'To the monsters, we’re the monsters': Reflections of a Tampa Bay LGBTQ+ pastor

Do you know what helps distract me from the dumpster fire that glows all around us, here in the Sunshine State? Post-apocalyptic books and shows. Rarely has a line resonated with me so deeply as this: “To the monsters, we’re the monsters.”

It is an often-repeated refrain in “Station Eleven,” a television series based on the book of the same name. I find myself going back to that line, as I witness the dehumanization that is happening to marginalized communities today.

As we consider who is seen as a monster, I’ll offer an example from a recent political ad. An elected official makes bold claims about what’s happening in Florida classrooms. He states that kids are exposed to teachers who are not teaching them math or English, but instead are teaching “that men can have babies and become women.” The ad ties this to another accusation, that these teachers are forcing the worship to the god of government and not the God of creation. Finally, he names these things as “socialism.” We then see an image of a classroom, with a screen that says, “Men Have Babies Government Knows Best.”

Some things are too asinine to warrant the sacrifice of precious words in a column such as this, so I’ll skip over the lesson on how that is not socialism, not to mention the fact that it’s not even happening. I am far more interested in explaining that American society is harmed by the demonization of LGBTQ+ people and others. The implication that it is monstrous to be different is a slippery slope that threatens to take down anyone who is marginalized.

I spend much of my time dealing with the fallout from hate directed at my community. I am ordained as Christian clergy. I am also both gay and transgender. I serve openly, without fear or shame, as the pastor of the Metropolitan Community Church of Tampa (MCC Tampa), a church that was founded as a haven for LGBTQ+ people and allies, and is the oldest LGBTQ+ organization in the Tampa Bay area.

If you, personally, have been treated as a monster, you know how it feels to witness your own humanity stripped away. I have been queer a lot longer than I have been clergy. It is not despite my gender identity and sexual orientation that I’m a pastor; rather, these things led me to ministry. My experiences of being treated like a monster forced me to recognize my calling, which took me to seminary and eventually to the pulpit.

As clergy, I have witnessed the miracles of healing that come when marginalized people bind together. My hope is that as we venture into Pride Month, all of us, across communities, who are deemed monstrous can build solid alliances that help us combat the harm coming our way. Let’s take to the streets at Pride events, keeping in mind the real meaning of Pride Month. Pride is more than just a party. Pride is an affirmation of the humanity of all, especially those who find themselves on the outside. Without a deep commitment to solidarity, Pride would lose its meaning.

Queer people are a primary target of many elected officials at this moment. Pride events should be the antithesis to this hatred. Politicians know that fear mongering around difference is a simple way to get people worked up and scared. When they convince people that there is a monster, they can amplify the fear. Frantic and frightened people are easier to sway and easier to control. These tactics are not new, the targets change from time to time, but the fear is just as pervasive.

This isn’t just a rallying cry for other queer folks. We need solid allies in this struggle. I am often asked what it takes to be a good ally. As lovely as it is to see straight folks decked out in rainbows and non-trans folks waving the pink, blue, and white flag of the trans community, it takes more than this. We need solidarity that impacts the lives of the comfortable. We need you to have conversations with friends and family members, educate them on the issues, and teach your community that none of us are monsters.
I am painfully optimistic about humanity.

I believe in people, to a fault. Years ago, I was hopeful as I held the hand of the abovementioned elected official. In the wake of the Pulse massacre, I was in the office of my friend and colleague, Rev. Terri Steed Pierce, the pastor of Joy Metropolitan Community Church, in Orlando. We were preparing for a worship service in memory of those slain in that horrific, homophobic hate crime that had taken place days before, and this elected official joined us. He prayed with us. He and I held each other’s hands, and there were no monsters there.

After that night, his policies would continue to harm my community. His rhetoric would demonize my people. I would go on to struggle to see his humanity as he would struggle to believe in the humanity of people who are like me. I would eventually risk losing the optimism I have in others. To the monsters, we’re the monsters, after all.

Rev. Jakob Hero-Shaw is the Senior Pastor of the Metropolitan Community Church of Tampa (mcctampa.com). Jakob and his husband are proud fathers in a family that was legalized through marriage equality and adoption.

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