🌈 I Like to Look For Rainbows 🌈

I grew up surrounded by Disney Princesses, and by friends who latched on to those Disney princesses. I never really related, though.

I liked reading, but never saw myself as a Belle. I am an extrovert, but had way too much social anxiety to be anything like an Ariel. I felt something of a kinship with Prince Phillip, but of course that didn't get to count, either, because he was a boy. Gasp.

The first time in my life that I saw a Disney princess on screen, and thought, "she's me!" was when Frozen came out in 2013. Finally, we had a socially awkward extrovert with just the right amount of clutziness and naivete. Who had intense bed hair, was problematically impulsive, and often dove into a complicated project without thinking it through first.

I was 28 years old before I finally saw a Disney woman carry personality traits that felt like mine. That's a long time and many Disney movies to cover. To someone who has seen characters just like themselves on the screen all the time, that may not feel like anything noteworthy, but to me it was everything.

It felt very different. Like people could finally see me, and I wasn't alone out there. Intellectually I had known that before, but knowing something and feeling it are not at all the same.

Representation is important. 

Seeing others like yourself gives you hope that you can succeed just like those characters did. It gives you a feeling of comfort that you have been seen and heard. Others out there are aware that people like you exist. And it can even give you a sense of relief as you discover that you are not alone. 

Symbols, too. That's kinda how we roll, as human beings.

People wear the logo of their favorite sports team. People wear religious symbols and decorate their houses with statues and art of important figures in their history. People get tattoos with names or images that carry deep meaning to them. As a species, this is something we have always done.

I'm sure I latched onto many symbols over the years, but the first one I remember that really meant something deeper to me was during my first watch-through of Avatar: the Last Airbender. There's a particular episode where Aang is trying to learn to earthbend, and it's coming into very direct conflict with his innate nature as a person.

During that episode, I realized that I have a very earthbender-esque personality. I thought that was fun, and I was enjoying the show. (Which, by the way, is VERY good.) So I made myself some Toph-like wrist cuffs decorated with the earthbender symbol, and wore them every day for years.

At first, it was just a goofy fandom thing. But as those years went on, I got deeper and deeper into some really complicated headspace. My finances were stretched razor thin. My time was split between three jobs. I started having seemingly-random panic attacks about several personal issues, including church and dating.

All in all, not really a great time.

But as I wore those earthbender wristbands, I would look down at the symbol, and think "I am tough. I can get through this."

That might sound silly to some people, but it did help. Keeping a symbol of strength and endurance on my person helped me lean into that part of myself.

And if a fandom symbol can do that, imagine how much more important other symbols might become.

I Like to Look For Rainbows

I don't know the first time I really took to the rainbow symbol. I've always liked full-rainbow tie dye, and the brightness of big, bold color, instead of sophisticated matching palettes of muted tones. But I sincerely can't remember the first time I recognized the rainbow as a symbol of the LGBTQ+ community.

I do know that I was scared to roll with it, at first, because I was not only hesitant to admit things out loud to people, but I was hesitant to admit them to myself. Wearing a rainbow was like saying it verbally, and somehow that made it more real. 

This is a hard thing to describe to many people who have never NOT seen themselves in the books, tv, art, and movies that surround them. A football bro, for example, has thousands of movies about people like him. There are entire TV channels dedicated to his passion. Schools all over the country dedicate massive amounts of educational funding to the sport.

There is nothing wrong with football being the thing that sparks joy for that guy. The point is just that he's never had to hide it. There are very, very few places in the United States where being a football fan would be embarrassing or derided or bullied in any kind of way. It's considered so natural for a dude to like football that often people just assume it about others, and get confused when that assumption is wrong.

When the thing that sparks joy for you, and that makes you feel youer than other activities, is something that millions of other people around the country also share, it's easy to forget that not everyone has that luxury.

In fact, it's almost instinctive to see something that does not represent you at all, and feel offended by it. To feel ostracized by it. To feel left out. Because you're so used to being 'in' that you don't even know how it feels to not be included in everything ever.

So, What's My Point?

My point is that I like to look for rainbows.

At some point along the way, rainbows stopped being a scary way to accidentally out myself to strangers, and started to become just like the earthbender symbol. It was a sign of community. A sign of strength and belonging. A physical representation of the concept that I had finally stopped trying to wear a mask.

Masking takes an enormous amount of energy, and I regret zero things about deciding to stop pretending I was someone I wasn't. Literally everything in my life is better when I'm not putting up a front, and constantly on my guard about who might or might not know some deep, dark, sinister secret about me.

When I see rainbows around my house, on my wrist, and on my backpack, they serve as a tangible reminder that I'm not broken or evil. (Living in Utah requires that reminder a little more often than I'd wish.) They remind me that I am strong and whole and a human deserving of the same respect as everyone else.

And when I see rainbows in places where I didn't put them there? It proves to me that I'm not alone.🌈

Just as it's hard to explain media representation to people who have never not had it, it's next to impossible to explain what it feels like to see a public symbol that represents who you are. 

Seeing public symbols like the above lighted-Y on the mountain is a little bit like being surrounded by enemy troops on all sides, and then suddenly catching sight of the banner of your own troops coming in at the 11th hour.

Or being alone and lost in a dark cave, only to look up and see the lights of search and rescue.

Dramatic examples? Maybe. But no less apt. To look up into the sky and say, "that's for me. They did that for me," is a dramatic feeling.

And yet, so very, very many local people started whining about "shoving our beliefs down their throats" and "vandalism" and feeling the offense of seeing something that they loved and that traditionally represented them, being "desecrated."

I hope you never, ever have to experience the feeling of having the town you live in look at the symbol that was put up for you, and say that it was abhorrent. Disrespectful. Repulsive. Representative of something they find utterly disgusting, and that something is you.

But We Didn't Mean It That Way. You're Overreacting.

After all, it's just lights on a mountain? Who cares if they took it down? Who cares if its intentions were good? It bothered more people than it helped, right?

Well. That amounts to the same thing as, "look, we're cool if you do you, okay. Just... don't be visible about it. It offends people to be reminded you exist."

When you put it that way, it sounds a lot harsher. And most of the people I've spoken to feel like that translation is very unfair. It puts them in a much worse light, and misses the spirit of their objection. So I say to everyone who feels that way, "how else would you describe it?"

I ask that sincerely, but also in something of a rhetorical manner. Because to me, there's no possible way to say "that was offensive. Please take it down" without also implying, inferring, or even just outright stating that the people it was meant to represent are also offensive. You cannot "support and love" a group of people at the same time that you actively oppose symbols and messaging that is directly meant to help them, when those symbols are not hurting anyone.

You just can't. That's not how any of this works. If rainbows make you uncomfortable, or you actively participate in dismantling them, then you do not actually support your LGBTQ+ friends, neighbors, and family. Point blank. No caveats. There's no way around that one.

Which Brings Us to the Original Catalyst For This Post

A few weeks ago, there was a talk given at BYU by Jeffrey R. Holland, and that talk caused more division than anything Dallin H. Oaks ever said. (A high bar, indeed.) In that talk, Holland said a lot of stuff that doesn't seem to have been thought through as much as it should have been, for someone in such an influential position.

The more power your words have, the more careful you have to be when you say them. "I didn't mean it that way" no longer becomes a viable excuse. Your entire job as a public figure is to consider the way your words will be taken, and speak accordingly.

Even worse, many people I talked to about these words got truly angry with me because I wouldn't take "he didn't mean it like that" for an answer. Now, do I think Holland actually meant to say "go shoot muskets at gay people"? No. I absolutely do not.

But did he still do it? Yeah. And did he still call out the rainbow as a symbol of division, which we should all strive not to display? Yes. Yes he did. Literally.

Let's get further into that.

(For the full text of the speech, link is here.)

1) Holland spent the whole first half of his talk discussing why he thinks BYU is the greatest place on earth. That's fine. A little weird for some of us, but nothing all that crazy. 

From there, he leads into a letter he got from a concerned citizen.

"Then, imagine the pain that comes with a memo like this one I recently received. These are just a half-dozen lines from a two-page document:

“You should know,” the writer says, “that some people in the extended community are feeling abandoned and betrayed by BYU."

 

and later in that same letter:

 

“Please don’t think I’m opposed to people thinking differently about policies and ideas,” the writer continues. “I’m not. But I would hope that BYU professors would be bridging those gaps between faith and intellect and would be sending out students that are ready to do the same in loving, intelligent and articulate ways. Yet, I fear that some faculty are not supportive of the church’s doctrines and policies and choose to criticize them publicly. There are consequences to this."

"I'm not opposed to people feeling differently about policies. I'm just opposed to them saying anything about it." That's... helpful and loving.

In reading this section, and knowing the current events surrounding BYU, it's abundantly clear that this anonymous writer is referring to the strife between BYU and the LGBTQ+ community. There is nothing else in the news or the politics of the school that it could be about.

So what I get from this is that people are mad about attempts at inclusivity, (see the fiasco with the rainbow Y for an example) and that the General Authorities agree. There is no other reason for an apostle to have read one letter from Some Guy TM and to decide to give an entire speech about it to the whole student body of BYU.

Whether he intended it or not, what Holland said to me by choosing to give this speech at all is that he cares more about the voices of the people offended by the rainbow Y than about the students it was designed to encourage. He agrees with the people who want the LGBTQ+ students to stay invisible. Because, as the anonymous letter writer says, being visible is bad for BYU's rep.

Does that sound harsh? Yes. But tell me how else I could possibly interpret it? I sincerely, legitimately, non-aggressively, cannot think of a single reason to have brought this topic up at this exact time except to remind everyone that the church doesn't condone gay people. That's it.

2) The next thing that seems a little crazy to a lot of us is the use of an extended metaphor involving musket fire.

"Three years later, 2017, Elder Dallin H. Oaks, not then but soon to be in the First Presidency where he would sit, only one chair — one heartbeat — away from the same position President Nelson now has, quoted our colleague Elder Neal A. Maxwell who had said:
“In a way[,] [Latter-day Saint] scholars at BYU and elsewhere are a little bit like the builders of the temple in Nauvoo, who worked with a trowel in one hand and a musket in the other."

Followed by:

"Then Elder Oaks said challengingly, “I would like to hear a little more musket fire from this temple of learning.” He said this in a way that could have applied to a host of topics in various departments, but the one he specifically mentioned was the doctrine of the family and defending marriage as the union of a man and a woman."

Using musket fire as a way to tell people to defend the church against gay people 1000% went straight to the heads of a lot of the DezNats, who started threatening people online with gunfire, and other death threats. Did Holland (and Oaks) literally say to go start shooting gay people with real guns? No. They did not.

But did they use a metaphor that could so easily be twisted and taken out of context? Yes. Did they choose to use metaphors with violent imagery? Yes. Could they have used a number of other metaphors to still accurately describe defending the home turf? Absolutely yes.

(Here are some stats about how bad Utah is already, without further encouragement. Over 2,000 victims just in 2020 due to homophobia? Not okay.)

But because they went with gunfire, things online got out of hand QUICKLY. And saying "they didn't mean it that way" doesn't help. That doesn't fix anything. That doesn't make what happened unproblematic. The answer is not "oh, I didn't mean it." It's "I am sorry I said that thing. I retract it."

Not taking accountability for words in that way is textbook manipulative behavior. If it would be bad for a husband to do it to his wife, why would it be somehow more okay for a general authority to do it to a whole church?

3) In the same beat, Holland moved from musket fire as a metaphor to "let's all get rid of divisive symbols." Yes, the irony of that is not lost on me. But more importantly, these are the exact words:

"We hope it isn’t a surprise to you that your trustees are not deaf or blind to the feelings that swirl around marriage and the whole same-sex topic on campus. I and many of my brethren have spent more time and shed more tears on this subject than we could ever adequately convey to you this morning, or any morning. We have spent hours discussing what the doctrine of the church can and cannot provide the individuals and families struggling over this difficult issue. So, it is with scar tissue of our own that we are trying to avoid — and hope all will try to avoid — language, symbols, and situations that are more divisive than unifying at the very time we want to show love for all of God’s children."

This is the one that hurts me the most. Why? Well, not just because I am reduced to "that whole same-sex topic" as though we're talking about something so very petty that we shouldn't even need to be here. 

Despite that, you'd be right that on the surface it sounds like a totally reasonable plea. "Stop being divided, and get together to protect what needs to be protected". Not a weird thing to ask.

But it hurts because it's extremely clear that the "divisive symbols" he says are so dangerous are the same ones I look to to feel whole. To feel strength and community. To feel a sense of not being utterly alone in hostile territory.

He literally wants us to silence symbols that are meant to show love to certain groups of people, in an attempt to "show love for all of God's children" and those two things feel incompatible to me. If an apostle, and official spokesperson for the entire church, thinks that lighting the Y was offensive, then he thinks that the things that give me hope are offensive. He thinks that the very act that made so many people in Provo to feel not so alone was "more divisive than unifying."

What it meant to the rest of us doesn't matter, because a bunch of straight people in Provo felt threatened by a rainbow. The way it shone in the darkness as a little beacon of community means nothing, because Some Guy TM cried about it in a letter.

Jeffrey R. Holland, a guy I had come to trust to "say it like it is", in very specific words told me that I should stop wearing rainbow merch because some people don't like it. Literally.

I am not allowed to wear the symbols and decorations that give me strength and hope because Some Guy doesn't like being reminded that I exist. I am not welcome to display things that tell the world who I am as a person because they are not the same as the things that define other people. Doing so would "shove my opinions down their throats."

After years of trying to get brave enough to take off my mask in front of the world, an apostle and extremely influential man in a position of great power, just told me to put it back on.

Well. I hope it's very obvious why that hurts.

Conclusion

There's a lot more in the talk that continues to cause issues. For example, taking a former valedictorian, whose speech was approved by BYU, and throwing him under the bus as some kind of example of "pushing individual license over institutional dignity." But it's now 3am, and I have to wrap this up eventually. So we'll leave that one with a simple "that was highly inappropriate."

I understand why a lot of people don't get the big deal about this talk. If it hadn't affected me personally, I might not either. It's so easy to not see things when they don't change our personal lives.

But this one did affect my personal life. This one did, in direct, exact words, tell me to try to play nice by being more invisible. I'm supposed to hide who I am to make other people more comfortable. I'm supposed to put an institution's reputation over my individual rights.

That's something I refuse to do.

Not only do I refuse, but I can't. I cannot do it anymore. For thirty years I acted like someone I wasn't, and I just can't take that weight back onto my shoulders again. Not even if Holland tells me I'm supposed to. Not even if doing so will make me the good little follower I'm supposed to be.

And if my rainbows make someone feel uncomfortable, tough. Because they make other people feel like part of a community that cares about them, and that's more important to me than "institutional dignity".

I like to look for rainbows.