“You notice that you never read anything about them? Where is all the history and discoveries they have had? Its because none of them live past their 30s. They all drop dead from diseases before they can do anything. I’ve ever seen one over the age of 45. They are all dead.”

His face twisted and his eyes narrowed in a sneer as he said it. Memory states he also spit afterwards, as though the mere mention of these people was something foul in his mouth. I was gripped in discomfort that went beyond the awkwardness that everyone else in earshot was feeling; I saw my brothers shifting awkwardly to busy themselves with other activities, as though they sought to escape the conversation. I could not escape it however as my father simply followed me whenever I moved. Never one to miss the opportunity to belabor things he found of importance or particularly onerous, he continued to spell out how filthy and vile homosexuals were. As stated, he found one hefty piece of evidence of their (our) valuelessness in what he perceived as a lack of history. For my father, a man who loved history, the fact that LGBT history was unknown to him meant that it was not worth knowing.

There is so much to say about how this garbage my father was spewing bogged down my development as a child and delayed my self-acceptance as a gay man unnecessarily by years and years. His words struck fear and dismay into my heart, even at the young age of 10 that I was going to be dead before too long and the my end would arrive in naught but humiliation, pain, and only the most sickening of illnesses. All of this vexes me to the quick to this day as he was completely and totally wrong. Just because he did not know and could not see the stories and history, does not mean they were not there. The history I sought was not non-existent. It was only invisible and waiting to be seen.

Years later when I came out, I fell into a crisis. So many of the things I knew to be true were suddenly up to be questioned. This sort of consideration is fine when it is only a thing or two that can be controlled. My situation was a bit larger. In that moment I was in a position where I had to ask myself whether the sheltered life I had lived was keeping me from knowing the true value of life. How did other people live? Were there lifestyles and traditions equal to, or perhaps better than my own? What were my own traditions? For the first time, I needed to look self-reflectively to understand my roots, my choices, and critically consider whether this is who I wanted to be. It was terrifying as I felt alone in my search and a bit lost at sea.

I started with my past and became fascinated with charting my familial heritage, perhaps in part because I wanted to find that my own close-minded family was actually as aberrant as they made me to feel. My family is Dutch, but specifically Frisian. I had no idea what that meant. Records were limited but with some sleuthing the information was there and I reveled in the discovery of my own background. There was a language that my own family had spoken only 50 years hence. I loved each new tidbit as it helped me feel more whole and connected with the world again. So much history available to me and each piece felt like I was learning a bit about myself.

My need for understanding did not end there, and became something of a passion. Eventually I came across a film that I almost missed past due to its odd title and low budget cover. It’s a brilliant and necessary film called Paris is burning. For those who have not seen it, it is a documentary about the ball scene in the New Year City in the late 80’s and early 90’s. The gay men and transwomen found a circle of identity, performance, and recognition in gathering together for fashion and dance. I was awestruck. That era is a graveyard for the gay and queer community. The words of my father still lingered in my mind and wrapped my heart in anxiety. Even the mention of HIV but particularly HIV in that era made me feel vulnerable and reminded me that I too could die suddenly and disappear like so, so many of these lives. This film was a time capsule and these men and women were living and creating a life on the fringe that we as a community have been borrowing/stealing/using/celebrating ever since. I was heartbroken to see that so many of them were lost to the plague but still the history was there and it was beautiful. My selfish fear almost kept me back from celebrating this vibrant and vivacious history. I am honored to lay any claim to this exclamation of life.

Eventually I made my way into graduate school. Something great about graduate school (at least in the liberal arts) is that faculty push you to investigate and discover information, rather than simply provide it for you to consume and assimilate. My courses provided me ample opportunity to discover the Mattachine Society who, starting in the 1950s, pushed for gay rights early on. This movement was only the social expression of undercurrents that predated it. Additionally, I found caches of photographs that showed same-sex couples dating back to the early days of photography. The stories were often thin with frustratingly few details, but they were still there and they were speaking. The riots of Stonewall became a point of pride for me, rather than a mere piece of knowledge. I felt honored to live with the benefits earned by those early queens who had fought so hard. Learning these things made me feel as though I was a piece of a puzzle that stretched back and back over years and decades.

There is a lot of mystique to being the first to step up. The first one to achieve something monumental is something to be praised, but what about the first one to dare to step out and decry injustice? In the moment, that first seems terrifying and gripped by self-doubt and concern for personal safety. That first person makes it easier for the next one though and so many after. I was taught that I had no history and by that I was stripped of my own hope for achievement, but that was a lie. Seeing those pioneers that came before is what taught me that great things are possible for people like me and so many others. Our own stories should never stay invisible. We must seek them out and bring them into the light if not for ourselves, then for those who will need on our shoulders on which to stand