Altitude sickness

I had a short conversation with a friend and classmate today about the level of identity overload caused by being a member of an oppressed group at this particular institution of higher education we're attending.  We're both in an intensive graduate program at a pretty prestigious university.  It's the quintessential ivory tower, and the air is seriously thin up here sometimes.

I watched her eyes well up as we stood in the rain outside the train station with people jostling past us, and felt my heart contract.  Her experience here is so different from mine: her identities make it impossible for her to "pass" in the way I can choose to, however painful passing may be.

As her umbrella bobbed away into the crowd, I turned and made my way down into the subway, shaking my head.  There's so little space here for acknowledging the impact of existing as an individual at an institution that was built without people of color, or queer people, or immigrants, or women, or working-class people in mind.  If you belong to one--or several--of these groups, each day is an exercise in invisibility.  Each day means walking through the small interactions and routines and nothings of life with the fear that the entire day will pass without you really being seen or really being heard by another human being.  You routinely encounter people to whom you are a novelty, and there's zero assurance that your day will include a required reading or conversation in which you find yourself represented--accurately, or at all.

That's exhausting.

And some days--in the rain, on the sidewalk, amidst the crowd--it all becomes too much.  In that moment, I'd wanted to hug her and to simultaneously smash oppression into tiny, incidental bits.

Instead, I settled on some empathic listening and a kiss on the cheek.  It seemed the only thing to do.

How about right now?

I am so grateful to Dan Savage and the It Gets Better Project. It's been sweet and sad and lovely to watch the videos mount up, providing myriad images of queer people who survived adolescence. I've watched and wept and giggled and blushed and put my hands over my heart in appreciation.

But I feel like there's something missing.

I don't know about you all, but when I was 13, 14, 15--right through high school--my ability to project myself into the future and imagine better times was pretty limited. It wasn't that I wasn't intellectually or emotionally capable, but developmentally I just wasn't there. In watching all of these videos, I wonder how many young people out there are like I was then: things that are bad now are BAD NOW. The light, however bright, sometimes didn't find its way into my tunnel.

I've been thinking about this a lot.

I asked some teacher friends of mine about it--smart folks I am lucky enough to be in graduate school alongside--and I've gotten a lot of agreement. Now, I don't have any studies to back these thoughts up with at this point--just the practical experience of some folks familiar with adolescent development.

So, how about we focus on some "here and now" messages alongside the (important and beautiful) messages that "it gets better"? Here's a humble start:

If you or a friend is experiencing harassment in school, you have the right to report it to someone you trust. Now. You may be helping out others by reporting it.

If you or a friend is feeling suicidal, call The Trevor Project. Get online. Reach out to someone you trust. Be a bridge to someone who has the skills and training to get someone out of danger. You don't have to handle it on your own.

It does get better, but it also doesn't have to get that bad in the first place. There are far-flung communities who want you to survive and thrive right now.

You have so much power to change your experience of school, and to make the world better, even if you don't think so.

Just being your true self is a gorgeous act of courage.