This blog post is a part of the series, “So Good,” developed by the APAGS Committee for Sexual Orientation and Gender Diversity. This series will discuss current events and how these events relate to LGBTQ+ graduate students in psychology. If you are interested in contributing to the “So Good” series, please contact Mallaigh McGinley (they/them).
If you are a fan of RuPaul’s Drag Race, ball culture, or queer nightlife, then you have probably heard gay men reclaim femmephobic or homonegative slurs, such as playing with pronouns or using the word “girl” as a term of endearment. And if you are wondering whether your invisible psychosocial disability bars you from graduate school, then girl, let me tell you something.
She—meaning me—took the path less traveled.
Of course, the reclamation of effeminacy from a heterosexist environment—spaces where there is one way to be masculine—comes from a place of privilege. Shifting between pronouns is relatively safe for a gay cisgender man. For my transgender or nonbinary peers, a change in pronouns is too often life-threatening. So, my intention is not to make light of pronouns, but to honor the gay male community that nourishes me.
I write this post for LGBTQ+ students contemplating graduate school from this position. You should know that I am White, from a middle-class background with an immigrant father, a spiritual sensibility, and a history of addiction.
I write to you from this keyboard on the unceded, ancestral lands of the Apache, Pueblo, Navajo, and Tampachoa people.
Let me start with applause for those students who knew their graduate majors, ideal careers, and potential advisors during undergrad. If that isn’t you, don’t worry—it wasn’t me. As a younger queer scholar, I was fascinated by Foucauldian thought, gender theory, psychological science, media studies, and psychoanalytic cultural critique. She was everywhere!
I also was holding hurt from growing up on military bases surrounded by rural counties. There was no space for an effeminate, introverted boy in a conservative milieu awash with toxic masculinity. You know the elements: religious and vocational discrimination, peer harassment, and family rejection.
Not only was I indecisive about graduate school, but I was yearning for community connection. So, after graduation, I worked where I could with a bachelor’s in psychology, and then I started a promotion company in New England for LGBTQ+ nightlife, partnering with major online dating platforms and gay clubs.
Now, I knew how to be gay in predominately heterosexual spaces: slip into concealment, slowly reveal my sexual orientation with people who seem safe, come out of the closet prepared to code switch around certain men, and, above all, ignore subtle heterosexist indignities for the comfort of straight people. While moments of brave resistance punctuated this strategy, it defined much of my formative years.
So, by the time I entered the nightlife scene, I did not know how to be gay around queer folx. According to Mohr and Kendra, my identity was uncertain, my internalized homophobia notable, and my longing for acceptance the chief concern. With a memory colored by identity-based rejection, I felt electric on the dance floor: alive with the exclamation of “Finally, I am home!” but unable to shake the suspicion that, even in a club filled with people like me, I would be unwanted. Seeing my gender and sexuality performed openly by a crowd was like a party in a room with too many mirrors. I was overwhelmed, elated, and unable to look while sober. Coupled with a family history of alcoholism, these conditions were a perfect storm for substance misuse.
By the age of 27, I was immersed in the queer culture of New England, finding myself in spaces I had only read about: the lapping beaches of Provincetown, the steamy hallways of bathhouses, and the hidden rooms along Christopher Street in New York. By then, I was comfortable in my skin and endeared to the queer community. However, with nearly a decade of substance use under my belt, I soon entered rehab.
I tell you this because, similar to coming out as gay, coming out as a person in recovery matters. Recovering in public matters.
Like other invisible psychosocial disabilities, though, stigma shapes the experience of living in recovery from addiction, so telling search committees about this in your graduate school applications might be a kiss of death. However, know that you can find a space in an APA-accredited program as a queer person in recovery.
Finding and Facilitating Community
I cried when my advisor called and offered me admission into the doctoral program at New Mexico State University. This hot mess was moving to the Southwest!
Finding a place in the local LGBTQ+ community was my priority. Without the support of queer folx, I am unsure how I would have managed my first year of graduate school. Yes, your cohort members are a crucial part of your community, especially if you move far away from your given and chosen families. But there is that magic of queerness that your institution may not give you. Go and get it.
I attended events, joined the local Pride planning committee, and became a board member of PFLAG Las Cruces. When COVID-19 hit, all of these spaces were shut down and I knew queer students may have returned to unsafe homes. So, I did a few things to facilitate community, such as creating care packages for students.
I recommend carving out time in your schedule to do this. It is rewarding. It makes a difference.
After you join a local queer organization, contribute what you can, even if starts off with managing their social media page (which is what I did). Over time, bigger opportunities present themselves at the local level which, once I decided to pursue them, helped me in two ways. First, I was able to forget about papers and do something with immediate impact. Second, I was able to apply my research and clinician skills.
As LGBTQ+ graduate students in psychology, we transform hardship into hope. Our personal experiences of marginalization, deep understanding of behavioral systems, and contextual scope equip us to do this work. And if you are White, these skills can also be useful in combatting racism and anti-Blackness.
Black Allyship
As LGBTQ+ graduate students in psychology, we know the importance of solidarity. Remember when your heterosexual or cisgender friend had your back? As a White cisgender man, I discovered my role in the Movement for Black Lives through connections with Black colleagues.
I learned several lessons this past year. First, allyship as a White person is a lifelong process. I made, and continue to make, mistakes.
The mistakes are uncomfortable, but the second lesson I learned about Black liberation is to stop centering my feelings. This behavior was eliciting greater emotional labor from my Black peers and colleagues at a time of highly visible racial violence.
The third lesson came from a dear friend, who was gracious enough to challenge me to reflect critically on my social location. Her words reminded me of Dr. Carlton Green who, during his presentation for Academics for Black Survival and Wellness, reminded White people that their racial identities shift according to context. Sometimes, I move effectively toward an anti-racist world. Other times, I disavow my role in anti-Black racism. Like Ibram X. Kendi, Dr. Green invited White folx to see their actions (not their dispositions) as racist or anti-racist.
So, when my friend questioned whose narrative I was centering as I began anti-racism work this summer, adopting the view of anti-racist actions invited humility and compassion for my mistakes. It prevented me from disengaging with anti-racist work.
A fourth lesson came from Dr. Jioni Lewis. Anti-racist work looks different for White people. One slice of my work is deconstructing anti-Black racism within myself and the White community. In terms of everyday anti-racism, it looks like centering my Black colleagues in class, research team meetings, and clinical seminars.
A final lesson came in the form of a continuous reflection: am I doing anti-racist work to help, or am I performing liberal Whiteness? It is with humility that I tell you, yes, sometimes I catch myself doing the latter.
A Tribe of Mentors
We recover together, flatten the curve together, and get free together.
So, this final comment should come as no surprise: find your tribe of mentors. I would have never learned how to grow as an anti-racist White person, for example, without a tribe of mentors.
Cultivating a mentorship network is especially important if you do not get into your dream program. In fact, expectation management can be kind of invigorating.
For me, I started by getting involved in the different Divisions. Volunteer for something at the APA level. The time commitments are flexible, and the networking is valuable. Look out for mentorship programs, even if they are with other organizations. For instance, I connected to a senior researcher through the SSSS mentorship program. He recommended important books, guided me on time management, and offered a spot on a research project.
If research is your jam, keep a lookout for junior faculty with whom you can collaborate. They need to publish, you need experience. So, if you have the time, it is a win-win situation. Look for these opportunities during the summer break, especially, and do not limit yourself to your institution.
I think of my roles—scholar, clinician, activist—and try to find mentors for each. Networking can be scary as LGBTQ+ graduate students in psychology, but the connections are rewarding. And of course, if you have not heard about academic Twitter, well, now you know. It’s a good place to start. Follow and interact with your favorite researchers. You might even find a secondary dataset and a new coauthor. I did.
Although it took a year of networking, I am now on committees with people whom I cite in research, which is, like, a fan girl’s dream!
So, here’s the long and the short of it: you belong here.
To thrive as an LGBTQ+ graduate student in psychology, trust and care for the queer community, seek diverse solidarity, and surround yourself with people who inspire you.
And make sure you bring that baggage, mama, because it ain’t going nowhere.
View other posts in the So Good series: