Abstract
The purpose of this study was to examine how four openly gay male music teachers in distinct US regions enacted Jose Muñoz’s vision of queer futurity within their respective campus environments. Data included field notes from a minimum of six class observations and 59 interviews divided between teachers, administrators, instructional colleagues in other subject areas, students, and students’ parents. Administrators at each school were highly supportive and indicated that gay representation provided a valuable contribution to their school’s commitment to diverse representation. Data also showed that when teachers were open about their sexuality, students felt empowered to live life by their own personal standards, rather than bowing to peer pressure.
The United States has a long history of sexual and gender minority (SGM) 1 oppression that can make coming out as a gay or lesbian teacher a daunting prospect. Until 2003, anti-sodomy laws, punishable by lengthy imprisonment and/or hard labor were enforceable in 14 states. Even after the US Supreme Court struck down these laws (Lawrence v. Texas, 539 U.S. 558, 2003), SGM individuals could still be dishonorably discharged from military service until 2011, when President Barack Obama provided certification to enact the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell Repeal Act of 2010. Four years later, the Supreme Court ruled in favor of marriage equality, regardless of sexuality (Obergefell v. Hodges, 576 U.S. ___, 2015). Yet, unless an individual’s workplace provided non-discrimination policies protecting SGM employees, same-sex couples could marry each other one day and be fired the next, based on their SGM status. Then, in a surprising ruling in 2020, the Supreme Court declared that employers with 50 or more employees could not terminate an individual’s employment based on sexuality or gender identity (Bostock v. Clayton County, Georgia, 590 U.S. ___, 2020).
For the first time in history, SGM teachers now have some level of assurance that their sexuality or gender identity might not be used as a justifiable means for job dismissal. However, conservative appointments to the US Supreme Court between 2016 and 2020 may give some teachers pause as they consider whether such rulings may be eventually reversed. In addition, many states still have laws prohibiting any positive discussion of SGM individuals in K–12 schools. These “no promo homo” laws may not be constitutional, but their presence can be intimidating, leading some teachers to question whether coming out to students and their parents, as well as colleagues, is a wise move. Job protection is not necessarily synonymous with community support, and, given the historical precedents of SGM oppression (Mayo, 2020), some teachers may fear that coming out could be problematic.
Considering the oppressive history against SGM individuals in the United States, it is understandable that veteran music teachers have sometimes struggled to determine what might be appropriate to disclose at school and have often advised caution to their younger colleagues (Furman, 2012; McBride, 2016; Minette, 2018; Palkki, 2015; Paparo & Sweet, 2014; Taylor, 2011, 2018). Respectfully, younger gay and lesbian music teachers have challenged the idea that sharing their personal lives in the same manner as their heterosexual colleagues would be anything less than appropriate (Taylor, 2011, 2018). Some younger teachers have even advocated coming out to students, students’ parents, and colleagues, to avoid the internal distractions of hiding one’s sexuality that might interfere with the business of teaching (Taylor, 2018).
In a study of general education teachers, Ward (2015) documented the experiences of 11 elementary and middle school teachers who were living as openly gay or lesbian at work. From her observations, she developed a four-stage identity development model: (a) becoming visible to administrators and other teachers, (b) becoming visible to students, (c) becoming visible to students’ parent(s), and (d) identity maintenance. For the safest approach to living openly, she recommended that teachers allow community members and students to get to know them first before disclosing information about their sexuality. She also found that teachers who allowed disclosure to happen organically (e.g., responding to questions about a spouse) rather than making a formal announcement about one’s sexuality yielded more positive experiences. Ward (2015) explained that her model emphasizes that it is the gay [or lesbian] teacher’s environment that is the source of most homosexual identity conflict and not the gay [or lesbian] teacher. The “work to be done” is on this environment, and this model supports this work. (p. 99)
Bettinsoli et al. (2020) reported that across 23 countries, including the United States, people expressed more negative attitudes toward gay men than lesbian women, which may make the work especially challenging for gay men. Moreover, Ward and Winstanley (2005) observed that coming out is a reiterative and performative act, whereby teachers must regularly consider the costs or benefits of disclosing one’s sexuality, dependent on a variety of contextual factors. Similarly, Jackson (2006) noted that personal characteristics, family status, gender conformity, professional experiences, and community atmosphere may each affect the comfort or feasibility of coming out in vary contexts.
Within the field of music education, I have located studies examining SGM music students’ perceptions of safe space (Palkki & Caldwell, 2018) and music teachers’ use of SGM-inclusive practices (Garrett & Spano, 2017), but I have yet to identify any studies that have examined how gay or lesbian teachers who have come out to students, students’ parents, administrators, and colleagues, function in community with these individuals. Queer futurity provides a useful framework to examine these dynamics among openly gay music teachers within their school environments.
Queer futurity
In Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity, Jose Muñoz (2009) implores readers to imagine new possibilities of queer existence beyond the confines of present-day oppression. Utilizing Ernst Bloch’s concept of utopian vision, he declares, “Queerness is essentially about the rejection of a here and now and an insistence on potentiality or concrete possibility for another world” (Jose Muñoz, 2009, p. 1). Like Bloch, he distinguishes between abstract utopias, which he describes as “akin to banal optimism” and concrete utopias, which are “relational to historically situated struggles” (Jose Muñoz, 2009, p. 3). Levitas (1990) describes Bloch’s concept of abstract utopias as wishful, self-centered thinking, lacking any intention to enact change. She explains, “In the daydream, it often involves not so much a transformed future, but a future where the world remains as it is, except for the dreamer’s changed place in it—perhaps by a large win in a lottery” (Levitas, 1990, p. 15). In contrast, concrete utopias are “anticipatory rather than compensatory,” and involve “not merely wishful but will-full thinking” (Levitas, 1990, p. 15). Within a music teaching context, instructors who envision a more queer-inclusive curriculum could enact concrete utopias, not just by incorporating queer composers’ works, but also by providing students with each piece’s historical context. John Corigliano’s Symphony No. 1, written to memorialize the composer’s friends who died during the AIDS crisis, would serve as one example of a piece profoundly influenced by historical struggles within the queer community.
The practice of queer futurity within music education environments deserves further inquiry. Therefore, the purpose of this study was to examine the extent to which openly gay male music teachers concretely enact queer futurity within their own unique school environments.
Method
I utilized an instrumental collective case study design to investigate the experiences of four gay male music teachers across the United States. In this design, within-case analysis and cross-case analysis provided a means to examine unique as well as shared experiences, respectively, across all participants (Creswell, 2007; Stake, 1995). Collective case study requires the identification of shared criteria that bind individual cases together (Stake, 2006). In this study, participants were bound together in that they were each white males employed as full-time music teachers in US public schools. Each teacher had identified themselves as gay to their administrators, colleagues, students, and students’ parents.
Participants and recruitment
After receiving Institutional Review Board (IRB) approval, I utilized snowball sampling to find openly gay male music teachers in the Western, Midwestern, Southern, and Northeastern regions of the United States (as designated by the US Census Bureau) who would be willing to participate in this study. No restrictions were placed on race or ethnicity; however, I actively sought to provide equal representation in each region of the United States. In addition to soliciting suggestions from SGM music teacher educators in various parts of the nation, I posted a Facebook notice on the “LGBTQA + Brave Space for Music Educators” group page. I corresponded with 15 openly gay music educators across the nation who expressed interest in the study. After contacting administrators from each teacher’s school district, I secured approval to study four high school teachers. One resided on the West coast, one in the Midwest, and two in the South. Although several teachers in the Northeast were willing to participate, their administrators never replied to my correspondence, despite repeated attempts to communicate. Given the geographical representation I hoped to secure, coupled with obstacles I encountered obtaining administrative approval, the available music teachers were all white men, thus further bounding the cases by race.
Positionality
As a university professor working in an institution that celebrates diversity, I have had the privilege of being completely open with students and colleagues about my identity as a cisgender gay man. In a previous position, I taught elementary general music in a public school located in the Southwestern part of the United States. Congruent with Connell’s (2014) description of “knitters” who attempt to meld professional and personal lives as much as possible, I was open with my colleagues, but never verbalized my gay identity with students or their parents. Having lived both with caution and with freedom in these respective environments, I empathize with the varied sociocultural contexts that teachers must consider when making the decision to come out in professional settings. As the sole data collection and analysis agent in this study, I acknowledged the role that my personal experience played in my interaction with the data.
Procedures
After recruiting four music teachers from across the United States, I visited each of their campuses to observe a minimum of six classes and conduct semi-structured interviews with the music teachers, three administrators, three colleagues, three parents, and three students. Each participant signed an IRB-approved consent form explaining the details of the study. In each interview, I asked participants to share their perceptions of the teacher’s impact within the music program and the overall campus at large. Except for one school on the West coast where only two parents were available for interviews, I completed all other planned procedures, resulting in a total of 59 interviews that averaged about 30 min each. After transcribing all interviews, I conducted member checks with participants to solicit corrections, deletions, and additions. After incorporating their edits, which most often only included corrections to names and locations, I assigned pseudonyms to each participant and location. Barry was a choral director at Southwest High School, David was a choral director at West Coast High School, Robert was a band director at Southeast High School, and Michael was an orchestra director at Midwest High School.
Data analysis
I utilized eclectic and pattern coding procedures (Saldaña, 2021) to identify ways that participants enacted queer futurity within their school environments. Two primary codes emerged, with subcodes in parentheses: Coming Out Journey (representation, responsibility, and vulnerability) and Normalization (patience, including spouse, self-assurance, and unapologetic).
I sought trustworthiness through a peer reviewer with scholarly expertise in qualitative analysis. Subsequent to coding completion, I completed within-case analyses and cross-case analysis. As recommended by Stake (2006), I placed the most emphasis on within-case analysis to capture the unique features of each teacher’s environment. To facilitate cross-case analysis, I used selected Stake (2006) worksheets. These worksheets include graphic organizers and ranking systems to help organize data and provide a sense of hierarchy and salience across cases.
Limitations
Due to the small sample size, findings in this study cannot be generalized to the greater population; however, it is hoped that experiences detailed in this article may provide data by which others can consider their own contextual challenges. As all music teachers in this study were white, their experiences may not reflect the experiences of gay teachers of color. Finally, although David identified as male, his genderqueer attire stands in contrast to the other participants whose attire did not deviate from hegemonic gender expectations.
Findings
Within-case analysis: Barry at Southwest High School
At 35 years old, Barry was completing his ninth year as a choral director of an award-winning program in a large, affluent Southwestern suburban high school. According to local real estate estimates, 90% of those who identified as religious considered themselves to be Christian. Throughout the interviews, many participants acknowledged a strong conservative, evangelical presence within church communities. Even though the community was largely conservative, Barry had previously been elected Teacher of the Year, not only for his school, but also across his entire district. All codes and subcodes were evident in Barry’s data: Coming Out Journey (representation, responsibility, and vulnerability) and Normalization (patience, including spouse, and self-assurance).
Barry established the school’s first Gay Straight Alliance (GSA). As part of initial efforts to signal welcoming spaces, the GSA offered safe space stickers to faculty members, and more than 100 teachers placed them in their classrooms. Reflecting on the first few GSA meetings, Barry shared, There were some very emotional meetings to see just how many students showed up. Not from the fine arts, but just all over the school. . . . We’ve had a lot of heterosexual teachers and students come to the meetings just to say, “How can I better relate to these students or friends I have that I may not fully understand what they’re going through?” And that means the world to these kids.
When asked what motivated him to initiate the GSA, Barry explained that high school was anything but a safe place for SGM students when he was a teenager and that he never encountered another openly gay teacher until he began his master’s degree. He wanted to provide the safe space for his students that he never had in his earlier years.
Barry facilitated disclosure by casually referencing his partner, Steve, in the introductory PowerPoint presentation teachers were encouraged to share with their students at the beginning of each year. Likewise, he included photos of Steve on his office desk. After providing effusive praise for his empathic approach to teaching, Mary Kay (student) referenced the GSA, sharing, “I just loved that he took that stance and said, ‘we welcome everyone. It doesn’t matter your sexual orientation or how good you are as a musician’.”
When asked what led him to disclose his sexuality at school, Barry explained, Until a person of a minority can see someone else [of a minority] in the position of power, it’s hard for them to see themselves there. I think all the time, “What if there’s a kid that thinks, ‘Well gosh, I want to be a teacher someday, but I can’t because I’m gay’?” I also am aware that we’ve had this surge of acceptance with [marriage equality], but that doesn’t make it easy all of a sudden. There are still parents that are the same that they were 50 years ago. And there are still churches that behave the same way. So, I don’t want to overlook those kids that are terrified to talk to someone.
Administrators spoke gratefully about the model Barry provided for others. After mentioning his lesbian sister, Tom (assistant principal) teared up, and shared, “I’m getting emotional for some reason. I think he’s a phenomenal human being, through and through. I value him for who he is—his morals, his beliefs, and what he does with our students.” Likewise, Angie (assistant principal) explained, He’s been kind of a stronghold for kids who are struggling with their identity. And because he’s so open about it, everybody just accepts him for who he is. Everybody loves Barry. That should be a slogan around here. He’s very open. Very open. And I think that’s why he’s so special.
Within-case analysis: David at West Coast High School
At 27 years old, David was completing his third year as a choral teacher in a Title I school 2 located in one of the most socio-politically liberal cities on the West coast. He described his internal gender identity as male and his external gender expression as genderqueer, meaning that he enjoyed mixing male and female attire, often within the same outfit. A skilled singer and arranger, he often engaged his students in composing projects to help them acknowledge and express their own points of view. David’s most prevalent codes and subcodes were Coming Out Journey (responsibility, representation, and vulnerability) and Normalization (unapologetic).
During his 3-year tenure at West Coast High School, David made great strides to develop a strong choral program. However, he recognized singing as a particularly vulnerable act, requiring trust, and emotional safety. To this end, he opened himself to students at the beginning of the year, explaining, I’m the son of a pastor—an ex-gay pastor. At 19, came out and was kicked out of the house. And so, I didn’t have a place to live. And so, I give them that part of my story for two reasons. One, “Don’t you dare poke fun at my sexuality because of what I’ve gone through for it.” And two, also knowing that some of these kids come from low-income housing or have gone through similar situations. So like, “Hey, I have been homeless too.” I lived out in my car for a hot minute, and so I put a picture of my car up like, “Hey, this is all part of this story.” So just like all on the table immediately like, “Hey, you know, this is what I went through to become this thing.”
Acknowledging the effect of David’s story, George (student) shared, First day of school, like he told us his personal information that he didn’t have to tell us and, and then he asked if anybody else wanted to share anything and what we’re sharing, share. If not, you didn’t have to. I felt more comfortable in the class after that.
Likewise, Paloma, the mother of Wendy (student), suggested that David’s openness about his own struggles as a gay man and eventual success within his profession provided a model of strong resolve that she valued for her daughter: My daughter in particular is not probably like other girls her age. She’s more interested in academics and in certain types of music. She has a very strong personality, so she’s a little bit different than the other girls. I think that’s why she identifies with him so much—because he is what he is and who he is. He doesn’t care about what the other people is gonna think. So she has taken that for herself. He has influenced her to stand for whatever she likes. So that’s, for me, very important because that’s given her the opportunity to show her real personality and not try to fit with whatever she sees.
George and Paloma’s accounts provide some evidence that coming out to students can provide a model of openness and vulnerability for others to acknowledge and explore their own paths.
Rather than shy away from his gender fluid identity, David leaned into it. He explained, Some in the treble choir will call me Sis. I can be girly with them. I can be silly girly with the bass choir too, and they get the juxtaposition. Like they understand that I’m drawing the line of like, “Hey, you’re a bunch of boys that like act like testosterone boys, and I’m gonna like prance into the room.” Like they got it.
In addition to enacting queer futurity by disrupting hegemonic masculinity in the classroom, he sought to provide similar agency for students to challenge problematic hegemonies in their own lives. During one class, I was struck by a unique, defiant musical rendition of “This Land is Your Land” that students were rehearsing in preparation for a park opening featuring prominent, wealthy politicians. After class, Wendy explained that as students of color, they had mixed feelings about singing a song of American unity for privileged white politicians whose lives were so distinctly different from their own. Accordingly, David helped students arrange the piece to express their feelings. He explained, I want [the audience] to hear a primal yell, (sings “This land” emphatically)—this kind of like heartache to it. Because we’re a bunch of Brown kids [referring to his students] standing up on stage, a bunch of people that come from indigenous families that all are now colonized lands. Like it’s not okay to ask us to sing that at your event.
The aesthetic was powerful, moving, and dramatic. Through his work, David not only provided a model of self-expression, but also allowed students opportunities to discover their own unique voices.
Within-case analysis: Robert at Southeast High School
Robert, a 27-year-old assistant band director, was completing his third year at a Title I high school in the Southeastern region of the United States. Energetic and organized, Robert also served as an adjunct teacher at a local university and conducted a community band. Always perfectly groomed, Robert exuded a confident, self-assured demeanor. Completely at ease with his sexuality, he described his mannerisms and voice as “stereotypically gay.” When I asked him to describe what “stereotypically gay” meant to him, he referred to elements of hegemonic feminine gender expression (often mistakenly conflated with gay men’s sexuality in the United States) such as speaking at a high pitch level, crossing his legs at the knee, and dressing fashionably. Prevalent codes for Robert were Coming Out Journey (representation and vulnerability) and Normalization (patience, including spouse, self-assurance, and unapologetic).
Adam (head band director) explained that upon Robert’s arrival, he was highly impressed with Robert’s teaching prowess, but also felt responsible to alert Robert to the possibility that being openly gay might involve some risk. Fortunately, the school community embraced Robert fully. Adam noted, “Halfway through his first year, Robert knew more faculty members than I did.” Mallory (administrator) viewed Robert’s sexuality as an asset to the student body, rather than a detriment, observing, [Robert’s sexuality] is a relevant reflection of what’s in our building, so he can advocate and provide insight on matters that I just am unable to. I think we benefit by having his voice at the table because he brings that relevant experience.
Within his first 3 years, Robert became an active participant in the school’s GSA and helped organize their participation in the Atlanta gay pride parade. He also worked with Allison (school counselor) to provide guidance for struggling students. Allison shared, Last year I had a lesbian student who was very connected to Robert, but she was struggling with a lot of things to the point where he brought her to me for help. So, I would go down to the band room and we would spend like the lunch period with this kid to help support her. And we did that for the whole year on and off. They know that he cares a lot.
When relevant to daily conversation, Robert referenced his partner, Ed, without reservation. Likewise, he introduced Ed at football games and faculty events. Although initially fearful that Robert might face discrimination, Adam was relieved to witness positive reactions and reflected that “I think the kids appreciate the fact that he’s real with them, that he’s not trying to hide himself, that he’s not putting on an act. I haven’t seen any issues with parents or other teachers whatsoever.” Similarly, Erica (parent) explained that she appreciated the model Robert and his partner, Ed, provided for her sons: I have [two sons]: a football player and a band member, right? So, we’ve raised our children the same. And though both of them are very open minded, my football player has not had the exposure as much as my band member has. And so my football player still [does] a double take. Like, “Oh, they’re holding hands.” Whereas my band member is just like it’s commonplace, no big deal to see maybe a gay or lesbian couple, right? And that’s what I want for him.
Rather than a detriment, Robert’s willingness to acknowledge his affectional life—much like any heterosexual colleague might—seemed to foster a greater sense of connection with his students.
Robert’s status as a confident, openly gay teacher in the Southeast provides some evidence that for individuals who are comfortable in their gay identity, disclosure is not always problematic in regions of the country known for anti-gay legislation. When asked what led to his sense of self-assurance, he explained that he had never experienced negative consequences from coming out. Regarding his decision to teach openly, he shared, I honestly just feel like being gay is just such a part of who I am. Like I almost can’t even imagine. I’m not really sure why I’m getting a little emotional—but trying to parse out being a gay man from being a music teacher is like—I can’t even do it.
Although Robert acknowledged his own good fortune, he also recognized vestiges of homophobia and assumed a sense of responsibility to provide a positive model for the community: I feel like I’m probably one of the few gay people that parents in the community know, and it’s only because I’m their child’s teacher. Otherwise, they’re hanging around with a lot of traditional [heterosexual] families that are going to live in a suburban area, right? So they’re not going to know any 27-year-old gay men. My biggest hope is that it humanizes LGBT people.
Far from negative, Allison (counselor) surmised that Robert’s openness enhanced his professional status: He brings his partner to our football games and introduces him to people. And everyone’s always super open. I think it’s actually helpful that people see that he’s open and that he’s unafraid of telling people and doesn’t feel ashamed or like he has to hide it. I think it kind of elevates him on a professional level, which is really nice.
While Robert has had positive experiences as an openly gay teacher, he noted that his status as a man in a monogamous, committed relationship provided natural venues for disclosure that mirrored heteronormative paradigms. He questioned whether he might have similar experiences if he were single.
Within-case analysis: Michael at Midwest High School
At 40 years old, Michael was completing his 19th year as an instrumental teacher in a small town located 20 miles outside a metropolitan city in the Midwest. Originally, a brass player and band director, Michael had taught orchestra for 11 years in his current location. When I first entered Michael’s school building, I was immediately struck by his energetic charisma and mistook him for one of the athletics coaches. In my field notes I wrote, “Of all the fine arts staff, he has the most extroverted, masculine demeanor. Shaved head, trim physique, booming friendly voice. His voice is kind of low and gristly, and he maintains a fast pace everywhere.” The most prevalent codes for Michael were Coming Out Journey (representation, vulnerability) and Normalization (including spouse).
Reflecting on what he brought to the campus at large, Michael shared, For me, queer is not just sexual orientation. It’s a seeing of the world that is different. I hope that I’m a person who can offer students some genuinely different ways of seeing the world.
He also noted a sense of responsibility, describing how, “People are super accepting here; people are super progressive and open minded. But it’s not top of mind for a lot of folks to think, ‘Oh, what can I do to affirm the experiences of my queer students today?’”
Michael also shared that experiences of isolation as a gay man in a previous teaching position inspired him to foster inclusivity for all students. Recounting his attendance at a previous colleague’s baby shower, Michael reflected, I remember having this feeling of being intensely sad and intensely isolated at this baby shower. I thought, “Oh, I’ll never have this circumstance of being embraced by the most mainstream of the mainstream people.” And it wasn’t like, “Oh, I want everybody to throw me a party,” or even that I wanted to have a baby. But it was that feeling, right? And I think all people feel that feeling in different ways at different times. It felt like this was a distillation of this experience where no injustice was being visited against me. However, this circumstance was making me feel a very strong sense of being the person on the outside. So I think a lot about who is excluded, and can we bring everybody into the circle? And can you channel your personal brokenness into something that is useful to yourself and others?
Michael’s isolation, painful as it was, served as a catalyst to foster a more inclusive, empathic environment for all students on campus.
Parents, administrators, and students all spoke positively about Michael’s openness. He acknowledged that being in a relationship made it easier to reference his life in heteronormative terms, but he also acknowledged that coming out is an ongoing process, and that sometimes code-switching provides an easy alternative: I probably do code switch—probably less and less as time goes on. You know, if the copy room secretary asks, “what did you do this weekend?,” it’s less risk and it’s less emotional labor to say, “I went to the movies” than it is to say, “I went to the movies with my boyfriend.” And I’m not proud of this, but I think it’s even just sort of modifying what you say about your general interests, you know, to fit in, in like an all-American middle-class suburban environment—so you can kind of convince people that you’re one of them, and you like the things that they like. I don’t think I can necessarily blame the school environment for this. It’s probably my own baggage. There’s an inclination to back off of talking about anything that is a little too effete, a little too cultural, a little too fancy.
Even as Michael’s experience sheds light on the benefits of coming out, it also illustrates the reiterative nature of coming out and emotional stamina required to consider the contextual costs and benefits.
Building on his commitment to inclusion and acceptance, Michael worked diligently with colleagues to create music classes outside the traditional band/choir/orchestra paradigm, based on student input. Conversations with students led to a new hip hop class and guitar classes. Moreover, in classes of all genres, Michael and his colleagues sought to be critically responsive teachers in ways that would honor students’ experiences and cultural backgrounds. Regarding repertoire for guitar classes, Michael shared, I’ve tried to think about when we’re doing Rolling Stones where we could do XXXTentacio. Maybe we’ll do the thing by the person of color. Can we do the song by Queen, and can I talk about Freddie Mercury? So I think the more the more students hear these things normalized, I think the better.
In orchestra classes, Michael purposively programmed repertoire to represent women, African Americans, the Latinx community, and the queer community. Importantly, he took time to give students agency into the selection process: Last year I had the top orchestra do a project where they researched and pitched a piece to the orchestra. . . . It ranged from a kid who pitched the William Grant Still Afro American Symphony, to kids who pitched Mendelssohn pieces that we’re going to do later in the year, to kids who pitched new educational repertoire that I had never heard of that I liked.
Whereas programming music outside the traditional canon may raise eyebrows in some circles, I was especially curious about how Michael handled queer representation: I’ve not made more attempts to program LGBTQ composers, but I am now explicit about it. A couple of years ago we did a movement of the Tchaikovsky Serenade for Strings—the piece is really interesting because Tchaikovsky was in a deep depression because he knew he was gay and was considering taking his own life. And that piece saved his life. Well, you know, I think the piece gets a lot more compelling with that story. We also did Copland’s Hoedown. It’s cowboys and all these American archetypes. And I felt like they should know Copland was a gay socialist Jew from Brooklyn.
Finally, when asked how his identity as a gay man might affect his teaching approach, he offered, As a person of a different identity, maybe you’re a little less attached to norms perhaps. So, my classes are a little bit different and there’s some things that I do that are not necessarily the way a lot a lot of people do them. We all do a lot of social emotional stuff in the music department here and I’m really big on “How does this feel for you right now? Can you take that? What can you learn from that feeling? Can you compartmentalize that feeling momentarily? Can you, can you write about that feeling?”
Rather than detracting from his teaching, Michael’s status within a minoritized group served to strengthen his empathy and connection to students. Viewed as a gift, rather than a detriment, he utilized his life experiences in ways that enhanced his teaching.
Cross-case analysis and discussion
The teachers profiled in this study shared several features in common. They were all strong musicians, committed to ongoing musical and pedagogical development, who sought to provide students with agency and representation through repertoire choice and interpretation. Rather than treating their sexuality as unusual, they normalized discourse about their lives beyond school, much as their heterosexual colleagues might (Ward, 2015). All music teachers in this study utilized “partner privilege,” a term Palkki (2015) used to describe the advantages that partnered men have over single men to reference a partner as a means of indirectly signaling sexuality. Beyond the advantage of being educated white men, they were also privileged to work in school environments where administrators and teachers celebrate diversity—including sexuality (Jackson, 2006; Palkki, 2015). Rather than assuming a “don’t ask, don’t tell” approach so commonly embraced among older generations of gay teachers (e.g., DeJean, 2004; Ferfolja, 2005; Harbeck, 1997; Kissen, 1996), these men had administrative support to teach without bearing the indignity of hiding their sexuality.
This type of support afforded these men the luxury of coming out that most gay teachers before them might not have embraced. As such, their ability to teach openly could be interpreted as a concrete realization of queer utopian activists before them. They stand on the shoulders of utopian visionaries like Harry Hay (founder of the Mattachine Society in 1950); Del Martin and Phyllis Lyons (founders of the Daughters of Bilitis in 1955); Stormé DeLarverie (often credited for being the first to resist police during the 1969 Stonewall riots); and Sylvia Rivera (a leader in the 1969 Stonewall riots and activist for transgender inclusion) who were situated in a time and space that was certain to disappoint anyone embracing queer visibility. Yet, in spite of challenges, these early activists embraced “a mode of hoping that [was] cognizant of exactly what obstacles present[ed] themselves in the face of obstacles that so often [felt] insurmountable” (Muñoz, 2019, p. 207).
The music teachers in this study simultaneously represent progress and an awareness of further work ahead. As educated white men in committed relationships, some may argue that their identities do a little to interrupt hegemony, making it easier for them to enact concrete utopias than queer teachers of color or men who remain single (see Hunter, 2015; Palkki, 2015). Some may even argue that their lives represent assimilationist ideals, rather than utopian visions of worlds not yet realized. However, their positionality does not preclude them from embodying queer futurity. They do not acquiescence submissively to heteronormativity; rather, they assert themselves as valid members of their school communities. They do not represent the more radical extremes of queer expression that Muñoz (2009) profiled; but their unapologetic presence in the heteronormative venues of public schools demonstrates a radical audacity to take their place at the table. Their presence represents progress, even as their positionality as white men provides a call for continued work. Queer voices beyond those of white, middle-class, able-bodied men are lacking, thus providing a call for further exploration into utopian ways of being and teaching. In the spirit of imagining a better world not yet realized, Muñoz (2009) words beckon us: “The here and now is simply not enough. Queerness should and could be about a desire for another way of being in both the world and time, a desire that resists mandates to accept that which is not enough” (p. 96).
Conclusion
Transitioning from university environments to music teaching positions in K–12 environments can be challenging as preservice teachers forge new teacher identities. For gay men who may feel supported within their university music programs (Taylor et al., 2020) but may be advised by older gay teachers to hide their sexuality (e.g., Paparo & Sweet, 2014; Taylor, 2018), identity negotiation may be especially challenging. These challenges can be exacerbated when students do not have the opportunity to discuss SGM issues in preservice classes (Garrett, 2012; Taylor et al., 2020). Although findings in this study are limited, they do provide evidence that in some schools, living openly without the burden of compartmentalization is possible. But it is important to note that participants in this study possessed multiple privileges as white, educated men whose administrators supported them. Further research is needed to examine the experiences of teachers who carry less privilege.
Therefore, in spite of the findings of this study, mentors would be remiss to assume everyone lives in a world free of anti-gay prejudice. Those who have witnessed homophobia may be especially concerned for preservice teachers’ professional and personal safety. Likewise, socio-political attitudes may vary by geographical region and historical context. Jackson (2006) noted that one gay teacher reflected, I think that when you’re teaching in the inner-city, there’s so much other stuff going on, that you being gay is the least of people’s worries. I think if you’re a small town, that’s the most exciting thing since sliced bread.
Yet, the price of compartmentalization is high, leading some teachers to leave the profession altogether (Sumara, 2007). Also, consider the message that compartmentalization sends to students. When students ask teachers whether they are married, heterosexual teachers in relationships often reply with simple answers like, “Yes, my wife and I have been married for 13 years.” Yet, I have often heard gay teachers advise each other to reply with phrases like, “My personal life is no one’s business” or, “I don’t discuss my personal life with students.” Responses like this imply that there is something wrong or clandestine about one’s personal life that should be hidden in shame. Yet, coming out to students and parents involves varying levels of vulnerability (Jackson, 2006), and each person’s decision and coming out journey is unique and worthy of respect. Nonetheless, those who seek positions where they can live free from compartmentalization may be able to draw implications from this study.
All teachers in this study had supportive administrators; therefore, before accepting a new position, gay applicants may want to ask administrators how they feel about supporting SGM students and faculty. If administrators seem uncomfortable with the question, that position may not provide the best fit. Once hired in an environment that does appear to be safe, disclosure might best be facilitated organically in the same casual way that heterosexual colleagues reference their lives, rather than making a grandiose announcement (Ward, 2015). Importantly, teachers in this study were astute listeners who made concerted efforts to practice empathy. Moreover, they sought to provide students with agency, acknowledging their musical ideas, and encouraging them to think creatively. Through these exchanges, teachers were able to build mutually respective relationships in the service of musical growth. It is hoped that these teaching practices may serve as valuable sources for others who seek to enact the concrete utopias that Muñoz (2009) envisioned.
Footnotes
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
