An Open Letter to My LGBTQ Friends

I realized yesterday that I’ve been quiet about the events in Orlando. Part of me feels like it’s not mine to talk about. Part of me is tired of my own impotent outrage, and how often it’s an excuse for inaction. I’m afraid, though, that my silence sends the wrong message, and so I want to tell you a few things.

First, and most importantly, I love you and I grieve for you. Forty-nine of your brothers and sisters, of our brothers and sisters, were taken from us. It is senseless and brutal and we may never fully understand why it happened. The only thing I know for sure is that this was an act of hate, and all of us are responsible for speaking out against that hate.

Second, I want to thank you for your friendship, kindness, and patience. I’m a 45-yo, straight/cis, white man who grew up in the rural Midwest. I’m lucky to have loving, open-minded parents who taught me to treat all people with dignity and respect, but I’ve reached a point in life where I have to be proactive in the fight against my own prejudices. For the past couple of years, I’ve tried to get to know the LGBTQ community better, and you welcomed me. You didn’t owe me that, and it’s not your job to shepherd me into enlightenment, but you did it anyway.

Finally, you have shown me that there is nothing to fear in our differences. In fact, you taught me something I never expected to learn. Growing up, I too often heard the message that gender and sexuality and personality were all one thing. As a man, I had to act a certain way, like certain things, talk a certain way, and to deviate from that way was to somehow be less of a man. You have shown me that gender and sexuality and personality are complicated and beautiful, and are only locked together by our own ignorance.

I can be a heterosexual man who isn’t into football and occasionally sings the soundtrack to Les Misérables at the top of his lungs in the car (I’m not cool enough to have the Hamilton soundtrack yet). I can be a dad who works from home and drives his kids to school and enjoys spending that time with them. I can hold my daughter’s hand and throw her pink backpack over my shoulder. I can choose who I am. There’s a word for that: freedom. You taught me that I have that freedom.

So, thank you. There is more to be said and more to be done, and I’m going to try to say less and do more. Today, though, I want to say that I’m with you, and I love you, and I’m sorry.