and living my life out and proud, I’m helping some young people take heart and do the same.

These young people in turn inspire me and give me hope for the future. Through the miracle that is social media, I see many former students purple-haired and partnered, celebrating Pride. (And surprise! I had no idea that some of these students were LGBTQ+ back when I taught them!) I see parents, activists, and allies. I see many alum—both gay and straight—taking creative risks, serving others, and living their best lives. I’m thrilled to have been a link in the communal chain that forged them.

Queer History

I also love teaching the communal chain that is LGBTQ+ literature. I take immense pride and joy in the fact that many authors who changed the course of literary history were LGBTQ+: “Bisexual Bill” Shakespeare, Aphra Behn, Virginia Woolf, Walt Whitman, James Baldwin, Langston Hughes, Alice Walker…I could go on and on.

When you can get past the straightwashing, history is a huge source of queer pride and joy.

Queer Progress

Within that history is all the progress the LGBTQ+ community has made. Yes, there is a lot of hate right now (especially transphobia), but when I feel sad and angry about it, I remind myself: it is backlash. The current haters are reacting against our success. Our progress.  

When you’re a queer elder, you’ve experienced this progress firsthand.

Trans Visibility

For example, when Ben first started coming out as trans, I’d never heard the words cisgender, pansexual, or genderqueer. No one put their pronouns in their email signature. In Iowa City, there were no support groups for transgender people and their partners. There was no T or Q (let alone a +) in LGB. There were no trans people on the covers of magazines.

WNBA: Queer Visibility and Activism

When the WNBA started 25 years ago, no one uttered the L-word, and the announcers seemed obsessed with the players who were married to men. Now there is Pride merch and Pride games. Ryan Ruocco chats with Rebecca Lobo about the players’ wives. All the announcers use all of Layshia’s Clarendon’s pronouns! And the players themselves keep upping their activism game. They are championing Black Lives Matter and Say Her Name. With their Vote Warnock campaign, they helped turn Georgia blue. They helped change the balance of power in Congress.

Marriage Equality

And when Ben and I had our commitment ceremony in 1995, there was no marriage equality anywhere in the U.S. Flash forward to April 3, 2009 when the Iowa Supreme Court unanimously made Iowa the fourth state to recognize gay marriage!

I heard the news on NPR as I commuted to work. What?! Iowa!?! A flyover state. Sometimes mistaken for Ohio or Idaho. We had gay marriage! Never had I been so proud to be a native Iowan. And never had I been so stunned and overjoyed by my community’s progress.

That afternoon on the University of Iowa Pentacrest, the grassy area in front of the Old Capitol was completely filled. Ben was at a conference out of state, but nearly all my Iowa City friends were there. Folks who’d long ago grown bored with Pride events, folks I hadn’t seen in years, were there waving Pride flags, hugging, chanting, laughing, crying, dancing, slapping each other on the back.

There were kids from a confirmation class I’d once helped with, there were former teammates from my volleyball team, there were young families and elderly couples, university students and all manner of allies. A sorority girl pulled her boyfriend through the crowd, saying, My uncles are gay together, and I’m totally fine with it. Another young woman handed me a purple noisemaker. I blew and blew on it, occasionally interrupting my joyful noise to hug or high five a friend. Can you believe it? Can you believe it? Oh my God! Couples took turns posing under a hastily constructed white arch that said Just Married. When the speeches started, we cheered at the end of every sentence. When they finished, we remained, swaying to music, catching up, and basking in each other’s euphoria.

The next day, a photo in the paper showed Pride flags waving in front of the dome of the Old Capitol, the sun blazing through their stripes.

Celebrating progress and love with your community. That, my friends, is queer joy.