I was a child and teen of the 60s and 70s. My core consists of the spirit of those passionate, inspirational, yet troubling times, along with its music, art, and values. I resonated with the social themes of the times: equality, peace, labor rights, economic, and environmental justice. My views and values have evolved over the decades. I better understand competing interests and the complexity of issues. Still, the spirit of the 60s and 70s remains my default position, or in the nomenclature of the day, it is the lens through which I see the world.
Starting in my early elementary school days, I knew I was different. I attributed this to what I can now name as being my early feminist thoughts. However, it was only in my 20s that I came out internally. My feelings and thoughts suddenly had a name.
In my 20s I fell in love with a woman. I immediately felt romantic love in a way that was distinguishable from my past relationships, all of which were with men. It felt familiar. I was home. We remained together for seven years.
After coming out to myself, I immersed myself in gay culture, feeling invigorated and at peace in this new world. I became involved in the community – the local lesbian, gay, and bisexual community center, social and political events, and the potentially life-changing, bar scene. I lived as an out lesbian, the only way that could work for me. Of course, coming out also included rejection and loss. As I made this transition, the colors changed. I came to view and experience my world as before and after.
During my 20s and 30s, gay culture was distinct, separate and unique. I experienced a strong sense of community. We had similar stories colored by a handful of variations relating to our coming out experience, family of origin, school, work, employment, and religious upbringing. We shared a code, “is she family?” or “did you know he’s family” as a means to identify others. At a minimum, this label assumed a common cause. When planning trips, we used word of mouth or found a LGBTQ+ travel guide to locate a gay-owned or gay-friendly bed and breakfast. The trip would also include a search for a women’s bookstore, gay coffee house, or bar. We experienced the thrill of the find and a special comradery, with others we met during travel.
And then there is the matter of children. In the early 1990s, I decided against adopting a child with my partner after learning that we would need to “eliminate the gay” from our house – photos, books, The Advocate magazine on the table with the feature article “Gay Games 1990” on the cover, the gay pride refrigerator magnet – and decorate what I would need to call “my roommate’s bedroom” during the home visit. I would be required to sign papers affirming that I was straight, and had a roommate, not a lover.
I eventually had a beautiful child, Leigh, through alternative insemination but only after being rejected by physicians who refused to offer these medical services for lesbians. I finally found a doctor who would provide insemination services. Thrilled, I immediately made an appointment. Finally, a doctor who would respect my humanity. I walked into the examination room with my head held high and my heart filled with joy. We exchanged niceties. He then made a self-serving statement, distinguishing himself from the other doctors who rejected me, adding, “before the next appointment you’ll need to take a psychological exam.” I was outraged. I felt degraded. I choked back my feelings. At least he’ll provide the services. l acquiesced.
I scheduled and attended the psych exam. After completing it, I walked out of the building into the crisp winter air, started walking down the steps, and came to a full stop. My mind started racing as I stood in the cold. What am I doing? Am I really going to comply with the demands of this arrogant doctor? In his mind, I should be grateful. Gee, all he wanted was proof that I was not one of those crazy lesbians.
I sat down on the steps of the building. I couldn’t believe that I even showed up and took the exam. I didn’t recognize myself. I took deep breaths. I began to calm down. My self-respect crept back into my consciousness. My thoughts crystallized. Of course not. He had ushered me to the cusp of the self-loathing cliff, but I didn’t jump.
The next day I called his office and canceled my appointment. I told the receptionist my reason. Later that day I received a call from someone who worked in his office. They apologized for the doctor’s behavior and gave me a referral. Kindness carried the day.
Thirty years later: times, they are a-changin.
Before the 2000s, LGBTQ+ culture was more isolated, raw, and precarious. We shared coming-out stories. While the culture did not speak to the needs of all LGBTQ+ people, ours was a culture void of corporate money, influence, and control. Well, OK, there was Subaru. Allies often had their own, life-changing stories, such as being shunned from family or banished from their place of worship for openly supporting their child, sibling, or friend; or having lost a loved one to suicide or AIDS.
Small groups and individuals set up tables at pride events to provide resources, support, and education. Brochures were hand-folded. Small businesses, often sole proprietors owned by LGBTQ+ people, offered material about their services or sold their handmade wares. SWAG came in the form of a balloon, or a pride ribbon secured with a safety pin.
During the 2000s, as more people came out, corporations began to think of LGBTQ+ people as a new market. Businesses that once openly discriminated against LGBTQ+ people began to purchase pride event tables and sponsor events. The price for social and political gains, however, has been to lose some of the rich texture of gay culture. As I fought for these gains it never dawned on me that moving closer to acceptance and equality could lead to erasure and a significant cultural change. What do I do with this realization and loss?
So where does this leave ma, ma, ma, my generation?
While pondering this question, I recognized that my experience is not unique to me, my generation, or people in other eras. Many aspects of my life as a gay person have been possible because LGBTQ+ people who came before me lost their dreams, families, careers, relationships, freedom, and lives, which in various ways sometimes moved the ball forward. Those in my generation have done the same, which has benefited younger generations, and so it goes. Instead of ruminating about a culture lost, I will be better served by reveling in the good parts of my history, advocating against the troubling aspects of the new, and seeking joy in what remains.
Enjoy this video and breathe in the power of My Generation.
Listen to The Zimmers singing My Generation
Originally recorded by The Who in 1965
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