TylerW
Well-known member
This article was pretty distressing to read. I can't imagine the additional stress you have to take on to insulate such a significant portion of your life from your livelihood, just so you aren't blackballed by work overnight. So if you get to the end, this article is, cynically speaking, Revzilla basically patting themselves on the back, so this could be another exercise in rainbow capitalism. But at least they've done the work to make sure that they're an inclusive company for all types of riders. That's a good thing.
https://www.revzilla.com/common-tre...I4qQ4C23nAngP4M5EsltTmaGx1VNASgBuH9wjIqIyFqdU
https://www.revzilla.com/common-tre...I4qQ4C23nAngP4M5EsltTmaGx1VNASgBuH9wjIqIyFqdU
However, the motorcycle industry has deep-seated, institutionalized, systemic, homophobia and transphobia that are barely concealed just under the surface — if at all. Over my years of working as a mechanic, a salesman, at the parts counter, as a warehouse manager, in customer service, and as an event coordinator, I learned that most of the industry still operates on a "don't ask, don't tell" policy.
In spite of that, some of the most celebrated pioneers of motorcycling fell into the rainbow of LGBTQ. Gay service men coming home after serving in World War II rode motorcycles and started clubs, the same way a lot of the straight service members did. We have ridden by your side, gone drinking together, fixed your bikes, bought and sold your motorcycles. But, the fear of losing our livelihoods and our lives has kept us in the closet for a long time.
I have always lived in the open, but soon after I started in the industry I learned that at work I couldn't be me. Openly gay, effeminate men are relegated to selling T-shirts and helmets, but I wanted to build and work on bikes. I slowly started learning to hide part of myself. I made sure to remove the nail polish from the weekend before I went to work. I had to have more jeans, more flannel, more moto bro shirts and a more "hell yeah, brother" attitude. Every general manager at every dealership I worked for gave me the speech that I had to look and act more like a "biker."
As soon as you are outed, everything changes. Coworkers stop talking to you. Customers stop requesting you. The service writers stop sending you repair orders. Now that you aren't getting repair orders, you're labeled as unproductive and your hours are cut. You quickly go from "One of the best employees we've ever had" to "This isn't working for us. We are going to have to let you go."
The only way to break this vicious cycle is to quit, look for another shop that has no ties to your previous shop, and back in the closet you go. Because I still have bills to pay and need to put food on my table. So I learned to lock the closet door better. I shoved more and more of myself inside, to the point that it felt like I was living two separate lives. Most of my friends could not understand the duality I had to deal with in my chosen profession. My personal life is full of open, honest, and loving people — those who love me for who I am. My professional life was hypermasculine, pathologically straight, and I went to work with an underlying dread of being found out.
I wasn't the only one. One Saturday night I was having a wonderful time with friends at a drag show and ran into a fellow employee from my dealership and their partner. He was almost in tears as he begged me not to say anything at work. He offered me all the cash in his pocket to keep his secret. That is how deeply he feared being outed.
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