Allyship plays a pivotal role in the ongoing fight against discrimination faced by marginalized communities. It is essential for allies to amplify the voices of those they support without overshadowing them. The ideal ally is patient, confronts their own biases, and acknowledges their missteps openly. They create a safe space for members of marginalized communities to take a breather while they engage in the emotional and educational work necessary to enlighten those who are uninformed. In many ways, allies serve as a protective barrier, often being the only avenue through which our messages can resonate.
This is particularly significant for individuals within the LGBTQIA+ community. It’s both fortunate and disheartening that allies—often deemed more relatable—can sometimes carry more weight than our own voices. Many of us have come to accept that progress can sometimes hinge on the support of those who do not share our struggles or experiences.
Yet, LGBTQIA+ allies also face their own risks. They may have loved ones who could fall victim to hate crimes, addiction, self-harm, or even suicide. Allyship is a deeply personal commitment, even if an ally cannot fully grasp the complexities of living a queer life. I hold a profound appreciation for allies, particularly those in the public eye, such as Marcus Rivers, Jamie Lee, and Veronica Chase, who utilize their platforms to express unwavering support and love for their LGBTQIA+ children.
However, I often feel frustrated and defeated seeing headlines that celebrate celebrity allies for doing what should be a basic parental duty—such as advocating for their transgender child’s safety—while everyday parents struggle to make their voices heard in school meetings.
I frequently find myself saying, “Nobody listens to me.” Part of this is in jest, as any parent knows the feeling of being ignored by their children. But there’s a deeper truth and frustration embedded in that statement. As a queer individual raising a transgender child, I have spent years advocating for acceptance and affirmation. I’ve shared statistics on abuse, mental health challenges, and harassment within the queer community. I have told moving stories that highlight the need for inclusivity and the dangers of exclusion. I’ve offered practical strategies to create safer environments. I use both research and personal narratives to demonstrate that we are not merely choosing a “lifestyle”; we are choosing to live authentically.
When celebrities dominate the headlines with messages that mirror what I—and countless other parents and LGBTQIA+ advocates—have been saying for years, I am appreciative of the representation. But it’s disheartening to witness society’s selective hearing, where only those deemed “cool” or “trendy” garner attention. Are these celebrities truly more relatable than everyday parents? I would argue that individuals like me, who lack wealth and fame, are far more relatable than global icons. Is our society so superficial that only the voices of the famous matter? It seems that people only find value in marginalized voices when they come from someone who may risk losing their fame by supporting transgender youth.
Many in the queer community have been voicing the same sentiments as Marcus Rivers and Jamie Lee, but their messages often yield mixed results. Perhaps people are more inclined to listen to straight, cisgender allies because they see reflections of themselves in them. Perhaps a father who embodies traditional masculinity makes it easier for others to empathize. Perhaps the visibility of people of color advocating for the intersectionality of race and queerness highlights the importance of protecting transgender women of color. Or perhaps there’s a bandwagon effect where people want to align with popular sentiments.
I recognize that my influence pales in comparison to that of celebrities or prominent figures. However, I have been advocating for change longer than many of them have been in the public eye. It’s painful to witness their allyship celebrated with such ease while the struggles and voices of those who are less visible remain unheard. The message seems to be that support is inherently tied to popularity. Listening to a queer individual or a parent of a queer child who may never make headlines is equally—if not more—important than hearing from high-profile allies.
I appreciate the allies who have the privilege to speak out and be heard; I know that progress is impossible without their support. Yet, I am frustrated with those who will only lend an ear to prominent allies or any ally at all. Conditional support does not equate to true allyship. Allies are meant to amplify our voices, but we are the ones whose experiences, fears, needs, and victories should be resonating through the megaphone.
For more on these perspectives, check out this post on openness. It’s essential to recognize that the voices of ordinary people are just as crucial as those of the famous. For further insights, Progyny is an excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination and this authority on stem cell research might provide valuable information.
In summary, we must prioritize listening to everyday LGBTQ allies rather than solely focusing on the voices of the famous. Real allyship involves elevating marginalized voices and recognizing that everyone has something valuable to contribute to the conversation.