I caught an interview last weekend with author Juno Dawson about the recent banning of “This Book is Gay,” which they wrote in 2015 as a sex education book focused on helping LGBTQ and straight kids understand each other and themselves. Dawson is transgender.
I can hear some of you now. “Hold it, Tony, can’t you write about your grandpa’s horse, the weather, or that one time at band camp…?”
Sure. But hang with me. I describe this weekly missive as “a human interest column,” and this topic must interest a lot of people. Books are being banned and a chunk of society that’s always been with us faces increasing, even legislated, discrimination.
As a writer, I’m concerned when people in power decide that words are a threat. It got me wondering when society decided that diversity, differences, and sex, even, were a threat.
Spoiler alert: We’re all here because somebody did it. And it’s OK.
I think it’s OK, necessary, actually, to examine our societal hang-ups from time to time. When the aliens get here who’s going to explain to them why men can go topless on an American beach and women can’t? And why do some people view the personal relationships of others as a threat?
Sexual diversity has always been with us. After a local politician railed against it in a political reorganization meeting, I talked with him. “You love who you love,” I said.
“You know,” I said in a conversation with a conservative employee, “Same sex relationships are like any marriage. It’s not all about sex.” (“You got that right,” many of you are saying.) Like all relationships, it’s primarily about companionship.
In Native American communities, the term “two-spirits” reflects such natural societal diversity.
I haven’t read Dawson’s book, but as an ally, I think I will. You don’t have to understand diversity to accept it, but it helps. Education is the key to everything.
We’ve been fumbling around with sex education for a long time. In sixth grade, in a very clandestine manner, the girls were pulled out of the classroom and herded to a dimly-lit basement room to talk about “girl things.” There was a slide show and everything. (I peeked.) It must have been horrible—they may have been sworn to secrecy—because they never talked about it.
When I became the single parent of a freshman girl, however, I become well-acquainted with those mysteries. It’s been as natural as any discussion about anything, and I still remember India calling me her “best friend,” because it meant we could talk about anything. And do.
But give educators credit. Coming out of the free love 60’s, they knew it had to be done. They just didn’t know how.
I remember the county nurse’s first attempts to explain to a room full of junior high boys why a light breeze produced an turgidity worthy of four-hour Viagra warnings. Ah, the good old days. When we submitted written, anonymous questions to the young woman, some of us wondered if she could help us with that. Her solution was a good hard slap to the offending appendage, thus, our introduction to S&M.
There was enormous pressure on educators and parents to educate children, and years later, my father’s cold sweats at the breakfast table finally made sense when he worked up the courage to have “the talk.” By then, I was no longer a virgin. “Thanks, Dad. Got it covered.” I didn’t, but neither of us were willing to surrender the enormous relief that sentence provided.
Like most boys of the era, I was small-town provincial. “Anyone ever offers me drugs,” I’m gonna punch ‘em in the schnoz,” I declared. “Any (gay slur) every comes on to me, I’ll kick their a—.”
So much for that. On the second count, I was in a Denver nightclub when a musician in Jill Sobule’s band politely approached me. I let him down easy. “I’m sorry, I don’t swing that way, but I’m flattered.” I really was, but I had an enormous crush on Jill—everyone who saw her sing did—but she turned out to be gay, too! We became friends, though.
I had Black, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, and gay friends and coworkers. Still do. Everyone knows someone who is gay. Even if you think you don’t.
One night, the biggest, burliest disc jockey in town—a big star—confided in me the difficulties he faced as a gay man. It was a surprise and a revelation. A very human moment. If it was tough for him in the diversity of the city, imagine what it’s like living in a small town where provincial attitudes still percolate. But even in small North Dakota towns, we’ve come a long way. Our communities are more diverse. We even have Finlanders.
We evolve. I don’t think the politics of the day reflect the hearts of most people.
It’s not a choice. We are who we are. We love who we love.
Live and let live.
© Tony Bender, 2023
