How many times
did you come out today?
It’s a question
I often ask myself. Because, like it or not, coming out isn’t a once-in-a-lifetime-finally-lift-this-weight-from-my-chest
thing, and out I am. Breathe.
After you’ve done your big ones: you’ve come out to yourself, your parents,
your friends, your co-workers and sometimes your soon to be ex heterosexual
partner… then you start the daily coming out routine. You come out at the newsagent’s,
at the grocery store, the hospital, the post office. Or at least, I think you
should.
Visibility is to
us like the air we breathe, vital. Not because we are inescapably flamboyant
and ostentatious, though there is nothing wrong with that. Not because we feel
compelled to “shove it in people’s face”. But, literally, because if we are not
visible we are dead. Our relationships don’t exist, our lives don’t exist, we
don’t exist.
Yesterday I went
to have my legs waxed (yes, contrary to popular opinion even lesbians sometimes
do that) and the lady at the parlour told me: “Your wife came last week, she’s
lovely”. She made my day. I don’t mean because she said my wife is lovely,
which she is, but because she said YOUR WIFE. Not your “friend”, not “the other
girl”, not “is that your sister?”, but wife!
Words are
important. They are the way we get closer to understand each other. It is not
just wrong word = wrong message. Wrong word and the further away we are slammed
from one another.
One of the
reasons we got married was that we wanted my grandmother to understand what we
meant to each other. Marriage was something she could understand, it was in her
language.
She couldn’t
make it to the wedding in Amsterdam, but my then 89 years old, Italian,
catholic, conservative grandma’s present to us were the embroidered bed sheets of
her wedding night.
“Partner” is too modern a word for an 89 years old lady, but with “wife”, you
can’t go wrong.
Words are
important and words are alive. Every time I come out saying I am married and I
have a wife, the word marriage blossoms with new meaning.
Sometimes when we say “my wife” we get a sort of comedy of errors effect. It
doesn’t just cause surprise, it makes people uncomfortable. Sometimes people ask
“are you the man then?” – “Nope…”. And the dismantling of heteronormative,
patriarchal discourse begins, while you are buying vegetables.
A word in the
wrong place? No, a word in a different place.
So marriage equality is not about being all the same, it’s about being all different.
In a great strip
from Alison Bechdel’s Dykes to Watch Out
For Sydney proposes to Mo: “Will you do me the honor of paradoxically
reinscribing and destabilizing hegemonic discourse with me?”
We put it on our invitations. We found it hilarious. Most straight friends
didn’t get it. But, hey, education is a process!
Every time you
come out you are educating someone, you are making things better.
Is it exhibitionistic?
I really don’t think so. Sometimes it is fun to shock people, you get some
truly remarkable reactions. I have a whole collection. Hysteric laughter from
the real estate agent, “well done” from the baker, a discouraging amount of
questions about sexual mechanics, general embarrassment, and some people just
flee. Most of the time coming out again and again is difficult, tough,
annoying, possibly even dangerous.
Visibility is
hard work, not only does it make you vulnerable in many ways, it also wears you
out. Tell a story, explain, explain, explain.
I understand that there are people who have very good reasons to stay in the
closet. I accept it. I don’t respect it.
When I got
married a dear friend said she couldn’t come to the wedding because other
people might realize her homosexuality, by association. You go to a queer
wedding, you must be gay. My visibility threatened her.
On a personal level I accepted it, though it hurt, on a social and human level
I never will.
Each and every
out LGBT person has paid a price for their visibility, the consequences of
their so called “lifestyle”. It has
never been easy for anyone, but thanks to all those who came out before us and
come out every day, it becomes easier.
In this sense
every silent closeted gay or lesbian is a threat to our life in much the same way wailing bigots are. I might feel
differently if I lived in Uganda or in Saudi Arabia, or in any of the countries
where gays and lesbians are killed, imprisoned and persecuted for their sexual
orientation. Precisely because I don’t live in one of these places, coming out
is a duty.
Precisely
because I live in Italy, coming out is a duty. In this province of the Vatican
state homophobia is rampant, tolerated and at times endorsed by representatives
of the institutions. Visiting the Netherlands, our former Prime Minister,
swamped in sex scandals, could think of nothing better to say than that his “passion
for girls was better than being gay”.
When we got back
from the Netherlands, proudly and happily married, we dared not go right away
to our town hall to ask for the transcription of the wedding on the Italian
register. We didn’t dare to because we knew it couldn’t be done and we weren’t
ready to hear that no, we were not married, not so soon, not yet.
Six months later
we were walking back home from the register office, waving a piece of paper. It
says that the transcription of our marital status had to be refused because
it’s “against the public order”. The officer who had to put a stamp on the
piece of paper was sincerely sorry and puzzled, and even if she hadn’t been, we
would still have made a difference.
How many times
did you come out today?