In the years after I first came out, I found myself in many queer spaces where belonging often seemed to depend on mastering an ever-changing set of political, linguistic, and moral rules.

I was desperate to be accepted in those spaces, so I memorized those rules with very little attention to what that process was doing to me psychologically and spiritually. In fact, because I had grown up Evangelical, memorizing rules was second nature to me—comforting, even. 

Even though I’d simply traded in one measuring stick of my “goodness” for another, I felt like I was becoming a radically different kind of person. A better one—one who was learning the secrets of living a good life and starting to look down upon people who weren’t in on those secrets. My “holier-than-thou” queerness existed alongside the deep fear of being rejected for that same queerness, which paradoxically had the effect of making me incredibly sensitive to anyone’s imperfect attempts to understand my queer evolution.

I look back on those years with so much love for myself, an emerging adult who had run from an abusive church right into the arms of a different kind of purity culture. I was trying to break a cycle—trying really hard. 

After processing those years in therapy, I also look back on them with some playfulness and laughter. I was kind of insufferable, y'all. I wanted so desperately to be approached that I became pretty unapproachable to anyone who didn’t share my new way of being.

I know I’m not the only leftist with a cult-ish upbringing who has tried to build a politics that looked nothing like where we came from. Many of us are now waking up to the painful and humbling reality that in practicing queer politics at the exclusion of anyone with different beliefs, we may not have traveled as far from home as our tired legs would want to believe.

This waking up, at least for me, feels like a massive threat to my ego. I’ve spent a decade waiting for apologies from non-leftists about how their beliefs have harmed me and my community, but suddenly, I’m finding myself feeling kind of sorry? What the hell.

Here’s what I’m not saying: I’m not saying that the last ten years have been a waste of time, or that I’m throwing away all of my beliefs. I’m not going to stop fighting for what I believe in or abandon leftist causes. I’m not saying that all politics are morally equal or that I was wrong about the horrible impact of the church on my sense of self, God and others. I’m not saying we should all just “get along” with people who have or are actively harming us.

Parts of me aren’t done waiting for those apologies, trust me. But what I’m sensing now is that more parts of me are craving integration between the person I was and the person I’ve become. I’m tired from all those years of carrying a politic that shuts down conversations with people who think differently. I’m tired from holding the traumatized belief that there was absolutely nothing about the way I grew up that was good, balanced, beautiful, or worth emulating. 

I’m especially interested in questions like “what options do we have besides rigidity?” or “what else could we draw if we weren’t constantly drawing hard lines?” My heart tells me that the answer to these questions may also be an answer to how to confront the societal polarity that does not seem to be getting us closer to the world we want to live in together.

In the spirit of integration, I’ll close out this love letter with something I never thought would make its way into one of these articles: a term I learned about in church called “generous orthodoxy”. It means balancing a steadfast commitment to beliefs with an open, loving and adaptable approach to others. I wonder if this is an approach worth considering for anyone who values balancing a strong political center with an inclusive and adaptable strategy for change.

Image Credit: But I’m A Cheerleader