Forced Back into the Closet: A (Queer) Principal’s Attempt to Maintain Queer Erasure

Student

The stereotype that the Northeastern region of the United States is a supportive and accepting space for LGBTQ+ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, transsexual, queer) individuals does not apply to my schooling experiences. In 2001, 3 years prior to Massachusetts becoming the first state to legalize same-sex marriage, I was a middle school student in a predominantly first-generation community of Portuguese and Polish immigrants. My middle school principal told me to “stop giving the boys something to pick on me for” when I reported the bullying that made me terrified to enter the boy’s locker room and sent me home crying. A physical education (PE) teacher in high school laughed when students called me a faggot from the other side of the volleyball net. I had one teacher in high school who I really identified with because he was also effeminate and also grew up with immigrant parents from Portugal. All of the students loved him for his sense of humor and engaging classroom. His course syllabus was the only one that included discrimination toward sexual orientation in the list of things that would not be tolerated in his classroom. Although it was a safe space for me, I often entered his class upset by something that happened earlier in the day. One day, he pulled me aside and told me that if I ever needed to talk to him about something, he would be here for me. Although I appreciated this effort, and felt that there was an uncommunicated understanding between us, I never took him up on this offer because of my disappointment that he had a wife and children. The Portuguese culture that we were a part of was deeply entwined with Catholicism and traditional gender roles that have been reinforced by the community since the 1970s when most of our families immigrated. I ached for an example of someone who was out and proud in our community. Today, the geographical-social mismatch between the progressiveness of the Northeast and the resounding anti-LGBTQ+ sentiment held by many members of my hometown community persists and is clearly evident in widespread support for anti-LGBTQ+ political candidates in recent elections. Since my departure, I have heard stories of consistent, and sometimes violent, bullying toward gender non-conforming students, public outcry against a trans guest speaker, public outcry against trans-inclusive books being added to the middle school library, and reports of a trans teacher being fired. The piercing, disapproving gaze I was met with nearly everywhere I went after coming out in my senior year of high school still haunts me when I return to visit family or find myself in an unfamiliar place. I remain skeptical of the shroud of liberalism that is laid over any geographic regions.

Teacher

When I eventually became a teacher, I never wanted to communicate to my students that sexuality or gender expression is something to be ashamed of. I felt an obligation to both my queer and straight students to add anti-heteronormativity and anti-homophobia to the curriculum. The states and districts where I taught in the Northeast all had long-standing anti-discrimination employment protections. I felt particularly safe teaching in schools with ethnically and culturally diverse student populations. In addition, the presence of other out faculty and staff provided a sense of comfort. Moreover, supportive administrators encouraged me to confidently present an authentic self to my students. For example, my first principal suggested that I be honest with the students about my sexuality. He validated me by saying, “it’s a part of you that you shouldn’t ignore or keep a secret.” In subsequent years, I just decided I would come out on the first day of school in order to squash the snickers and comments from some of the middle school boys. It always worked in my favor; students respected me for being honest. Although there was always at least one parent who called the principal to complain, they always responded the same way; “his sexuality has nothing to do with your child’s education.” I was happy to have administrators who intentionally sought to make their schools more inclusive for LGBTQ+ staff and students.

Relocation

My experiences as a student and teacher in the Northeast provided me with a deep contextual understanding of the socio-political environment toward LGBTQ+ individuals, which allowed me to confidently and safely navigate both personally and professionally. However, I was completely missing this cultural capital when I moved to San Antonio, Texas, with my partner after he had been offered a new job. I was initially terrified about being a gay teacher in Texas. Sleepless nights ensued during which I considered new career opportunities and frantically researched if I could be fired for being an out gay teacher. What I learned about Texas was terrifying in comparison with the long-standing LGBTQ+ legal protections that existed in the Northeast. As a no promo homo state, Texas did not have any state-wide anti-discrimination protections based on sexual orientation and gender identity (Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network [GLSEN], 2019; Human Rights Campaign [HRC], 2020). Although I found several news articles about teachers being fired for coming out throughout Texas, none of them were anywhere near San Antonio or involved any of the independent districts I was seeking employment in. Moreover, it comforted me to learn that the city of San Antonio, one of the more progressive cities in the state, had recently passed an anti-discrimination ordinance, which protected LGBTQ+ municipal employees. At the time, I did not understand that this protection would not protect me because, unlike in the Northeast, all school districts in Texas are independent from the municipalities within which they operate.

Although everyone I encountered in my new city seemed so nice and friendly, their conversational nature was something I was unaccustomed to in the Northeast. I hated having to come out every single time someone asked me why I moved to Texas. Therefore, when I began interviewing for teaching positions in Texas, I felt I had to be careful not to out myself. The principal who initially interviewed me for the eighth-grade history teaching position that I accepted put me at ease. I suspected he was also gay just, stereotypically, based on his effeminate mannerisms. I fully recognize that this is a problematic judgment of character on my part that reifies gendered social expectations. Regardless of his sexuality, I thought that at least we shared that, and so, if the school and district is a safe enough space for him to be a principal, it must be welcoming. When he asked me, what brought me to Texas, I stuck with my planned response; “I moved here with my family who moved here for work.” Although it was not a lie per se, it left the definition of “family” ambiguous. In my second interview, he asked me what my parents do, which I thought was odd until I remembered my previous response. I am certain my face communicated my annoyance while I said, “well I moved here with my partner.” He exclaimed, “Oh! Well, why didn’t you just say that before?.” The assistant principal, who was also sitting at the table with us just looked at him in disbelief. I thought that maybe she, like me, was questioning the legality of this exchange and thinking I was not forthcoming initially because the district and state had no anti-discrimination policies protecting me from not being offered the job based solely on my sexuality. Still, the principal’s nonchalance about my coming out signaled to me that my sexuality might not be as much of an issue as I was making it out to be in my mind.

The Incident

The school was part of a state-wide charter network that obsessed over numbers. As teachers, we were encouraged to model the core value of “100% every day” and to communicate to students the importance of 100% student achievement. In addition to 100% everyday, one of our core values was “no excuses.” The principal of the school took great pride in living out and reminding staff and students of these core values on a daily basis. He would often come into classrooms and point out how students were modeling the core values in an effort to encourage more students to comply with expectations. Like me, the principal was the son of immigrants and the first-generation of his family to be born in the United States and attend college. However, his approach toward students differed from mine in that he took a tough love approach toward students, most of whom were also first-generation or immigrants themselves. For example, when I asked why eighth-grade students did not have recess, the principal informed me that “all sorts of things happen at recess, and those will spill into your classroom afterwards, which will lead to disruptions to learning.” This rigid school climate emphasized student achievement as a vehicle for getting 100% of students to college, but it ignored the very human side of education.

During a professional development session before the start of school, I decided to approach my principal and ask his advice on what I should do if students asked me why I moved to Texas, or if they flat out asked me whether I was gay. We had just finished a presentation on “persistence,” which was one of the school-wide student retention goals that teachers were held accountable to in their formal evaluation. Of course, this persistence goal was also framed within the core value of 100%. When I approached my principal, he said, “well, you can come out to kids if you want, but just know that some parents won’t like that very much and they will pull their kids out of the school, and that will affect our persistence goal.” In that moment, I felt like I had just been punched in the gut. I was angry that I felt like I needed to ask permission to exist. I was angry that I had moved to a place that placed pressure on me to remain in the closet. When I set up my classroom, I made a point to place a picture of my entire family from the previous year’s Christmas gathering on a bookshelf behind my desk. I thought that if I could not have a picture of just the two of us, I could at least include everyone I love as a subtle way to let kids know who I am. Despite this act of resistance, my forced silence gnawed at me all year long.

In my interactions with students throughout the school year, they demonstrated acceptance toward me and each other in subtle ways. In one instance when a student used a gay slur toward another student in my class, a hypermasculine behaving student stood up and reprimanded the one who made the gay slur, stating in a rather mature rationale that such language is offensive to gay people and should not be used. In addition, there were several students who were out in the eighth grade. I thought this to be ironic that the school climate was relatively safe for LGBTQ+ students, but yet I had to remain closeted. I also thought it eerie, that for the first time in my teaching career, students never brought up my sexuality. It was as if they knew not to ask. One moment sticks out as particularly disquieting. While students were waiting for transition to their next period, a few boys began pointing to people in the picture and asking each person’s relation to me. They pointed to everyone in the picture except myself and my partner. A feeling came over me at that moment that students had never asked me about my sexuality or brought it up because they have been taught, either explicitly or suggestively to keep those questions to themselves. I began to question whether students had internalized a don’t ask, don’t tell social climate within the school and/or within their community as a whole.

In March, one of my students came out to me in a journal. She wrote a long paragraph about how she came to discover her sexuality, and at the end of the paragraph it read, “I’m gay.” When I first read this, I cried. I picked up a pen, and under her journal entry, I responded “me too.” I couldn’t wait to give the journal back to her the next day. While the rest of the students were beginning their pre-lesson assignment, I walked over and placed the journal on her desk and walked away. The student opened her journal, saw my response, and gasped. Her entire face lit up. She said, “you have no idea how happy you just made me, never in my life have I had a teacher who’s been able to say that, thank you.” I started class as normal, and it was never discussed again.

Later in the school year, another teacher told me in confidence that we had a student in common who was questioning her sexuality. Her mother had recently found out and threatened to kick her out of the house if she was a lesbian. My colleague had shared with the student some resources for LGBTQ+ students, including the Trevor Project’s helpline (thetrevorproject.org), and her mother became angry when she found out that her daughter had been chatting with the LGBTQ+ youth support network. My colleague asked me whether it would be okay to suggest that the student speak to me if she felt comfortable. After school one day, she approached me and told me that she did not want to go home because she “did not feel she could be herself at home.” In this heartbreaking exchange, I confided in her that I knew exactly where she was coming from, and that I too had parents who took time to come to terms with who I am, but in the end love and accept me unconditionally. Although this it gets better (itgetsbetter.org) approach somewhat paints a rosy picture, I did not know with any certainty that this student would experience the same happily ever after outcome, I felt the student needed to hear an optimistic message at that time. In this exchange, I never said the words “I’m gay” to this student. In retrospect, I believe this was due to my fear that she might tell her mother who would then complain to the school that I came out to her daughter and encouraged her to be a lesbian.

Upon reflection, it was incredibly painful for me to have to go back into the closet as a teacher in Texas. My biggest regret is that I initially gave in to this pressure not to talk about it. As a new faculty member at the school, I felt the need to go along with the core values and used caution when questioning some of the authoritative nature of the school. I feel sad to know that, by remaining in the closet, I perpetuated the message that LGBTQ+ people need to be ashamed and silent about their sexuality. I am also upset that, out of fear for my job, I was not able to be out to all my students, especially that I was not able to simply say the words “I’m gay” to the student who was struggling to gain her parent’s acceptance. Furthermore, I am disappointed that I missed the opportunity for teachable moments around homophobia. As a result of this, I became depressed and disillusioned with teaching and felt an emptiness about having to hide a part of my identity from my students. Perhaps sensing this, and seeing that I was so open out about my sexuality to my colleagues, the principal began to speak openly about his same-sex partner in grade-level team meetings. I noticed that he would never speak in such a way in front of students or in front of the entire school staff. It was clear that he was not professionally out about this relationship as our school principal, but was more comfortable in some spaces. ¹ Although I understand the deeply personal decision to either be out or stay in the closet, and I respect every one’s personal journey with that process, admittedly, I was frustrated because I felt as though I was forced back into the closet because he chose to remain closeted. At the end of the school year, I resigned from my position to pursue my doctoral degree full-time. In this position of privilege, I was able to reflect on and realize that having to hide a piece of my identity in order to keep a job would not be an acceptable option for me moving forward. Still, I recognize that many individuals, perhaps the principal of the school I worked at in Texas, do not have that privilege.

Coming Out Is an Individualized, Personal, and Strategic Negotiation

Heterosexuals are “free to openly talk about their lives, display affection, enjoy the benefits of marriage, and navigate their careers without fear of discrimination based on sexual orientation” (deLeon & Brunner, 2013, p. 191). Conversely, for LGBTQ+ educators, coming out is often a strategic decision based on the perceived inclusivity of the organization (DeJean, 2004; deLeon & Brunner, 2013; Endo et al., 2010; Griffin, 1991; Khayatt, 1997; Mayo, 2008; Toledo & Maher, 2019; Wright, 2011). Such negotiated identities often depend on how visible one’s gender non-conformity is (Fraynd & Capper, 2003; Kahn & Gorski, 2016; Lugg, 2006; Toledo & Maher, 2019; Tooms, 2007). Moreover, teachers who feel supported by administrators are more likely to be out (DeJean, 2007; Wright & Smith, 2015). Unfortunately, however, normative versions of school leadership require “a particular presentation of self” (Lugg & Tooms, 2010, p. 79) that valorizes masculinist principles and enforces “expected norms regarding gender, heteronormativity, and homophobia” (Lugg, 2003b, p. 113). Therefore, LGBTQ+ educational leaders face an additional layer of pressure to conform to the “institutional rules of silence” (DeJean, 2004, p. 21). For example, a cycle of fear surrounds “the negotiation of homosexuality and leadership” (deLeon & Brunner, 2013, p. 162) among leaders who created “personal shields of protection, such as being vigilant about (a) how they present themselves, (b) what they talk about, and (c) the need to retreat when personal or professional safety is at risk” (deLeon & Brunner, 2013, p. 173). As a result of this assimilation (Lugg, 2003a), the field of educational administration has been referred to as the final closet (Lugg & Koschoreck, 2003) in which queer school leaders must negotiate their identities to fit normative expectations (Fraynd & Capper, 2003; Lugg, 2003a; Tooms et al., 2010; Tooms & Lugg, 2008).

Geography Matters

Geography is important for LGBTQ+ teachers when searching for jobs (Toledo & Maher, 2019). Despite recent legal protections against employment and marriage discrimination, perceptions of safety may vary “in day-to-day educational practice—and particularly in certain communities” (Biegel, 2010, p. 49). For example, discrimination in housing, school, and public accommodations is not yet barred in some states, and violence toward LGBTQ+ people remains unregulated (Eskridge, 2020). In addition, no promo homo laws, or “laws prohibiting the promotion of homosexuality or restricting discussions of homosexuality in schools” (Human Rights Watch, 2016, p. 12), still remain in place in, Alabama, Arizona, Louisiana, Mississippi, Oklahoma, and Texas (Eskridge, 2020; Human Rights Watch, 2016). Although the constitutionality of no promo homo laws remains in question (McGovern, 2012), they “cannot be sincerely portrayed as anything other than based upon animus and disapproval of LGBTQ+ people and their identities” (McGovern, 2012, p. 485). These laws demonstrate that the intensity of “subtle pressure” (Biegel, 2010, p. 49) placed upon queer educators to remain in the closet varies from place to place. Such laws provide a basis for reinforcing “legal understandings of gender and sexual orientation” and “shape nearly every aspect of public school life” (Lugg, 2003b, p. 98). Therefore, “gay and gender-nonconforming teachers must make sure to know their community” (Biegel, 2010, p. 74). This burden that is placed on queer educators often results in an acceptance of the “unspoken code of silence” (Mayo, 2008, p. 3) that erases LGBTQ+ individuals from schools, which reifies a value on gender-conforming behavior and heteronormativity.

The Importance of Being Out for all Youth

The state of heteronormativity in schools teaches students “that there are multiple ways to be, including the various ways to be queer and non-queer” (Lugg, 2003b, p. 120). For example, the prevalence of heteronormativity and queer erasure in schools leads queer teachers to be poor, or better yet problematic, role models to LGBTQ+ youth because they give them heteronormative advice, cautioning them on how they should navigate (Mayo, 2008). Similarly,

even queer school administrators who might claim a degree of sympathy with queer students (because of their seemingly shared status) are likely to engage in oppressive acts, thanks to the power of professional socialization interacting with social and political norms valorizing heteronormativity. (Lugg, 2006, p. 45)

This internalized homophobia and heteronormativity exacerbates queer erasure and perpetuates the notion that to be oneself is dangerous. Thus, queer students receive subtle messages that their identities are something to be ashamed of. Furthermore, heteronormativity reinforces the “harassment of queer, suspected queer, and non-queer youth” (Lugg, 2003b, p. 112) through the policing of normative gender expressions, which warrants our attention for all students regardless of sexuality (Chesir-Teran & Hughes, 2009). When gender expectations are “reinforced and reproduced through curriculum, school rituals, traditions” (Payne & Smith, 2018, p. 210), schools become particularly hostile places for gender non-conforming and transgender students. Conversely, the visibility of LGBTQ+ individuals and allies challenges cis/heteronormativity and communicates a message of acceptance (DeJean, 2007; Koschoreck & Slattery, 2006; Mayo, 2011; Orlov & Allen, 2014; Rofes, 2000). Queer visibility communicates to all students that identifying as LGBTQ+ is a “fact of life that students can digest” (Perrotti & Westheimer, 2001, p. 111). The solution is simple; “students know what being gay means. They do not need to be given any details; they simply need to be taught that every person, gay or straight, deserves to be treated with dignity and equal respect” (Biegel, 2010, p. 72). This not only makes queer students feel more comfortable about accepting themselves when their heterosexual peers are affirming (Evans & Broido, 2005; Macgillivray, 2008), but it removes “the burden felt by many gay teachers to act as gay students’ ‘protectors’” (Mayo, 2008, p. 10).

Implications for Administrators

School leaders may serve as mechanisms of a “vigilant institutional maintenance of heterosexuality as a normative sexual identity” and an “ongoing performance of hegemonic masculinity” (Rottmann, 2006, p. 9). Despite empirical evidence that school leaders are often a barrier to LGBTQ+ visibility (Grace, 2007), the inclusion of queer issues in the field of educational leadership remains exiguous (Capper, 2018; Jennings, 2012; O’Malley & Capper, 2015). Even when LGBTQ+ issues are included in preparation of educational leaders, they are not always seen as important (Tooms & Alston, 2006). Similarly, Payne and Smith (2018) found that school administrators resisted professional development around issues of gender and sexuality by citing concerns about how it might be received by members of their faculty or the community and even in some cases refusing to acknowledge that their student body had any LGBTQ+ students at all. Such an attitude shows that “it is not taken for granted that issues of gender and sexuality are relevant to learning” (Payne & Smith, 2018, p. 206). This, coupled with

The fact that sexually-minoritized individuals who would like to maintain job security, safety and comfort in the school system are [still, even if subtly] pressured to keep their sexual identity private while those whose sexual identity coincides with societal norms are encouraged to flaunt their sexuality publicly through wedding rings and discussions in the staff room about family-related issues provides evidence that we still have something to debate or discuss. (Rottmann, 2006, p. 15)

Thus, it is time for school administrators “to position themselves as queer activists” (Rottmann, 2006, p. 4). For example, Mangin (2020) found that, although it is challenging work, supportive school principals can mediate positive experiences for transgender students and the school community. As other have argued, sexual orientation and gender identity is part of the responsibility of a social justice leader and reflection on one’s personal location within cis/heteronormativity and heterosexism may be a useful tool for school leaders to address the needs of LGBTQ+ individuals (Capper et al., 2006; Marshall & Hernandez, 2013). Consequently, this work cannot be left to queer individuals alone, rather school leaders must “blur the boundary between heterosexual and homosexual at the same time as it demands that they blur the boundary between leader and follower” (Rottmann, 2006, p. 13).

In an environment where secondary schools in the United States remain unsafe for many LGBTQ+ students (Kosciw et al., 2018), educators have an obligation, whether gay or straight, to address harassment and discrimination and provide a safe space (Goodenow et al., 2006; Szalacha, 2003). However, despite “an arguably broader and stronger right to create informative curricula and give children appropriate and important information that may curb violence or hate” (McGovern, 2012, p. 479), many educators have reservations about responding to homophobic comments, for fear that students may think they are gay or that parents may want them to be fired (Kozik-Rosabal, 2000; Lugg & Tooms, 2011; Perrotti & Westheimer, 2001). Furthermore, safety alone is insufficient (Sadowski, 2016). When supporting LGBTQ+ youth is reduced to discourses around bullying and suicide, we fail to “account for institutionalized heteronormativity or call for educators to examine how their school’s policies and practices contribute to a school culture that privileges heterosexuality and gender conformity” (Payne & Smith, 2018, p. 200). The “victim narrative” ignores “the benefit to all students in challenging rigid ideas about gender and sexuality” (Payne & Smith, 2018) and contributes to the othering and conflation of sexuality and gender identity with mental health. One way to address this is to include sexual and gender expression in questions about curriculum (Camicia, 2016). For example,

just because overt hatred is not present does not mean queer students—or queer teachers and queer administrators for that matter—see their lives reflected in the curriculum, personnel policies, or even the seemingly mundane, but critical, every day interactions that human beings have. (Lugg & Tooms, 2010, p. 85)

Therefore, “how educational leaders frame their learning environments determines the kinds of closets in which queers are forced to reside—or not” (Lugg & Tooms, 2010, p. 86). Therefore, school administrators must reflect on their position within school cultures that police and “enforce majoritarian and stigmatized notions of sexuality and gender on their staff and students” (Lugg, 2006, p. 37).