The mask of masculinity | Wade Davis | TEDxUF

This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community. Learn more at http://ted.com/tedx

Wade Davis, an ex-NFL player for the Titans, Redskins, and Seahawks, shares a gripping story of growing up gay in the world of football and urges us to reconsider our definitions of "masculinity."

Wade Davis is an ex-NFL player for the Titans, Redskins, and Seahawks and a pioneering educator on gender, race, and orientation equality. He is the NFL’s first diversity and inclusion consultant, and co-created the YOU Belong initiative and the Speaker’s Collective. Davis is also a U.N. Women HeForShe Ambassador, a U.S. State Department Speaker Specialist, and the official LGBT Surrogate for President Obama.

Beyond the problematic name,

the rules for Smear the Queer
were strange ones.

Me and my friends used to stand around
in this bllod-thirsty circle,

someone would toss
the football into the air,

and the "queer" is the one
that tried to catch the ball

and pick it up off the ground,

and now, without getting
tackled or smeared, score.

Look at this angelic face.

I, nor my friends, had any understanding

of what the term "queer" meant,

but we knew that we did not
want to be the queer.

But as an adult, when I take a step back

and closely analyze the actual game,

the queer is actually
the most courageous one.

So we all should've wanted
to be "the queer."

Yet, we raise young boys to wear
a mask of toughness in order to be a man,

and we rob them of their childhood
and their innocence.

Sport is one of the many vehicles
that parents choose

to help their kids put on this mask.

As little boys, we learned
that being labeled tough

grant you a certain type
of social capital;

being thought of as weak
or queer is suicidal,

both athletically and socially.

For all of the rules that I was taught
about the game of "Smear the Queer,"

and the rules for how to be a man,

I was never taught how to be myself
and how to love myself.

I didn't start my journey
towards self-love and self-acceptance

until I broke these rules and took off
what I call "the mask of masculinity."

During my time in the NFL, I played

with some of the greatest
players of all time,

including a gentleman
named Champ Bailey.

Beyond Champ being a future Hall of Famer,

he was also a wonderful teammate.

Champ made it his business
to coach us younger players.

I remember sitting in a room
and having Champ say

some of the defensive backs had
an extra step coming out of our backpedal;

and for you non-NFL fans,
defensive backs must run backwards

and then, with as few steps as possible,
transition and run forwards.

Someone, maybe Champ, used
the term "wasted motion."

The extra step transitioning from
backwards to forwards is wasted motion.

But while the other guys were watching
their film, becoming better players,

I was focused on myself,
and I was thinking,

"Wow, I'm standing gay,
I'm walking gay,

I'm running gay,
would you just stop being so gay?"

That was wasted motion.

Most of my life, in fact,
was wasted motion.

In 2012, when I came out publicly,

I was asked one question
over and over again,

"When did you know that you were gay?"

But the question I was never asked,

and maybe, it's even
the more important question,

"When did I know that it was unnaceptable
to be thought of or to be gay?"

During my sophomore year in high school,
when this photo was taken,

I knew at that moment
that I had an atraction to other boys.

I also instinctively knew I could not,
under any circumstance,

reveal, be labeled as, or have
any proximal association

with anyone who was out as gay,
or even perceived to be a queer,

because any association
would force me to face who I was

and simultaniously, face a society
that hated people like me.

Though I could not verbalize this,

deep down I understood,
with great clarity,

that I was hiding one of the ugliest
and potentially most dangerous secrets.

See, I was not just different, I was gay,

I would be giving up
so much power by being gay,

and I'd be violating the very essence

of what I was taught that being a man was.

When you're openly gay,
you create a fear in others,

because they believe that you have
the power and the potential

to get other boys to be gay too.

So by identifying as an LGBT person,

my existence would threaten
the very social order.

Growing up, I understood
I must wear this mask of masculinity

every hour, every minute,
every second of every day,

and that included taking photographs
worrying about my pose,

whether or not I looked as masculine
as the guys around me,

and that also meant that I worried
about things like my clothing choices.

I would wear a 36 size jeans
when I was really a 28,

or a triple-X T-shirt
when I was really a "shmedium."

And "shmedium", you all know, means
that you're kind of in between sizes,

but I think that my uncle
said it best when he said,

"Boy, you just haven't grown
into that big old head yet."

But one of the consequences
of always wearing this mask

is that you must remain hyper-vigilant
to everything around you,

constantly scanning and surveying
everyone and everything

in hopes that your performance is rewarded

with a smile, a head-nod,
maybe with a Cam Newton dab,

or something that looked like approval.

But for me, wearing this mask
of masculinity, it was never ending.

I also knew that one of the rules

was that I must verbally,
and with great rage,

name, question, and call out other boys

whose masculinity
did not fit into the norm,

and that included calling
other kids a faggot.

I used the word "faggot" as a weapon

to enact violence on other kids
whenever I could;

and though these kids must have
thought that I hated them,

the truth is I wanted to be
one of these openly gay kids,

but my struggle with internalized
homophobia, self-hatred, and shame

prevented me from embracing them
and seeing their real courage.

I also understood
that the words "faggot" and "queer"

weren't just used for kids
who were actually gay,

but anyone whose gender performance

did not fit into the norm
and made others uncomfortable.

So I created as much distance as possible
to not be labeled as a fag,

and that meant also that I had
to be mindful of rumors,

because one rumor could cause me
to lose all of this "imagined safety"

that my many years of well-coreografed
and well-performed masculinity'd given me.

Though I spent an enormous
amount of time and energy

trying to keep on this mask,

sometimes, that damn mask
just wouldn't stay on.

We all know who this is,

and I am the biggest
Whitney Houston fan of all time.

In 1993, the Bodyguard album had
litellary taken over the entire world.

I was playing this album,
I was at home, all alone,

I had my favorite song going,
"Queen of the Night,"

and I was spinning around,
singing this song

because my voice perfectly matches
Whitney Houston.

(Laughter)

I was singing, "I got the stuff that
you want, I got the thing that you need,

I got more than enough"

- Told you it matched it perfectly -

(Laughter)

but as I was spinning around,
singing this song,

and after I've played it
about three or four times in a row

- I'll be honest, about 9 or 10 times
I've played this song in a row -

I felt a tap on my shoulder,
and there it was.

It was masculinity,
looking me right in the face,

reminding me that boys
don't sing Whitney Houston,

that boys don't act like that,

and demanding that I put the mask back on,

and I remembered that masculinity
represented something,

and that something,

just like the performance
of masculinity was ever evolving.

Sometimes, masculinity
represented acceptance,

sometimes, it represented respect,

sometimes, it represented safety,

and sometimes, it represented power.

But the performance of masculinity
never ever meant freedom.

It meant that everyone, including me,
would never get to know who I really was.

It also meant that I was practicing
a form of self-exploitation

in an attempt to achieve something
that wasn't even real.

That wasn't even real.

Over the next 10 to 20 years,

even though I struggled
to take off this mask,

I had come out
to some family and some friends,

I had a job, I had a partner,

all the dressings
that looked like wellness,

I still struggle to take off this mask.

Then I got lucky.

I was fortunate enough to get a job
at an LGBTU serving organization

called the Hetrick-Martin Institute,

It was there that I met
some of the most gifted young people

who saw themselves
as "at promise" not "at risk."

These "at promise" young people
showed me how to take off this mask,

these young people didn't waste any energy
reenacting scenes or reading from scripts

that weren't written by them and for them.

These young people didn't waste any time
worrying about disapproving stares,

and they taught me how to love myself.

They hugged me
with everything that they had,

as they offered me the type of compassion
that I had yet to offer myself,

and they showed me what real power was,

as they erased the fear
that had imprisoned me

and how they gained a type of freedom.

Immediately, I wanted to take off my mask.

That's me there in drag,
without my masculitnity mask on,

because I understood, at this moment,

that all types of masculinities
and identities deserved to be respected

and honored, free from shame.

No longer did I need the swagger
of a Jay Z to protect me against a world

that may only see me as black and gay,

or the bravado of a Deion Sanders

to pretend to have confidence
when I was truly dying inside,

or the comedic talents of an Eddie Murphy

to deflect attention away from myself.

I was ready to be free.

So now, when I see NFL star,
Odell Beckham Jr. dance

with the freedom of a young child,
I get my boogie on too,

or when I see NBA star Russell Westbrook
push and create new boundaries

with his clothing choices,

I find out where he shops.

When I see Willow and Jaden Smith

crush the head of normative
boundaries created for them

I pause, and I want to cry,

because I know we're all being educated

about how there is no one way
to be a man or a woman,

or to be masculine, or feminine.

I know that we're all getting
a glimpse of what freedom,

real freedom, really looks like.

So what is the cost
of always wearing a mask?

What's the cost of never being yourself?

The cost is never truly loving yourself,

and never allowing
anyone else to love all of you.

So we must do the work to understand
what masks that we wear,

and get the tools to take off those masks,

and when we must help others get
the tools to take off their masks,

and then I employ you to push
the conversation even further,

to find the connection
between toxic masculinity and misoginy,

and understand how the rule
of homophobia is really sexism.

Then we must push it
even further to understand

that until women are free,
men can never be free.

(Cheers) (Applause)

Then we must do the work
to start loving ourselves,

we must develop
new and sustainable practices

to give and show ourselves
love every day; every day.

Then we must meet some people like this,

some people who allow you
to show up in the world as yourself,

and someone who will give you love
regardless of your gender performance.

These types of individuals
allow us to be free,

because everything else, everything else,
is just wasted motion.

(Applause)