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dailynebraskan.com
monday, march 10, 2014 volume 113, issue 113
Inside Coverage
Sasquatch sighting
Last-second push
Local cafe puts foot forward with food, service
Huskers finish regular season on high note
10 speaking out
5
Big Ten champs
10
Rebounds proved vital for the Nebraska women’s basketball team’s Big Ten conference win. They beat Iowa 72-65 and garnered the first conference tournament championship win in program history. photo by andrew barry
Huskers from every end of the spectrum sound off on what it’s like to be LGBTQ at UNL p h o t o s
b y
M a t t
M a s i n
C Balta
Taylar Morrissey
Jimmy Schleisman
Gender queer senior discovers solace in ‘bubble of support’
Bisexual junior hopes to break stereotypes in media portrayals
Gay student finds acceptance among fraternity brothers
Mara Klecker DN Long before he cried into his rainbow comforter at 16 and told his mom he was a lesbian, C Balta knew he was different. He would never wear dresses, one time refusing so adamantly that his exhausted mother had to call in to work. C was Catherine back then. That was before the short dark hair and swooped bangs, before the gauged ears, before the arm tattoos of the rainbow flag and the pink triangle – the queer community’s symbol in Nazi Germany, before the surgical removal of his breasts. It was before the senior advertising and public relations major felt comfortable with his body and himself. Balta, now a 28-yearold senior majoring in advertising and public relations, identifies as transgender and more specifically, gender queer. Two years ago, he started going by both male and female pronouns. Recently, he has asked people to start using
“he” and “him” more often than “her” and “hers.” “At this point in our society and culture, it’s just easier for others if I’m one or the other,” Balta said. Balta moved to Lincoln from Los Angeles when he was 9 years old, after his parents divorced. It was a typical new-kid-in-town story, he said. The school was full of pre-formed cliques of light-skinned, blond girls. Balta’s dark Armenian features and unique sense of style didn’t blend in. “The looks I got,” Balta said, flipping his bangs over his eyes, “I was an alien from outer space to them.” And there were the questions and the sneers. “Why are you in the girls’ bathroom, you fag?” It was in the halls of Lincoln High School where Balta finally felt comfortable being himself. Diversity was more of the norm in a school where 45 percent of the students are nonwhite. Balta got involved in the LGBTQ group there and surrounded himself
balta: see page 2
Conor Dunn DN Bisexual people are greedy. Bisexuals are promiscuous. Bisexuals are confused. These are the stereotypes Taylar Morrissey faces because of her sexuality. “It isn’t so much a problem on campus as it is a problem in society in general,” she said. “Someone will ask me if I’m into boys or girls, and I’ll say both, and they’ll be like, ‘Oh, that’s hot.’” A junior film and new media major at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Morrissey identifies as bisexual or queer. She said her favorite definition for her sexuality is one she quotes from bisexual activist Robyn Ochs: “I call myself bisexual because I acknowledge that I have in myself the potential to be attracted – romantically and/or sexually – to people of more than one sex and/or gender, not necessarily at the same time, not necessarily in the same way and not necessarily to the same degree.” Morrissey graduated from Central High School in Aberdeen, S.D. She grew up among a population of about 27,000, about one-tenth the
size of Lincoln. She officially came out to herself the summer after she graduated in 2011, right before she began attending UNL. Within months of finding her label, she told her younger sisters. Then in January 2013, Morrissey called her parents. “My parents are really chill about it,” she said. “They were just like, ‘OK. You know we still love you, right?’” Since then, Morrissey recently came out on Facebook because she and her first-ever girlfriend of about one month decided to make their relationship Facebook official. She received nothing but positive encouragement. It’s not that Morrissey didn’t realize she was attracted to both genders before coming out, she just didn’t have the right language for her sexuality. “There’s no cut-and-dry version of any identity,” she said. “But especially to someone who identifies as bisexual or queer. That word means different things to different people.” Morrissey said there’s a
morrissey: see page 2
Mara Klecker DN The home video shows Jimmy Schleisman sitting in the corner of the basement, drawing a unicorn in the hard lines of a 6-year-old’s hand. “Jimmy, why don’t you draw an airplane?” his dad asks. “I don’t like airplanes. I like unicorns,” Jimmy responds. Twelve years later, Schleisman – now a sophomore marketing major – takes a deep breath and stands up in the middle of a Phi Gamma Delta chapter meeting. In front of all his fraternity brothers, he says it. “I like boys.” The college guys go quiet. When the silence is broken, no one echoes the words Schleisman had heard all through middle school. Those words that he had Googled one day after school. Faggot. Queer. It’s about time, one brother said. Everyone laughed. “We’ve got you, man. You do you. We love you no matter what.” But Schleisman never got the chance to hear his
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father say those words. Schleisman was 9 when his parents and three siblings piled into the car and drove to Kansas City for a spontaneous Worlds of Fun trip before Easter Sunday. But the rain fell hard the next day and the rest of the weekend’s dreary forecast sent the family back home to Lincoln. It was 10 in the morning when a woman lost control of her pickup truck and came flying across the grassy median. The truck hit the family’s minivan head on. Schleisman’s seat belt snapped and he woke up with the top half of his body on the hood, glass shards all around him. Raindrops had collected in his hand in the few minutes he had been unconscious. He didn’t notice the 12-inch gash on his leg or the pain from his fractured ankle. The shock was too great; pain was an afterthought. He stood and stared at the mangled mess of the van as ambulances’ sirens grew louder and the cars of good samaritans began to line the shoulder of
schleisman: see page 2