When I was younger, I was full of anger. Years of being closeted left me suffocating in silence, terrified to be myself in a heteronormative world that essentially hated me. Or, at best, treated me like an abnormal, second-class citizen. There was a lot of simmering rage with nowhere to go.
When I finally came out and embraced myself as a lesbian, the last thing I wanted to do was acknowledge straight allies. “F**k them!” ran through my mind – and, honestly, probably out loud more than once.
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In my defense, and in hindsight, it makes sense that I carried hostility toward the group that had always represented my oppression. I hadn’t yet built the self-love or the skill to distinguish between individuals and the systems we’re all raised under. At that point in my life, I couldn’t clearly separate the straight allies who genuinely loved me and stood by the LGBTQ+ community from the deeply embedded homophobia and transphobia of our broader culture.
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Years later, though, I came to understand just how critical allies are, not just for the LGBTQ+ community, but for all marginalized communities. Oppressive systems don’t dismantle themselves. They require disruption, solidarity, and collective effort.
Cheering from the sidelines
Being an ally is not about claiming an identity; it’s about action. It’s about doing the work to understand your own privilege, listening without defensiveness, and educating yourself without burdening those already doing the heavy lifting.
Allyship means showing up when it counts, especially when there’s no spotlight or social media credit. It means speaking up when it would be easier to stay silent. True allyship isn’t passive; it’s participatory. It’s not about being centered in someone else’s story, but about using your position to shift power, redistribute voice, and stand between harm and the people targeted by it.
We cannot change this world unless we truly understand that we are all connected. The belief that no one is free while others are oppressed must become more than a slogan. It needs to be a lived value, integrated into every aspect of our lives.
We need ally support. But – and this is critical – allyship does not mean stepping into or taking over the space of the community you’re supporting. There’s a difference between standing with us and standing in front of us.
Take the Dyke March, for example. Born out of resistance, it’s not your typical Pride event. It’s not corporatized, it’s not sanitized, and it wasn’t created for mainstream approval. The first official Dyke March organized by the Lesbian Avengers, took place in Washington D.C. in 1993, when over 20,000 lesbians took to the streets. It was a visceral and necessary burst of visibility from a group that was often sidelined, even within the LGBTQ+ movement.
Since then, Dyke Marches across the country have continued as spaces for political protest, visibility, and lesbian-centered expression. They’re grassroots, intersectional, and unapologetic. This is not a parade; it’s a protest. It’s a space that centers dykes of all races, genders, and abilities. And while allies – cis men, straight people, anyone not identifying as a dyke – are encouraged to support, that support does not include marching in the space.
It’s not exclusion, it’s boundary. It’s preservation of a space we rarely get to claim. When we say “no cis men in the Dyke March,” we’re not saying, “You don’t matter.” We’re saying, “This is our space, and we need it.”
I’m a fierce ally to my trans community, and as a lesbian, I’m part of the LGBTQ+ alphabet. Still, I sometimes feel awkward marching in the Trans March. I’m not transgender. So for me, it feels more respectful to be on the sidelines, screaming at the top of my lungs in support. Not because I don’t care, but because I do.
A clearer example might be a Juneteenth parade. As a white person, it’s my responsibility to show up, to celebrate Black joy, Black culture, and Black history and to speak up against racism and ensure we never forget the brutal truths of our country’s past. But I wouldn’t take center stage or try to speak for the Black community. I’d be there to uplift, to support, and to follow, not to lead.
In the end, true allyship is about knowing when to stand beside, when to stand behind, and when to simply stand back and listen. It’s about honoring the spaces that marginalized communities carve out for themselves, without demanding entry or recognition. Because sometimes, the most powerful thing an ally can do is respect a boundary – and cheer us on from the sidelines.
Shaley Howard is the author of the recently released book Excuse Me, Sir! Memoir of a Butch, which received the IPPY Silver Award for excellence in 2024. She’s a small-business owner and an award-winning activist in Portland, Oregon.
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