Note from the Editor: Excerpts from this post are taken from my post-Pride month reflection last year on IG, which you can read in full (caption + in the comments) here. Please note that this post will contain discussion of mental illness and self-harm, specifically as it relates to being a part of the LGBTQ+ community. There may also be terms that are unfamiliar to you. The It Gets Better Project has a wonderful glossary of terms that you can access here.

I’m pansexual. In short, that means that I am attracted to any and all genders. I sometimes will also use the word queer to describe myself, as sometimes that feels like it “fits” better. I’m approaching 35 and still very much figuring myself out. After all, I’ve been “out” exactly three years. Yes, that’s right: I was in the proverbial “closet” for more than 31 years, or 88.57% of my life to date - to be exact.

Now if you checked my social media and saw pictures of my family, you’d probably make the assumption that most everyone else does - that I’m married to a man, and thus, straight. I benefit enormously from the privilege of being in a heteronormative relationship. It’s important that I make that clear, because my experience as a queer cis-gender woman is very different than that of others in the LGBTQ+ community. I have not had the same experiences that they have had, and do not face the same discrimination + risk of harm.

Last year as I was writing my reflection on Pride month (several days into July), I came across a picture of me as a teenager. And just like that, I was transported back almost two decades and could feel the emptiness and gnawing in the pit of my stomach.

The memory came flooding back, vividly. Setting up the self timer on my digital camera. I wanted to see myself. I needed to see the pain on my face to know it was real, because I was in a place where I wasn’t sure anything I was feeling was real. No one knew I was queer. I couldn’t tell anyone. I already was being bullied for being fat. I had been going by my middle name, Elizabeth, and some of the “popular kids” took it upon themselves to nickname me Lezzy (lesbian).

But those feelings of self-harm were not new. By any means. I was used to it. Used to wanting to not exist anymore.

I knew I was queer when I was five. I didn’t know how to name it because that wasn’t something that was ever talked about - at home, at school, in any of the media I consumed. I didn’t know why I felt that way, or what it even really meant, I just knew I wasn’t “normal.”

By seven I was physically sick from anxiety and depression. I had more barium/GI studies than I can count. They never found anything. They never found anything because the problem was that I was queer and struggling. It was that year that I started trying to throw myself down the basement steps. To feel the pain. First from the bottom few. Then a few higher every time because it wasn’t enough. I had night terrors. A recurring nightmare that I was in a coffin. Alive. Alone with my own thoughts, knowing I’d put myself there.

On and on it went. For another eleven years.

By the time I met my husband I was incredibly broken but brilliant at hiding it. No one would ever have guessed that waking up every day and making it through it was a monumental task. I don’t know what I would’ve done if it weren’t for Rich because he built enough trust with me that I eventually told him I was queer. “He loved me anyway.” Just as I was. (Internalized homophobia right there.) That gave me enough breathing room that my wounds started to heal. Enough breathing room that I wanted to live a full life, more and more each day.

But what if I didn’t have to wait 18 years for that to happen?

How would my life have turned out if school had been a space where I felt like I could be me, where I was seen - even if I didn’t feel it elsewhere (like at home)? Would I have held on to that pain and trauma and kept myself closeted until I was 31? Would I be questioning if I belong right now, still, at 35? Would I feel like there was a place for my narrative?

So here are just three small things I wish my teachers knew that could have made a difference for me, and for other LGBTQ+ folx.

FIVE.

I wish that five year old me would have seen more than just heternormative relationships represented in the books we read, and the assumptions made by the adults around me. “Do you have a boyfriend?” asked with a teasing giggle by adults reinforces the idea that “straight” is the norm, the default. I can’t tell you the number of times that I was asked that question only to feel uncomfortable and spend hours upon hours questioning what was wrong with me that I had a crush on the girl at the next table group and not any of the boys at mine. Perhaps if we had read a fractured fairytale or a more “modern” take that didn’t always end up with the princess falling in love with a prince, I would’ve felt that - despite whatever was reinforced in my home - it would be okay for the princess to fall in love with another princess, or with a non-binary noble.

• Five year old me would urge you to find small ways to represent LGBTQ+ people in your classroom: books are an incredible way to do so. Welcoming Schools has an amazing list of picture books and middle-grade novels here and here that can help ensure your students can see themselves in your classroom library.

• Five year old me would also ask that you examine the language you use and assumptions you include in your everyday conversations with students and their families. Avoid addressing students by assumed gender roles (“boys and girls”) - including in how you label your classroom library. I assure you, there is no such thing as “girl books” and “boy books.” Avoid assuming the gender and/or sexual identity of your students and their families (and please, stop the “gentle teasing” about who so-and-so might think is cute - it can be more stressful than you could ever imagine if your assumption is incorrect).

SEVEN.

I wish that seven year old me would have had a teacher and/or school counselor that didn’t want until kids were saying “that’s so gay!” or teasing based on any perceived differences to check-in on my mental health. It’s not enough to simply squash anti-LGBTQ+ slurs or comments; students need to hear positive and affirming messages about their identities. I think back to when I first started to self-harm (yes, at 7) and I recognize so many missed opportunities for the adults in my life to affirm me, not just quiet the taunts on the playground. Had those adults created a safe space for me and others, perhaps I would have shared with them that I was questioning my identity. Maybe then I could have gotten the support I needed, and I would not have had to endure the trauma that I did.

• Seven year old me would urge you to find a community-building routine that works for you and your students, that incorporates social-emotional learning on a daily basis and grows a classroom that is welcoming and a safe-space for the exploration of emotion. I might not have come out at age seven no matter how safe the space felt, but I would have been far more likely to share some of the things I was feeling and perhaps ask for help.

• Seven year old me would ask you to think about displaying a visual reminder of acceptance in your classroom. Welcoming Schools has a wonderful one that you can download here (but there are so many available for free online that I’m certain you can find one that meets your students’ needs). Small affirmations matter, especially in conjunction with other supportive measures - such as the community-building I mentioned above.

• Seven year old me would also ask that you are intentional in how you address bullying, and be prepared to use specific language that affirms identities while being explicit in why identity-based attacks are wrong. Welcoming Schools has some wonderful suggestions for what to say and how to address bullying (particularly at the elementary level) here and here. Including anti-bullying lessons as a part of your regular routine.

FOURTEEN.

I wish that fourteen year old me would have had a community to turn to, or policies that would have protected me had I decided to speak my truth and live it fully. While some school divisions have explicitly included LGBTQ+ students and staff in anti-discrimination policies, still others have banned the teaching of any LGBTQ+ topics. Fourteen year old me could have used the security of an anti-discrimination policy to help me advocate for my needs. It could have supported an educator that may have noticed I needed help, but was reluctant to get involved because there wasn’t a system or policies in place to help them help me (or perhaps they were even afraid of disciplinary action).

• Fourteen year old me would urge you to find out exactly where your school division or district stands. Do they have an anti-discrimination policy that’s explicitly stated? Is it enforced? Does it include LGBTQ+ students and staff? If your division or district does not have one, ask why. Write letters to the school board and central office urging them to adopt one. Students and staff need the protection that anti-discrimination policies can provide (when enforced). You can even find model language from the ACLU here!

• Fourteen year old me would also ask that you consider ways you can create space for LGBTQ+ students, families, and staff can build community with one another. A GSA at my high-school, or other form of community space, would have been life-changing for me. I did not know any other “out” LGBTQ+ students in high school, which made me feel even more isolated. I didn’t have anyone I felt comfortable enough to come out to, much less be in community with and think about ways to make our school better through advocacy, organizing, and action. For more information about how to establish a welcoming space for LGBTQ+ students and staff, visit the GSA Network.

In whatever form you return to school this Fall, I hope you’ll think about five year old me. Seven year old me. Fourteen year old me. And yes, now almost-35 year old me… and consider how you’re making sure that your students and families are seen. That ALL of your students are seeing LGBTQ+ folx affirmed. Loved. Protected.

(Please visit Welcoming Schools to review their Inclusive School Environment checklist. While not exhaustive, it will further the reflection that I hope has begun with this blog post, and will ensure your classroom is a more inclusive space on the first day of school than it was on the last.)