This post is part of Outward, Slate’s site covering LGBTQ life, thought, and culture. Learn more here.
I’m a cisgender straight woman who has always felt a special affinity to LGBTQ people, even though I grew up in a fairly standard Midwestern Christian household in the 1980s and ’90s. Recently, I heard Pride season described as an opportunity to be completely and happily out and visible, and it got me thinking about my connections with queer people. I realized that I empathize with LGBTQ people’s choices to come out or hide because, as a disabled person, I have to make those same choices.
The connection seems obvious, but for a long time I assumed that my identification was only due to my (ahem) spectacular open-mindedness. I’ve worked in theater and literature for a long time, which has connected me to many queer people, including my best friend, who is a gay man. I have LGBTQ family members, and in my late 20s and early 30s, I belonged to a church that participated in our local Pride parade every year. Being in close contact with many queer people helped me see our common humanity, which is no small thing. But on reflection, I think the similarities between my life as a disabled person and the lives of my queer friends are the real reasons for my empathy.
The similarities are striking. Some disabilities are immediately obvious, but my hearing impairment is not. This is the same way that gay people are often invisible to the casual observer. I can go through most of my life without letting those around me know about my condition. Curious or suspicious people may peer into my ears for hearing aids or check my gay friends’ bags for ACT UP pins, but most of the time we overlook it. To those in the know, there are plenty of signals and clues that make our condition obvious, and we can highlight it or pass it off as “normal.” Some might say that we’re not really disabled or gay because we don’t fit the stereotypes of what disabled or gay people look like. We may even feel that way ourselves.
The desire for our differences to be seen as part of the richness of our existence is something disabled and queer people share.
There are good reasons to keep our identities secret. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been told that I “don’t look deaf.” I’m not in my 80s and I don’t walk around with a constant confused look on my face like people assume “deaf” people look like. In fact, I’ve sometimes had a hard time convincing people that I am indeed disabled. (I guess I just look very able-bodied!) This isn’t so different from when my “straight-looking” friends are accused of pretending to be queer because it’s fashionable.
Like my LGBTQ friends, I may choose not to come out to strangers because I don’t know how people will react, even though the culture is changing. Learning that someone has a disability may make some people feel insecure and stop the friendship from developing. I may feel more comfortable not telling them, even if it’s a conversation that is meant to be educational. Besides, who wants to lecture every nurse, food server, and Target clerk about homosexuality and disabilities? Life is not an after-school class. The truth is, I’m happy with who I am, but I know a lot of people would pity me if they knew who I really am. And that’s tiring. I think my gay friends would sympathize.
The connection between disability and queerness is not just an academic study. It is much more than that for me, because it has clearly taught me empathy for my queer friends and for myself. I now better understand my desire to remain hidden. While it is fine to celebrate the revelation of true identity as a universal good (and I think generally speaking it is), I understand how exhausting it can be to always be the face of a group to others. The desire to just live and allow others to live is a strong one.
But I also celebrate moments when identity is asserted, even when it is complicated and difficult, as it is in most cases. In this respect, I have followed the example of my queer friends. As it happens, I have a job where I can explain my disability to students at the beginning of each semester. It’s not easy to come out as yourself, but I’m grateful for the opportunity to show them that disabilities are really just different abilities. On the other hand, many of my queer students tell me that being open is becoming a more natural attitude. Fewer people are coming out as LGBTQ these days. We’re all becoming more honest about who we are. I’m happy about that, and I’m so glad to have the model of coming out of my queer friends in my life.
I don’t mean to oversimplify the relationship between my identity and the identities of my queer friends. In fact, they live with greater risks than I do. While I mostly face the inconvenience of being called stupid, my friends are subjected to hateful slander and violence. I am belittled and they are threatened. It’s not equivalent. And the truth is, if I had a choice, I would maintain my current identity. Although I believe the positives of being queer far outweigh the positives of being disabled.
But of course, none of us have a choice. I was born this way, and so were my friends. We are who we are. The desire for our differences to be seen as part of the richness of our being is something disabled and queer people share. But to make that happen, we need empathy from others – allies. I take my mission of being an ally for my queer friends seriously, and I’m grateful to be an ally myself.
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