kaleidoscope (Issue I, June 2014) by Jonah Sandy

kaleidoscope by and for queer youth

Issue 1, June 2014

the pride issue

kaleidoscope by and for queer youth

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF: Jonah Sandy EDITORS: Sarah Maude-Griffin, Joe Owens CONTRIBUTORS: Alex K.B., Alex P.B., Cynthia, Gordon, Joe, Jonah, Sarah, Zeam

issue I june 2014

join our team

kaleidoscope is an ever-evolving publication, and we are always looking for more people to join on board. Whether you would like to edit articles, take photographs, or submit a piece of writing, there is definitely a place for you on our team! If you are interested in joining the kaleidoscope staff, contact kaleidoscopemagofficial@ gmail.com.

help fund kaleidoscope kaleidoscope exists at the moment as a non-profit organization operating solely out of the pockets of its staff. In order to cover the costs of this issue and to ensure that we can keep making more issues for queer youth in the future, we hope ou will consider donating to our kickstarter campaign, which will be going live online sometime in the next two weeks. Look for a link to the campaign on our facebook page at www.facebook.com/kaleidoscopemagofficial. Furthermore, if you would like to advertise your small business in kaleidoscope, contact us via email. Thank you!

This magazine is in no way affiliated with any other organization or publication that uses "Kaleidoscope" as part of its name. The opinions expressed in this magazine are those of the individual writers. All articles in this magazine are the intellectual property of the authors and may not be copied or distributed without the consent of the authors. In order to ensure the safety of the individual authors at this time, only first names and/or initials have been included and some pseudonyms have been used. For inquiries about the content of articles, please email kaleidoscopemagofficial@gmail.com. All graphics are the creations of the kaleidoscope staff unless listed in the "photo credits" section on page 35 crediting the online sources from which we got the photos included in this issue.

TW: This issue includes two sexually explicit images.

Janet Mock and Laverne Cox

Matt Bomer and Jim Parsons

Ellen Page and Ellen Degeneres

editor's no

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Harvey Milk always said that th happen: one lonely kid at a time Well, friends, it's been a long road--but we're finally here publishing our first issue. kaleidoscope started with a dream: a dream to connect tens, hundreds, thousands of queer teenagers across the country through the power of our own stories and identities. This publication has gone through many iterations and many forms over the past two years, but we've settled on a name and format that we feel best aligns with our mission. The LGBTQIA+ youth community is, from my experience, very much characterized by isolation; by distance; by silence. kaleidoscope seeks to change that. kaleidoscope provides a lens through which we can view the world from our own perspectives. We put our jewels and gems inside it, then twist it all around to create beautiful patterns and connections as we watch the world change by the turning of our own hands. Before we get started, there's a couple things I should explain: we hope you found yourself with this issue of kaleidoscope in your hands (or on your screen) without much trouble or expense. It was our goal to make this first issue of kaleidoscope as accessible as possible, which is why we decided to make this issue donation-only. We also decided to only include first names and/or initials for the protection of the young writers of this issue. You may also see at the beginning of many articles a list beginning with "TW." This stands for "Trigger Warning," a phrase often used in online communities to alert readers of topics that will be brought up in the following piece that may be upsetting or triggering to the reader. As with all parts of this magazine, there's a learning curve involved in implementing trigger warnings--we did our best to cover everything, but please do not hesitate to contact us with any questions or concerns, not just about trigger warnings. You can find our contact information on the inside cover. Be sure to connect with us online for updates on future issues of kaleidoscope; we're not going away any time soon. And, we hope you will consider donating to kaleidoscope to help fund the expenses of this issue. Enjoy, and Happy Pride.

Jonah Sandy Minneapolis, MN June 29, 2014

ote

his was how the revolution would e.â&#x20AC;?

Harvey Milk; Quote from Alex Ross's November 2012 New Yorker article, "Love on the March."

stories

Frida Kahlo

on coming out TW: internalized homophobia

I came out because I was in the teenage-over-romanticized-generally-pretty-unhealthy-lust-driven version of love. She had been one of my best friends for around two and half years, and that year I was certain she was the best friend I had ever had. She was the second person I ever came out to—the first being an older friend who I tentatively told over an email. That had been nothing like this. I laid next to her, too close together, too close to the popcorn ceiling of her room, in the top bunk of her bunk bed. The lights were off. I told her through tears that I was bisexual, that I didn’t know why this was so scary, and that I really did not want for her to be afraid of me. At that moment I was very, very afraid of myself. I told her with hot, salty tears burning my cheeks that I didn’t want anything to change between us, even though I desperately did. I told myself that coming out did not need to go further than her, that perhaps now that the words were out of my mouth and into the universe maybe they would disappear. They did not. A few weeks later I sat on the floor of my bedroom, pulling at the short stubs of my carpet and feeling sick to my

by Sarah

stomach, pressure building behind my eyes, my voice weak, telling my mother I wanted this beautiful girl to be my valentine. After the words were out I could not see anything through the wall of my tears, my squinted eyes burned and my stomach lurched. I asked my mom if she still loved me. She asked me what I wanted for dinner. The universe did not swallow my words. Though what pushed me to come out was that relationship, which ended shortly and not on the best of terms, coming out was an individual and personal process. Coming out to myself felt like peeling a layer of my skin off of my own body—painful, tender and bloody. It became the most beautiful scar I could have ever hoped for, one that I still pick at more than I would like, but a part of who I am none the less. It was the beginning of a battle, a war waged within my self between internalized homophobia and the freedom to love and accept who I am. Which side wins depends on the day, however with every day that passes, the more often love wins. I wear my scar with pride, I hope you do, too.

I was a

GAY BEST

FRIEND

If pop culture taught me anything as a blossoming gay teen, it was that I had two choices in high school: remain in the closet until college or assume the position of the gay best friend. Approaching freshman year, I considered my options. Remaining closeted would be the safe bet. I could tell that many of my classmates were already headed down that path and that even more had preceded them. The other option was a little bit trendier. Gay best friends were all the rage thanks to a medley of shows such as Glee, and I developed a sad desire to be the out

gay kid who gets with the closeted guys. Surely, if I came out, it would only be a matter of weeks before a masculine, beer guzzling football stud would wander into my Facebook messages, pining to experiment on these strange new desires. This daydream drove me past my procrastinating mindset to begin the agonizing process of coming out. By the end of sophomore year, I realized I had only managed to come out to three friends due to good old fashioned nerves. Couldn't everyone just figure it out themselves? I had dedicated an im-

by Alex P.B. mense amount of time to theater, engaged in heated discussions about the qualities that made Katy Perry's Part of Me documentary so fucking good, and got a Starbucks gold card. I couldn't help but agonize "what does a dude have to do to come off as a flaming homosexual around here?!". I was confused. I was the gay best friend of multiple pretty but ultimately fake girls who I would shop with regularly. We would even brunch. I hadn't come out to all of them, but if friends asked, I would openly confirm that I was indeed a homosexual. I found

Facing, from top: Jack and Jen in Dawson's Creek, Janis and Damian in Mean Girls, Patrick and Sam in The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

myself in a middle ground: the half-closeted gay best friend. It wasn't long after I came to this realization that I was disgusted. I am the tote of girls but not getting the dick that comes with the title? Why exist in this cruel archetype? It was time for some restructuring. I quickly took on projects of my own, ambitious in scale and demanding intricate talent and grace. If I was going to be the half closeted theater kid, I would be the one who everyone was in love with that they would go home and cry, "if only he was straight"." Then, when I entered college, I would be hot and sexy and wear glasses with tousled hair and get coffee with smart gay guys from far more progressive cities who use their energy to explore the power of art to transcend and all that shit. I lost 18 pounds in one season, ready to shed the awkward phase and leave it in the dust. My ambition grew rapidly, admittedly taking on more than I could chew, and my wardrobe lost it's casual, weird Urban Outfitters vibe in favor of a preppier, tasteful one. I pushed myself harder in school, knowing I had to exude success across multiple fields to be hot shit. Gay best friend no more! It's center fucking stage from

here on out! It was only a few months' time before I achieved some of my goals. Turns out, the endearing element of having straight girls fall for you flickers and fades after maybe twenty minutes and becomes an agonizing process where you somehow feel guilty and desperately want to avoid them. My new success intimidated others. I was no longer being fun and relatable but overly confident and standoffish. I had to reach for higher places to find friends who wouldn't act lesser than and worry about their own self esteem. While this may sound like a tremendous level of egotism, it truly reflects a painful level of engrained homophobia I wish I had discovered sooner. Regardless of what many of my friends who deem themselves allies say about homosexuality, they are still shocked to see comfort in my own skin. He has so much confidence and ability that he, a HOMOSEXUAL, can be more intellectually and socially satisfied than us? The horror!! I lost more friendships in the course of this past year than I have since I left my elementary school. That sassy kid who went to Lady Gaga concerts was still there, but when the snark was matched with thorough analysis, the appeal faded. The gay best friend is

a side kick by definition, a symbol to elevate the status of another and titled as such. No potential shopping buddy is worth that slow deterioration of the self esteem.

Beat poet Allen Ginsberg (right) with his lover Peter Orlovsky.

"I think she thou 'no' really mean

TW: sexual violence, rape, transphobic speech, abusive relationship, dysphoria “You just need to love your body.” She looked at me with a deep patronizing sympathy that  was slowly moving downwards. She started in my eyes and slipped south, with a look that I couldn’t stop from shrouding my body and virtually paralyzing me where I sat. She placed a cold, manicured hand on my thigh. “I-I don’t want to have sex. I just don’t” I replied.   “Oh come on,” she giggled, “ALL teenage boys want sex.” She cut into me with the word boys. A teenage boy was exactly what I was, what I identified as, and what I wanted to

be--and she knew that. Her hand started to move slowly up and down my thigh. “You wouldn’t have these feelings if you just became comfortable with your parts.”   “No.”   “Yeah, really, just let me show you and then you’ll enjoy the parts you have. T r u s t me.”  “That’s not even what this is about.” I tried to move from the couch, but she grabbed me back and kissed me hard. This kiss wasn’t  an ‘I love you’ kiss. It was aggressive and selfish. This kiss didn’t comfort me, it made me feel an unease with my girlfriend that I had never felt before. She laid on top of me and

pushed me into the arm of the couch. Her hand wandered south of my waistline and she grabbed my genitals. My dysphoria was more than just triggered; it was set off in waves and never-ending streams through my veins. My dysphoria was standing in the room laughing at how helpless I was laying under my older, eighteenyear-old girlfriend. It stood in the shadow of my basement and screamed at me, telling me that I was never going to be a man. Her hands slithered into my Batman boxer briefs. I wished that Batman could save me or that I, myself, could be Batman. I lay there, motionless, wishing

ought that my nt 'help me.'"

by Anonymous for about a million different things to happen, of which none did. In the process of waiting for the universe to magically save me, I was raped. I think that I ran through scenarios and comic book worlds throughout the duration of my assault, so that I wouldn’t have to be present for it. As if imagining someone rushing down my stairs  and throwing a shoe at my girlfriend’s head was highly preferred to watching my girlfriend smile and bite her lip while she held me down and penetrated me in places I didn’t even want to acknowledge I had. I wholeheartedly believe that

she enjoyed it. I’m sure she doesn’t enjoy rape in itself, but I think she enjoyed raping me. The look on her face gave me the impression she thought I was consenting, that she thought this was bringing us closer, and making us intimate. I think she thought that my “No,” really meant “help me.” I stared blankly at my ceiling and cried when she finished and laid on top of me, desperately trying to cuddle. She kissed me on the cheek, told me she loved me, and fell asleep. “Rape must be hard work,” I thought to myself. I listened to her breathe and felt her breath

against my neck. It felt dirty and hot. My dysphoria walked itself out from the corner of the room and it came and sat right next to me and said, “Men don’t get raped.”  “I’m a man,” I pleaded.  “Then I guess you weren’t raped.” “But I was.” But I was. I was raped, wasn’t I? Sexually assaulted or molested. Something sexually violent happened, but I didn’t have words for it then. I didn’t have words for sexual violence by a female-bodied person to a biological female who identified as male. “You can’t be both,” replied my dysphoric

thoughts. I cried harder. I cried for my innocence, for my virginity, for being betrayed by someone who  was so a so-called pro-consent and anti-rape feminist, for another queer human who tried to correctively rape the transliness right out of my soul. It was as though she was trying to fuck my gender identity away. My girlfriend woke up and saw my tears. She looked perplexed, as though she couldn’t think of a reason why anyone would be sad after sex. “Don’t you love me?” she began to tear up herself. I just stared into the darkness of  my basement and wished for her to go away. She began to cry. She was sobbing as though  I didn’t enjoy the sexual display of her “feelings” she had just acted out. I just wanted her to stop, so I told her I loved her and that it was fine. She smiled and said “Good.” Then she rolled back over and went to bed. I decided in that moment, I must not have been raped. I denied my rape in order to salvage a relationship I thought I needed, as well as my manhood. When my girlfriend finally left the next morning, I showered three times, each time for forty-five minutes. For the remaining months of our painfully tumultuous relationship, she held sex over

me, each time asking me if I loved her or not. Each time I broke and gave in to her because I had rather endured the horrible feeling of her body rather than being emotionally abused. She ended the relationship abruptly when I went forward with transitioning. I didn’t learn the term “corrective rape” until about a year later in therapy. I finally recovered from this; I am a survivor of sexual violence. For almost a year, I denied that this happened because I couldn’t reconcile that my girlfriend would do this to me, and that men  can be raped. When I look back on the situation, I can’t help but think she did this to affirm her identity and I never reported it, to affirm mine. She identifies as a lesbian, and when I look back on that, I think she needed to do this to tell herself she was still a lesbian. It was like she was trying to violate my body to prove that I was still somehow female. I don’t blame her anymore, but I do blame the pressures that made her think she needed to affirm her sexuality, and the pressure that made me think reporting rape would make me less of a man. If you or someone you love is a victim of sexual violence or are feeling suicidal or depressed because of unwanted sexual

attention, violation, or actions, please call the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1.800.656.HOPE If your partner is violating your personal boundaries, is forcing, or hurting you in anyway please report it or if you need assistance please call Outfront MN’s Anti- Violence Hotline 800.800.0350

Marsha P. Johnson

TW: Nonconsensual sexual activity, suicide When I was fourteen, I remember sitting on a park bench and thinking to myself, “It’s time for me to start liking girls.” It was a conscious decision I made. Not because I was actively trying to counter something else floating in my subconscious, but simply because I believed that up until that point I just hadn’t been mature enough to be attracted to anyone. With middle school finally out of the way, it seemed like a good time to start. So I wrote a mushy letter to the girl I liked, put it in an envelope, and dropped in in the mailbox across the street. We hadn’t seen each other since the fourth grade,

a brief h homosexua and she lived in New Hampshire, but so what? It was time. Things would start falling into place. Instead, things started falling into different, unexpected places and my plan began to falter. Howev-

er, I consider myself fairly lucky in that the process of coming out to myself was miraculously quick. A frustrating freshman year had passed; I was sleeping on the floor of my grandmother’s house when I

history of my al adolescence by Gordon

spontaneously woke up and thought to myself, “Oh, I’m gay. I’m gay. That’s it. Time to tell someone.” No awkward phase of assuming sexual ambiguity, no ill-fated attempts at dating the opposite sex,

I literally just woke up with a realization. Immediately, I set a deadline for myself, because that’s how I get things done: I would tell my best friend before school started. And I did. She was surprised when I

told her, but otherwise received it well, and it gave me a high that propelled me to tell other close friends, one by one. I set more deadlines: one more by Halloween. Another by Christ-

mas. I even met with the GSA advisor at my school, who helped me connect with other gay students in my own class. I set up accounts, made profiles, attended meetings, combed through blogs. I was still naïve, but things were coming together and I was beginning to piece together the person I thought I was supposed to be. For a health class assignment, we were required to ask one parent a number of questions about the sexual education they received in school. As if that weren’t already an awkward situation, me and a closeted friend decided to add an additional question to the survey that asked how comfortable they would feel if a child of theirs was gay. Our plan was to use this as a segway into coming out. Needless to say, I was nervous, but succeeded in staying relatively calm while asking my mother each question, including the last one. When I came out to her, she had no reaction; nothing in her face changed whatsoever. We didn’t hug, we didn’t reach a greater emotional understanding of each other, no tears were shed, no reminders of love were given. It was the bare minimum. A brief window of time followed that would have been ideal for coming out to my fa-

ther; stupidly, I let it pass, and waited five more months to tell him. In the meantime, I was trying my hardest to become a ‘gay’ person. I changed the way I dressed. Became conscious of the way I spoke. Made sure to include unnecessary references to my sexuality when I saw an opportunity to do so, just to validate an emerging identity. Looking back, I wouldn’t say I was really ‘being myself’, but it seemed like a step I had to go through in order to get there. The number of rainbow-colored bracelets at my wrist grew to an undeniable amount that said to everyone, “Hey! If there was any question, I am, in fact, gay!” Liberation seems too triumphant a word, but I definitely liked feeling special. Confused about my true identity, I expressed myself in ways I thought matched the one piece I had managed to find. Then something happened that radically changed my trajectory. During a trip to Chicago, I admitted to being gay around a group of newfound friends. That night, I suddenly awoke at 2:30 AM to to the jolting force of someone on top of me - a boy who had trapped me beneath him, his hands up my shirt. I was struggling to identify his silhouette against the dark basement wall when he stuck

his tongue into my mouth and grunted at me to kiss back, which I hesitantly complied with because I thought I wanted to. I could taste the alcohol. His hands slid downward and I began to panic, but this only invited more force. Thankfully, someone sleeping nearby rolled over suddenly, which sent him fleeing back to his cot. A confused relief washed over me before I turned over and stared at the ceiling for the rest of the night. When I got home, I bragged about it to the friends who knew, because I thought it was an experience to be proud of. I described it in a way that made me sound like a risk taker, someone who ‘got some’. But within myself, the pendulum was swinging dramatically in the other direction, and I began to rapidly retreat from the identity I had been creating. Subconsciously, I learned that being gay was something that invited strangers into my bed. Something you shouldn’t be too proud of. As a result, it took me even longer than should have to tell my father which I had to do only after realizing that someone else had already told him. His reaction was similarly nonexistent, though my mother attempted to make it into more of a conversation between us. The added stress of my young

cousin’s suicide earlier that year had thrown her into a mode of hyper-concern, but despite her good intentions, I never let on even a hint at what had happened in Chicago. I told them there was nothing to worry about - because I didn’t want drama to be associated with my sexuality. So together, we moved on, and from that point it was considered public information. The things that I had started to change about myself continued to change, but in different ways. I scaled back my involvement in ‘gay’ things and scaled it up in things that really mattered to me. I wanted people to know me for me and not for my sexuality, so I tried to redefine myself once more. The summer between junior and senior years is when things really began to come together. I was visiting colleges, making art, going to camp, working as an intern, and volunteering with my youth group. Best of all, someone came into my life who seemed to genuinely care about me - someone I could be with and not feel nervous or afraid of what would happen. It was glorious. Looking back, I would probably say that the days spent with him are the most vivid memories of my adolescence. Nothing since has approached the excitement

of that summer, the possibilities it raised, the confidence it built within me. When school began and it was time to let go, I had a hard time doing so. In fact, halfway through the year, I reached back, but was never fully able to regain what had once existed between us. To this day, I think about it all the time - and although there is really no practical or preferable alternative to the way things played out, it still aches. Now, having finished my first year of college, my vantage point has shifted dramatically. A world of possibilities exists and I’m finally getting a taste of it. In spite of the pain that accompanies some of my own history, however, I try not to regret any of the experiences I had while coming out and surviving high school because they were necessary to cultivate the self-awareness I value today. This is the how I’ve made sense of my life up to this point, and if you can relate to any of it, then that seems good enough. Of course, some things can only be learned from experience, which (ironically) seems to be the most significant truth I’ve discovered along the way. But in order to have those experiences, and grow, you need to put yourself out there. Even a little bit at at time.

Jesus was not a homophobe

By Cynthia

TW: self-harm, suicide, internalized homophobia, depression, biphobia, body image, racism

I am Bi—thats how I say it. I have the capacity to love people, in general. I am only out to a few friends, three of my five siblings, some teachers, my

basketball coaches, and my friends self-titled, “The Turtles,” from church camp. I am Christian. *gasp* And very religious. I think people assume that I can’t be both, and to that

I say: I believe in God, and Jesus, and being a good person. I believe in loving my neighbor. I believe that God is all powerful and incomprehensible and the creator of all things. He

loves me, and that is the only thing that matters. I can’t control what I am. I get depressed knowing that I might not be able to bring my full self home for some time. I am not out to my mom, but I think she assumes I am a lesbian. I plan to tell her this year. When I first came out to my guidance counselor at school, it was my first time saying it out loud. It was time. I had been thinking it for a while; I looked up "Bisexual" in the midnight hours and read up on what it meant. I didn’t want to claim something and then change my claim. I didn’t want to appear confused. The next person I told was the same day. The words spilled out right after she told me she was too. I felt like I had my chest open and I started sweating. I wasn’t alone. When I told my counselor, I also mentioned how I didn’t EVER want a relationship with a girl. It sickened me to think that I could follow through on my thoughts; I was afraid to be myself. That was last year, before Spring Break. That Monday, I think. I went in to the counselor’s office knowing that I was going to tell her. I needed to let it out, but I knew once it was said, I couldn’t take it back. It was hard. I took a deep breath and tried to say it. I couldn’t speak. This has happened to me three more times now. Once when I tried coming out to my brother, who is

gay, once when coming out to my beloved Turtles, and once when I made the attempt to come out to my basketball team. It was the culmination of fear of rejection, fear of the assumption that they knew what I was going through, and fear of myself—the self-acceptance of who I am. Some mornings I wake up hating myself. I have contemplated cutting, or swallowing a handful of pills, but I know my mom would notice the lines across my skin or stop me from bringing my shaking hand to my mouth. I would only be the third kid to pull that stunt in my family. Other mornings I wake up after a late night of surfing lesbian blogs, the inappropriate kind, and I make jokes at school laced with my sexuality to people who aren’t quite sure if I am lesbian or just a tom-boy. I have had the same crush on a guy in my grade for almost five years now, so I might seem a little conspicuous. It doesn’t help being Black. Boys at my school don’t look at me… like that. I am the weird Black girl who raises her hand too much and is fat looking. This is my interpretation of myself as seen through their eyes. Is is true? Probably. I would love to be asked to a dance by a girl or a boy, but at the same time I am still not confident whether or not I should put the boy or girl first when I type those words. Being Bi has given me sexual whiplash, not al-

ways the good kind. I question and self-reflect all the time, but the answer stays the same. Both… or all? I am not greedy. I am not a joke. I often wish I could just be lesbian or straight, but I can’t claim one without losing part of the truth. Nowadays, I have a group I attend at school for kids who identify as LGBTQIA. It isn’t like a GSA, and I can be myself in that safe place. I love it. I am not afraid to say I like girls there, but at the same time it scares me that I am, in my eyes, “half-straight.” Am I worthy of being with those wonderful people? Do I fit? One of the hardest things I read when researching was that both straight and gay people discriminate against bisexuals. My brother loves making jokes that bi people don’t exist in front of me. It hurts, and I can only hope he is joking. I will live my life as it wants to be lived, meaning I will love who I happen to find attractive. I am learning to accept myself, and I believe God has a plan for me. I know that God has given me the gift to see the beauty in all people and I know there is a reason I will go through hard times as a non-straight person. I trust in God’s love for all his creations and can only hope for the acceptance of those around me.

history

The Stonewall Inn in New York City, 1969.

the beginning of Pride by Sarah

TW: police violence, hate crimes, violence “In the Civil Rights Movement, we ran from the police. In the peace movement, we ran from the police. That night, the police ran from us, the lowliest of the low. And it was fantastic.” --John O’Brien, a Stonewall Riots veteran, in the documentary Stonewall Uprising The first of the Stonewall Riots took place the night of June 28th, 1969 and was an emblematic beginning to the gay rights movement. The Stonewall Inn located in NYC was an extremely popular gay bar at the time, known for its policy that allowed gay men to dance freely (other gay bars at the time often had rules against touching in place in case of raids) and for being less prone to the frequent police raids that other gay bars faced. It attracted many parts of the queer community, from gay men and women to drag queens, even the wealthy-uppereast-side closeted types. That night a police raid took the bar by surprise, and

the patrons of the Stonewall Inn responded defiantly. The riots were violent and massive, members of the queer community coming and rebelling in spades. The Stonewall riots were representative of a boiling point that had been building for years. Many members of the gay community had been active participants in the CIvil Rights Movement, the women’s liberation movement, and the peace movement. Tired of being mistreated and silenced, and encouraged by the movements that came before them, Stonewall marked a turning point in the queer community and gay rights movement. After Stonewall, gay rights activists began to take more public measures to be heard, rather than peaceful protests and tucked away gay bars, and a new sense of pride was formed within the community. A year later, the first pride parade was held by Stonewall veterans to commemorate the turning point in the movement, a tradition that is now carried on annually on the last Sunday in June.

politics

the politics of the closet TW: internalized homophobia, internalized racism, rape, violence When I was in the third grade, I knew that I was bi. Because my orientation is largely predicated on whether someone might be attracted to me (i.e. I’m not interested in straight girls), I never found myself attracted to someone of a non-male gender until I met a girl who “reads” as queer. I didn’t know her well enough to want a relationship with her, but I noticed that she was attractive in the same way that some boys can be. This made me profoundly uncomfortable. The phenomenon that followed this noticing involved my experiencing a threat to the perceived validity of my gender, specifically as a queer Black American woman. Black women’s femininity and womanhood is constantly called into question because: we are overbearing, angry, fat, ugly, lazy, and unfit “welfare queen” mothers. In short, bi-ness made me feel like a mammy; my ancestors were raped and brutalized on the

grounds that we were considered strong and “masculine enough” to endure pain. I had fought too hard to adhere to Western notions of femininity: I was not going to jeopardize that. My fear of being perceived as gender nonconforming manifested itself, often, as oppression of those who are gender nonconforming—bigotry towards my fellow queer people. I remained closeted for nine years. When I came out, I did it first in my school’s GSA, then in my senior speech about social justice dialogue, in order to pay homage to all the queer people before me who have come out in speeches (as it is a possibly-dying tradition at my school). My black womanhood, and my in-part-resulting *queerphobia alienated me from both allies and my fellow queer people at school—all of whom were predominantly white. Some people accused me of faking or lying to try to be more oppressed, because I had

by Alex K.B.

been such a vocal womanist prior to coming out. I felt like “a bad queer” for harboring internalized oppression and bigotry towards other queer people. I had read that black women experience gender/ orientation/privilege/oppression differently, but I had not anticipated feeling alone in a school with a record-sized GSA and a family of black people who voted for marriage equality. Notably, people who don’t care about antiblackness were quick to call out my queerphobia. This surprised me, but it should not have. My coming-out experience has not been defined, primarily, by queerphobia, or even misogyny—it has been defined by antiblackness. I would like to see a shift in how the queer community supports people in the closet, or who have recently come out. It is harder for people with other, nonqueer oppressed identities to be closeted, to come out, and to navigate queerness.

*I mean this to include both internalized biphobia and transphobia. I am aware that some trans people do not want to be grouped under “queer,” while others do. I have choosen to group trans people under “queer” and fully acknowledge that I do not have the authority to make this choice (unfortunately, I had to make a choice). My internalized queerphobia also results, of course, from my cis privilege.

Angela Davis It is generally hard for people to have multiple oppressed identities. Admittedly, I have been unsympathetic to people with internalized oppression in the past. I have frequently decried antiblack Asians, or people with depression who marginalize those with schizophrenia, or, classically, homophobic black men. Chastising that homophobic black man, for example, without remembering that lynch mobs histori-

cally feminized his ancestors, characterizing them as gay, would be profoundly racist. Likewise, my experience as a Black woman has often been separated from my experience as a queer person, despite the fact that both facets of my identity are inseparable from one another. Having the non-queer oppressed parts of my identity invalidated by the queer community made it harder for me to come out, and harder to deal with inter-

nalized queerphobia. In short, many queer people have multiple oppressed identities and privileged identitiesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;myself included. Coming out, and navigating the unique internalized oppression associated with it, is not one-sizefits-all. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like to see queer people who have more experience dealing with their own internalized oppression reach out to those of us who donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t.

arts+cultur f*ckin prince

by Zeam I am told, The color pink, Lace, And high heels… were all originally made for males. Whether that is true or not, I don’t give a fuck. Dress and binder; a perfect combo for me. Encased in a female shell and liking to wear lipstick does NOT make me a woman… I’m a fucking prince. A PRINCE! Deal with your discomfort elsewhere. Now. Be gone. Gender policing is banned in this land.

Nowhere

But I'm a Cheerleader

american boys by Jonah TW: suicide, death, self harm

Matthew Shepard

The man across from you on the subway is looking. He thinks he knows you by the way you cross your legs, by the sneakers on your feet and the style of your hair, by the way your lips turn as you speak. But he doesn’t know. They don’t know because clearly you can’t read a story by just looks. They think they know you because of who you’re with. In a crowd of girls one of these things is not like the rest. “A lot of us think” but not a lot of them know. Suspicion is their own little game. Homecoming season, just a little bit, but this doesn’t go away like those autumn leaves, the ground is always there when the snow melts. They say, it’s fine, we’re totally cool with it, I don’t have anything against them. But they don’t really get it. That suspicion is what tears them apart, what drives them into their dark rooms to cry and hate themselves and you, for suspecting for knowing their secret. This world is one of secrets small keepsakes, like the boy in the cafeteria or the man sitting two tables over at a restaurant or the one on the movie screen, yours in silence. These tell them that it will some day be okay, that someone in this world cares about you, not a television character. Today though, today just ain’t the same as some day. Cause it’s too bad, this country, really a shame, that it’s driving these boys into darkness, driving these boys to paranoia about the men across from them on subways on sports fields then behind bleachers and in broom closets and bathroom stalls in pain, to escape into someone who they think really does know them. Despairingly, you try to guess and a lot of times, proudly, you think you know, and you realize you think you know, because of all the same reasons they thought they knew you— everything plus the eyes and the intuition. but you won’t ever really know, No one will, until the day that it is no longer something to be known. But when you’re wrong baby, that’s the worst, because all that hope is gone, just gone. The worst when you have some girl crying on your shoulder about how she wants a boyfriend, forever alone, how you don’t understand when you know all too well how long forever feels like under those sinful covers of your dark, dark bed. Remember at thirteen, when you stopped trying to answer those damned distress calls of the girls in high towers, when you realized the world you were entering? no church steeple because we all knew that sex was something to be feared that sex was something polar, this, something human— even though they didn’t understand it either, back then, a room full of men, a candlelit table with black ink deciding who we were going to be. Children recognize words and the parents try to teach them right from wrong but

so many are wrong when it’s all politics Men and women you would think they’d understand A world full of people these boys don’t understand you. It’s okay, we still love you, but not here in a world where no one really understands how the shards of the bathroom mirror cut deep and penetrate the hearts of these men who hide the fear that makes them human the not understanding that makes us all understand. More of the same, on hot pavement, beneath skyscrapers and music through the streets, shouts and laughter across bridges and railroad tracks the sound of birds and cicadas in between houses with white picket fences through rows of corn and over mountains and by the seashore this land just one giant burial ground and still We think we know who we are. We, these children, Fathers, your own sons—Toss a football with them in the front yard and talk and maybe you’ll understand what it’s like thinking that men hate you for loving them. Fathers, please. In churches on sleepy Sunday mornings in sleepy suburban towns they think they know who’s allowed into heaven, endowed by their Creator they hate the god they’ll never know because they were never given that chance. In between rows of lockers they think they know. They think they know by the way you tear at your fingernails. Drop a pencil in class, he thinks he knows. At rehearsals, boy do they think they know you. Too long to take off your knee pads and they think they know. And finally when someone speaks finally, they know— and no one understands and you want to cry out PLEASE LISTEN, LISTEN, FOR YOUR CHILDREN, FOR ME. You’ll never understand no matter how loud the words on this page or how many mothers’ tears You want to scream I AM HERE to those boys because no one else will ever really understand not even them, maybe because you’re you and that’s the most isolating feeling in the world. But not when you know there’s someone out there for you, someday, because you believe in love— love, not a screen glowing in the dark love, not cuts on your arms or the cuts that cut deep on the day you were born you don’t know what they ever really wanted, always a group of people you’ll never understand. They think they know Brandon, Eric, Tyler, Seth, Nick, Aaron, Kevin, Justin, these names, not human anymore now only newspaper headlines and candlelit vigils because they thought they knew you They thought they could tell you right from wrong They thought they could tell you who you were. And worst of all knowing across, dark football fields and empty parking lots dark, quilted country little lights of bedrooms beginning to dim late at night other boys just like you writing, calling, crying, in darkness and taking their own lives—if only you couldn’t get to them first. August 2012

kaleidoscope 's

We acknowledge that many of these words have flexible definitions that depend on the p their own identity. We recognize that gender and sexuality can be fluid and evolving asp evolve and grow with every issue, as it seeks to define terms as we understand them fo Queer 1: An umbrella term sometimes used by LGBTQIA people to refer to the entire LGBTQIA community. 2: An alternative identifier that some use in place of other LGBTIA identities. “Queer” can be used in place of words such as lesbian, gay, pansexual, etc. It is important to note that the word queer is an in-group term as it was once used as a slur towards the LGBT community, and is a word that can still be considered offensive to some depending on that person’s relationship with the word. Gender Gender Identity A person’s internal sense of where they fall on, or do not fall on, the spectrum between female and male. Gender Expression How a person represents or expresses their gender identity to others, commonly through behavior, clothing or other visible forms of expression. Sex Biological term relating to one’s reproductive functions; identified as either male or female at birth. (See: Intersex)

Asexual Asexuality is when someone does not experience sexual attraction. This is also an umbrella term to describe someone whose sexual attraction is rare or only happens after they get to know someone very well, such as demisexuality. Someone who is asexual might also identify with a romantic orientation that uses the prefix of a specific sexual orientation, such as heteroromantic, homoromantic, biromantic, panromantic, etc. Bisexual 1: A term sometimes used for someone who is attracted to people of the same gender as them, and people of a different gender(s) as them. 2: Attraction to two or more genders. Trans This term has many definitions. It is frequently used as an umbrella term to refer to all people who do not identify with their assigned gender at birth and or the gender binary, and can be used in reference to gender queer individuals. Intersex Someone who is born with both male and female reproductive parts. Lesbian A female identified person who is attracted to other female identified persons.

queer dictionary

person who is using them, and on how that person sees pects of identity. Therefore this dictionary will continue to or the reference of all readers. Gay 1: A male identified person who is attracted to other male identified persons. 2: Sometimes interchanged with “queer” and used as an umbrella term for the LGBTQIA community. However, this can be problematic as it is also a part of gay men’s identity, and not necessarily a term the entire community can relate to.

(part I) by Sarah

Preferred Gender Pronouns (PGPs) The pronouns someone would like people to use when talking about them (ex: She is super, he is super, they are super, etc.). Common PGPs he/him/his she/her/hers they/them/theirs (conjugate plurally, for example, “They are a good artist”) e or ey/em/eirs ze/hir/hirs (pronounced zee/heer/heers)

Genderqueer 1: Someone who identifies outside of the gender binary. 2: An umbrella term for those who identity falls outside of the gender binary, can Polysexuality include terms referring to identifying as Attraction to multiple genders. two or more genders such as bigender, trigender, pangender, terms for identiSkoliosexual fying with no gender such as nongenOnly attracted to people who identify dered, genderless, agender, neutrois with non-binary genders and also genderfluid (moving between genders or with a fluctuating gender). Pansexual 1: Attraction without regard to gender. 2: Attraction to all genders. The Gender Binary A form of hierarchy and oppression put in place by society’s "traditional" western understanding of gender: that there are only two genders, male & female.

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photo credits

COVER: collage made of various found photos from online/print sources, various mediums PAGE 2: matt bomer and jim parsons http://www.broadway.com/shows/normal-heart/photos/anthony-rapp-matthew-bomer-and-more-show-some-love-for-the-normal-heart/ ellen page and ellen degeneres http://www.eonline.com/news/537420/ellen-page-expresses-gratitude-to-ellen-degeneres-for-coming-out-at-a-time-where-it-wasmuch-harder-and-scarier janet mock and laverne cox http://thinkprogress.org/lgbt/2014/02/05/3250451/piers-morgan-screwed-interview-transgender-advocate-janet-mock/ PAGES 4-5: harvey milk http://basementrejects.com/review/the-times-of-harvey-milk-1984/ PAGE 6: frida kahlo http://www.theplace2.ru/photos/Frida-Kahlo-md4027/pic-276881.html PAGE 8: jack and jen http://www.fanforum.com/f10/soulmates-%7Bjack-jen%7D-5-because-i-didnt-realize-you-still-had-those-kinds-dreams-aboutme-62951325/ janis and damian http://zeeboxbuzz.com/2014/04/10/modern-mean-girls-what-if-damian-and-janis-ian-had-twitter/ sam and patrick http://coolspotters.com/characters/sam-perks-of-being-a-wallflower/and/characters/patrick-perks-of-being-a-wallflower/media/2682938#medium-2682938 PAGE 11: allen ginsberg and peter orlovsky http://bookofginsberg.tumblr.com/post/54909341575/allen-ginsberg-and-peter-orlovsky-poets-1963 PAGE 15: marsha p. johnson http://www.crunkfeministcollective.com/2013/06/27/happy-birthday-marsha-pay-it-no-mind-johnson/ PAGE 16: navy bathers http://vintagegaymen.tumblr.com/ two men dancing harlem 1920s http://1bohemian.tumblr.com/post/38941857531/two-men-dancing-harlem-1920s-according-to PAGE 17: all photos from http://vintagegaymen.tumblr.com/ PAGE 20: Jesus Christ http://www.jesuschristsavior.net/Jesus.html PAGE 22: stonewall inn september 1969 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stonewall_riots PAGE 25: angela davis http://www.autostraddle.com/100-black-lesbian-bisexual-queer-and-transgender-women-you-should-know-225375/ PAGES 26-27: dark nowhere http://ashandmadge.blogspot.com/ but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a cheerleader http://www.queerty.com/but-im-a-cheerleader-musical-headed-to-broadway-more-20131213 PAGE 28: matthew shepard http://msn.foxsports.com/nba/story/jason-collins-matthew-shepard-parents-touched-by-jason-collins-decision-to-wearnumber-98-042913