We Are Here

 This was my speech at the opening ceremony of the first LGBTQIA+ Pride in Bonners Ferry, Idaho on June 21st, 2024

We Are Here

By McCallum J. Morgan

Here we are. We are here.

Sometimes it feels a little like survival, but we’re still here, we’ve been here, and we will continue to be here.

For just a second, I want to acknowledge the resistance we’ve faced. The haters out there—right out there in Bonners Ferry, Idaho.

When this event was announced, it felt like tensions exploded. We had horrible comments referring to this as a “movement" being imported into this town. I found a letter, left at the door, asking why we wanted to bring “those people” here.

They see us as a shadowy contagion, creeping across the land. Something new and fearful. But we’ve always been here.

This is the stigma I want to break. The idea that we are “other.” We are not. We’re all human. We are their sisters, brothers, siblings, parents, cousins, friends, neighbors. We’re already here. And that’s all we want. To be here. Fully.

Pride is about removing the veil. The lepers bells. We’re not the monsters in the closets, the boogeymen outside the windows. We should’t have to lie about who we are.

We belong to the light, not the shadows. They’ve pretended we don’t exist and ignored us, chased us back into the gloom when we tried to make ourselves known. There’s nothing to be afraid of—not for them.

We’ve been afraid, though, haven’t we?

Afraid of ourselves for what they made us believe we are. Afraid of them, when their own fear hardened into violence. Afraid that we would lose our friends and families. Afraid we would always be the leper, the pariah, hiding on the outskirts.

And we found each other there.

Pride is community. It’s holding each other up because no one else will. Its telling each other: You’re not alone. And then we tell the world, we’re here.

We claim our place in the sunlight. Alongside them. They think we’re trying to take a higher place than them. There are centuries of inequality still clinging like cobwebs, holding us back, even as they push us down. But we found each other. And we’re not so easy to push away now.

Pride is love in the face of hate. Love in the face of fear.

We’re their siblings and they, are ours.

I grew up here in this town. It was a matrix of homophobia. I internalized so much of it that it took me until my early twenties to even come out to myself. How many of us grew up alone like that? Here, and in every town across America—across the world. No one should have to grow up like that.

They’re afraid of change. But we are change. 

And we are already here.

Notes:

I would like to welcome you all here to Bonners Ferry’s first Pride. We couldn’t have done this without the wonderful volunteers who put this together: Bobby Wire-Roberson, Alan Tozier, Jessica Tingley (without whom there would be no Pearl Theater to even host this), everyone who donated money to put this on: the Boundary County Human Rights Task Force, Lani, and more. I want to thank Crystll Blu for being our guest of honor, and Matthew Danielson—our Dj, and all the musicians, poets, and drag queens who will be performing tomorrow.

And I especially want to thank each and every one of you who showed up tonight.

Happy Pride and Free Palestine.

Video here 

To the Me Who Was

To the Me who Was.

You’re fucking insane. In a good way.

You never believed in yourself, but you went for it anyway. You thought you had to prove that you were something. You couldn’t accept that you were enough, because you thought you were too quiet and shy, forgettable, invisible, not man enough. You were ashamed of being delicate. You were ashamed that you couldn’t be like the athletic, handsome boys. You wanted them to accept you. And you knew you couldn’t get that from being like them.

So you took the things you loved—the artistic things—the borderline girly things—and you said, I will excel at these. I will excel so hard, that I will be enough, using the things I can. And imagination. Creation. They were ways to build worlds. Worlds where you could be enough. Worlds that abided by your rules. Worlds you could live through. Where, for a little while, you could be that handsome boy. You could love him.

But you never quite believed your own fantasy.

And you tried so hard. And it hurt so much. It hurt that you couldn’t be what you wanted to be. Or what you thought you wanted to be. But you were.

You were amazing. Fucking mental. But amazing. Religion had a chokehold on your pride. Not allowed, pride. Not allowed, ambition. But I can see, looking back, how great you really were. You worked five days a week for most of the year, and you went to church on Sunday, and Friday night volleyball games with the youth. And yet somehow, you wrote, edited, formatted, and.published six books in as many years. With a seventh rough draft. So many short stories, so much extra time and effort dedicated to marketing those books. Those works of art. You worked so damn fucking hard. And no one noticed. And that killed you. Because you wanted to be amazing. And you were. But only a few people noticed, and none of those people were you.

But fuck off, man. Seven books in seven years. At least a 100,000 words each. And the book signing events—though disheartening at times because no one came—the conventions and excessive extra projects. Who else hand creates costumes based on their books to wear to conventions and signings? Who else has a catalogue of their own drawings and paintings to flesh out their book worlds? Who the fuck else does all of this amazing shit?

Very few, if anyone. Besides you.

You made video projects, drawings, paintings, so many things.

Now you’re tired. You’re not dead. You’re sleeping.

And maybe one day, you’ll wake up again, and you’ll know how great you are. Maybe that’s all you really needed: a little love. From yourself. So here: I love you. I love everything you did. And I’m sorry I didn’t love you then.

When you’re ready to awaken, when you’re ready to come back, I’ll be here, ready to love you at last. For all you did, but more importantly, just for who you are.

Maybe, all along, you were really the muse.

And its a little fucked up that I have to disassociate from myself to love me. I can love another me. I can be proud of someone else. I can embrace another person and enshrine them as a muse. But not myself. Another me. That person. Who I was. What I can be. But not this, right here.

We’re taught to be afraid of ourselves. We’re taught that pride and vanity are the worst sins. We’re scared to death to love ourselves, because what if we are narcissists? We’re taught that loving ourselves is bad. But maybe we’re missing the point of the myth of Narcissus? What if we’re holding ourselves back.

Why don’t we want to become flowers?

I want to become a flower—no—stop it—I am a flower.

I always was and I am and I will be.

I am that I am: god in man as a flower.

Deus ex flore

Be

Happy Pride

 I didn't start doing theater until after I came out.

Part of it was because I was going to a church that believes performance art is prideful. That church also didn't really encourage fiction writing. All the things that make me, me, were held back to some degree.

But I didn't give up on that church for a long time because I had come to believe they had the truth of God. And if I turned my back on that, I would not ever truly be right with God. And eventually, you know, that means dying and not going to heaven. I.e. eternal damnation. And I'm also gay. So that was a big thing I was afraid of that I thought the church could maybe save me from.

I was successfully indoctrinated.

So even though I continued to enjoy music and wrote fantasy novels, I clung to my religion and held back from really truly diving into my passions.

I stopped going to church in 2020 when the burden became too much. My gayness wasn't going away. I finally accepted myself for who I am. And my sexuality is part of me. My denial of it was also holding me back. I was deathly afraid of doing things that might expose me for a homosexual.

In 2021, I finally auditioned for a local play, something I had always wanted to do, deep down inside. I love theater. I wish I had gotten into it sooner.

It's a place where my interests and talents are actually appreciated. Singing, dancing, making costumes. These things matter to theater. And no one else really gives a damn.

It feels so right to finally be doing theater.

And also drag. I took a dance class for contemporary dance--a class that was all women besides me. I would have felt too singled out before...too weird for being the guy who wants to dance. And that's society's fault for gendering activities and emotions.

So it's a weird side effect of coming out and not caring that you're gay. Suddenly you're free to express yourself. And I love that society is heading in the direction where everyone can do that. Kids today don't give a shit if they're wearing pink or painting their nails. Dancing. Theater. Aspersions aren't as easily cast about sexuality for showing emotion.

Part of coming out is learning to let go. It's coming to terms with insecurities and deciding to disregard other people's disapproval. It's a process, especially for a people pleaser like me. 

I grew up in a place that entirely disapproved of gay people.

And the atmosphere is still a little oppressive, but I don't care as much anymore. And now I can be proud.

Instead of secretly ashamed all the time. And I can shrug my shoulders and wear the weird stuff I always wanted to, and not be ashamed of my high pitched laugh, and I can walk without worrying about how much my hips are moving. And I can embrace being an artist. And I can make dresses and write fiction and perform on stage.

I don't have to be afraid of pride. I don't have to be afraid of doing the things I'm good at, just in case I love them more than God.

The Bible says God is a jealous God. Well, that's not a healthy relationship then.

And I'm glad I'm out of it.

I think the true God or universe or essence of art is more loving than that and would want us to be happy and free and proud. Not unnecessarily, but proud as in the absence of shame and insecurity. Proud as in loving yourself as you are and not thinking you have to change.

Proud as in acceptance.

And a little proud you made it this far. Proud you are living fully. Authentically. And without fear. Proud to know you're fighting for things that matter.

The line from Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe by Benjamin Alire Saenz (spoilers quote ahead):

"I'm so ashamed."

"Ashamed? Of loving Dante?"

I'm not ashamed anymore. I'm proud to love my boyfriend. And more importantly, I'm proud to love myself at last.