Love yourself

Last month, I attended my very first Pride Parade. It was filled with rainbows, hugs and happy people. As a queer kid in a “we’ll tolerate it but not accept you” environment, this was the not first time I felt entirely vulnerable in my identity, but it was the first time I felt completely validated. I marched down Ninth Street to people cheering for the sheer fact that I was queer, and it felt amazing.

Unfortunately, there are always people who exist just to ruin perfect experiences.

Before the march started, I caught a glimpse at the protesters of the parade—yes, these people actually exist in real life. I wasn’t going to care, wasn’t going to let them ruin my amazing day, when I heard them scream.

“This is why you guys commit suicide.”

This man had decided to spend his Saturday morning yelling at queer college kids about suicide, and I don’t think he understood the ramifications of that.

Three weeks before I came out, I tried to overdose on medication because I didn’t think I deserved the life I was living. I felt like I was not allowed to love myself.

I didn’t get to hear his rationale, because people behind me decided that enough was enough, and started chanting “Pride” before he could get any farther.

I enjoyed myself for the rest of the day. I marched and screamed and bought t-shirts. But that phrase stuck with me for the rest of the day.

A month ago, I learned that I was allowed to love myself. That as a queer, non-binary kid, I was allowed to be undoubtedly, irrevocably in love with myself and everything that I did.

I should have known this fact from the moment I was born. I should have known that loving girls was not a flaw in my genetics or caused by “daddy issues.” I should have known that there were more than two genders and that it is okay, it is wonderful, to identify outside that binary.

At the age of 18, I should not just be hearing that I am allowed to love myself.

Suicide is the number one cause of death for American LGBT youth.

Twenty-five percent of trans individuals have tried to kill themselves.

Do you know how many people we could have saved by telling them that they were worthy of love? That they could love themselves?

That they were completely valid?

I spent two hours crying after Pride because I couldn’t save everyone. I was sitting with one of my close friends here at Duke, sobbing, “Someone is going to kill themselves tonight and I can’t stop it. Someone is going to die because they believe that they’re not worthy of love. It’s not fair.”

We are killing people, and nobody seems to want to do anything about it.

“Gay people can get married, so homophobia is over."

There are so many more issues at play than marriage equality. Homophobia isn’t over just because we can get married in the same way that sexism and racism aren’t over because women and people of color can vote. Discrimination still exists in so many forms, from heterosexual-centric sex education to the targeting of queer people of color by the police. All of these issues are important, and all of them need to be addressed and fixed before we can even think of saying that homophobia is over.

We need to start with our youth. Education is the way to acceptance, and if we keep assuming that our kids don’t need to hear about LGBTQ+ issues, then they will continue to die because they feel broken.

We need to tell queer kids that they are valid, that their feelings are okay, that they can love whomever they want.

We are not broken.

At the end of Pride, I did two things. I found a booth for the organizations, My Pronouns Matter and Our Voices Matter, both run by the Change Project. I spent five minutes recording a video talking about my identity, my experiences, and telling young queer kids that they were valid.

I don’t care if only one person watches that video. So long as one person does not die.

I don’t want to save people to feed my own ego or so that I can claim that I made a difference.

I don’t want anyone else to die.

I don’t want another sixteen year old trans teen to feel like the only option is suicide.

I don’t want another middle-schooler to kill herself because she’s in love with her best friend.

I don’t want another kid to hold a bottle of Ibuprofen to their lips and cry because it’s the only way out.

I don’t want anyone to think that they are unworthy of love or happiness.

You are so valid.

The second thing I did was to take the quintessential Pride Protestor photo.

Not because “love conquers hate,” or whatever hashtag is currently circulating the Internet. The protestor did not suddenly discover that he was wrong.

Not because I wanted to make a statement. Enough people have done that.

It’s because I’m worthy of love and respect and validation, so I kissed someone because I love them and because I could and because it was Pride. I was happy and wanted to show anyone who needed it that you can love whomever you want, despite what people say.

My love is valid. My life is valid. I am important.

“This is why you guys commit suicide.”

It’s moments like this that make me glad I didn’t.

Quinn Baker is a Pratt freshman.