Pride

Author: Andrew Giddings

‘Raise your hand if you’ve done something lately that you’re proud of,’ the speaker said from the stage at the front of the hall.

All of Year 11 had been let out of class for a year-level retreat. The first thing on the day’s agenda was a presentation from a motivational speaker. These retreats were an annual occurrence and, although they were overly sentimental at times, everyone welcomed the reprieve from classes for the day. I especially didn’t mind this year, considering the speaker was young and handsome.

‘Come on, I want to see how many of you have done something lately that has made you feel pride.’

A few hands were raised, maybe six or seven, but considering we were a group of around 120 students it seemed very few.

My hand was included. I had recently come out to my mother on a car ride home from a visit to the hairdresser. I had been out to the entire school for about a year before telling my mum. Telling the school had been easy. I’d told one person that I knew couldn’t be trusted, and by the time I’d walked from one class to the next everybody knew. Coming out to my mother had turned out differently to how I’d imagined. It hadn’t gone particularly well, nor had it gone horribly, and I still wasn’t sure how I felt about it all. But the point was that I had done it, and I was proud of that. I raised my hand because I felt like I deserved to. I had earned that right.

‘Right, what are you proud of?’

I froze.

The speaker had turned and addressed me directly. I had the closest raised hand to the front of the stage, and was the most obvious choice, but I hadn’t realised he was going to start calling on people. To this day, I always like to sit as close to the front as possible during classes or events. I don’t know why — you’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now.

My stomach dropped and my heart began to race. I stammered for a moment and then quickly said, ‘I don’t know, I just put up my hand for no reason.’

A small laugh rippled through the year level, fading quickly as the speaker moved on to the next raised hand and asked the same question. I wasn’t listening. I sank down in my chair and felt my face change colour so fast it almost hurt. I wanted so badly to be anywhere else.

But instead I had no choice but to sit there. Sit and think about what I’d said.

I had been asked what I was proud of, and I had been too ashamed to even say. What did that mean? I had thought that I was proud of coming out, but when that pride was tested, I had chosen to publicly embarrass myself rather than tell the truth.

The incident sent me into a spiral. Was I really proud of who I had become? Or had I just traded one lie for another? Had I simply gone from lying about who I was, to lying about being okay with who I was?

As I discovered that day, pride and shame don’t transition perfectly. Pride must be learned and shame unlearned. Shame is deeply engraved in queer kids from an early age, and many, myself included, assume it will disappear instantly once you come out and are able to be your authentic self. But that’s not the case.

You begin unlearning shame while you’re still in the closet, quietly and privately. After getting my first laptop, at the age of twelve, I viewed video after video on YouTube of people telling their coming-out stories. I would watch them for hours, late into the night, covering myself and the laptop with my doona so that my mother wouldn’t notice the light under the door. Those videos gave me an insight into the lives of people who had been through what I was going through. I used them to reassure myself that my coming out would go as perfectly as theirs. It was a little shortsighted, and maybe even set me up for disappointment, but it also served an important purpose. I was doing what I needed to, becoming a fraction more comfortable with myself every day.

Once the tipping point was reached and I decided to finally come out, I’d hoped that it was over — that I’d put in the hard work and now I could bask in my hard-earned identity. I did my best to push it all aside and tell myself that I was done with doubt. But the truth is that it’s a constant uphill battle. Once you’re out, pride and shame go from being an internal struggle to being something you need to practice. I wasn’t prepared for that, and when I fell down at the first hurdle it shocked me. Yes, I was less ashamed than I had once been, but I was not yet proud.

Straight people have asked me, were I given the choice, would I choose to be straight? The answer has always been no. Sure, I wish being gay was easier. But I’ve gotten to a place where I feel genuine pride in the person that I am. A lot of people like to say that your sexuality shouldn’t define you, but unfortunately that’s not the world we live in. Being queer means having a different lived experience to straight people, and that shapes you as a person whether you like it or not.

As individuals, we have to choose to feel pride at first. We have to choose to stare down the self-doubt and hatred that is drummed into us. We do this, day by day, until it becomes second nature. Before it can be done reflexively, it needs to be practiced — the heart is a muscle that needs to be exercised to love one’s self.

Pride events, while often perceived as just a fun queer party, serve a much more vital function. They act as a bedazzled, neon symbol of solidarity and community. When you begin to doubt if your situation could ever improve, you can listen to a transwoman speak about how she persevered through violence and poverty to become the person she needed to be. When it becomes too difficult to face the sexually oppressive nature of the world, you can see a man in a bejewelled G-string dancing as if no one has the power to stop him. And when you feel like you’re alone in your struggles, you can see an entire community rally together to lift each other up.

I am more actively full of pride because of the shame that I once felt. My personal experience wasn’t pleasant, but I wouldn’t change it now. It’s a part of who I’ve become and I’m proud of that person.

After the assembly, I approached the speaker at the front of the hall. The experience of the last hour had forced me to stare down a hard truth. Although I had let myself down in that one moment, pride was a choice, and I could still make that choice. I hadn’t yet grown completely comfortable in my skin, but how I chose to move forward could set the tone of the person I could become.

The speaker was packing up his equipment when I interrupted him.

‘Sorry, I didn’t put up my hand for no reason. I actually did have something that I was proud of.’

‘Yeah, I thought so,’ he replied. ‘What was it?’

‘I came out to my mother recently.’

‘That’s awesome, you should be proud of that. What about your dad?’

‘Not yet, I’m not sure how he’ll take it.’

‘Well me and my dad weren’t close, but since I came out we’ve gotten a lot closer.’

‘Really? That’s good,’ I said. ‘Well thanks.’

I shuffled off. No amount of pride was going to make me any less socially awkward — especially not in front of an attractive, young and, as I had just discovered, gay man.

ANDREW GIDDINGS is a non-fiction writer whose artistic aim is to make his life seem more interesting than it actually is. Aside from his focus on personal essays, he has contributed arts writing to The Music and was a manager and editor of the Visible Ink 2017 anthology.