Graphic by Ella Sylvie
Note: This article is published anonymously.
Pete Buttigieg is many things. A Midwest chipmunk in a suit. An Obama knock-off. The one politician who can somehow get away with having the word “Butt” in his name.
But he’s also queer people’s least-favorite queer person, despite him being the highest-ranking out gay politician in American history. This is strange. Some of it can be written off by Buttigieg’s status as a fairly moderate Democrat, and many of those (particularly the very online) being progressives. But there’s also a feeling of treachery attached to his name. That Pete Buttigieg isn’t a real queer person. That he isn’t as out and loud and as proud as many of those in the queer community would like him to be.
The easiest example of this to find would be the literal hashtag — #PetesNotGay — that became popular last winter. It hit its fever peak after a CNN Town Hall in South Carolina, where Buttigieg admitted that he struggled with his sexuality well into his 20s, saying that, “If there was a pill, a pill that I could take and not be gay anymore, then I would’ve jumped on it.”
Buttigieg didn’t come out of the closet or date a man until his 30s. He’s been open and honest about the internalized shame he struggled with. And for many, particularly very out queer people, this is a betrayal. The narrative, that has become increasingly popular in pop culture and social media, is that it’s joyous to come out of the closet, and at a certain point, not doing so makes you a sellout.
For this to work, the pain of the closet must be nullified. Being gay is a universal good, and the singular “closet” is a pitstop along the way. In pop culture, things move from the rejection of the origin family to the bliss of the found family. It’s a beautiful, linear story. Those holding on to their birth families are stuck, and only fooling themselves at a certain point. No time can be given to mourning the lost connections, as doing so is seen as saying that being queer isn’t a good thing.
You see this in the reaction that the movie “Happiest Season” received, the rom-com starring Kristen Stewart as out character Abby and dreamboat/love of my life Mackenzie Davis as her girlfriend Harper, who struggles to come out to her conservative family. While it’s completely fair to say that “Happiest Season” is not a rom-com and shouldn’t have been marketed as one, I think it got an unfair bad rap for Harper’s coming out story. Harper is messy, and her reluctance to come out causes Abby pain. That’s true. But I think why it has been so reviled, particularly on Twitter, by some in the queer community is that Harper does not view coming out as a positive thing. Wanting to have a relationship with her family (which requires her to remain closeted) is seen as selfish, and Harper’s equivocation about being open with her relationship to Abby is seen as unfaithfulness.
But I also think it’s uncomfortable for audiences to see coming out as a painful thing, something that carries real costs, and real pain. “Happiest Season,” even as not a rom-com, complicates the coming out narrative that we’re supposed to embrace, that coming out is a moment of unambiguous progression.
But the pain of coming out is real. Buttigieg and “Happiest Season” might be acknowledging something that’s uncomfortable to admit, but their stories describe my experiences more than anything else I’ve seen. I can’t skip over the pain of internalized shame over being gay like so many want me to do, even if it’s an unjust pain that I shouldn’t have to experience. And when I come out, I have to do so knowing what I will lose.
#PetesNotGay and “Happiest Season” both trended in 2020. But I’m thinking about them now as Pride in 2021 comes to a close and I’m forced, as I am every year, to think about my own relation to my sexuality.
While it has good intentions, the narrative of coming out of the closet makes me feel like I can’t discuss my experiences.
The metaphor of “coming out of the closet” carries a lot of baggage. It implies that there is only one exit, one sweeping grand finale where you leave the darkness for the warmth of light. That isn’t true. There are many closets. Many moments where you have that split second to choose.
It starts for me like it always does. I’m on the train, heading home, and a small tremor of guilt washes over me as I remove the picture of my girlfriend from my lockscreen. Coworkers innocuously ask me about my college experiences. The conversation starts to drift during group projects.
And the questions start in my head. Do I come out to my family? At work? At the doctor’s? On the street, do I hold my girlfriend’s hand? Or do I guiltily keep my hand to myself, knowing the choice I’m making?
The metaphor of coming out of the closet is useless for these situations, because there isn’t just one. The question of whether to be out as a gay woman is something I have to decide almost every day of my life.
I’d ask to change the metaphor to that of a revolving door, but I understand that might not have the same ring.
The very act of keeping a secret induces shame. While it’s a good thing that pop culture and social media have begun to embrace LGBTQ+ identities, I find them alien to relate to. Coming out is presented as a choice between living in fear and living openly, even if there’s some conflict. It’s a choice fundamentally about you, and what you want.
And maybe that’s true. But that’s not how it’s ever felt like to me.
Being in the closet is a mindwarp of your duties and your responsibilities towards your (nonsympathetic) family and your community.
I understand even as I write this that this frame isn’t true. But I think in our effort to become more inclusive and accepting as a society, we have left behind those of us — including me — who still very much struggle with the choice to come out.
It goes like this: If you choose to come out of the closet, you are choosing to cause pain to your family. It has very little to do with you, and everything to do with them. Not coming out of the closet is the selfless choice.
Pride isn’t where I went to celebrate in high school. Pride is where I went to remind myself that I existed, and that I could not be washed away by the overpowering desire of those around me for me to be straight.
I don’t have an easy or simple relationship to my sexuality. And that’s OK. But Pete Buttigieg, Harper and I aren’t betrayals. We’re real(-ish) people. And acting as if our experiences make us any less gay erases our right to be complicated, and to struggle with real internalized pain. As we look to the future after Pride Month, we should look to carve out space for these narratives, even if they’re not ones you can celebrate, and are uncomfortable to think about.
I’m not out and proud. Maybe I will one day. But I’m still gay, and that’s OK.
Note: The LGBTQ+ umbrella includes many identities. I identify as queer. I can’t speak for the coming out experiences of those who are trans and nonconforming, nor do I want to. As such, I purposely use the term “queer” to specify the experiences that I’m describing, rather than using “LGBTQ+.”