Q.What do you wish you knew before you started to write your book?
I didn’t start writing with a book in mind–my only intention was to make space and time to process significant changes in my life. I wasn’t searching for some original or sweeping insight–I just needed to figure out where I came from, who I was, and where I was headed. A lovely side-effect of this is that it freed me to be more honest, more candid. I wonder whether knowing these reflections were headed for a book would’ve impacted how vulnerable I was while writing.
Q. What’s one thing readers should know before they start reading your book?
It’s not about me. Well, I mean, it’s literally all about me, but I recognize that I’m not interesting enough to merit a memoir. Instead, the book is an invitation to reflection and dialogue. I’m not interested in telling anyone what to do or how to live their lives, but I grew in self-awareness and awareness of the people around me from looking at my formative experiences and relationships both critically and with compassion. Instead of just tearing myself down emotionally or academically deconstructing my world, I actively sought beauty and joy, even in the most painful memories. I came to value gratitude as transformative, and that, I learned, was the fuel I needed to keep moving forward.
While these essays might spring from the details of my life, it doesn’t matter to me if anyone remembers my story–instead, I hope readers will return to their own experiences and relationships, to their own identities. I hope readers see this less as an exercise in vanity and more as an example of taking experiences and identities seriously, of unpacking them as a path to self-understanding and to discerning the kind of world they want to live in.
Q.What are your thoughts on the new Pope? Do you think he’s “woke”?
Habemus Chicagoan! I never thought I’d see an American pope in my lifetime, but I’m thrilled to see a Chicagoan, and particularly this Chicagoan. He was a real “wild card” in many ways–he’s young (for a pope), he’s American-born (historically, an immediate disqualifier), and he has lived in Peru for the majority of his ministry (the second pope in a row with roots in South America). To me, the election of Cardinal Prevost suggests that the College of Cardinals sees the future of the Church far beyond the loggias and secrets of the Vatican.
“Woke.” Not gonna lie–it cracks me up that this word has become such a lightning rod, that it’s hurled like an epithet. To me, “woke” is just a contemporary way of saying “committed to social justice,” and social justice is fundamental to Catholic theology and ethics. I’d be worried if the pope denied being woke, but when Cardinal Prevost chose the name Leo, he signalled that social justice would frame his mission as Bishop of Rome. He basically introduced himself as the woke pope.
Some background: Catholics love symbolism, and the choice of a name–for a child’s baptism, for the sacrament of Confirmation, for members of religious orders, and, of course, for the pope–is heavily and intentionally coded. The adopted names of popes signify some ideological, spiritual, or practical resonance. Wojtyla took the name John Paul II to honor his predecessor, John Paul I (who died, rather abruptly, a month after the conclave that elected him) and to signal continuity and stability. Ratzinger chose Benedict XVI to honor XV’s role as a peacemaker during World War I, something he aspired to, even if peacemaking wasn’t really a priority in his papacy. When Bergolio chose Francis, the name indicated a radical reorientation of the Church’s focus–not only was he the first to take the name; the name invoked the saint from Assisi who devoted his life to the poor.
And then there’s Leo. In 1891, the most recent Leo, number XIII, issued Rerum novarum, an encyclical that addressed the problems of the modern world, including rapid industrialization and unchecked capitalism, an increasingly wide chasm between the rich and the poor, degradations of human dignity, and destruction of the natural environment. I can see the origins of various civil rights and post-colonialist movements in these problems, but for the Catholic world, Leo XIII provided the foundation for “Catholic Social Teaching.” Over time, theologians have identified seven principles or areas of concern for Catholic Social Teaching–the life and dignity of the human person; call to family, community, and participation; rights and responsibilities; preferential option for the poor and vulnerable; dignity of work and workers’ rights; solidarity; and care for God’s creation. By choosing “Leo,” XIV told the world that social justice–specifically, the vision of social justice reflected in Catholic Social Teaching–would be his priority. Sounds pretty Catholic to me, but if you call it “woke,” I don’t mind.
Q.Tell us How can people construct their identity without falling into arguments or defensiveness?
First, think of “identity” less as a label and more as a window. Sure, it’s a way to establish common ground for people with shared experiences or values, and it’s a way to differentiate ourselves from others. But if we stop there, then our identities are nothing more than divisive boundaries. I think of our identities as windows, as insights into our experiences and values. And as with windows in a home, it’s a privilege and a sign of proximity to be able to peek into a neighbor’s window, to see into their home, but residents might also pull the curtains closed–if someone hasn’t opened a window for you to see into, keep walking.
Second, respect the identities people claim for themselves and don’t impose your identity language on others. This is where we could invoke the “Golden Rule” more assertively–if you want me to see you for who you are, as you understand yourself, then I can expect you to see me for who I am, as I understand myself. To do this effectively, I think it helps to prioritize listening when meeting someone and to practice the art of restraint, to think twice (or thrice) before imposing an identifier on someone.
Finally, remember that, even and especially when we share an identity with someone, when we’ve shared part of much of a path with others, we travel with different questions and require different answers. We miss the opportunity to know and bring out the best from each other–and to be known and become our best selves–when we start with assumptions, not questions.
Q.Tell us how important were Queer spaces to you while growing up? And talk about how they helped you see the outside world you felt trapped in.
I grew up with a great amount of safety and privilege in a lovely corner of the world, but one of the insights that emerged from writing this book is an awareness of how the world I grew up in was not built for me. I mean, if you look at me–I’m a White, cis, man who looks pretty comfortable in a suit–I look like I’d blend perfectly into suburban bliss, but in reality I spent a lot of time and energy as a kid trying to survive, to keep my head above water, and blaming myself for being insufficient, for never quite being enough, for never quite fitting in.
For gay men, you might’ve heard that one of our most important relationships is with our divas. Even as a kid who was floating and isolated, I could hear my loneliness and longing in Ella Fitzgerald’s voice. I felt bold and fearless when I sang along with Ethel Merman. I found language and empowerment (and a whole lot of joy) with Madonna. I’d never meet those people, but their art and their performances inspired hope in me and served as a beacon for me to follow. When I took a course on gender and sexuality in film and literature during my Junior year of college, I was introduced for the first time to stories that actually resonated with my experiences, and I felt myself connected and drawn to spaces well beyond the boundaries of the suburbs. Edmund White invited me into the experience of the Stonewall riots. Paris Is Burning welcomed me into the Ballrooms and Legendary Houses of New York. The Front Runner showed me that my life wasn’t doomed to caricature or tragedy, that my desires were real and valid.
Once I got to college and grad school and could really explore queer spaces, I found places like Berlin (in Chicago) and ManRay (in Cambridge) that fostered a kind of communal connection I’d never experienced before–places built by and for queer folx that gave me everything the suburbs couldn’t and wouldn’t. I had opportunities to identify and push my boundaries and to take ownership of my body. I got to know people as they wanted to be known and was able to blur the boundaries of race, class, and gender that were so firmly reinforced in suburban life. But, most importantly for me, when I stumbled into the monthly Madonnarama party at Berlin–I can only describe it as a sense of homecoming, of having found my tribe. And I’d acquired a new lens through which to see the world, one that brought into focus things I couldn’t (or maybe just chose not to) see–both the trappings and insularity of privilege and the gorgeous diversity of the people and the wider world.
Q. What made being a gay man teaching religion in Catholic schools so precarious?
I grew up in a very Catholic house–I mean, I’m the youngest of 10. That’s got to tell you something about my parents’ devotion. They were daily communicants, and I inherited their love and respect for religious practice, but I also inherited my mother’s resistance to the Church’s authority. She frequently reinforced for me “the primacy of conscience,” the idea that the conscience is the part of us that is closest to God and that one should always listen to and act in accordance with one’s conscience, even and especially when it conflicts with “official” teachings, rules, or laws. It’s kind of a Catholic version of civil disobedience. As a teenager, I was aware that, according to Catholic teaching, acting on my natural sexual identity was in violation of the teachings of the Church, but I never felt a deep personal conflict between my religious and sexual identities. I knew, because I listened to my conscience, that this is how I was created. I had faith that, in time (if not in my lifetime), like in so many other facets of Catholic history, the Church would come to recognize its error and embrace queer sexuality as part of God’s creation, not an aberration from it. So when I started my career as a campus minister and teacher of world religions, I started from a place of personal integration…
…but I was also aware that this could get me fired, because not all Catholics prioritize conscience over dogma and doctrine. When I started teaching, no one told me to go back into the closet or to hide any part of myself, but with students and their families, I knew there was a line–there were things I could share with colleagues that I couldn’t or shouldn’t with students. I knew that the line was a good thing for me and my colleagues–we all recognized that if word got to the wrong ears, my job was at risk, but because I worked in schools run by orders (not by local dioceses), a complaint about me would go up the hierarchical complaint ladder through the diocese to the Vatican, and the entire school and even the religious order could come under scrutiny. It’s not an abstract threat–this is how anti-queer elements in the Church bully schools and orders and how myriad educators in Catholic institutions have been unceremoniously dismissed. That’s a lot to carry on one’s shoulders. Despite this, while I wasn’t explicit about being gay, I took my responsibility to make–and be–a safe space for my students very seriously, especially queer students or others who felt marginalized and vulnerable. As my career progressed, my sense of purpose crystallized: I would try to be the mirror and the window for my students and could try to move the needle in Catholic schools toward more authentic inclusion.
Then I went to Seattle and heard Dan Savage speak at a conference about the It Gets Better Project. During the Q&A, someone rose to the mic with a question about how queer teachers in conservative religious schools could better support their students. “You’re not going to like my response,” Dan replied. His advice was to get her resumé in order. We all thought that working in an environment like that was a way to send a message to kids that they were safe, but in reality, he explained, the message we sent was that it’s OK to leave part of yourself at the door on the way into work. I joke that, in that moment, Dan Savage ruined my life…and I’m so grateful he did! I suddenly saw my entire career in a new and revealing light, and that set into motion my pursuit of a role in a non-Catholic school where I didn’t have to leave anything at the door. It’s been a decade since I left Catholic schools, but it’s really only in the last few years that I’ve been aware of the strain and the impact of that burden on my well-being.
Q.Why do you say reflection is a radical act?
Reflection was introduced to me as a tool for discernment, so I’m always surprised when folx conflate reflection with opinion or emotion, or when they dismiss it as warm-and-fuzzy or ephemeral. John Dewey identified the structure and power of reflection as a critical component for education, and since then the science of learning has backed this up. For Dewey, reflection is a meaning making process and a systematic and disciplined way of thinking. It has to happen in interaction with others and requires attitudes that value growth, attitudes like whole-heartedness, open-mindedness, and responsibility. We know now that reflection is also a biological tool for retention and understanding–the process bolsters our brains’ and our bodies’ ability to retain information and make sense of our experiences.
I think of reflection as a radical act for two reasons. First, it’s a tool for transformation that is totally in one’s own control. It helps us adapt to or resist whatever external forces or experiences we encounter.. Second, it’s a slap in the face to a world that wants us to arrive with answers. As a student, as a teacher, as an administrator, I saw the transformative power of authentic critical reflection work–not because reflection guarantees “lightning bolt” insights or magical clarity but because reflection pursues better questions, not quick answers. It welcomes nuance and invites us to get comfortable with ambiguity. It instills patience and opens the door for empathy. But reflection is most beautiful to me when it empowers, when it enables us to step into our agency and helps us find both the roots that can nourish and sustain us and the directions we can grow. When we hear people say that they’ve “found their voice” or “feel at peace,” they’re pointing to the outcomes of a process of reflection.
Q.Who did you write “six to carry the casket and one to say the mass” for?
Myself. Writing these essays gave me space to process and heal. After a career as a teacher and administrator, I burned out–in my first two years as a middle school principal, my parents died after long illnesses and one of my sisters died very suddenly. On top of all of that grief, I was navigating the most challenging job I’d ever had, and I broke. I took a year off from work to focus on life–and then 2020 happened.
I started writing weekly reflections for my newsletter to explore how I landed in burnout and to discern where I wanted to go, but the events of 2020–the fear, anxiety, and grief of the pandemic, the murder of George Floyd and the social reckoning that followed, the increasingly polarized and tribal political climate–gave me a different lens through which to see my life. After a couple of years, I stepped back and saw a through-line about identity through much of my writing. Current events had triggered memories of formative moments, and I had started to unpack the identities I inherited and the ways I’ve retained, adapted, and rejected them. I started to better understand the ways I’ve shaped my own identity, and I have a clearer sense of who I want to be, how I want and need to grow.
While I wrote the book for myself, I published the book for anyone else who faces a similar challenge. I don’t think it’s hyperbole to say that we are living in an extraordinary moment. We’re experiencing a kind of chaos that nobody anticipated, but I keep coming back to an essay that Arundhati Roy wrote in April 2020–she framed the pandemic as “a portal, a gateway between one world and the next.” Nothing could be worse, she argued, than a return to ‘normal,’ and we have an opportunity to re-create the world. I don’t think that kind of change comes from “the top”–it generates from the choices each of us makes, so the challenge that faces us is figuring out what to put down, what to carry forward, and the world we want to build. I think that question animated much of my own reflection–I needed space and time to figure out what to let go of and what to pick up.
Q.Do you have other books in the works?
I do! I’m tapping into my academic roots in ritual theory and my experience as a ritual designer and officiant to write a book about weddings–not an event-planning guide, but a fundamental rethinking of why and how weddings happen and the power of ritual to shape relationships and perceptions. In my oh so humble opinion, I think Hollywood has ruined weddings–as a culture, we’re so sentimentally attached to practices that are glamorized in films and on TV, but most of those practices are rooted in very different places and times and carry with them all the misogyny, heteronormativity, racism, and classism that are baked into them. I approach weddings not as a chance to imitate or repeat what’s been done before but to create an experience that invites participants to be fully present and to pay attention to a change in their lives. I hope to offer an approach that looks to our experiences, identities, and values (and not to Pinterest boards and expensive excessive consumption) as the starting point for creating a moment that effects a change in ourselves, in our communities, and in our world.
I’m also turning my attention to writing about teaching and learning and reflecting on my career as an educator. Like the essays in six to carry the casket, I hope to explore my experiences as a student, as a teacher, as an administrator, and of personal and professional burnout to capture what I’ve learned, to celebrate the many wonderful educators I’ve been lucky to intersect, and to offer a new perspective on education.
To learn more about Bill Hulseman, visit his website. To pre-order Six to Carry the Casket and One to Say the Mass, click here.
