I grew up very religious, in the kind of religion that relied on not asking a lot of questions.
It was also the kind of religion where you could sleep in the same bed as your same-sex partner of 20 years every night, but maintained separate bedrooms in case anyone came over. The kind where if you were caught having an affair, drinking, gambling, cavorting, fornicating or any other sin, all you had to do was ask for forgiveness.
We didn’t even have to confess it to someone in person because we weren’t Catholic. The Lord would just forgive you when you asked him.
I was taught in those years to judge everyone and that appearances were everything, and that the one thing I could not be in my religion was gay. I never understood why – but like I said, questions were frowned upon.
I remember a short but pointed conversation with my pastor after I came out. You see, I was kind of a celebrity at my church because I sang solos on Sunday mornings, something no teenager had ever done there before me. Ever. In the rainbow glow of my newfound gayness and my ever-present ego, I had decided to come out despite that high profile and left the closet doors wide open.
Everyone knew, so I knew what happened next was coming. My pastor called me into his office, which felt like being called to meet the principal in school. There were no pleasantries, no handshakes, nothing.
He looked at me with the most insincere look I have ever seen. He began with something like, “It really pains me to say this” or “The Lord has put this on my heart,” I don’t remember the exact words.
My ears felt like they would burst into flames, my heart was beating ridiculously fast and I was sweating like, well, myself in church well before I had ever been labeled a whore! Then with one sentence he informed me that I was no longer welcome there. Period.
I expected it to happen, I just didn’t expect to feel so devastated. The experience turned me away from organized religion for about 25 years.
That rejection was one of the most painful experiences of my young life. I didn’t know how to process it. I couldn’t understand that it wasn’t reality that was being preached from the church’s altar.
I experienced something similar when I came out as a transgender woman. I found that many of the gay and lesbian members of our community were no longer my allies – and that many find transgender people to be a detriment to their fight for equality; a hindrance when it comes to our rainbow family.
Lesbians have told me that I am living out a sexual fantasy and that my gender dysphoria does not exist. I have been told that by being in female-only spaces I invite women to be raped and murdered because I am a man, no matter “what mutilations I do to my body.”
I have also been told that I am the reason gay men can’t adopt or are seen as freaks. I have been threatened with violence and death because of my coming out, but I never thought it would come from my own community.
To say it is disheartening is an understatement. It is heartbreaking.
There would be no LGB rights movement without the T, look at Stonewall. We need to take a good look at our own community, because transgender people are absolutely a part of it – we always have been and we always will be.
Trans men and women must be respected as we continue to battle for equal rights. The Florida Legislature is fighting to erase entire families and sections of our community. If we can’t band together in times of distress, we will never be able to fight against the people who want to eliminate the very discussion of us.
Our entire community needs to remember what it felt like to be rejected. To think about the sense of helplessness and worry about where we could turn, something so many of us have felt, and the subsequent reward of finding our tribe.
Whether it was with an LGBTQ organization, by doing drag, going to a bar, a coffee shop or on the internet, many of us have come to feel safe as we began living authentically.
I challenge everyone to imagine finding that and the confidence that comes with it, only to have members of that community – your safe haven – turn against you.
It’s worse than the original rejection you felt. It cuts deeper.
It’s important that every member of our community remember that we’re all fighting the same fight, and it’s not with each other.
Berry Ayers, aka Beneva Fruitville, is a transgender artist who has starred on stages, national television and in film. She is an activist and board member of Sarasota’s ALSO Youth.
