In Carissa Froyum’s ‘At
Least I’m Not Gay’: Heterosexual Identity Making among Poor Black Teens,
she examines the pervasive sentiment among urban black youth that homosexuality
is wrong and the behavior that stems from this moral judgment. This examination
is largely connected to the idea that men and women police sexuality as a way
to construct their own masculinities and femininities. Not only that, but “they
conflated sexuality with gender nonconformity by ostracizing gender
nonconformists as gay” (Froyum, 604). Heterosexual boys present themselves, and
their gender, as anything but gay – they change their “gay-coded” behaviors to
conform to straight stereotypes, they disassociate from gay people, and declare
their heterosexuality which is often times done through acts of violence,
threats, and bashing homosexuality and homosexuals. Further, the students
typically do not make the distinction between sexuality and gender. If someone
is gender-nonconforming, they are labeled as gay. “They teased and ostracized
gender benders as gay or lesbian, and they humiliated gay boys and lesbian
girls by drawing attention to their gendered behaviors” (Froyum, 615). Essentially,
if something about you wasn’t masculine, you’d be called out for it. Furthermore,
I would like to examine the author’s observation that “they presented their
heterosexist beliefs through essentialist discourses about the origins and
moral consequences of sexual orientation. These accounts naturalized their own sexuality
and attached status to heterosexuality” (Froyum 609). Last semester in my Intro
to Queer Studies class, we read Angels in
America and analyzed the character Roy Cohn, who slept with men but did not
identify himself as a homosexual. “Homosexuals have no clout,” he would say.
Consistent with Froyum’s analysis, Cohn attached status to heterosexuality, and
was not willing to give it up even though he fit the definition of a
homosexual.
Luckily, in my experience, my high school wasn’t as rigid in
their beliefs as the students at UYN seem to be. There were a handful of openly
gay or bisexual individuals (one of whom reported never facing any homophobia),
in addition to one openly transgender girl. From my perspective, she had it the
worst. No one understood why “he-she” (or the incredibly dehumanizing “it”,
which still makes me cringe every time) would wear dresses to school. Guys wouldn’t
pass up on the opportunity to bash her when she wasn’t present, seemingly
affirming their masculinity to each other. As the article explains, “policing
gender is sometimes used as a way of securing heterosexuality.” It should be
noted that my high school was primarily white and located in a suburban middle
class to upper middle class town, so it was different from UYN in that there
were fewer impoverished students and few students of color. The far-fetched
ideas about how one becomes a homosexual (like through proximity or after
having complications in a heterosexual relationship) were less popular than
they are at UYN, but still present.
As a homosexual myself, I chose to only let a few, select
number of friends know that I was gay until after I graduated. As a sociable
guy and class president for all 4 years of high school, I was rather
well-liked, respected, and known for being an intelligent hard worker. I didn’t
want anyone’s behaviors or attitudes toward me to change simply because of my
sexuality. I feared awkward social interactions and, apparently, loss of
status. In retrospect, I wish I came out to everyone while still in high
school. In order to change minds and disrupt false stereotypes about the queer
community, I think it would have been beneficial for my peers to see that the well-liked
person they elected year after year is indeed homosexual. Many of them knew me
since elementary school, and, wouldn’t you know it, I didn’t make a move on any
of them (“If someone were gay, they surmised, then he would sexually
proposition anyone, even straight friends.” Froyum, 617) and not a single one
of them became gay from being in my presence all those years.