Eight years ago this month, on a family trip to Maine, the six of us were having lunch when our youngest son — 16 at the time — said he had something he wanted to share. He calmly and confidently announced, “I’m gay.”
His pronouncement was met with many positive and hilarious reactions (“I don’t care who you date; I will just want cousins for my future kids”), a barrage of questions (“What about when you dated Emily?”), and some words of wisdom from his sister (“Good luck. Boys are awful”). My wife cried both tears of joy — “I’m so glad you felt comfortable to tell us all” — and tears of unspoken worry. “I hope kids don’t bully him.” I, too, was thrilled for him that he could boldly and easily share something so personal and core to who he is (at least, he made it seem easy). Our lunch and subsequent vacation went on without too much more discussion of the news — though after this conversation, we did end up walking right into a Pride parade (unplanned)!
About a week later, my wife shared that she couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d told us, worrying about how he would be treated. What would people say to him, and would he be safe? She asked, “Haven’t you been thinking about it nonstop?” To which I replied, “Not really.”
While that may sound uncaring, I had taken that news as one more point of insight into one of our kids. A big piece of insight, yes, but one of many things that shape who a person is, how they behave, and what the future holds for them.
Reflecting back, that was, and still is, a real sign of my own privilege. I didn’t worry, because I never experienced bullying or discrimination because of whom I chose to love. I never had to worry about whether or not I could legally declare my love for someone and have it recognized by the state. I never worried about whether I would feel welcome in a church. I never worried about my safety being tied to my identity.
Yes, I take many things for granted because of who I am and how I’ve been able to grow up and grow older. But these formative experiences should give me pause to think about what others are experiencing in their own lives, and how I can be more understanding and supportive.
Recently, when our team discussed how we should recognize Pride Month, one of our team members who is gay suggested that it’s important for straight people to speak up and share their perspectives in solidarity. I took this to heart; while I always welcome diverse identities and perspectives, it’s not always easy for me to express my opinions and personal experiences publicly in writing.
I’m guilty of not considering why travel to a particular state or area may be uncomfortable or unsafe. I’m not always aware of why a media story may be cause for discomfort or fear, and I might not pick up on an off-handed and out-of-place comment that may be hurtful. Sometimes I see these things for what they are — disrespectful and crude — but not always. While I try to get better every day, sometimes I miss things. It’s ok to bring them up or to call me out. With each instance, each correction, each conversation — I am learning.
Much progress has been made toward equal rights, yet some of the freedoms that have been won remain fragile. It’s with this awareness, constant vigilance, listening and talking about it that we won’t fall back.
Forming a diverse team is one thing, but taking the time to think, deeply reflect, and share how our different experiences and identities might impact our lives and work is critical. With privilege comes responsibility, and I can be an ally — but even more importantly, I can use my position to support and advocate for others: in our field, at Canopy, and at home.
— David Walsh, President & Chief Advisor
