Published in the anthology One Teacher in 10, Second Edition: LGBT Educators Share Their Stories (Jennings) in 2005, as well as in the education periodical Voices from the Middle in September 2004
“When I came here in fifth grade, I had a really bad stuttering problem,” began Malcolm.
For all of his thirteen years, Malcolm was a wise kid. Our social studies class, which focused on the theme of identity, provided an outlet for Malcolm to discuss his own unique situation—as a new student, as an African American in a mostly white school, as a Muslim in the wake of September 11. And now he saw it as his duty to respond when his classmate Susie asked, “Why does Mr. Fishback feel it’s so important to tell people he’s gay? Why can’t gay people just keep it to themselves?”
“I started out by not talking to anyone,” Malcolm continued, his voice quivering a bit. “I was too scared to let anyone know I stuttered, so basically I hid. And then I came home one day and my mom told me that I needed to just talk, and once people got to know me they’d be okay with the stuttering and realize that I was a really cool person even though I stuttered, and that’s exactly what happened. And now I’m more confident and I don’t even stutter as much anymore. And that’s sort of why Mr. Fishback needed to come out.”
*****
Looking back on my own middle and high school years, I was a closeted gay boy who never seemed to get bullied yet nonetheless felt like a victim. I spent those years passing as straight and worrying about my future. I tried to figure out how I’d keep my dirty secret the rest of my life. Fortunately, my younger brother—whose natural affect made passing as straight more of a challenge—came out during our teenage years, and slowly, with his help and the guidance of a few other friends and family members in whom I confided, I was completely out by my senior year of college.
Yet not one year later, the closet door beckoned once more. I was hired to be an intern teacher at The Park School, an independent school in the Baltimore area. Although I was just getting used to being openly gay, I decided that in my new school environment, I had to proceed cautiously. That winter, scandal broke out within the Catholic Church, and the terms “gay male” and “child molester” were thrown about interchangeably in the media. And even though our school was “progressive,” few teachers were out to their fellow faculty, and none were out to their students.
My youth and Ivy League credentials quickly earned me—or, more accurately, won me—respect among my colleagues. As I gradually came out to my fellow interns, and then to my faculty mentor, I sensed a desire in our community for a more open dialogue about homosexuality. When I was hired that spring to continue as a full-time middle school teacher, to craft a combined language arts and social studies curriculum, the principal suggested that I include a history of the civil rights movement.
“I’d love to,” I responded, “and I want to focus not only on issues of race, but also on women’s rights, and gay rights…”
The sentence continued in some random, unmemorable direction, but the words “gay rights” lingered in the air, waiting patiently to be seized and dealt with in whatever way fate intended. When I finally concluded whatever I was rambling on about, she smiled and said, “That sounds exciting. We’ve never had a social studies class about gay rights before.”
*****
So, having gained the support of my administration, I entered my first year of solo teaching while planning the first gay rights unit.
Throughout the fall and winter, I kept asking myself the obvious question: should I come out to my students? I had been developing a very positive rapport with my seventh graders; was it worth risking it all to provide a “good role model”? Or would it be enough to simply teach about gay issues?
I was made aware of the possible pitfalls of becoming an openly gay teacher. My parents, who have always been completely supportive of me, were worried that I could become a target of false allegations of sexual abuse, like other teachers about whom they had read. Some colleagues were cautious about my becoming the sole representative for all things gay. And in a recent school-wide survey, most students had expressed a belief that if someone were to be openly gay or lesbian at Park School, he or she would have a very difficult time being accepted.
But I also received words of encouragement, not only from my parents and colleagues, but also indirectly from students. In March, as part of an eighth grade unit on persuasive writing, one student presented a speech to her classmates and teachers about homophobia. She argued that the only way to rid Park School of homophobia was for a faculty member to come out. The audience applauded, and I understood that she was right.
*****
By the first week of May, my seventh graders were well versed in identity, differences, and social justice. We had created individual “identity charts” to explore how we fit into society. We had read To Kill a Mockingbird and “The Lottery” to examine the impact of tradition on human behavior. We had studied the meaning of race and the history of Jim Crow. One Friday I gave them a typical homework assignment. They were to read an article about the Florida adoption controversy and summarize the arguments for and against allowing gay couples to adopt children.
That same Friday, after consulting with the head of school, I notified my colleagues that Monday would be the day when I would come out to my students. I requested that they encourage dialogue rather than stifle it, and I also pointed them to a section of the GLSEN web site with suggestions for discussing such issues with students.
I started class a few minutes late Monday morning. My emotions floated somewhere in that realm between excited and nervous, recognizable in that it drains all the saliva from one’s mouth. I eyed the full bottle of water that I had placed next to me. I would need it. The kids quieted down, and I began to speak.
“Before we begin discussing the homework, I’d like to say a few words about why we are studying the gay rights movement, because many schools in our country are afraid to teach about this topic. I think one reason is that many people see gay rights as being about sex, because the word ‘sex’ is conveniently placed in the center of the word ‘homosexuality,’ and many schools are afraid to talk about sex. But this is not about sex at all; it’s about identity, and respecting differences in our society, which is exactly what we’ve been studying all year. So one reason we’re looking at gay rights is that it’s very relevant to our class’s curriculum.
“A second reason is that the topic is extremely current. The article you read over the weekend was published less than two years ago. The Supreme Court is currently considering a major gay rights case, and just last week a high-ranking senator was criticized for making anti-gay remarks. We see these issues covered in the media all the time. In the grand scope of the civil rights movement, gay issues are the current battleground.”
I took a sip of water.
“And a third reason, which is perhaps the most important one to me personally, is that I myself am gay.”
I paused for a long moment to look around the classroom and allow this news to sink in. Some students returned a blank stare, others smiled, and still others began to get teary-eyed, even before I uttered my next words:
“I decided to teach this course on identity and respecting differences because I deal with these issues every day of my life. I’d also like to say that I am open about my sexuality with everyone in my life, including the Park faculty. Over the course of this year, I’ve realized that I admire and respect my students deeply, and that I can share this part of me with you and feel comfortable doing so. It’s really a testament to how great you guys are.”
I then opened the floor for questions and comments. I encouraged my students to ask me about anything, no matter how personal, with the exception of questions about sex itself.
The very first question was, “Are you going to adopt a baby from America or from overseas?”
Here are some of the other questions and comments I remember:
“Is being gay scientific or is it something you choose?”
“Isn’t it hard to find someone to be with if everyone who’s also gay is hiding who they are?”
“Do you hate people who are homophobic?”
“That guy who visited our class… Is he…?” (“Yes, he’s my boyfriend.”)
“Do gay men like a different kind of guy than straight women do?”
“Did you get girlfriends when you were in school to cover up that you were gay?”
“I heard there are kids in the lower school who have same-sex parents.”
“What do your parents think of you being gay?”
“What do you do about being Jewish, if the Bible says homosexuality is a sin?”
“How did you and your boyfriend meet?”
“At my old school there was a lesbian teacher who got fired when a student said she tried to hit on her.”
“Are you going to get married?”
“What do you mean you’re not allowed to get married?”
“When did you know you were gay?”
“Is it true that all bisexual women are really straight?”
“Did you ever like girls?”
“Were you nervous telling us?”
“You should add ‘gay’ to your identity chart now that you’re out.”
My seventh graders explored this issue with incredible maturity, thoughtfulness, and—most importantly—open minds. In retrospect, I should not have expected anything less. The week we spent studying the gay adoption battle, examining the life of Harvey Milk, and illustrating essays by adolescents about coming out was by far my most exhilarating and inspiring experience as a teacher.
That Thursday happened to be Grandparents Visiting Day. Members of the “Greatest Generation” observed a dynamic classroom conversation about gays in the military, for which my students and I earned many compliments. In fact, I received only positive feedback about the week, from parents, colleagues, and students. I am still dreading the first negative note, but it has yet to arrive.
But Susie, who was one of the deepest and most articulate thinkers in the class, and who never shied away from taking opposing viewpoints, was a bit uneasy about our study of homosexuality.
“Why does Mr. Fishback feel it’s so important to tell people he’s gay? Why can’t gay people just keep it to themselves?”
Yet rather than hiding her confusion or erupting in angry outcries over our lessons, Susie returned to class each day to ask her question again, each time in a sincere attempt to “get it.” And each day I attempted to help her get it. I rehashed the hardships of my life. I referred back to the stories we’d read and the films we’d seen, trying to draw parallels, so that she would get it.
But it finally took thirteen-year-old Malcolm, sitting her down at the end of class to tell her about his stuttering, to give it to her.
What I realized in that moment was that, as much of an advocate as I thought I had become, I was really only a teacher—a teacher with a powerful message and trusting students. The real advocates in that classroom were the students themselves. One who got it helped give it to his classmate. And the next Monday, that classmate excitedly reported on the weekend’s conversations, in which she had "enlightened" her family about homosexuality. She had gotten it and given it to others.