This book explores the ally1 perspective in advocating for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer and Intersex (LGBTQI+)2 human rights. With the aim of promoting safe and inclusive educational communities, the book attempts to unravel the dynamics of mobilizing not only the privilege and power typically associated with heterosexual, cisgendered allies, but also the voices, strength and resilience of allies positioned within LGBTQI+ communities. Over many years, research has revealed that homophobia, transphobia and biphobia have impacted negatively on the wellbeing of many LGBTQI+ people as well as the cultures of local and global communities (Crowley et al., 2010; Kosciw et al., 2016; Robinson et al., 2013; Rodriguez et al., 2016; Shelton, 2013; Taylor et al., 2016). Improving teaching and learning also requires navigating the impact of power that is produced and resisted, creating subjects whose needs and aspirations relate to intersectional factors, such as sexuality, gender, race, ethnicity, dis/ability, class, language, location, family structures and history (Crenshaw, 1991; Ferfolja et al., 2018; Foucault, 1980, 1991). To appreciably shift the heteronormative and cisgendered dynamics of institutions, which are often fraught with power struggles and microaggressions, researchers and advocates have called for systemic change away from pathologizing practices in order to promote LGBTQI+ human rights (Bartholomaeus & Riggs, 2017; Blackburn, 2012; van der Toorn et al., 2020). Although the LGBTQI+ ally can assist to counter gender and sexuality-based discrimination, further research is required to better understand the allied perspective of engaging with education, advocacy and activism in schools, universities and the broader community. Furthermore, the concept of LGBTQI+ allyship has evoked controversy, with some advocates and activists disagreeing about who has the right to be an ally and what their responsibilities entail.
In this vein, the bookâs main objectives are to:
- Shed light on the history and role of allies in support of LGBTQI+ human rights.
- Deepen understandings of educational stakeholders regarding definitions and meanings of being and becoming an ally to resist heteronormativity and cisgenderism in high school and universities.
- Outline the significance and implications of the trajectory(ies) of the ally movement(s) as it translates from the North American to Australian educational contexts.
- Highlight concrete examples of allies engaging in participatory collaborative research with teachers, students and members of the LGBTQI+ community.
- Examine the relationship between allies, activism and collaboration for social changes in support of diverse genders and sexualities.
- Consider intersectionality of factors such as class, race, gender, sexuality, geography, language and culture with respect to LGBTQI+ activism and allyship; and its relevance for supporting sexual diversity and gender democratization in education institutions.
- Investigate the interplay between legislation, social change and the ally movement to support democratization of gender and sexuality in education institutions such as schools and universities.
- Interrogate the role of the media/internet and take up of celebrity voices in popular culture and their political influence in terms of addressing LGBTQI+ human rights.
My professional and personal allied experiences which led to writing this book have been uplifting, complex and troubling. In 2008, after being energized from discussions emanating from a research seminar at the University of Western Ontario, Professor Wayne Martino and I decided to collaboratively explore the theme of gender and sexual diversity in families using innovative childrenâs picture books, such as And Tango Makes Three (Richardson & Parnell, 2005) and Mini Mia and Her Darling Uncle (Lindenbaum, 2007). Our allyship as researchers was complimentary (Wayne, a cisgender gay identifying man, and I a cisgender straight identifying woman), yet we understood the significance of engaging with diverse constellations of LGBTQI+ communities in terms of language, ethnicity, race, location and age. As our research collaborations to promote LGBTQI+ human rights and queer curricula segued into multiple projects, including externally funded grants, I discovered more about the deep malaise, which persists in many educational communities, regarding non-normative genders and sexualities. Privileged to listen to the lived stories of many LGBTQI+ participants and colleagues, I learned that:
- After many years of employment with the same educational institution, some LGBTQI+ educators still feel obliged to hide details of their personal lives, for fear of discrimination.
- Queer topics are often absent or considered taboo in curricula throughout primary, secondary and tertiary education.
- Transgender and gender non-binary people often face systemic invisibility in relation to utilities (toilets and showers) and administrative records (enrolment and transcripts).
- Some talented LGBTQI+ students leave high school or university early, or change their undergraduate majors, due to the negative impact of homophobia and transphobia.
- There are common misconceptions about being Indigenous and LGBTQI+.
- Exemptions to anti-discrimination laws allow independent religious schools in some contexts to ask LGBTQI+ students and teachers to leave.
I appreciated that despite mainstream societyâs othering of non-normative genders and sexualities, LGBTQI+ communities could regularly build resilient and vibrant spaces of hope and re-generation. Immersing myself in the stories of LGBTQI+ activists and scholars, I came to understand that the long-term public denial of queer lives yielded intergenerational consequences, not only for LGBTQI+ individuals but also for their families. The power of these narratives allowed me to retrospectively unpack my childhood years as an ally in the 1960s and 1970s and comprehend that heteronormativity, homophobia and transphobia have overshadowed many lives in Canadian (Catholic) communities.
For example, in my family, where members identified as gay and lesbian, we routinely adopted a practice of âDonât ask, donât tellâ to fend off probing questions from neighbors, classmates, teachers, parishioners and shop keepers. In fact, at school, work and in the community, my familyâs social dynamics were attuned with a sliding scale of closeting. Unaware of organizations such as Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG), at home, we, overridingly, did not discuss topics relating to non-normative gender and sexuality. Outside the home, to avoid ridicule or discrimination, strategies, either individually or as a group, involved remaining silent during homophobic jokes or responding ambiguously when too many personal questions were asked. At one point, although our mother sought to support her gay and lesbian family members by consulting our family doctor, I did not learn of this fact, until more than three decades later, when my mother was terminally ill, and she shared sections of her diary with me.
If conflicts arose in the playground, or walking to and from primary school, when homophobic slurs, such as âfaggotâ or âdykeâ were chanted at any number of students, I often turned away. Several years later, during a high school English literature class, a teacher whom I held in great esteem was analyzing a passage from a wartime novel. Suddenly, the teacher adopted a high-pitched voice, raised his arms and tilted both wrists downwards; he then strutted campily across the classroom, impersonating a male soldier from the novel. Chuckling, the teacher seemed pleased with his overstated, effeminate performance. Although a handful of male students laughed along, others, including myself, remained silent. Attempting to concentrate on the text, I could not reconcile that an educator, whom I had admired dearly, could act in such a prejudicial way. Although I fantasized about explaining to the teacher that his joke was hurtful, and my family was different, when the bell rang, I grabbed my books, scurried out of the classroom and down the stairs, fleeing into the nearest toilets. I innately sensed that my family had been disrespected, but I did not have the language to express my feelings and could never summon up the courage to approach this teacher. Decades later, I understand that these were formative years in LGBTQI+ allyship, and my fear of speaking out was intensified by internalized homophobia. These incidents are indicative of a historical social era. But, in retrospect, my aim, even as a flawed ally today, is to strive more concertedly to resist gender and sexuality-based discrimination.
This book is underpinned by queer and trans theoretical perspectives (e.g., AnzaldĂșa, 1999; Kumashiro, 2002; Spade, 2015; Stryker, 2008), which view gender and sexuality categories as not binary and fixed but rather fluid and dynamic. Disrupting cisnormative and heteronormative constructions of gender and sexual identities, expressions and relations, queer and transgender perspectives provide a framework for complicating and deepening the narrative about anti-oppressive teaching and research. Because of the interrelations between gender and sexuality (Butler, 1990), Kumashiro (2002) argues the term âqueerâ encompasses more than sexual orientation or categories for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersex or two-spirited people; self-...
