Anne Balay, Jan, Bill (right), and Bill's husband Darrell Whitten (center).

Anne Balay after a day of work in the car shop. ("My mom took the photo.")

                                                                                    Published June 16, 2020; last edit 6:30 pm est

Yesterday, I heard that the U.S. Supreme Court had banned discrimination against workers based on their sexual orientation and gender identity.

Crying, I couldn't stop thinking about the queer workers I've known.

Bill
Bill Tortat showed me his pink slip. Ironically, it was actually pink. And in the reason for dismissal box it said one word: “gay.”

Bill had been a steelworker at a nail plant in Peoria. He is my hero, he was my friend. He died last year, of cancer likely acquired in that mill.

X
My friend X (I wish I could use real name to honor his life), worked at US Steel Gary Works from 1976 to 2012 until he was yellow-carded (put on unpaid medical leave).

Being black and gay, he never advanced in the mill and remained a laborer. He witnessed a fatal explosion in the 4BOF (the fourth basic oxygen furnace), but only white workers were given paid leave and support to manage the resulting Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The harassment he experienced for being gay never stopped. By the time we met in 2013, that abuse had taken its physical toll but left intact a charisma and humor I'll never forget. 

Jan
Jan Gentry started work in a Bethlehem Coal Mine in eastern Pennsylvania in 1977. Her grandfather and father had worked there. Jan was in a cluster of seven women a Federal settlement forced the mine owners to hire. Their coworkers expected them to quit and pushed them to leave. None of them quit. 

Jan moved to Bethlehem's mills in Northwest Indiana. She told of being hazed and harassed, and always giving back as good as she got. She focused on keeping her job and her pride.

Retired when we met in 2012, Jan helped me take the book I wrote about queer steelworkers' organizing to the Steelworker's Union. We forced the Union’s International Convention to take up a resolution from the rank and file to protect gay and trans workers. It passed in 2014! We became a small part of the progress celebrated on June 15th, 2020.

Jan died in 2017, of cancer acquired in the mill. 

This Anti-Discrimination Ruling Is Important
The U.S. Supreme Court’s extending the Civil Rights Act to trans and queer folks doesn't give us full equality, but our being protected against discrimination at work is hugely important. 

I was denied Promotion and Tenure as a University teacher in Indiana. The three out queer faculty before me had also been fired, but we had no legal recourse. When one too many student evaluations said I talked about sexuality too much, my department chair clutched his pearls and showed me the door.

There is nothing rare about any of these stories, or about the three stories addressed by the U.S. Supreme Court in yesterday's decision. The very routineness is what breaks my heart.

Work is central to queer and trans thriving, not only because we need money to live, but also because our bodies, our desires, and our pleasures are woven into our work, just as they're woven into our leisure and our love. 

I worked for many years as a car mechanic, and the joy of levering an axle out of the transmission or of holding exhaust pipes up with my feet and knees as I wrestled to join spring bolts over an asbestos flange saturates my bones still. This was the first job where the work felt as gay as I am, and it let me come fully alive.

Sure, being queer and trans is often about who we love. But it is also about how we move, what we want, how we occupy space, what we see, how we live.

For Bill, X, and Jan, for countless steelworkers, truckers, adjunct professors, and others who have trusted me with your stories and your dreams, I celebrate this victory. I promise to continue your work, and also to embody your joy and your gratitude.