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Adllyship comes in many forms.

So much about allyship is helping to make those who are excluded feel welcome again. And there are numerous ways to accomplish that.

For John Piermatteo, allyship came in the form of simply playing catch. Over the past five years, Piermatteo, a straight dad, has been showing up to Pride events offering to toss a ball around with members of the LGBTQ+ community.

Inspired by the “mom hugs” and “grandmother hugs” he’d seen offered at Pride events, the straight dad thought that a game of catch was a unique and personal way to offer a meaningful father figure experience to those who might have been rejected by their own families.

Piermatteo first brought his idea to life in 2019 at York Unity Fest in York, Pennsylvania, where he sat under a tree, football at the ready, next to a hand painted sign that read “Play Catch With a Dad.”


It took several trips past my sign before anyone engaged,” he recalls on his website. “I watched people go by looking at the sign out of the side of their eye, then, on the next pass, they might make eye contact with me.”

Eventually, people began walking up to Piermatteo directly to ask “Can I play catch with you?” The exchanges easily turned emotional.

“ I lost count of the number of times we both cried. It was powerful.”

Play Catch With A Dad | Facebook

Play Catch With A Dad | Facebookwww.facebook.com

Despite taking a setback during COVID, “Play Catch With a Dad” has turned into a full on movement, with Piermeeto and friend traveling nationwide to toss the ol’ pigskin with folks with upward of hundreds of people per day.

So far, they’ve visited not only York, Lancaster, Lititz and Chambersburg in Pennsylvania, but San Diego Pride and Phoenix Pride as well. In 2025, they plan to add Maryland and Chicago to the list.

Playing catch is just one of those activities that instantly evokes the image of a safe, healthy, loving father-child relationship. And considering that at least one study has shown that upwards of 70% of lesbian, gay, and bisexual youth experience some degree of parental rejection of their sexual identity, it’s easy to see how this innocent offering likely fills a yearning for so many.

Piermatteo’s contribution, and the massively positive response to it, shows that where allyship does take action, it’s often the simplest acts of compassion that make the most meaningful impact. Yes, we need to fight for policies that protect LGBTQ individuals from discrimination, but sometimes…playing catch really is enough to say “you are welcome, just as you are.”

If you’d like to donate to Play Catch With Dad, or even set up a Play Catch With a Dad event in your area, you can find more information here.

Photo by Jose Pablo Garcia on Unsplash

Editor's Note: Raleigh Van Ness is a pseudonym used by Upworthy in order to protect the anonymity of the author.

It's hard to pinpoint the moment I knew I was queer. Growing up, I knew I was different. I liked boys because I was told I should like boys. I chased Chris for a kiss in Kindergarten on a whim and a dare—not out of any true want or desire. In fifth grade, I dated Brandon for his ball cap. It was a status symbol. It got me clout with the hip kids—the cool kids, you know, the girls who wore cropped sweaters and acid-wash jeans. While I had a steady stream of boyfriends in middle school, I did so to appear normal. To be normal. Plus, I couldn't possibly go to the Halloween dance alone, so I didn't.

I held Tyler's shoulders and swayed to Savage Garden.

Terrance sang every word of Boyz II Men's "I'll Make Love to You" in my ear.

But the truth is my eyes weren't for them, not at 10, 12 or 17. I was—and always have been—attracted to women.


The first girl I recall liking was my best friend, Kathlyn. She was a sweet girl. A kind and loving girl. She was also beyond smart. The bookish type. Her long, brown locks regularly covered her eyes. But there was something about her gap teeth and freckled skin that enticed me. It entranced me. I wanted to be more than good friends.

I began having fantasies which would make you blush and would make my mother ashamed.

In high school, I scoured the scenes of scrambled porn—which, for those unaware, is how kids watched X-rated films in the pre-internet days—for curved lips and hips. For breasts and bare buttocks. I became obsessed with women's reactions and the sight of their satisfaction. I wanted to know that feeling. I wanted to share it with another.

On occasion, I've flirted with my desires. I've kissed and caressed some amazing women in my life, but no one knows it. Well, besides a few drunken college encounters caught on camera. But no one knows it because I am living a double life.

I am married to a man.

I am not alone. According to the Williams Institute at UCLA, 4% of adults in the United States identify as lesbian, gay, transgender or bisexual. This means there are approximately 9 million LGBTQ individuals in America, and many more live like me, in silence and in secret. While living in the closet can be isolating—scratch that: it can be upsetting, enraging and (some days) it fills me with shame—during Pride Month, I am humbled. I am thankful. I am accepted and understood.

You see, when I see a rainbow banner or flag I smile shyly, coyly because I feel seen. Even though I am closeted, I feel a sense of community. I feel like I belong and I am understood.

During Pride Month, I feel I am able to celebrate myself completely. Fully. I've spent my whole life ashamed of who I am—of what it is I feel, want, need, who I love and what I deserve—but seeing others embrace LGBTQ individuals makes me love myself and embrace myself. Seeing others celebrate Pride makes me value myself.

Pride month reminds me of how far I've come. Sure, I haven't "come out" to my friends and family, but I have come out to myself, and that is worth celebrating. Acknowledging my true self is half the battle.

Pride makes me feel backed. Supported. Like I have a family and home.

I also feel an immense sense of gratitude during Pride. I am thankful for the voices of others. For the strength of others. For the fight of others, and hope one day I can join them. I hope one day I have the courage to be myself. Loud and proud.

Make no mistake: There are days I still struggle. I hate myself. I am angry with myself. I feel like a failure and a fraud. On these days, I convince myself I have no community. Until I am open and honest, I am neither straight or queer. But while closets hide things, they don't keep secrets. Silence does not take away my identity. I am a wife, mother, runner, and a writer.

I am also a proud queer woman.

Photo by Anthony Intraversato on Unsplash

Nervously, I reached into my purse and pulled out my ID, flashing it to the bouncer. It was 6 p.m. and I'd just come from work. My roommates were supposed to meet me, but they were always late, and tonight was no exception. So, it was with a pounding heart that I faced the crowd alone, trying to find the least threatening person to approach.

It was my first Democratic Socialists of America (DSA) meeting, specifically for those in the LGBT community, and I thought I'd found my people. Queer and political, sign me up. But as I took a closer look at those milling around, I realized that the space didn't look that different from what I was used to. I was still in the minority, because of both my race and gender. I was still being talked at by men who thought they knew more than me. I was still around people who seemed to assume that everyone wanted sex.

One of the only other women in the group came up to me and said "It's good to see another one of us here." "Another what?" I asked, a bit confused. "Another lesbian," she replied easily, as if it were obvious.


But that was not true. I'm not a lesbian. I'm asexual. And I had thought that coming to a group geared toward LGBT individuals—the full acronym being LGBTQIA+, where the A stands for asexual (also known as "ace")—would have allowed me the opportunity to meet others who identified similarly.

After figuring out that I was asexual, I thought finding community would be easier

I'd done all the hard work of figuring out that I was ace—I thought that finding a community would be easier. After years of internalizing heteronormativity, of consuming various movies and books where sex and relationships were presented as the ultimate goals, it was no wonder that it took me such a long time to realize that I didn't want that. And even longer still to accept and embrace that part of my identity, to realize that there were others who felt the same way. There was a whole community out there if I could just find them.

With the DSA LGBT event, I finally thought that I had. It turned out that it wouldn't be that simple. I kept attending events with queer and LGBT+ labels attached to them, hoping that I'd find someone who would understand. But I was realizing that just because we shared the queer label did not mean that we shared experiences. Many understood being different, sure, but not the difference that I felt. They still experienced sexual attraction, just not of the heteronormative variety. Sometimes, these spaces were even more sexualized as people felt comfortable expressing themselves in ways they couldn't in everyday life.

To find other ace people, I had to look elsewhere

When I was unable to find the community I was searching for by going to in-person events, I turned to the internet. Once I knew the terminology, I was able to search on various social media sites. I started following a blog on Tumblr that posted about ace topics. I began to see others post about experiences that mirrored my own.

It was on Instagram that I found a community of ace individuals in New York, where I live. They posted various resources for asexuals and even hosted monthly events. What I'd so desperately wanted earlier, an in-person community, was suddenly within my grasp. The page posted about a new support group for asexuals, and I decided to go.

What struck me first was that the room was diverse—there were a lot of non-cis men and a lot of POC folks. The organizers were women of color. As people began to share their stories, I felt a sense of calm envelop my body—I had found people who understood me. They had been uncomfortable in high school because they didn't understand everyone's desire to have sex. They had faced challenges navigating dating when sexual intimacy was something that may not even be on the table. They were older and wiser and made me feel like it was all going to be alright.

I may not feel like I belong in all queer spaces, but I've found a queer space that fits me. This space, and the people in it, provide me with the confidence to live my life authentically, to embrace the ace part of my identity. And when I inevitably encounter those who don't understand me, I know I've got a place to go for support.

This morning, the U.S. Supreme Court issued a historic ruling that protects LGBTQ+ people from workplace discrimination. In the 6-3 ruling, two conservative-leaning justices, Neil Gorsuch and John Roberts, joined the four liberal-leaning judges in the decision. Gorsuch himself wrote the Supreme Court opinion.

The courts are supposed to be objective, so labeling justices as "conservative" and "liberal" always feels a bit reductive. But we live in a highly partisan era and it would be naive to ignore the politicized underpinnings of judicial appointments—especially in high-profile cases like this one, with a 5-4 split along conservative/liberal lines, which wouldn't have been surprising.

So how did these two conservative judges end up ruling in favor of the LGBTQ+ community, which is generally viewed as a liberal stance?

In a nutshell, they didn't. Not explicitly anyway.


The basis of the ruling isn't actually about legal protection based on sexual orientation or gender identity itself. In the opinion, Gorsuch explains that Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 prohibits workplace discrimination based on "race, color, religion, sex, [and] national origin." What the court determined was that the "sex" part of the law is what LGBTQ+ workplace discrimination cases really boils down to.

"If the employer intentionally relies in part on an individual employee's sex when deciding to discharge the employee—put differently, if changing the employee's sex would have yielded a different choice by the employer—a statutory violation has occurred," Gorsuch wrote in the 27-page opinion.

The entire opinion includes specific precedents and arguments against dissents issued by the other conservative justices, but the gist of the ruling is summed up in these two paragraphs:

"An individual's homosexuality or transgender status is not relevant to employment decisions. That's because it is impossible to discriminate against a person for being homosexual or transgender without discriminating against that individual based on sex. Consider, for example, an employer with two employees, both of whom are attracted to men. The two individuals are, to the employer's mind, materially identical in all respects, except that one is a man and the other a woman. If the employer fires the male employee for no reason other than the fact he is attracted to men, the employer discriminates against him for traits or actions it tolerates in his female colleague. Put differently, the employer intentionally singles out an employee to fire based in part on the employee's sex, and the affected employee's sex is a but-for cause of his discharge. Or take an employer who fires a transgender person who was identified as a male at birth but who now identifies as a female. If the employer retains an otherwise identical employee who was identified as female at birth, the employer intentionally penalizes a person identified as male at birth for traits or actions that it tolerates in an employee identified as female at birth. Again, the individual employee's sex plays an unmistakable and impermissible role in the discharge decision.

That distinguishes these cases from countless others where Title VII has nothing to say. Take an employer who fires a female employee for tardiness or incompetence or simply supporting the wrong sports team. Assuming the employer would not have tolerated the same trait in a man, Title VII stands silent. But unlike any of these other traits or actions, homosexuality and transgender status are inextricably bound up with sex. Not because homosexuality or transgender status are related to sex in some vague sense or because discrimination on these bases has some disparate impact on one sex or another, but because to discriminate on these grounds requires an employer to intentionally treat individual employees differently because of their sex."

What's interesting about basing the ruling on sex discrimination—aside from the fact that it makes perfect sense within the letter of the law—is that it serves as a loophole, which these conservative justices are able to rule in favor of LGBTQ+ protection under the law without explicitly defending anyone's sexual orientation or gender identity. In other words, they don't have to voice support for the LGBTQ+ community anywhere in this opinion—the law regarding sex discrimination covers it.

Gorsuch summed up the opinion as such:

"Ours is a society of written laws. Judges are not free to overlook plain statutory commands on the strength of nothing more than suppositions about intentions or guesswork about expectations. In Title VII, Congress adopted broad language making it illegal for an employer to rely on an employee's sex when deciding to fire that employee. We do not hesitate to recognize today a necessary consequence of that legislative choice: An employer who fires an individual merely for being gay or transgender defies the law."

The court has concluded that "the law," as written,protects LGBTQ+ folks from discrimination because LGBTQ+ discrimination is inseparable from sex discrimination.

What's striking about this ruling is that it means these protections have already been in place for the past 56 years. In some ways, that makes the ruling more powerful than if new legislation had been passed adding specific language regarding sexual orientation and gender identity. On one hand, it sort of allows the court to skirt around the question of specific protections for LGBTQ+ people. On the other, it essentially reaches an arm around the LGBTQ+ community and sweeps them into the broad protections already guaranteed to everyone else.

With the argument being made by a conservative justice and signed off by another, that's a huge, historic statement and a big win for LGBTQ+ workers.

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