I Teach LGBTQ+ History; My Students Expect LGBTQ+ Activism
Undergrads want professors to get radical
Dear Coddling Movie Community,
Even most of us who try to keep up with what’s going on at K-12 and higher ed probably see only a tiny part of the problems facing education today.
I got that feeling after reading this sobering behind-the-scenes account by Prof. Gayle Fischer.
Today we see so many professors succumb to the monoculture, but but that makes those, such as Prof. Fischer, who stand against the wave of conformity all the more praiseworthy.
I’m so pleased to say that Prof. Fischer is a part of The Coddling Movie community, and am excited to share her essay with you today.
After you read it, make sure to check out her Substack Owning the Past.
All the best,
Ted
By Gayle V Fischer
Twenty-five years ago, one of my new colleagues reminded me that I was hired as a “gender” historian, not a “women’s” historian. At the time, articles, books, and conferences began substituting gender for women in titles. Thus, I wasn’t surprised that my colleague followed the trend.
Being rather cheeky, I asked, “How does teaching gender history differ from teaching women’s history?” He replied that women’s history left men out; gender history taught the experiences of both women and men. I took a deep breath and replied, “Women are mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters. Women are innately connected to men. If I tried, I couldn’t leave men out of women’s history.”
My response seemed to satisfy him, and he didn’t balk when I changed the name of the only women’s history course in the books from “Herstory” to “U. S. Women’s History.” “Queer History,” or “Queer Studies,” is the latest linguistic turn, but that is not the story I am sharing today.
I teach at a public university in a city of roughly 44,000 residents in a state dominated by elite private colleges—including Harvard University. Massachusetts has two public university systems, and I teach in the less prestigious one. My ~300 colleagues and I face the usual demands of academia while bearing the knowledge that the state considers us second-class. We are stretched thin by heavy teaching requirements, limited resources, administrative initiatives (DEI, micro-aggression training, and more), and financial fears. The 4,800+ student body consists of many first-generation college students working full-time or managing family responsibilities and often juggling multiple obligations. The number of history majors continues declining as our students seek more “practical” majors.
My teaching load consists of four classes each semester. I used to teach two sections of World History and two sections of Historiography, occasionally United States History. If I was lucky, my Women’s History class ran once every two years. History undergrads didn’t sign up for the class; criminal justice majors filled the seats—they had a “gender” requirement in their major. I adapted to criminal justice majors who disliked reading and were poor writers. I wanted the one class I taught in my field to run, and if that meant revising the course so criminal justice majors would register, so be it.
A new university president brought new ideas to campus, including an overhaul of the core curriculum or general education requirements (the liberal arts underpinnings)—those courses all students, regardless of major, must take to graduate.
Although the history department was not a “service” department, we had, and continue to have, a decent number of majors. However, the new core jettisoned the old core requirement—every undergraduate took World History I and World History II. EVERY UNDERGRADUATE.
Think about that for a moment. Every semester, every history faculty member taught at least one section. The department ran loads of World History classes. A dozen or more adjunct lecturers needed to be hired.
Sexy Classes, Trendy Classes
One ”Human Past” class replaced the two World History requirements. This is the kicker; any professor from any department could have a class designated Human Past by fulfilling the necessary specifications and completing the onerous paperwork. Discussions in department curriculum meetings focused on “sexy” titles and course descriptions or other core categories. We were now competing with other departments for students to fill our “service” courses.
Remember, my Women’s History class ran once a semester every two years. I figured another women’s history course, no matter how sexy the title, wouldn’t be a big draw. The English Department was also a big loser in the new gen ed—Composition I & II required of all undergraduates gave way to Foundations of Writing (one class). I read the requirements for teaching Foundations, took the faculty prep course, and mulled a course proposal. This was roughly 2011-2016, and LGBTQ+ history, activism, and celebrity were highly visible in the news and online. I don’t usually do trendy history, but this was academic survival of the fittest, and I needed to stay alive. I proposed an Introduction to LGBTQ+ History course as a W-1 (writing level one or Foundations).
Turns out that teaching writing is hard. Plus, my students wanted to learn more about LGBTQ+ history than the foundations of writing. After a few semesters, I revised the class, made the necessary changes, and filled out the paperwork for a Human Past Introduction to LGBTQ+ History.
I usually teach two sections of Intro to LGBTQ+ in the fall semester. Typically, the class is overenrolled. I often teach the courses on a Wednesday/Friday schedule. The second section runs from 3:05 to 4:20—the most unpopular class time for faculty and students. That these sections fill up is a testament to the popularity or hunger for LGBTQ+ classes. I know I am not the reason the classes fill. It would never run if I offered Women’s History 3:05-4:20 W/F.
You may wonder if I am qualified to teach LGBTQ+ History. I am. I am a women’s historian. My training and my research are interdisciplinary and cross traditional academic boundaries.
Before I discuss teaching LGBTQ+ to undergraduates, primarily freshmen, I will share the “official” course description:
This course will introduce students to how lesbians, gay men, bisexuals, trans people, queers, and other sexual and gender minorities are understood and have been understood historically in various times and places across the globe. The class will consider the changing nature of same-sex desires, sexual acts, and relationships; societal definitions of and responses to same-sex love and sexuality; the societal conditions that facilitated the emergence of subcultures, identities, and movements based on same-sex sexuality; and gender differences in the history of same-sex love and sexuality in different parts of the world. Students will engage in historical practices such as interpreting primary sources from ancient times to the present and analyzing secondary sources.
Yes, I wrote the description, which had to pass the scrutiny of the history department’s curriculum committee, the all-college curriculum committee, and the gen ed “Human Past” committee. Perhaps I was overly ambitious in creating a single LGBTQ+ course that covered the entire world from before Christ to the present. I was less ambitious when I designed my U.S. Trans History class.
Beyond LGBTQ+ History
One more little detour here. Please bear with me. We will return to LGBTQ+ history momentarily.
Given the success of LGBTQ+ history—running two sections every fall semester is a measure of success—I thought I would follow up with a trans history class. Just as gay history (often referred to as Queer studies or history) came out of the closet over a decade ago, shortly after Caitlyn Jenner announced her transformation, trans issues became the “It” topic. When I proposed the trans history course, the trans activism was still relatively mild and focused on boys who preferred transitioning to being gay. The academic and popular literature multiplied and morphed before I taught the class for the first time.
By the time I taught the first section of U.S. Trans History, trans activism had become radical trans activism.
As a historian of women, clothing, and the social construction of gender (and a parent of a trans daughter), I found the topic of trans history in the United States fascinating. I looked forward to discussing ideas—many so new that the academy struggled to analyze them—with my students.
The scholarship seemed fresh, provocative, and certain to engage curious young adults. By the time I taught the first section of U.S. Trans History, trans activism had become radical trans activism. Activists groomed and encouraged children to medically transition (more than one of my students began their trans journey online) and demanded a new way of speaking about sex and gender.
I never expected that most of the students who registered for Trans History would be trans themselves. Most of the trans students were female to male and wanted to pass. My first impression: these students were bright, engaging, and interesting young people. I left those first classes excited to teach them.
I always begin LGBTQ+ History with a discussion of vocabulary; I did the same in Trans History and added some questions about male and female stereotypes. The noise level grew as students shouted out opinions or definitions, most of which I couldn’t hear. The class quieted down; one undergrad made a final attempt to voice an opinion, “Everything bad that has happened in the world is white men’s fault.”
“Most of the good things in the world are because of white men,” I responded before moving the discussion along. Several students sent me private emails thanking me for standing up for white men and shutting down the misandry. This was the high point of the semester.
The first reading assignments centered on “Native American Identities and Colonization: Berdache? Two-Spirit?: History, Myth, and Identity.” I assigned a rather lengthy academic article that reproduced many primary sources written by early colonists. The article was written by a white male academic. As far as I was concerned, this was the best and most thorough historical account of Native American two-spirits. I also assigned a video by Native Americans about the modern two-spirit movement.
I came to dread that class. I felt every word out of my mouth was being measured and weighed.
The article contained impressions from Spanish settlers, British colonists, and French explorers recounting their encounters with Indians who seemed to be two sexes at once. I was afraid one class session wouldn’t be enough to cover the richness of primary sources and historical analysis. I was partially correct.
Some of the students announced they didn’t read the article because it was written by a white man about Native Americans. “You should have assigned something written by a Native American,” they scolded me. I responded that they should trust me to choose the best readings for the covered topic. “You can’t dismiss an academic article published in a reputable academic journal just because the author is a white male,” I protested.
They proceeded to educate me on the number of times white men have written about Indigenous people and knowingly spread falsehoods. “I don’t deny that that has happened. However, I doubt any reputable journal would have reviewed or considered such books scholarly."
I tried convincing them that one did not have to belong to the group one researched and wrote about. I told them about white graduate school classmates who earned Phds in African American History but could not get jobs because they were white. I tried to empathize; as a grad student, I once thought that only women should write women’s history. If one follows the logic of such arguments, then only ancient Greeks can write ancient history, which is ridiculous.
I came to dread that class. I felt every word out of my mouth was being measured and weighed. I was accused of deadnaming—using someone’s pre-transition name. I was vilified for slips of the tongue like “real woman” versus trans woman. My students wrote a five-page, single-spaced letter spewing bile couched as a guide to help me become an ally for trans students. (The letter is still too painful for me to share here.)
I wondered how much time I had before the class sought out the chair of my department or the Dean of the College of Arts & Sciences. I was afraid. I have tenure, but I knew these students had the power in that classroom. At the end of the semester, most of the students received inflated grades as a final act to save my tenured ass. Having survived that class, I secretly vowed never to teach it again.
Standing Strong
When I began to prepare my syllabi for LGBTQ+ History for fall 2024, I decided that I would not allow myself to cower again. I needed students to know the rules immediately. If they couldn’t live with my rules, they could drop the class and still have time to pick up another course. About half the students who attended the first session dropped out, and the remaining students have been thoughtful.
I don’t know which of my statements below encouraged some students to leave.
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE GOING ANY FURTHER: Our class meets IN PERSON twice a week. I have a NO ELECTRONICS POLICY in class. NO ELECTRONICS means no phones, earbuds, earphones, laptops, or watches. To ensure that this policy is followed, you will each be assigned a number and a case with a corresponding number; you will place all of your electronic gear in the case for the class period and retrieve your gear at the end of class. I understand if surrendering your electronics for 75 minutes twice a week is something you cannot fathom doing and choose to drop this course. I am instituting this policy for two reasons:
1. Engaging with your electronics during class is rude, mean, and distracting. Students using their cell phones or other electronics makes me feel bad and hurts my feelings.
2. Numerous studies show that learning is impossible while multitasking and that students cannot concentrate in class when their phones or other electronics are close at hand. You Are Doing It Wrong if You Are Multitasking.
STICKS & STONES: LGBTQ History is a history class, not a consciousness-raising or social-justice workshop. In recent years, the accepted opinion on gay rights in most Western democracies has shifted dramatically, and for the better. Increased acceptance does not mean controversy no longer exists. In this class, we will respect everyone's opinion, even those with whom we disagree. No one is required to announce pronouns. I will try remembering your pronouns, but I am human and may slip up. No one needs to announce their sexual orientation. Any private information shared in class will NOT be discussed with others outside of the classroom. Historical documents may contain offensive words, but that does not mean I condone language that offends. The word "homosexuality" did not come into existence until the mid-nineteenth century, and earlier terms may sound strange to you. Please be courteous and patient.
LGBTQ TERMINOLOGY: Historians disagree on whether shorthand terms like "gay" and "lesbian" should be used in analyzing people and practices in periods before the words were created. I assume you can remember that things were somewhat different back then. To call an Ancient Greek woman a "lesbian" does not mean precisely the same as it would mean today. Sometimes, the elaborate euphemisms popular at the moment, such as "female same-sex homoerotic dyadic relations," might have the unfortunate effect of making the past seem so remote, so alien, that it has nothing to do with us anymore. Over-identifying with historical figures can undoubtedly lead to distorted scholarship, yes, but on the other hand, if we stamp out that spark of imaginative identification, that prickling sense of some fellow feeling between "us" and the dead "them," then where is the pleasure and urgency in digging up the lesbian and gay past?
CONTENT ADVISORY: Our course readings explore actual human experience, from the humorous to the excruciating. Expect to read and view outside your comfort zone. Some works ask difficult questions and challenge readers to consider what it means to be human. As such, they contain painful depictions of oppression, violence, racism, classism, sexism, and other forms of human suffering. They also contain stunning examples of strength, empathy, and love. If you find yourself in need of professional support, you will find excellent counseling resources at
ESSENTIAL QUESTIONS FOR LGBTQ HISTORY: Are gays like everyone else in society except for this one characteristic or does being gay make gays utterly unlike the rest of society? What are the origins of homosexuality? Is there a difference between gay sex and being gay? Why has lesbianism rarely been viewed as a fundamental attack on the social order in the way that male homosexuality has? How are lesbians, homosexuals, bi-sexuals, and transgender people similar? How do they differ? Why is LGBTQ history important? What is the significance of teaching LGBTQ history? What are the consequences of invisibility? What are the implications of LGBTQ people being invisible in history? How did the experiences of LGBTQ people differ across time and space? and how are they similar? Add, so what? to each of these questions.
The second week of class, I worried that political correctness was going to destroy LGBTQ+ history this fall. A student asked me if the whole semester was going to be negative.
“Negative?” I asked.
“Yes,” she responded. “Our first reading was on female sexual perversion, and you had us watch a video on sex vs. gender, situational homosexuality, and you have that note about pronouns.”
I looked at her, and I looked at the rest of the class. I took a deep breath and responded, “First, I am a free speech absolutist. That means I won’t infringe on your right to say what you want. But it also means we can’t compel others to say things they disagree with. I will do my best to honor pronouns as a courtesy.”
“Second, I chose Female Sexual Perversion because it is a primary source. The author attempts to tell the history of lesbians from pre-ancient civilizations to his present, which mirrors my first lecture—an overview of LGBTQ+ history. How many of you paid attention to the publisher? (Eugenics Press) What was happening in 1938? (The year the book was published.)
Yes, it is offensive. But what can we learn from his use of language, the acts the author finds perverse, and how his interpretations differ from our own? I wanted your first reading to be compelling, even if distasteful or nasty.”
Many freshmen see the world as good versus evil and struggle to accept that life, even in the past, is not that simple.
“Third, sex and gender are different. Sex is a biological fact/reality. Gender is socially constructed to some degree. I wanted to ensure that we all had that foundation to ground us as we move across time and place in this class. Insisting on sex as a biological fact is not being negative. Additionally, we can’t analyze same-sex attraction without biological sex—binary biological sex.”
“Fourth, I chose to spend some time discussing situational homosexuality because it is a concept we will see repeated in different places at different times. We won’t spend a whole unit on it, but I wanted to ensure you understood the concept. Situational homosexuality is not negative. Throughout the semester, we must distinguish between same-sex identity and same-sex acts. A gay identity, as we define it, is a modern concept. Sexual Identity is part of how we define ourselves, making it difficult to fathom that in other times and places, one’s sexuality was not a fundamental component of one’s identity.”
“Finally, we are doing LGBTQ+ history, and we will encounter much that is disturbing.” I made a kind of wrinkly face and said, “Next week, we start with Ancient Greece and pederasty, which is difficult to distinguish from pedophilia. Historians grapple with interpreting historical same-sex acts that outrage contemporary society. So, it shouldn’t surprise you that we will be frustrated when learning about the past proves unpleasant.”
“Why do we have to discuss pedophilia?” someone queried.
“This is a world history class that begins with the ancients. This isn’t a class about gays or gay practices that put the happy in gay history.”
I was in a rattled state. Would this semester be a repeat of the Trans History semester?
As the class exited the room and the second section entered, I prepared myself for a fresh assault. I looked at my students, and they stared back at me. I waited. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’ve assigned nothing but negative readings and videos?” I asked.
The class looked puzzled. I explained what had transpired in my previous class. “This is LGBTQ History,” a young man spoke up, “I expect there to be a lot of depressing stuff.” His peers chimed in, agreeing.
Students Have Expectations
I’ve been through the wringer teaching LGBTQ+ History.
Unlike history courses organized around geography or chronological time, gay history is personal, whether one is homosexual or not. Young people come to class with ideas fostered by Pride parades, gay history month, and social media—they have expectations. Many freshmen see the world as good versus evil and struggle to accept that life, even in the past, is not that simple.
The semester is still new. I have hope.
Placing my strongly worded practices and ideas on the first page of my syllabus encouraged students who could not be separated from their phones for 75 minutes or wanted a class that affirmed their identity to withdraw.
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I want to thank Ted Balaker for asking me to write this essay. I found it challenging. I never want to humiliate or disparage my students. At the same time, I wanted to bring to life the tightrope faculty must traverse. Thank you to everyone who is reading this and commenting, I appreciate it.
One of the saddest most perplexing reads in a long time. To be so utterly bound up over identify to the exclusion of the broader acquisition of knowledge and wisdom does not bode well for a generation. Truly a society in decline.