After the final bell rang at Salem High School, two young women would say goodbye to each other on the first level of the building – with a kiss.
About 50 schoolboys would assemble on the second floor and shake their fists and hoot and holler from the balcony.
"The young women felt intimidated by these young men," recalls Tom Patrick, a math teacher at Plymouth High School in Canton.
During a Gay-Straight Alliance meeting on campus, one of about 75 at high schools across Michigan, the women voiced their concern. Patrick assured them he would wait in the hall next time. And he – along with security and administration – did.
"I always encourage kids, if there's any kind of harassment, to make sure they report it to administration so that the administration can't deny what was happening," Patrick says. He told them that if the administration isn't aware of it, they could act like nothing happened.
Although Patrick didn't waste time resolving the conflict, not every teacher would do the same, says Gretchen Miller, an English teacher at Salem High School. "I feel that we aren't doing enough to protect LGBTQ kids – it's one area where I think we educators need to change, and can change."
Fighting back
Above Miller's blackboard in her classroom hangs a sign that reads: "Gay does not = stupid. When you use gay as an insult it hurts – and you don't even know who you're hurting."
The GSA designed the sign, along with rainbow/peace buttons, in an effort to make students aware of LGBT people on campus and to promote equality.
But most teachers haven't followed in Miller's footsteps, notes 17-year-old Brieanna Jennings, one of about 20 students in the school's GSA.
At Stevenson High School, the Diversity Club launched a campaign against LGBT harassment. People were asked to sign a pledge and wear mini rainbow banners, says Aaron (who didn't wish to use his last name), a 16-year-old student at the Livonia school.
Last year someone attempted to begin a GSA, Aaron recalls. "I just know that it didn't go very far because the administration was against it," he says.
Stevenson's principal, Steven Archibald, did not return phone calls from Between The Lines to confirm or deny Aaron's claim.
Even if Stevenson decided to launch a GSA, Aaron wouldn't be inclined to join.
"I don't feel special or different because I'm gay; it doesn't really define me," Aaron says. "I definitely don't need 'to be made comfortable,' nor do I really want special treatment from a school run club. I just think that I'd feel singled out if the school tried to make a club to celebrate or recognize my sexual orientation. We don't have a straight club, after all."
Despite being called a "faggot" in crowded areas where the insulter couldn't be identified, like the hallways or cafeteria, Aaron feels comfortable at Stevenson. "It hurts when someone ridicules me, but that doesn't happen very often and it doesn't bother me for long."
Comments in class
Fruity. Fag. Dyke. Ass clown. Butt pirate. Half of the 12 young adults at a Plymouth Canton Educational Park's GSA meeting agreed they've been called at least one of those names at school. But all could concur that they've heard phrase "that's so gay" in the halls and classrooms more than they'd like to.
These students aren't alone.
The Gay, Lesbian & Straight Education Network found that more than four out of five LGBT students experience verbal, physical and sexual harassment frequently or often in their schools. A 2005 national report from GLSEN and Harris Interactive found that a majority of teachers and students across America identify bullying as a "serious problem" in their schools.
"The more out students are, the more they seem to be harassed," Miller says.
Principal Thomas H. Neville of Royal Oak High School, which also has a GSA, hasn't encountered any LGBT-related harassment in several years. "If a child is trying to use his words to intimidate another student on any level or for any reasons we have zero tolerance for that."
The school administrators take each incident case by case and strictly follow a Code of Conduct. "That's so gay" doesn't seem to be a common occurrence at the school, notes Neville. While he sees how a LGBT student would take offense to fellow pupils using the expression, he also can see how it may not be intended to belittle. "Just as in society there are all kinds of different understandings of how we use the English language," he says.
Neville doesn't believe "that's so gay" is a homosexual reference. As students use it, he says it means, "It's kind of silly, it's kind of ridiculous."
Blowing it off
LGBT students at PCEP complained that instructors tend to ignore hateful comments.
"Some teachers will just blow it off," says Jillian Kerchen, 17. "I think that a lot of teachers feel like they might be harassed if they say, 'Hey, watch it.'"
When Patrick was the staff advisor at PCEP's GSA, before Miller took over this year, students voiced the same concern.
"The teachers didn't do anything." Patrick says. "Teachers were siding with the comments heard in class."
The GSA has allowed PCEP students to raise classroom concerns but also to discuss issues involving coming out, same-sex marriage and faith.
"There was a gay presence in the school and it gave a voice to gay issues in the school and created a safe place for kids to be and to express their ideas and opinions and be themselves. I was glad to help with that," Patrick says.
However, Canton High School student Phil Smith, 17, stopped attending GSA meetings after going to a few during his sophomore and junior year. "I just found that it was very unproductive, which is unfortunate with a campus our size. You'd think we'd find people that were motivated enough to get something done," Smith says.
But even as the GSA starts targeting issues on PCEP's campus, enrollment is still low, especially considering the 6,000-plus students at the school. Every classroom has at least one gay or lesbian student, according to a 2004 national poll commissioned by Gay, Lesbian & Straight Education Network.
"The biggest problem is that many are closeted and coming to club meetings feels like they're outing themselves," Miller says. "I suspect that others don't want to appear militant, and we certainly have had parents who've forbidden their kids to attend."
A safe haven
It's a Thursday afternoon in Miller's classroom. As the GSA students, along with Miller, sit in a circle they go around and one-by-one express how they feel based on a thermometer rating system. Zero is happy. One hundred isn't.
"I have no homework," says Zanny Meehan, 16. "I'm good today!"
Then each student answers the question of the day: "Would you like to be famous? If so, for what?"
Famous or not, it doesn't matter. Here, in Miller's classroom, they get to be themselves. And to each other, whether they're gay or straight, they do something each week that makes them important enough to be famous. They open themselves up. Sometimes to their self. Sometimes to complete strangers. Sometimes to familiar faces.
Meehan smiles and says, "I just love my friends here."
