I am one of two Caucasian people on staff here at Outwrite; UCLA’s Queer Alliance has considerably more white members, but only a few show up regularly to meetings. It’s a topic that comes up a lot at Outwrite staff meetings, the fact that I’m the only GWM (Gay White Male) at the magazine, and sometimes it makes me just a bit uncomfortable. After all, I’m not accustomed to being singled out for my race. But it’s something that makes me think hard about our community, about the LGBT movement at UCLA and at large, and about the role of the Gay White Male in today’s “progressive” society. And it has helped me to assume and embrace my own role as an active participant in queer culture and advocate for queer issues, as well as to understand the often subtle but powerful racial dynamics that lurk behind the rainbow.
          First, a bit about the Gay White Male. He is probably the most widely recognized cross-section of the Queer community; you either love him or hate him, but he’s here to stay, and you’d better get used to it (snap). He is well-groomed, well-spoken, the best friend, gym buddy, and dance partner a girl could have. He’s passionate and often promiscuous, prone to fits of emotion and brash outbursts. He’s rapidly becoming a ubiquitous figure in Western pop culture, though many would argue that he’s beginning to suffer from overexposure, becoming a caricature, a cliché, the butt of a low-brow joke in a bar and a thousand amusing imitations across America. He is creative, driven, and lucky; he wears Prada sunglasses to dress up his True Religions. He is the pillar of the fashion industry; he saves the Galleria and the Grove from the depths of the depression. In short, he’s fabulous.
           But what else? What is inside his head, underneath the Ed Hardy trucker cap? What’s on the iPod besides Britney and Madonna? What’s in his heart? What is he for? What does he really care about? The answers to these questions are not provided by the media; these are secrets that are not always readily divulged, and some might say that would ruin the mystique.
           If you walk up Bruin Walk or down Jans Steps on any given day, you are bound to encounter at least one specimen of the GWM (they do, after all, call it UCL-Gay for a reason). They are a definite presence at this university. So why don’t they come to QA meetings? Why do they seem to be silent, seen but not heard? It’s a difficult question, one that would appear to be difficult to answer without offending anyone.
           You could call it an image thing.
           Growing up around San Francisco, I learned that there are two types of gay young people: the activists, the outspoken, opinionated, rainbow-wearing crowd, and the rest, the smoother, thinner, more image-conscious ones. In my admittedly limited experience, the “activists” tended to be much more diverse, a more colorful and often more interesting set of people who always spoke up for something. On the other hand, the latter group seemed shallower, tighter, whiter, more homogenized, even a bit elitist. The image of the GWM appeared to hang over this set.
           Here at UCLA, to me, it seems that not much is radically different. The activists, at least the visible and audible ones, tend to be Latino, or black, or Asian, they go to PAQ and LaFa and Blaque, they march down Santa Monica Boulevard on November 5th and they keep quiet on National Day of Silence and they call themselves Queer People of Color. They are the ones that make a tangible difference, the ones that lead and represent the LGBT community at our school, at least in the context of the Queer Alliance. They are the ones that organize protests and hand out flyers, that make phone calls on Saturdays to fight Prop. 8. They are the ones that speak up and claim their place in their community, while the rest seem to go quietly about their business, less inclined to speak up, to get up.
           Why? Is it laziness? Fear? Indifference? Or is it because they feel as if they don’t need to claim their place? Perhaps they feel they have been accepted by society to a satisfactory degree, as a familiar and rather comforting demographic. Maybe they feel like they have nothing to protest about, nothing to fight for.
           Maybe it’s just not cool.
           I have a confession to make. I’m a recovering GWM.
           I used to feel apathetic, to fail to see the point in going to a protest about something that’s already done, to view meetings as borderline pointless. I used to reserve the honor of speaking up to those who felt like they should, like they had some sort of high-brow moral obligation to enlighten the general populace about who we are and what we want, something I thought was beyond my comprehension. But then it clicked. I realized that it’s about me just as much as it’s about any of them, that I deal with ignorance and oppression and flat-out hate just like the rest of them, internally and externally, every single day. And I realized that I’m not okay with that. I realized that I actually wanted to be part of something that meant something, something more than a character, or a stereotype, something less manufactured and easy to swallow. I realized that I needed to fight in order to find my place in this community, to find and define my identity among all of the fabulous masks.
           The point of this piece is not to assert that white queer people do not care about the issues plaguing our community--far from it. Some of the most passionate queer activists I know are white, and I respect them greatly. But I was assigned to specifically address, given my experience, the possible reasons why I am among a few white people at Queer Alliance meetings. And, from my perspective, I think it’s partly an image thing.
           Of course, there are numerous other possibilities. Maybe they haven’t even heard about how to get involved. Maybe they feel uncomfortable in a setting with so many strong-minded queer people of color. Maybe they feel left out of the intense sense of community facilitated by groups like Blaque, La Familia and Pan Asian Queers, groups that are fundamentally centered around queer issues as they relate to specific ethnic groups. Needless to say, there is no GWM group at UCLA. 
           This is not to suggest that there are no white people involved in queer groups on campus. Student Coalition for Marriage Equality, among others, has numerous white members and is an organization that plays a defining role in queer activism here, especially with events like the annual Same-Sex Marriage Ceremony. But it is worth mentioning that although the SCME does take strong stances on other issues, like Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell and DOMA, its primary focus is arguably the issue of same-sex marriage, at least when the name is taken into account. What does it say that the highest concentration of GWM activists at UCLA is contained in a group called the Student Coalition for Marriage Equality? Is that easier for them, and the hetero public, to swallow than “Queer Alliance?” Is same-sex marriage the only issue that the GWMs feel is worth their time, effort, and support? Obviously, the answers to these questions are very complex and beyond the scope of this piece, but they are worth asking in this context.
           But in reality, a discussion of the different queer organizations here at UCLA, and their various demographic breakdowns, misses the point. The lack of white representation in our queer activist community has nothing to do with SCME or QA, no matter what conclusions may be drawn by observing who actually shows up to meetings. The point is that there is a gap, an empty seat at the table. The point is that the GWMs need to show that they care.
           I have observed that, especially among white gay males, there is a stigma attached to being an “activist.” There is indeed often a negative connotation attached, as if it means the same thing as “hippie,” something outdated, pointless, implacably unpleasant, as if protests and rallies are simply an option for those people who don’t go to Tigerheat on Thursday nights. I have met many people who have talked about the two kinds of gay people in the world--the ones that fight, and the ones that seem oblivious, or in denial, or have given up.
           The passing of Proposition 8 in November was felt, in some way, by the entire queer community, GWMs and activists alike; it’s hard to be oblivious to something as deeply disturbing as Prop 8, hard to deny that something evil has happened, that all is not well with gay-straight relations. Everyone had an opinion, whether they admitted it or not. I believe that with the passing of Prop 8, something stirred in the LGBT community, at UCLA and beyond. The GWMs realized that even they, in all their fabulousness, could relate to this, were hurt by this, were not exempt to this degradation to second class status. Now, denial is not an option; neither is giving up. Whether they realized it before, all queer Americans are the subject of discrimination and are fighting the civil rights battle of our generation, something that seems to be uniting us. I believe that more of us than ever have come to the realization that we must join together, do our part, and most importantly of all, make our presence felt, seen, heard, if we are to win the fight. And I believe that as our generation, the GWM generation, continues to wake up, it will be possible to transform everyone, even the elusive, mysterious, fabulous gay white male, into “activists,” into people who care, into people who stand up by showing up.