What allyship means to me

When I started liking boys around age 12 it was a huge weight off my chest. I liked boys, so I couldn’t like girls. Bisexual was not in my vocabulary.

Oh sure, I was an ally, I supported gay people, but the uneasy feeling that I might be different was gone. I was normal. My life would be normal.

I was an ally to myself long before I knew I’d ever need allies. I’ve been a staunch feminist since I was about 11, and though I may cringe now at the ferocity and singlemindedness of my opinions, feminism was my gateway to allyship for the LGBT community as a young teenager. My allyship was self-taught and full of gaps, but I learnt the vocabulary.

Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender. LGBT. I stuck up for the person I didn’t know I was yet, for the hypothetical gay person who could be listening. Because, really, being gay was a hypothetical. People were gay, sure, but not me.

I would not know I was bisexual now if I had been on my own. It certainly felt that way sometimes, but the sheer amount of

The world becomes kinder every time someone speaks up for someone else, and I see it happen all the time. I see it in my friends, who don’t treat me any differently now that they know I like girls.

resources I consumed — websites and archives and books — didn’t come from nowhere.

I have the allyship of so many people; gay, straight, queer, trans, who I will never meet, and yet owe the understanding of a core part of myself.

Allyship to me is a straight woman leading my school’s LGBTQIA+ group because she is a genuinely good and kind person, helping to foster a safe space for so many lost queer students.

While some queer youth are loath to admit it, we need our straight allies. They are a fundamental part of our community, and many of them speak up for us when we’re too scared, or too deep in the closet to speak up for ourselves. Allyship is that connection between queer and straight that unites us all under a common goal — equality for all, regardless of gender or sexuality. This year I’m going to my first Pride Parade, and I am deeply aware that I owe that to amazing people who came before me in a much less accepting time. When I came out to myself, I thought I was the only ally I had. I was the only person I knew who ever talked about being gay, or bi, or even queer. But I was nowhere near as alone as I thought I was. I thought I was the only one in my corner, but the person across the ring wasn’t my enemy. It isn’t a fight, so much as a journey of self acceptance that is made infinitely easier by my accepting school and community, and my fellow LGBTQIA+ friends.

This is what allyship is to me. It is intersectional and intergenerational, the connection between the amazing people who pioneered queer rights and the young people like me who get to live safer, happier lives because of them. I will never stop being grateful.

And yes, it’s not perfect. In homes not so far from where I live, it’s more than awkward to talk about queerness, it’s not allowed at all.

There are people in my neighbourhood who may never be able to come out to their families, where their biggest problem isn’t how do I come out, but rather how do I keep it a secret?

I know I am lucky. I’m reminded every time I walk home with a rainbow ribbon on my jumper. I’m reminded every time I take it off when I meet a new friend’s parents, because even if my home is safe, I don’t know if theirs is.

I’m reminded how lucky I am when I talk about my sexuality in public without having to look over my shoulder.

Every time I wear and talk about my queerness I do it with the hope that the right person sees it. I hope homophobic strangers see it and maybe reassess their own views, even if I hide my queerness from the homophobes in my personal life.

I hope another bisexual girl sees me and knows that my awkward, clumsy pride is for her too.

I hope I’m setting an example that future me can look back on and be proud of.

Sometimes I worry that I’m caught up in a little bubble of love and acceptance that can burst at any time.

I feel my bubble threatened by my classmates who debate whether gay people should be allowed to get married. By people who giggle and wonder who the gay friend in the group is while you sit there, quietly. So quietly.

I wonder, is it all going to come crashing down? Will the support suddenly evaporate like a rainbow after rain?

This is when we need our allies most, because it is infinitely easier to speak up about an issue when it doesn’t concern your value as a human being.

Allyship doesn’t rebuild the bubble, so much as make the possibility of it popping a lot less scary.

The world becomes kinder every time someone speaks up for someone else, and I see it happen all the time. I see it in my friends, who don’t treat me any differently now they know I like girls.

I see it in the 100-plus people who bought rainbow ribbons at my school in support of Rainbow Youth. I see it in everyone who participated in the Day of Silence, regardless of their own gender or sexuality.

My own allyship is still imperfect. Sometimes my friends have to correct me because I’m misinformed, sometimes they don’t because none of us know any better, even if our intentions are pure.

Sometimes I have to bite my tongue because I think I understand someone else’s identity better than they do.

I will never understand everything. I am not transgender, I am not lesbian. I do not represent everyone in the queer community. My allyship is multifaceted and intersectional as much as it can be, and I do my best to let myself be taught. Allyship is a constant journey of selfbetterment, to be more open-minded, more accepting.

There are so many versions of me, as an ally.

There is the old me, the straight ally, who would speak up for her queer friends even if she doesn’t quite understand them.

There is me, tentatively out bisexual who understands more but is still learning, always learning.

There is me, the ally I needed, the ally I try to be every day of my life.

Allyship to me is unconditional acceptance. It is educating and forgiving past mistakes. It is understanding that you’ll never completely understand and trying anyway.

Allyship is working together to release that tight knot of shame that sits in your chest, no matter how good your self-esteem is.

Allyship is a girl at my hockey dinner asking my friend about her girlfriend.

Allyship is excitedly telling my friends about the decriminalisation of homosexuality in India, even though we are not Indian, because it is a shared triumph that connects queer people worldwide.

Allyship is being as openly queer as I can, to represent those who can’t.

Allyship is a connection that transcends gender and sexuality. Allyship is the human connection that binds my life together.

What went wrong with Pride? Canvas