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Odysseys and Observations
Selectively Out
by Debra Hyde
Out and About, and About Being Out
You'd think that as a columnist, I'd have everything figured out. I don't. In fact, I prefer it that way. Writing is a more complete process when I choose to puzzle out topics and issues, formulate my observations and opinions, and share the struggle to arrive at them with you.
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But there's risk in that resonance: it could toll across the leather community, carrying farther than I expect. That, as a well-struck chord, it will make people pause and listen, its ring at first clear and unmistakable, then fading into subtle overtones. And in the aftermath of overtone, people will decide whether the resonance chimed clear for them.
My fondest wish is that as I think, write, and share, I remain sincere to the act of commentary, that the music always rings clear. My humblest desire is that, whatever public visibility my writing brings me, it never outweighs the sincerity of my efforts.
Yes, in committing to this column, I realize I may garner a public profile, one that could produce much more visibility than my quiet life would ever suggest possible. And in establishing this column, I've had to revisit an old issue: how out do I want to be?
How "Out" Is "Out Enough?"
For myself, out equals proactive. I believe the more out I am, the less I can be compromised by others. As such, I'm reasonably forthright in my public leather identity. I don't use a scene name and in my favorite on-line forum, I use as much of my real name as forum rules allow.
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But I am, at best, selectively out; my freedom is not complete. Ironically, by not being out all the time to the entire world, I have some control over my environment. I assess what risks are worth taking to ensure my safety, and when surprises come my way they're usually packing a positive outcome. One of those moments occurred at a leather group meeting where I "looked familiar" to someone. We back-pedaled through our lives and found that we'd gone to high school together, in different graduating classes. Another time, I ran into an old business acquaintance at the gay and lesbian center where a leather group met amid the center's larger traffic. Turns out he was more shocked at my leather collar than I was at his performance drag queen alter ego. Our reunion included a discussion of "how out" we were, and a pledge to mutually protect each other's privacy.
Despite positive experiences like those, I reluctantly use a pseudonym. My reasons are many. First, in a round-about way, I honor my Master in my choice of pseudonym. Second, my real last name looks ridiculous in print. (Forgive me this one vanity, I beg you.) Third, I have people to protect, people whom I love and who ask for this one protection, however symbolic it may largely be, however fragile it may prove to be over time.
Protecting Oneself, Protecting Loved Ones
My husband is primarily vanilla and while we've worked to accommodate and honor each other's needs, he comes from a highly conservative family. Having to confront them with whatever notoriety I achieve would harm his relationship with them. And probably between us as well, given the likely stresses.
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And I write under a pen-name to protect my children. I have little fear in what outing could do to me personally -- given any hardship, I have the capacity to reassemble my life -- but my children, no matter how resilient they may be, should not have to face that kind of uncertainty. The Houghton case has shown us that, while we may have the power to fight for and ultimately preserve our families, our families are vulnerable to painful disruption and our children would not escape those experiences unharmed. They may, in the end, walk away holding a parent's hand, but will their smiles still sparkle with innocence? I think not.
Then, as a writer, I'm faced with interesting personal dilemmas. My mother is also a writer, and writers share their creative adventures with each other. Over time, I've slowly worked towards outing myself to her. She knows I write erotica and that editors are buying my work. She knows the novel I wrote has whips and chains moments (still the best laymen's term I can use without having to explain too much).
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But someday soon I will probably have to share the very nature of my work with her. We're working towards that goal, slowly, tentatively, step-wise acclimating ourselves to my intimacies, intimacies which increasingly parade themselves on the platform of public discourse.
In some ways, I'm lucky when it comes to the question of how out to live. My creative will and my intellectual drive routinely win out over any logistical limitations I may face. I'm compelled to write, to create; it's the call of my wild. Even better, I'm surrounded by people who understand my nature and thrill to watch my creative soul in action. My husband, my Master, my sister, my mother, all cherish my compulsion to create. All are willing to accept some degree of risk as I write about alternative sexual practices and identities, completely aware that they could find themselves outed in some manner at some point in the future.
Their support and understanding speak volumes. They understand that if their fears prevent me from creating, then who I am is effectively shut down. And who I am is fundamentally who they love. But in exchange, I protect their concerns, tempering the degree to which I live out, meeting them half-way. It's a fair and loving compromise, and I consider myself blessed.
Changes for the Better
As I revisit the issue of how out to be, I'm reminded of how author Harriet Beecher Stowe moved through the 19th-century world. It was an age where private and public lives were at odds with each other, where a woman could achieve a voice through the written word but could not speak in public. If she achieved such fame -- as Stowe did with Uncle Tom's Cabin -- that the world broke its own conventions and insisted she tour and speak publicly, the women in her audience sat in women's galleries, separate from the men. And they were, by strict social conventions, prohibited from speaking to her directly.
In launching this column, I feel that I'm straddling that moment where my private life will become a more public life. Where I once spoke my piece by writing in my quiet domain, now I write for a larger presence, where people will look to this Web page for thought, message, and even deed. Unlike the women of Stowe's time, though, we have the freedom to speak to each other, to interact, to affect and benefit the community at large directly through our actions.
I hope my voice will be one among many voices in the greater, ongoing, unfolding history of leather. Significant or not, every voice counts. And every voice that speaks out is out.
Copyright © 1998, Debra Hyde. All Rights Reserved.
About the Author
Debra Hyde is a mostly submissive switch who lives in New England with her husband, two children, three cats, and a dog. She says she is "well-owned and well-loved" by a very special Master, and shares a unique triangle with him and her somewhat submissive husband.
"When England Calls," one of Debra's short stories, graces the pages of the recently published Mammoth Book of Historical Erotica. She is currently working on a number of others, as well as the Great American Leather Novel. Her BDSM work has been previously published on the Internet by Leather Online and Section 12, but Leather and Hyde was her first regular column, originally hosted by About.com's BDSM site and relocated here with her kind permission.
Debra also maintains a personal Weblog called Pursed Lips and can be reached at 75222.2150@compuserve.com... but no junk mail or "Wannas," please.
