The Portland Gay Men’s Chorus will be performing its ICONS concert this Saturday, June 21, at 7 p.m. at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall. In our performance we will be showcasing several different storytellers depicting different aspects of our lives in the LGBTQ+ community. While my piece wasn’t chosen, I decided to share what I wrote here as an example of what you might see during our concert. In the section entitled “Breaking Barriers,” we were asked to tell the audience about a time we “broke through” in some way such as an achievement, transformational conversation, or just a monumental event relevant to our LGBTQ+ experience. My answer to that question is below.
Long before I’d learned the word “intersectionality,” I was very much aware that I lived in several distinct communities. Unfortunately, I also knew that I’d likely be facing various levels of prejudice simply by belonging to them.
I was born with an extremely rare neurological disorder known as Moebius syndrome which left my face bilaterally paralyzed. Because so few people knew what Moebius syndrome was, I was subjected to a great deal of bullying and misunderstandings from people who thought that I was mentally impaired. Even though I had a strong support system at home, I still suffered from crippling self-doubt and fear about how others perceived me.
When I came out of the closet at the age of fourteen in 1983, I was already aware that being out at that time was incredibly risky. Although I came out of the closet to my mothers and some close family friends, because of my prior experience of being bullied, I had no desire to face even more prejudice against me and didn’t tell many other people at first. As a result, my coming out process was a slow one, which ultimately culminated with me joining the Portland Gay Men’s Chorus in 1992 and becoming almost completely out of the closet in the process.
About two years after joining PGMC, while driving home with my stepmother, I turned to her and said, “You know, I’ve counted five ways that people could be potentially prejudiced against me. I’m gay, disabled, Jewish, short, and left-handed.” My stepmother thought about this, then turned to me and said, “Well, yes, that’s true that people might discriminate against you. But what would happen if you looked at all of these things as gifts?”
That thought floored me. I’d learned to accept the various pieces of myself over the years, but many times they’d felt like obstacles to be overcome. Not once had I ever felt that these components of my life were gifts. I don’t remember the rest of that conversation. I only knew that my self-perception had been upended by a very timely insight.
Today, many years after that conversation, I now understand what my stepmother meant, and it taught me an important lesson: Sometimes, for you to best see yourself, it takes an act of compassion from another person for you to best recognize your gifts.
Freedman on the Go 