Virabhadrasana in the Academy: Coming Out with an Open Heart
Dr. Audrey Bilger
Warrior I
Step forward, bend front knee, raise arms overhead,
gaze up, and lift your heart.
Lesbian Counteroffensive. As I read this phrase on a piece of paper I found in my mailbox at school, I felt a shock run through my body. I looked around the faculty support center and could see that this page had been placed in all the cubbyholes. Upon closer examination, I understood exactly what it meant. I was the lesbian, and this was war.
I have been teaching English and gender studies at a small private college in southern California since the mid-1990s, and when, in the spring of 2001, I discovered what turned out to be a leaked conspiracy memo in the mailroom, at first I thought it was more of the usual brand of campus intrigue: conservatives versus liberals, traditionalists versus multiculturalists. Turns out, this document was a strategic battle plan drafted by an anonymous cadre of right-wing professors: a to-do list for undermining the college’s recently installed president and dean, who were perceived by those formerly in power as progressive and hence a threat to the status quo. The bullet-pointed memo included the names of influential donors to contact, along with other actions that, if accomplished, would almost certainly have toppled the new regime. Whoever typed up the document had left it in a copy machine, and some other individual had decided to shine a spotlight on this nefarious plot by making photocopies for the entire faculty.
When most people think about academia, they probably imagine a bucolic realm of absentminded scholars and hushed library aisles. Even though the widely recognized phrase “publish or perish” hints at the potential for hostility and strife, nonacademics know little about the abuses that frequently occur within the so-called ivory tower.
The Bigger the Sharks
My wife and I often joke about how, as rough as her male-dominated work world is—she’s in the music business—the academy can be even more brutal. The smaller the fish tank, the bigger the sharks.
As soon as I saw that some sort of lesbian “counteroffensive” was in the works, I knew I was the only possible target. My school skewed conservative at that time, so much so that before I was tenured, I was advised not to come out as a lesbian. Once I got tenure and made my way out of the closet, I became a resource for a number of gay male students who sought to reconcile their sexual orientation with this confining environment; however, in spite of my visibility, I didn’t know a single other lesbian on campus.
My conservative colleagues clearly felt threatened by me. Why else would they have proposed a counter attack? In military terms, a counteroffensive is, after all, a response to a prior action by an enemy force. What I realized as I stood in the mailroom staring at the evidence of their animosity was that I was exposed. I had been singled out, not because of the quality of my work, but because I dared to be open about my identity. My very being was deemed “offensive,” and my body bore the initial blow. I braced myself for a possible attack. I froze—clenched jaw, tight shoulders, and rigid spine.
Braced for Battle
Because the climate on my campus had already been chilly for me from the beginning of my time there—the faculty had only a handful of women then—I always tensed up when I walked on campus. Early on, I stopped wearing skirts and tended to dress in dark colors, even though I love clothes, and left to my own devices, I’m happy to wear color, pattern, and ornamentation. In the classroom and in meetings, I could tell that female bodies did not carry authority in this community. After I came out as gay, I began to be even more conscious of my body on campus. I certainly did not belong to anybody’s old boys’ network. I was something queer and other. Camouflage was strategic. I thought I could be out, and even speak out, but not necessarily stand out. Those who knew could know, and those who didn’t would, I thought, leave me in peace.
To complicate matters even further, when I first started teaching here, I had arrived with a husband in tow, who became an ex-husband shortly thereafter when I came out to myself and identified as a lesbian. When you go from being straight to gay, your physical body doesn’t change. You look in the mirror into the same eyes you’ve always known. You have the same skin color, height, vital statistics, and shoe size. You might choose to get piercings and tattoos; you might adopt a wardrobe that announces your queerness to the world; or you might, as I did, simply go on with your life and not display in any outward way the metamorphosis that had taken place. Having lived more than thirty years as a straight woman, I was unaware of my own heterosexual privilege until I lost it. I never imagined I would have to arm myself for warfare.
Admittedly, the battles that came to me were minor when compared to those faced by abandoned queer kids on the streets, lesbians and gays in countries that imprison homosexuals, or anyone in the midst of actual, violent wars. The metaphor of warfare was thrust upon me by my militaristic colleagues, who were engaged in the culture wars with me in their crosshairs, and I felt their malice seep into my bloodstream. Walking onto campus required a daily dose of courage.
The lesbian counteroffensive memo forced me into the trenches. I grew fearful—for my personal safety and for my career. I distrusted almost everyone I encountered. I looked over my shoulder. I even considered leaving this job that I had worked so hard to get. Fight or flight—those seemed to be the choices.
Meeting the Warrior
As the drama unfolded, I found solace in my long-established yoga practice. Each morning I would unroll my mat, quiet my breath, and move into a state of equilibrium. I first discovered the healing power of yoga when I was a graduate student, suffering from back pain and headaches. From the very beginning, my practice brought balance and stability to my world. Rather than tensing up in the midst of struggle, I learned to breathe into challenges—inhalations for strength, exhalations for flexibility. Yoga did more than just eliminate my physical ailments; it improved the quality of my academic work and my life.
Because I am a literary scholar and writer, I have always particularly loved the metaphorical aspects of yoga. In Mountain pose, my feet become grounded and my mind expands into the heavens; in child’s pose, I fold into myself and feel safe and protected. It makes sense that ultimately the metaphors of yoga enacted daily on the mat brought me solace when forces at my school conspired to do battle with me. I came to see my situation more clearly in my daily practice, and I understood that I would not have to engage in an endless struggle nor would I have to flee. Instead, I could be a warrior and move through the challenges with grace and dignity, continually renewing my energy and staying the course. I would take the warrior path and endure.
Warrior II
Step to the side, point right toe outward, bend knee, spread arms wide,
turn your head to gaze over right arm, and lift your heart.
D-Day
Once the lesbian counteroffensive memo became public, as part of what was clearly a plan to fracture the college, the faculty was up in arms. The administration called a special meeting, and I counted the hours as the date approached with dread. I knew that no matter how the discussion proceeded, I would be in the spotlight.
I couldn’t sleep the night before. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. I had a pretty clear idea which of my “colleagues” were behind the memo, and their faces kept appearing before me. I imagined confronting them directly. I wanted to see them punished. A few hours before sunrise, I climbed out of bed, stumbling in the half-light to my study. I turned on the computer and opened a file.
I decided I would confront my antagonists at this meeting. I had nowhere to hide, and I no longer wanted to. Because I knew it would be impossible for me to stay calm and say what needed to be said, I wrote a speech. I typed furiously, expressing the pain of having been closeted, describing the contemptuous looks from anti-gay individuals that seared their way into my skin, sharing stories about gay students who came to me to share their sorrow and frustration. The lesbian counteroffensive, I would say at the end, was an affront not just to me but also to the aspirations of higher education, and I expressed my belief that our community could do better.
At first, my wife tried to talk me out of speaking. She was anxious, but as she would later explain, she recognized the look on my face as one of resolve and certitude. She held me close and told me she was proud of me.
Before I left the house, I called a gay male friend, who was familiar with the politics of my campus, and told him what I planned to say.
“You’ll be so alone,” he fretted.
After I hung up, I thought about that point. I already felt alone. How could speaking out make me feel any more isolated? I wanted to be heard and understood. In the car on my drive to school, an idea came to me, and I mentally added another step to my plan.
The Moment of Truth
When I entered the large lecture hall where the meeting was being held, I braced myself for what might happen. Was everyone staring at me or did I just feel on display? My eyes sought out the people I believed were responsible for the plot. There were probably five or six in the group, I guessed. All present. I didn’t want to tremble, but I couldn’t help it.
What became clear right away was that the memo writers would not be “outed” at this meeting. Representatives of the administration spoke about investigations underway and about possible legal problems arising from the memo. I clutched the printout in my hands, waiting for an opportunity to step forward.
As soon as the floor was opened for comments, I made my way to the front. I had deliberately taken a seat near the podium. Still, my steps were unsteady, and my knees quaked. I delivered my remarks as forcefully as I could, looking up occasionally yet unable to gauge the reaction from my audience.
After I concluded my prepared statement, I turned my full attention to the room and took stock. I wanted to avoid experiencing the isolation my friend feared would be my lot.
“Now I need to know who stands with me in deploring the bigotry of this memo,” I announced. “I want to see a show of hands.”
I looked around and saw that a few people were shifting in their seats uncomfortably, but others looked receptive and encouraging.
One person shouted, “What are we voting on? Is this an official vote?”
I stood my ground. “I just need to know who I’m working with. Raise your hands if you join me in denouncing the memo and if you support a welcoming climate for LGBT people.”
Much to my surprise, virtually everyone—even those I knew to be responsible for the memo (covering their backs, no doubt)—put a hand in the air. I had almost unanimous support.
I went back to my seat and somehow made it through the rest of the meeting without collapsing. Over the next few days, my e-mail inbox filled with messages of solidarity, both from people I knew well and from those I had barely ever spoken to. Later that year, I received a distinguished merit award, voted on by the entire faculty.
Embodying the Warrior
In spite of the many indications of support I received, this incident took its toll. I felt increasingly weary and burned out. The memo writers were never named or publicly shamed. I saw them in the halls and in faculty meetings. Although the climate showed some signs of improvement, I continued to hear stories from students about their sense of alienation and anxiety. I kept up my yoga practice and benefited from the regular infusions of calm I found there, but I had yet to grasp the warrior’s lesson.
Warrior III
Raise arms over head, gaze up, step forward; bending from the waist,
extend your back leg off the ground and bring your torso parallel
to the ground, eyes ahead, heart lifted.
A couple of years after combating the lesbian counteroffensive, I was in a yoga class. As the teacher encouraged us to let go into a forward fold, I suddenly realized there was so much I wanted to release. I thought about my school and how I disliked spending time there. I harbored anger and residual fear. I was expected to go up for another promotion, but I resisted putting myself at the mercy of the bullies in whose eyes I felt constantly judged and found wanting.
The negativity that made my body tense up at work was not specific to me as an out lesbian. Academic culture is all about grades, evaluation, and assessment. To get a professorship, you have to spend years in graduate school and complete a PhD, then undergo job searches where you’re up against a hundred or more candidates. You must submit articles and books for publication and face review committees at every turn. It’s a veritable judgment wheel.
Yoga practitioners have long understood the value of being whole-hearted. In the Warrior sequence and in backbends, we celebrate the heart’s courage, and we cultivate balance and centeredness in the midst of life’s relentless upheavals.
On the mat that morning in yoga class, I followed my instructor’s guidance and exhaled into the pose, relaxing muscles whose tension I hadn’t even noticed a moment ago as I consciously released the burden I’d been carrying. I felt my heart engage and my senses clear.
I saw then that if I wanted to thrive in my work rather than continue to absorb the stress in my body and exist in survival mode, I needed to open my heart. In all the time I had been practicing yoga, I had considered the Warrior sequence from an embattled perspective. Life is a struggle, I had thought. Yoga will provide a refuge, a barricade, a place of protection.
Standing upright once again after the forward fold and preparing to step into Virabhadrasana, I felt absolutely light and present. My heart expanded, like that cartoon of the Grinch who reforms his Christmas-thwarting ways when he releases anger and makes room for love.
Fierce
Warrior pose, I came to see, is about allowing yourself be vulnerable, fiercely offering your heart to the world, and braving the possibility—the near certainty, even—of rejection, judgment, hostility. In the purest moment of the here and now, there is no struggle. Balance, grace, open-heartedness—these are the yogic warrior’s tools. With this insight, I could move forward.
I spent the next summer completing a yoga teacher training program near where I lived. I spoke to the athletics program at my school and asked whether, in addition to my academic offerings, I could teach a PE class in the fall. I brought my practice to campus, and in the process, I began to humanize my workplace, forge new ties with my colleagues and coworkers, and engage in a different form of connection with my students.
Ten years after incorporating yoga into my academic environment, I no longer tense up when I walk on campus. Instead, I straighten my shoulders, lift my head, and offer my heart. There is no separation between what I do on the mat and my orientation in the classroom, the contentious faculty meeting, or a trip to the beach, for that matter. In each instance, I try to center my awareness and embrace vulnerability.
Being openly gay is just one version of being authentic and true to oneself in an environment that might not accept your truth. What gay rights history has shown is that being in the closet—hiding your authentic self—will not protect you. When I spoke out and asked my colleagues to connect with me, I was, in effect, teaching my first yoga class at my college. The lesbian counteroffensive—whatever that was—dissolved, or if it continued, it did so in secrecy and public silence.
Colleagues tell me I paved the way for additional positive changes. Some even say they view me as a role model. I know that changing my posture from defensive, embattled fighter to open-hearted yogic warrior made academic life better for me, and I’m overjoyed to think that I help to make this life better for others.
These days I measure my accomplishments in terms of connections. I combat the tendency in the academy to be always comparing and criticizing. Battle lines can be barriers to self-discovery, and on my ever-evolving path, I strive to see myself in those who might call me the enemy.
Like a true warrior, I step forward, find balance, and open my heart.
Audrey Bilger, PhD, is the faculty director of the Center for Writing and Public Discourse and professor of literature and gender studies at Claremont McKenna College. Her most recent book, which she coedited with Michele Kort, is Here Come the Brides! Reflections on Lesbian Love and Marriage. She is the author of Laughing Feminism: Subversive Comedy in Frances Burney, Maria Edgeworth, and Jane Austen and editor of Jane Collier’s 1753 Essay on the Art of Ingeniously Tormenting for Broadview Literary Texts. Her work has appeared in Ms. magazine, the Ms. blog, Bitch magazine, the Los Angeles Times, and she is the gender/sexuality editor of the Los Angeles Review of Books. Author photo by Greg Allen.