By Chelsea Bock
For most of my life, I’ve been either a student or an educator, and sometimes the two simultaneously. My resume is a sequence of jobs in public school teaching, private school marketing, enrollment services management, and even an unexpected turn in international education. The “Education” section of my resume also demonstrates that I really, genuinely like school and feel most energized learning something new. The trope that educators are lifelong learners themselves is something I’ve unintentionally embodied for nearly two decades.
But before I became an educator—when I was seated at the desk, not standing behind the podium—my lifelong learning included learning about my sexual orientation. This wasn’t something formally covered in schools in the 1990s and early 2000s, especially not in the more socially conservative area in which I grew up. To my recollection, none of our classroom materials mentioned characters or historical figures who were queer or transgender. Our Family Life courses taught us about sexual dimorphism, puberty, pregnancy, and sexually transmitted infections with no mention of orientations other than heterosexuality or of variations in gender identity. And as far as I knew, all my teachers were straight, with the exception of the occasional gym teacher and two female faculty rumored to be living together. Any understanding of my bisexuality at that time came from other queer friends, a few soap opera television characters, and eventually the Gay-Straight Alliance on my liberal arts college campus.
But just as I was understanding and accepting myself, the door slammed shut again. When I took a position at a Christian school after college, I learned that different denominations and institutions vary in their interpretation of “Love your neighbor as yourself.” There were a lot of things I pretended to be while working at that school, and heterosexual was one of them. I planned on blending in and getting by until I finished my first master’s degree, and could start teaching in a public school and enjoy some breathing room. The hardest part was carrying the knowledge that some students, statistically speaking, had to be questioning their identities with nowhere to go for help or advice, knowing that we all had to fit the same uncomfortable mold.
Once I moved on and started teaching at a public community college, I realized that I had the freedom to design a more inclusive curriculum. I began to include all the things that were missing during a lot of my own education: anecdotes with same-sex couples, speeches and essays from LGBTQ+ celebrities, references to LGBTQ+ issues and history in units on possible research topics, and examinations of queer subtext in classic literature. Students were generally either unfazed or supportive aside from a few instances of pushback, which often turned into teachable moments.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t privy to every negative response. One afternoon after the students filtered out of our classroom, I looked up from my stack of papers and noticed a solitary girl in the back row who had stayed behind. The class was Public Speaking and we had just discussed audience adaptation, which included the importance of using gender-neutral terms like “they,” “you all,” and “spouse” or “partner” so as not to assume that everyone is cisgender or heterosexual.
“Is everything all right?” I asked my student, taking a seat next to her.
“The people in my row didn’t like the gender-neutral terms too much,” she said. “They were talking about how they shouldn’t have to include gay people when they speak; they don’t agree with it.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t catch that. Sometimes it’s hard to hear chatter from this far in the back, especially if I’m lecturing at the same time. Are you okay?”
“I mean, I just want to come to class without hearing that anyone who isn’t straight is going to hell. I’m gay, and that hurts me.”
I nodded. “We’re not going to have that kind of talk in our classroom. It’s unacceptable. I’ll pay more attention in the future and if it happens again and I don’t catch it, do you feel comfortable letting me know?”
Her face brightened. “I do. Thank you for letting me tell you about it.”
“Anytime.” And I almost left it at that, but one vulnerable moment deserved another. “I’m bisexual,” I said, “so I understand how much that talk hurts.”
My student widened her eyes. “Wow, really? That’s so cool. I’ve never had a gay or bisexual teacher before.” She gathered up her books. “See you Thursday.”
That was the first time I came out to one of my students. Rainbow confetti didn’t fall from the ceiling and Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” didn’t blast out of the speakers. It was quiet, sincere, and most of all, it was something I hadn’t experienced by the time I was her age. From that point forward, the dynamic between us shifted. It became one of trust.
Eventually, I went on to teach at other colleges. The passage of time, along with more resources and events for LGBTQ+ students, staff, and faculty on campus, made visibility easier. I’m proud to be a part of our college’s Rainbow Network of designated safe persons, particularly during such a period of anti-LGBTQ+ backlash across the U.S.. Sometimes it’s painful to hear the outrage from angry parents at school board meetings, convinced that educators like me are “indoctrinating” their children just by including all kinds of humans and human relationships in our classrooms. But then I think about the first student who ever trusted me enough to come out to me, and how being that figure for any student who feels lost or alone is some of the best work I can do. I remain committed to being the kind of teacher I needed growing up. And I remain hopeful that through lifelong learning even the most disparaging among us can realize that we are all stronger when everyone can freely be true to themselves.
Chelsea Bock is a community college educator currently working on her Ed.D. at Rockhurst University. She lives with her husband and their cat, Lucy, in Annapolis, Maryland, in the U.S.