By Ben Cartwright
In advance of writing this column, I posed a question on Facebook asking, “What does (LGBTQ) community mean to you?” This is a concept I’ve really been thinking a lot about this summer, especially since I’ve had some extra time on my hands while I recover from professional burn out that developed over the last two decades. I suppose community is a group of people brought together by common bonds, whether they be geographical, or based on shared traits, interests, etc. Sounds pretty simple? Sure. But those who are members of a marginalized community like the LGBTQ community really need to hold each other tight and take the concept of community more seriously — myself included.
I really got to thinking about this because in the last couple months, since I left my full-time job and some other activities, it was interesting that after I made some posts (and wrote a column in this publication) about the burn out and other issues I was experiencing, that only a small group of people reached out to me to check in on my well-being. And these were mostly people who regularly connected me with anyway. Every message, call, text, hug, coffee date, etc. following my life transition was appreciated — more than those who reached out will ever know! But there was a major void that I noticed by people who seemed like family to me, but once I was no longer part of their daily work or community activism life, it was like radio silence.
Now luckily, my mental health is strong, I have a great support system of friends and family, and don’t necessarily need anyone’s validation for anything I do. But I wanted to share that because really, the only thing I’m really an expert on is myself, and that was my experience. But that experience made me concerned about so many others in our community that we don’t check-in with regularly — especially seniors, and those who are struggling with a number of things like mental health, financial instability, and more.
I was crushed to hear recently that longtime LGBTQ ally Cindy Green passed away in her home, alone, and wasn’t found for likely up to 11 days after her death. Where were we? Where was I? Cindy was kind enough to reach out to me via Facebook Messenger on June 26, a few weeks after I announced my career change, to check-up on me, and we ended the conversation with her letting me know that she was also going through some life changes, too, and offered me her phone number so we could connect further. Pride season approached, I got “busy,” never contacted her, and then we all found out several weeks that the worst had happened. Maybe, just maybe, if me, or anyone had reached out to her, she might still be with us today.
We all have struggles. But we, myself very much included, need to do a better job checking in on each other. Not to “get coffee” to “discuss a community project” or talk shop, but genuinely sit down together, put electronic devices away, look each other in the eyes, and just say “how are you doing?” And honestly share with each other. There are so many forces from the outside, and even from within our community, that work hard every day to bring us down. The more we can connect to build stronger community with each other, the better off we’ll all be.
At the end of the day, we’re all human beings. It really means nothing what someone’s career, political, social, or financial status is. As a community, we all have an obligation to connect and look out for each other. And I hope we can do better at that.
If folks don’t agree with this, or read it but don’t follow through, if nothing else, this is my pledge to personally be better. I look forward to genuinely connecting with many of you very soon!
— Benny Cartwright is a local LGBT activist and Nicky Award’s 2018 Man of the Year. Benny can be contacted at [email protected]. Note: Byline photo by Rob Lucas Modern Aperture Photography.
Graphic by www.CanStockPhoto.com.
