A Celebration of Queer Joy

• Maren Ostrem

I told myself I wasn’t going to write a gay speech. I thought it was too cliche, too predictable. I also told myself I wouldn’t reference the speech writing process, but here we are. Although it may be cliche, I will never forget how it felt as a ninth grader to watch seniors talk openly and confidently about their identities. So here we go.

I came out when I was 13. It happened suddenly, and was entirely unplanned. I honestly can’t explain why I did it like I did, but once the realization hit me, I had the unstoppable urge to tell someone. I texted my best friend, “I’m bisexual.” She was amazing and calm, and rather unsurprised, but I started crying while on the phone with her anyway. In the middle of our phone call, my mom called me for dinner (it was chicken, I still remember) and I panicked. I knew I would have to explain why I was crying, and suddenly I was standing in front of my parents in our kitchen, coming out. It was a silly reason to come out — I definitely could have thought of a reason why I was crying — and it was unceremonial and rushed. They were taken by surprise, much to my amusement now, but I could not ask for a more supportive and loving family.

That was in the winter of seventh grade. I came out to my grandparents next, and then to the world in eighth grade, by posting a set of selfies on Snapchat, this time claiming the label pansexual. The photos are incredibly cringy now — the filter makes everything oversaturated and it’s obvious how serious I’m taking myself — but I try my best to remember that moment fondly. That moment was when I began to feel more like myself.

I cut my hair short and stopped wearing dresses, presenting more “masculine”. I started attending the Gender and Sexuality Acceptance Club and Rainbow Connections, finding a wonderful community at SPA that accepted me with no questions asked. Almost all my friends are queer. I even did my church confirmation project on the tension and beauty that comes from belonging to a church and being gay.

Now, five years after I first came out, I define myself in pretty fluid terms. Gay, lesbian, queer, anything goes. I am not bi, or pan, and am attracted only to girls.

Overall, I am privileged and lucky to feel comfortable as myself and loved by my community. That’s not to say that I haven’t felt “othered” or “different”. Just like so many other queer people, what I long for more than anything is visibility. I crave hearing stories of queer joy, but I know that they too often have their caveats that come with living in a heteronormative society.

I went to my first pride festival the summer before 8th grade. To say that I felt truly seen and overjoyed would be an understatement. The person at the glitter tattoo booth proudly showed off all of their own glitter and joyfully complained about how they could never get it out of their sheets. They called me “honey” and gave me a rainbow Wonder Woman tattoo. Every person I came across treated me like a friend, or a younger sibling. I got a rainbow temporary tattoo on my cheek and on my wrist. I bought my first pride flag and wore it around my neck like a cape. My mom took a super cheesy photo of me, with my hands on my hips, and my brother holding the flag out behind me so it looked like it was blowing in the wind, like a cape on a superhero. I still have that flag, hanging up on my bedroom wall. If you have ever been on a Google Meet with me, you have probably seen it.

I wanted to go to the pride parade the next day, but I had plans to go on a church service trip to Tennessee and Alabama. That night, as I did some last minute packing, I found myself staring at the tattoo on my face in the mirror. Some part of me knew that I wasn’t brave enough to announce my queerness like that in an unfamiliar place. As

I scrubbed the tattoo from my face, the skin irritated under the washcloth, I felt like I was failing every person at that pride festival and like I was somehow not proud enough. Later, in the bathroom of a Pizza Ranch in Missouri, I did the same to the rainbow on my wrist. When I was at the church we partnered with and heard one girl talk about “the wrong kind of love” I felt camouflaged, and I hated it.

I know now that wanting to avoid conflict or stay safe does not make me less queer, or less deserving of the community’s love. I wasn’t ready to come out to every stranger I met in the deep South like I was ready to come out to my friend over the phone. And that’s okay. The tension between pride and safety is all too common, and the reality is that sometimes safety comes first. There are a multitude of reasons to not come out, and sometimes, you’re simply not ready. No one reason is more valid than the other. It is a nebulous process that never truly ends.

It has been a long time since I first came out. Five years and a month, to be exact. But I continue to discover new nuances to my identity every day. My journey has been complicated and sometimes I doubt that it is truly over. In moments when I have to share my pronouns in a group setting, I find myself hesitating to say she/her. I have avoided putting pronouns in my Instagram bio, not because I don’t understand the importance of them, but because I struggle to commit to one set. Gender is a whole part of my identity that I don’t talk about very often because I don’t have the answers to my own questions. While I may never formally come out again, giving myself space to change and grow is something I’m still working on.

I was among one of the first people in our grade to come out, so I very rarely have to come out nowadays. It also may just be that I fit just about every stereotype in the book (the hair, the button downs, the theater, the camping.) Still, I remember the feeling of being in the closet, unsure and confused and scared. I remember having just come out, and feeling like I had to justify my identity to every person I talked to. And I know I’m not the first person to do a speech similar to this, but I believe there is value in repeating this message over and over again. There is value in repeating every story of queer joy and struggle and everything in between as many times as possible because that type of normalization and celebration is so, so important.

There is value in repeating every story of queer joy and struggle and everything in between as many times as possible because that type of normalization and celebration is so, so important.

Queer joy looks like the immediate connection I feel to people with similar identities — the little secret codes we have to acknowledge each other, like complimenting pride shirts or certain haircuts, or TikTok trends (which I won’t reveal here — they’re secret for a reason.) Queer joy was when my friend came out to me in middle school and I responded with “me too.” Queer joy is seeing a queer couple in public and making eye contact with them and feeling just a little more seen.

As cheesy as it may be, I hope that my words have resonated with even one person in the audience today. I know that even in a supportive community, coming out is scary. My advice: take your time. You don’t owe anyone anything. You will find your people. They will find you. They always do.

I am proud to be queer. I am thrilled to celebrate that queerness with my community. And I am determined to continue to fight for queer joy.