My athletic abilities reached out into the artistic world, and required a competitive nature, to the point were I was competing among some of the best dancers in the mid-west, and even as far east as the state of Ohio, and as far west as the state of Colorado.  I shared these talents, and abilities with my fellow classmate at talent shows, and it was because of my personal display of affection for something as beautiful as the art of dance that the harassment and bullying started. 

In high school, one of my dance partners had a brother who was on the basketball team with me.  I was a sophomore when he was a senior and for this story I will call him “Noah.” He was one of the stars on the varsity basketball team, not to mention a friend of my sister’s.  He was definitely the type of guy that fit the label “jock.” He had a rockin’ body, and was very “easy on the eyes.”  His personality, however, was not as pretty as his looks.  One night after basketball practice concluded, we headed off to locker rooms to clean up.  And just as the conclusion of every other practice, the fear of being caught looking at one of the guys in the locker room came over me.  I’m sure we have all experienced that moment, the one when the sight and smell of the locker room stops your heart for a few moments, before you heart rate increases just a slight bit.

As I finished showering and changing into my clothes from the school day, I saw someone approaching me out of the corner of my eye.  It was “Noah.” As he got closer and closer, my heart began to race faster and faster.  Before I knew it, “Noah” was standing right in front of me, with only his gym towel around him. I started to pack my bags even faster than I had before. (I had always bee-lined it to the showers from practice to get out of the locker room as quickly as possible.)  This night, however, I would be caught in my tracks. After “Noah” approached me, he took his towel off, and said, in a mockingly feminine voice, “Hey there big boy! How do I look?”  He had made a spectacle for the entire rest of the sophomore locker room to see, and even a few freshman that were trying to befriend “Noah” had peeked in to see what was going on.  I raced home, thankfully only living a block from my high school, and immediately tried to put that events out of my mind.

That next day at practice, the junior varsity team (which I was on) was working on some offensive drills.  I had forgotten to do something in the drill, and therefore it got messed up because of me, and we had to start over. As we started the drill over one of the freshmen asked, in what I remember as the loudest shout I had ever heard, “McCubbin, how was that big donkey dick last night?”  I was not going to put up with the harassment, or in more modern terms, homophobic punch lines, any longer.

I confronted my coaches about the two instances, and the individuals guilty of saying such things. I was not going to be a part of a team if that was how I was going to be treated.  After my coaches spoke with the individuals, and pulled me into a meeting with them, I “accepted” their “apologies,” but didn’t necessarily believe that they were 100 percent sorry.  After the incident, I also told “Noah’s” mother about what he did and said, and she was even more appalled then I was.  It would be fair to go as far as to say that she was disgusted with him.  I could never look at those two individuals in the same way again.

The homophobia that existed in my high school’s locker room is just one example of how gay male athletes are afraid to be honest with their teammates.  The biggest cliché in sports today is that sports teams are all families.  As a cross country/track and field athlete at Luther College, a small private liberal arts college in Decorah, IA, I had an opportunity to experience what it means to be a “family” of athletes.  If there are any words that I can share with gay male and female athletes regarding being out in your sport, it is this:

Do what you do best, which is just to be yourself.  Defy the odds with your teammates, or your “family.”  Stand up for what you know is right, and for the rights of every single individual in the locker room, regardless of his or her sexual orientation.  Let your teammates, your school, community, family, and friends know what you stand up for, which are the rights and liberties of every single human being on this earth.  As pop artist Cheryl Cole once said, “We’ve gotta fight for this love,” and stand up to the hate and hostility that exist in high school and college locker rooms all across the nation. Let’s go!

As youth queer activists we need to be more deeply concerned and troubled with the way that the mainstream gay rights movement has dominated the very language of 'Equality'. What does it mean that the very word 'Equality' has become claimed and marketed by the gay movement when there are so many continuing social and economic inequalities in our society?

We recognize this reality every day in our hallways. It's not just the gay kids who get picked on: it's the kids of color, it's the non-Christian kids, it's the fat kids, it's the kids with disabilities, it's the poor kids. Yes, bullying on the basis of gender and sexual identity is a major issue, but it's an issue among many. As young people we have a particularly privileged vantage point to understand that inequality still exists against many different social groups. We interact with diverse people daily. Unlike our (older) peers who work at fancy non-profit organization offices in Washington DC and New York City and are able to think of prejudice and equality in narrowly focused ways that only consider the experience of gay students, we encounter multiple-forms of discrimination every day we go to school. In fact, we might even be the cause of some of this discrimination: accepting our LGBT friends but making fun of the kids in Special Education.

If we really want to dismantle prejudice against LGBT people we need to think more about what type of bodies, what type of personalities, what type of identities get stigmatized in our school and how these struggles are interconnected. Indeed, my high school presented a really tangible and easily accessible way to understand how heteronormativity intersects with multiple systems of discrimination. Every year the homecoming king and queen looked the same: they were a heterosexual pair, white, Christian, able-bodied, blonde, athletes, upper-middle class, etc. etc. Through the institution of Homecoming, we can see how many high schools (not just my own) valorize not only heterosexuality, but Whiteness and Able-bodiedness. Students who do not fit the 'paragon' ideal are made to feel insignificant, self-loathing, insufficient. Growing up I not only wanted to be straight, I wanted to be white, I wanted to be Christian, I wanted to be rich, I wanted to wear Abercrombie & Fitch (not because it was sartorially pleasing...far from it!)

Considering the intersections of these prejudices at a real and immediate level in our schools, I do not think we should be only focusing on discrimination against kids on the basis of gender and sexual identity. In doing so, we are only fighting for the rights / legitimacy of white privileged LGBT students. Instead, we need to create models of activism that address the needs of all students. Indeed, only by dismantling racism, classism, ableism, sexism, and other hierarchies of oppression can we truly dismantle heterosexism – as these ideologies all are interconnected a complex system of power.

Thus, I believe we should think about the radical potential of being an Ally, more broadly. I began this speech with critiquing the narrow definitions of activism we have become socialized into arguing that rallies, pride parades, and direct actions may not be the most effective strategies of resistance in our high school. I think Allyship is, instead, a much more legitimate and useful strategy.

Ally is an elastic and un-specified enough term that it can apply to multiple different types of discrimination, not simply LGBT-based discrimination. Ally unlike gay, is not (as easily) associated with a particular race, gender, class, etc. It is a term vague enough that student activists can imbue it with meaning - make it cool, hip, important for all students. In a culture where students become demarcated and classified into separate groups and categories every day, Allyship provides a necessary intervention: it allows students to self-identify and to transgress boundaries. Allyship permits a space for radical coalition building among groups.

It is important to concede that allyship presents a particularly useful framework for queer youth activists because it provides a space for queer and questioning students who may not be able to come out to still actively identify as something different. Yet, this difference has not (fortunately) become associated with as much stigma as gay/lesbian. We need to strip the 'straight' from 'Straight Ally' and think of Ally more of a space (emotionally, intellectually, and politically) of resistance. Being an Ally is a useful framework for political action in your high school. Being an ally means asking your history teacher why the history of women and minorities aren't covered in your curriculum. Being an ally means intervening in a conversation when someone says "No Homo" and explaining why it's problematic.

These interpersonal and interactional encounters you have are more important than any demonstration you could coordinate. They confront people with their racist, sexist, heterosexist, etc. assumptions and present alternative realities, visions, and perspectives that have the potential to radically transform peoples' minds and directly confront systems of oppression.

A large part of that environment was the discipline, and of course the dogmatic adherence to the Catholic faith. The church still isn't a huge advocate for gay people, and in the 1980s it certainly wasn't any better. From a very young age I knew instinctively that the feelings I had for other boys were wrong--could endanger my very soul--and were not to be discussed, much less acted upon.

Of all the coping strategies I used before I came out of the closet, sports, and specifically wrestling, was my favorite. It was definitely the most healthy. I poured myself into the sport with an almost desperate passion.

When I was on the mat nothing else mattered. Homework. Parents. Teachers. Nothing was relevant except the problem immediately in front of me--another boy my size doing his best to kick my ass. I could lose myself in those workouts and stop thinking about everything--how cool I was (or wasn't)--who I was (and wasn't)--and all the conflicting feelings and emotions that any teen has. My sexuality was never an issue for me in the wrestling room--I wrestled with that issue privately, off the mat.

This is not to say that the wrestling room was any more welcoming to gay people than morning chapel. My teammates and I threw around homophobic slurs as a matter of course. I threw them around with extra gusto in an attempt to evade suspicion. And while I didn't harass any of my gay classmates in school, like some of my teammates did, I certainly didn't rush to their aid either--I was just happy that someone else was the target of the homophobia.

It helped that I was a decent wrestler. That put me above suspicion among my teammates and for most everyone. Most people then (and today) think that 'gay' and 'athlete' are mutually exclusive. Of course I knew otherwise, and that fact--more than anything else at that time--showed me that I had value as a human being. The fact that I could, on any given day, beat the crap out of some other (presumably straight) kid gave me the self-esteem I desperately needed. Wrestling was a great outlet for a lot of energy that needed venting, and taught me so much about myself--knowledge that was probably unattainable any other way.

Wrestling defined me in a such a fundamental way it's difficult to describe. What I can tell you is that I will forever remember what it was like coming home from the state tournament my senior year. I walked into my room, dropped my duffel bag on the floor and let the reality and the finality of it all sink in. I cried for hours; didn't leave my room. I had a hard time seeing what life could be like without my beloved sport. I would no longer have wrestling as a way to escape my sexuality issues. Now I would have to face those. Alone.

And I did, in my own way. I went to college. Joined a fraternity. Came out of the closet and changed majors. I graduated in 6 years and got a job. Then moved across the country 5 times, only to change careers. I fell in love twice and got my heart broken once. I made some money and lost more money. And things, as they say, got better.

But I never really stopped wrestling. It was tough, seeking out open mats and wrestling clubs that welcomed adults, but I did it. And when I settled in Southern California at the turn of the century, my workouts became fairly regular, and I even resumed competing, at a level where I could still comfortably hold my own.

I realize now that there are more competitions behind than there are ahead, but I still want to remain active, to stay in the game, and to keep connected to a sport that has given me so much. It's fun. It's rewarding. It's pure joy.

And that is why today I coach. My own sweep single has become slow and predictable. But I can pass it on to younger men who can still use it with devastating effect. I help them believe in themselves, and develop their fighting spirit. And hopefully I can also create a safe space for them to be themselves--whoever that is--and find who they truly are.

There is still a long road ahead, and I'd be lying if I said I knew where it's going and exactly how to get there. For example, I'm still not entirely sure how to deal with the title of "The Openly Gay Wrestling Coach." For me it seems reductionist and simplistic--a short phrase meant to shock and awe, and obscure everything else I do and am. I never set out to be an activist. For me this isn't about politics. It isn't even about sexuality or gayness, per se. This is about the sport I love, and making sure it survives and grows. This is about all the student-athletes entrusted to my care. I want them to become good wrestlers. I want them to graduate and go to college. But more than anything I'd like them to be good people. If I can be a part of that process--even a small part, then it will be all worth it.

To accomplish this, I am gathering as many untold stories as possible. I am seeking athletes, coaches, parents, and fans to tell the world about their experiences in or perceptions of athletics. What do lockerrooms look and sound like across the country? What homophobic and transphobic language and experiences have you witnessed on and off the playing field?

I believe that collecting and telling these stories will help empower more allies to take a stand and help end homophobia in sports. If you have ever experienced or witnessed homophobia in athletics, please share your story with me at hudson@athleteally.org. Also, each story will be shared annonymously to protect those who wish to participate. Please limit your story to 1000 words.

As always thank you for spreading the word and continuing to help advocate for the respect and inclusion or all. 

Together, 

Hudson

Although there are many things to be proud of and hopeful for, if we are going to completely eliminate homophobia in sports, we are going to have to stay diligent and fix the remaining problems in a systematic and collective way.

What we have to remain cognizant of is the fact that the athletic community consists of multiple layers that operate independently of one another. For example, educating and empowering athletes may have a huge impact on eliminating homophobia in the locker room and on playing fields, but that does not mean that fans or coaches or administrators or policies are where they need to be. So as we outline our action steps, remember that some solutions may be harder to accomplish than others.

So where do we begin?

The first thing you can do is sign the Athlete Ally Pledge or create your own pledge. This is a personal commitment you can make to be conscious of the words you use and make other people conscious of theirs.

Next, organize collective action. If you are an athlete, get your entire team to sign the pledge. If you are a coach, reach out to the other coaches. A fan, get other fans to step up. The quickest way to create a cultural shift in your community is by getting entire groups to call themselves allies.

This can be accomplished by making a direct appeal to those who have the ear of a larger group. If it is student athletes you want to reach, set up a meeting with the Student Athlete Advisory Committee (SAAC). If it is the athletic department, reach out to the athletic director in charge of your sport. In short, find the key people on your campus or in your community who have the ability to make others listen.

Once they are on board, contact your school newspaper. If your university covers a mass pledge signing it will both set the standard for how athletes should act and help encourage teams and athletic departments at rivaling schools to do the same.

In addition to creating and signing pledges, we need to also be aware of the policies that shape the experiences of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender athletes, coaches, fans, and administrators.

Look into your school's fan code of conduct, coaches code of conduct, or any other policies that will help to eliminate homophobia and transphobia from athletics. If the policies you find are not as inclusive or respectful as we know they can be, it is time to create language that is and get your community to sign on in support of the change.

Lastly, wear your beliefs on your sleeve and get others to do the same. In addition to mobilizing teams and coaches and fans around pledge signing, work to organize a large group of people to wear "LGBT Ally" t-shirts. Wouldn't it be an incredibly powerful statement if the entire fan section at the next football game had an "Ally Out" instead of a "white out"?

Whether or not your athletic department wants to get on board two things are certain. First, they can get behind your efforts and make an amazing first step for other universities. Or, they can push back, giving you all the fuel you will ever need to get support from students and the media.

In sum, everyone has the ability to make a lasting impact on your campus. If we can mobilize enough people around the right efforts, we can dramatically change our athletic communities forever. So get out there and start organizing!

Like many athletes, I started playing sports at a young age. My earliest memories take me back to wrestling mats and arenas and early-morning drives with my father as we traveled to find the best competitions and open tournaments. We spent thousands of hours (yes, thousands) together in the car preparing for matches and talking about life. Though these conversations focused mainly on wrestling technique and tournament brackets, more often than not my dad found a way to weave lessons about decency and morality into discussions about athletic achievement. As he talked about his heroes — the New York Yankee legends of the1950s who lifted American spirits in the wake of World War II — my father set up a hierarchy of sports-based integrity that is still with me: Athletes become worthy of the greatest respect not when they win at their sport but when they stand up for the dignity of others and represent something bigger than themselves.

My father emphasized integrity because he knew what I was up against. As a young wrestler, I was learning to inflict pain to force submission. In such a grueling contact sport, he wanted me to become a "respectful competitor." Win, lose or draw, each match was an opportunity to learn, enjoy the camaraderie of competition, and show respect for another human being.

Through my experiences — first as a Division I wrestler at the University of Maryland and now as a coach at Columbia University — I've found that respect is linked inextricably to the unity of team. Every team I have been on has been filled with loyal and generous men who would do anything for a teammate in need. They would give the proverbial grimy, sweat-soaked shirt off their backs if they felt it would help — and they would joke to pull attention away from their selflessness. Few non-athletes understand the intensity and primacy of the bond that develops through shared times of intense struggle and celebration — hours of practices, heavy moments in the locker room after a tough loss, and the exhilarating highs of unexpected victory. It is the kind of respect that stems from familiarity and a shared identity.

At the University of Maryland, this familial bond was as strong as any blood tie. We cried together when our coach accepted a job at another school. We swelled with collective pride when our athletic director reinforced the department's motto: 500 athletes, 27 sports, one team. As a wrestler, I have been blessed to be part of my sport's familial culture and to witness how respect is at the culture's core, not only among athletes but also among parents, coaches, league officials and fans. But I have also come to realize that respect in athletics has a comfort zone that does not easily extend beyond defined margins.

Unfortunately, many have been forced to exist outside these margins. Before the passage in 1972 of Title IX, the landmark legislation that made it illegal to deny women equal access to federally funded educational programs, women were relegated to the sidelines of sports. Before 1947, when Jackie Robinson became the first black player in Major League Baseball, African Americans were denied the right to compete with white players as equals. While much has changed for these groups, the culture of sports does continue to marginalize. This is particularly true for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) athletes.

I have never been on a team with an openly gay wrestler. To this day, I know only a handful of closeted gay athletes, though I have likely met and befriended countless without knowing. With stereotypes about LGBT people pulsing through the athletic experience, this is no surprise. As an athlete in gyms, locker rooms and on bus rides, I can attest to the prevalence of anti-gay attitudes and language. My teammates frequently demeaned those who did not measure up to distorted standards of masculinity or femininity with both homophobic and sexist slurs. Most often, the slurs were tools of humor — generic, strangely impersonal arrows that targeted just about anyone and anything. Calling someone "gay" was as common as calling someone a "jerk."

It was only as a college student that I began to question this. Didn't the nature of competition push sports to accept anyone with talent and perseverance? Homophobia seems wholly unaligned with the inclusivity and diversity necessary for winning. Nonetheless, I have no illusions that ending homophobia is going to be as simple as telling a closed-minded teammate that setting aside fear or stereotypes will improve performance, or that team diversity is simply the right thing. But I also believe that by appealing to individual honor, the honor of the team, and the sense of fairness that is ingrained in every athlete, change is possible.

The help we need will come from a corps of athlete-leaders, particularly straight athletes who want to rise above a culture that marginalizes others. Even if they do not use anti-LGBT language themselves, they feel disrespected because others on the team do. The help will also come from coaches, parents, league officials and fans. As a wrestling coach, I know the influence I have to model positive attitudes and conduct. And I know the influence my father had when he placed human dignity at the top of my list of competitive priorities.

I started my advocacy at a time of breathtaking societal change toward LGBT equality. The military's "Don't Ask Don't Tell" is now history, and marriage for gay and lesbian couples is legal in six states and the District of Columbia. With these changes as a backdrop and with a renewed national focus on anti-LGBT bullying and harassment shaking our sense of complacency, sports at every level are responding with actions that were inconceivable only a few short years ago. In professional baseball alone, eight teams have contributed videos to Dan Savage's "It Gets Better" project, and more plan to. Professional hockey players and team executives have marched in LGBT Pride parades. And college coaches in such disparate sports as volleyball and lacrosse have stood proudly in support of LGBT inclusion.

Although there are still many obstacles to overcome, I am continually encouraged by the forward motion of sports in the direction of doing the right thing. I am keenly aware of what Princeton University philosophy professor Kwame Anthony Appiah sees as "a growing appreciation of the obligations each of us has to other people" to alter the unacceptable. "One day," he writes, "people will find themselves thinking not just that an old practice was wrong and a new one was right but that there was something shameful in the old ways."