Is there such a thing as an LGBTQ+ voice?

Inviting your thoughts on a fundamental question

What is YOUR superpower?

In June, a highly accomplished gay banker asked me at a dinner hosted by the Association if I believe LGBTQ+ people bring a different lens to the Boardroom. Before I could answer, he told me he did think so but could not articulate precisely why. It struck me. A powerful man in his fifties, a father, virtually straight, who intuitively knows that being gay remained core to his being.

His question is essential as it relates to the commonality of our experience as LGBTQ+ people, our solidarity, and perhaps even our purpose.

Indeed, when I ask trans people how they see the purpose of being born a different gender than they identify with, which some people perceive as a cruel move on the part of nature, they usually respond that their journey can be helpful to others.

The other aspect of this question, our commonality, is even more relevant today as it is challenged along the spectrum of identities, generations, and race. What does a well-integrated middle-class white gay man in an urban area in the West share with a disenfranchised black trans woman in Jamaica's Gully Queens?  

Without commonality, there is little solidarity. Our failure in articulating it is why some gay people, particularly men, are desolidarizing themselves from LGBTQ+ people living in less accepting environments or trans people. Ultimately, it comes down to the idea that you can “graduate” from being LGBTQ+ to become a straight or cisgender person who happens to have same-sex relationships or a non-confirming gender identity. But should you? In “The Trouble with Normal,” Michael Warner had warned us in 1999 that this reductive view was not only bad for gay people but for everyone else.

Anecdotal evidence shows we have more in common than our sexual orientation and gender identity. Outside of the mined topic of genetics versus constructionism, it feels obvious that our shared experiences shape us in very particular ways.  For example, I give younger gay men copies of Alan Downs ’“Velvet Rage” because it perfectly distills the "experience of intense anger that results from failing to achieve authentic validation," a common occurrence among gay men. LGBTQ+ business people often mention their greater “empathy” or “ability to read the room.” Their observations are not always positive; others see LGBTQ+ colleagues as coming from a place of scarcity with a higher propensity to being transactional, self-centered, and prone to conflicts.

All these traits are consequences of the unique LGBTQ+ experience in childhood: what my friend the psychiatrist Jack Drescher describes as “being born into an enemy camp,' subject to [family disapproval] rather than loving support”; a subsequent problematic relationship to the truth where lying to our parents, teachers, and priests become vital to our survival, the certainty of shame, having to learn from exploration and our peers rather than our family or institutions or being systematically excluded from places of faith. And then later in life, the long journey back to honesty, pride, spirituality, and community or the formidable experience of socializing across geography, class, race, and generations.

I am convinced of the universality of suffering: LGBTQ+ people are far from the only group whose childhood is traumatic. But our commonality resides in the specificity of our suffering and response.

For most straight people, the suggestion that sexual orientation and, to some extent, gender identity would matter in business is surprising and sometimes unnerving. I am regularly told: “In the Boardroom, nobody cares who you sleep with,” “We do not pay attention to sexual orientation,” and “If you work hard, you will get a seat.” They suspect we made up discrimination to obtain seats we do not deserve, no matter if the numbers tell a different story.

In fact, I receive singularly angry emails when I write about our underrepresentation in the Boardroom. A month ago, Chris Townsend of Hansa Capital Partners emailed me his unsolicited thoughts:

“Perhaps it is because not everyone likes talking about their sexuality? It’s none of anyone else’s business and does not define me”

Many LGBTQ+ people who succeeded in the most supportive environments share that view. For example, the young French education Minister Gabriel Attal has communicated his desire to “maintain a clear boundary between his public life and his private life.” Business or political leaders in France who claim “this is my private life” are extracting themselves from the LGBTQ+ identity. Similarly, entertainers who declare they are “homosexual, not gay” echo Roy Cohn’s claim in Angels in America: “A homosexual is somebody who knows nobody and who nobody knows. Who has zero clout. Does this sound like me …?”. We have a 2022 version of Roy Cohn, which I describe in “The Strange Phenomenon of gay men supporting Florida’s “Parental Rights in Education Bill.”

And yet, like my gay banker friend, I fear these people are selling themselves short, negating their God-given superpowers.

Much of the work has been about conveying this “LGBTQ+ experience” in ways that could be understood by people who have no idea or no interest in how unique it is to grow LGBTQ+ in a heteronormative patriarchal society. For example, my colleague, Prof. Lee Badgett’s work, measuring the consequences of discrimination on LGBTQ+ socio-economic outcomes, is seminal because numbers are more understandable than feelings for many. Expressed statistically, the LGBTQ+ experience becomes palatable to people uninterested in how childhood emotions shaped our relationship with the world and our lives.

I accepted long ago that I am sensitive– not everybody is equal in the face of adversity. I lived my homosexuality intensely, which, among other factors, led to a lifelong battle with mental health issues. But I am also suspicious of people who claim the experience of being LGBTQ+ left them intact or that they “recovered.” In “Staying Alive,” I wrote that not everything broken could be repaired. Even the best adjusted among us display pathologies such as a “best little boy in the world” syndrome, to quote Andy Tobias, which translates into an exceptionally curated Instagram account, chiseled abdominal muscles, or an obsession with the bathroom fixtures in our vacation home or winning at pickleball. Pride is an antidote to shame, a maintenance medication for a chronic condition.

Rather than denying the unique and valuable “queer angle,” we must tap into it. This benefits not only LGBTQ+ people but humanity. In the context of the tragic armed conflict, terror, and brutal acts we witnessed in the past two weeks, the Women's Forum wrote that it “wants more than ever, to make women's voices heard. They […] bring a different perspective on the big challenges we face: we believe that women must be involved in negotiations and major decisions.” I believe this is also true of LGBTQ+ voices.

The Association says that by ignoring the pool of LGBTQ+ talent, the U.S. Boardroom is leaving money on the table, but this should only be one argument for representation. We must better articulate why the LGBTQ+ viewpoint is unique, essential, and contributes to better decision-making. I would love your help encapsulating our contributions' uniqueness to bolster the case for LGBTQ+ inclusion.