Both Sides Now: On Allyship

Nicole looked at me intensely before saying with an exasperated sigh, “I wish I could be a lesbian. It would be sooo much easier.”

Nicole, like many friends I’ve had, considered herself to be an LGBTQ ally. After all, she lived in San Francisco — the most accepting city in the world. She had gay friends. She and her boyfiend had partied in the Castro. She skewed liberal on social issues. But in a matter of seconds, I watched as Nicole rendered and reshaped my experience into a slapstick comedic aside. If this were a sitcom, this would have been the point where the laugh track would have cut in. Then I’d softly punch Nicole’s shoulder and make some kind of stock lesbian joke. “Easy? What’s easy about wearing flannel all the time?”. The audience would boom with applause and then there’d be a soft fade to the show’s credits. But this wasn’t a sitcom. I sat before my friend speechless and flustered. I should have been more prepared — I’d been here before.

I’ve had good allies in my life. And I’ve had some lackluster ones. I’ve also been a lousy ally at certain points throughout my life. For the most part, nobody is ever a lousy ally on purpose. It happens when you assume you know the most and continuously ask the least. It happens when you collect other people’s difference like Pokemon cards. When you use your friends identities as a prop to point to your own identity of acceptance. I’ve experienced this and I’ve been guilty of some of it.

I’ve seen allyship from both sides now. Coming out (multiple times) has taught me firsthand how crucial allyship is. I’ve learned that allyship is not a passive practice. Allyship — real allyship — is about showing up and being vulnerable. It’s hard, gritty, emotional work. The best allies I’ve ever had have been willing to step forward and ask questions like, “What do you need from me?” and “How can I do better?”. They didn’t ask these questions to pat themselves on the back later; they asked these questions out of a genuine desire to support and affirm me.

I’ve also learned that allyship has no endpoint. There is no ally diploma or certification. There is no finish line. It is work that continues to challenge you and expand your perceptions — indefinitely. Even though in this case, I’m talking about LGBTQ allyship, I believe that many of the themes and practices of allyship are fairly universal across all identity groups.

If it sounds like I have things figured out — I want to reiterate — I still have a lot of work to do. I grew up in an extremely insulated, white, upper-middle class environment. For most of my life, I was afraid of broaching conversations around race, class, or gender. Race and class in particular were taboo. I was conditioned to avoid “uncomfortable” conversations around hot button issues. I was deeply repressed and shut off.

Going to a liberal arts college, moving to the Bay Area, and coming out — have all been experiences that began to deprogram some of the repression of my youth. Of course, you can never fully deprogram yourself from the biases and stereotypes that we all are hardwired with. But you can name them. You can own them. And you can admit they exist. I think allyship is also about this kind of personal bias accountability. It’s about putting your own ego aside. It’s about not leading with claims of colorblindness or anecdotes about how many gay friends you have. Most of all, don’t worry about being perceived as a bad person. If you’re preoccupied with being seen as a bad, intolerant person, you’re probably not fully engaged with the practice of allyship.

Here’s the truth: it can be scary to reach out to someone who is different than you. The fear of causing offense or being perceived as ignorant is enough to make most people freeze and not make a move at all. But nobody ever became a good ally by sitting back and thinking “I’ll talk to them later.” or stagnating in the quicksand of what if’s.

Maybe some of you that are reading this have made comments like Nicole did to me (or you know someone who has). I want to say to you that it’s okay. But I also want to say this: you can do better. We all can always do better. Don’t rest on your liberal laurels. Reach out to others. Let yourself feel the discomfort. Be the ally you’ve always wanted. I know you can do it.

This piece is dedicated to all of my allies — past and present. You know who you are. I carry you in my heart.