breaking silences

Last time I updated this blog, I wrote about silences in my professional career. These past few weeks, I feel I am doing the work to break mine.

I am the faculty advisor for my middle school’s GSA. I have been for years now, and it’s something I’m very proud of, but this year especially I feel I have a great crop of kids that I’m really connecting with. At my town’s Pride festival in early June, my club had a booth selling crafts the kids had made to raise funds. The kids filtered in and out to help sell goods, but mostly I think they just valued having a “home base” at the event. For me, it was a long, socially draining day, but speaking to them afterward about the experience and hearing them tell me how at home they felt at the festival, how comfortable they felt being themselves, was so gratifying.

I also (inadvertently) walked into orientation for our incoming students. Our guidance counselor, who was giving the presentation, asked me to talk to the kids about the clubs I run; when I mentioned Pride Club, a handful of kids immediately lit up and excitedly looked at each other. I often feel I’m not achieving as much as I could be with the club, but I have to remind myself of how much it means to those kids — even if it’s only five or ten of them.

In line with that, I have been pushing for the last several years for my district to mandate trainings for staff on making LGBTQ+ kids feel safe, welcomed, and affirmed. I was met at first with a lot of inaction — encouraging words but no real initiative from the people who can actually make that happen. So I decided to do it myself. I, along with some amazing colleagues and friends, adapted a training curriculum we found online and offered workshops at regional conferences. We partnered with my Alma mater to do the training for their education students. We even, through word of mouth, were contacted by a neighboring district and paid to do a workshop for them as guest presenters. I joined my district’s professional development committee to force the issue. And it worked: this summer, I will be preparing a team of my coworkers who can provide the training district-wide, with a trainer in every building.

I’ve also taken on The Trevor Project’s 53 mile Pride Ride challenge to raise money for the organization.¹ I’ve raised over $300 so far, and the challenge has motivated me to re-commit to my fitness goals. I’m at (almost) 35 miles as of writing this; I was making great progress, but the heat wave affecting upstate NY has stagnated my progress (temporarily).

And finally, next year, I hope to join my district’s Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion Committee and push my efforts even further. I’ve put in my application to join and been (verbally) promised a seat — and convinced some of my previously jaded coworkers to also put their voices in the ring.

All this always comes with a lingering imposter syndrome, of course. My sexuality is not something I am generally open about professionally, and it’s not something that often comes up personally, either, being in a straight-presenting relationship. Who am I to appoint myself diversity officer? What right do I have?

But of course the work is important. Even as unqualified as I feel — as a white person, too, as my work for LGBTQ+ kids has intersected with other DEI work, especially around race — I am starting conversations and beginning the process. Hopefully one day I can take my seat on the cis white person bench knowing that I used my privilege to pave the way for others to take up the fight, knowing that I broke those initial silences.