Classroom Storytelling As Anti-Homophobia Education
This talk, More Than One Thing, is part of my ongoing commitment to Classroom Storytelling as Anti-Homophobia Education. I share my lived experience growing up as a queer South Asian Muslim — navigating identity, belonging, and the spaces in between. Through stories from childhood to early adulthood, I reflect on what it meant to be more than one thing in environments that often demanded simplicity. Speaking to a room full of racialized youth, my aim was not only to tell my story, but to offer connection, affirmation, and eight life lessons rooted in resilience, community, and the radical act of being seen.
Recorded in May 2024 at Sunny View Middle School.
Transcript Paraphrase — Edited for Length
MELISSA:
Hi everyone, my name is Melissa and I use she/her pronouns. I’m so excited to introduce you to Rahim Thawer. I didn’t get to hear him speak at the YANA conference, but students said he did a fantastic job — sharing his journey to finding his identity in a way many could relate to. And with that, I’ll hand it over to Rahim.
RAHIM:
Thanks so much. It’s really nice to be here and to walk into a space where young people want to hear different kinds of stories.
I know there’s a range of experiences in this room. I grew up not far from here in Etobicoke, and I didn’t come out until later than most young people do now. Today I want to talk about being more than one thing.
Before I begin, I use he/him pronouns. I’m a social worker and a psychotherapist — which means I work with people one-on-one or in groups to talk through mental health, identity, relationships, and conflict. Together, we figure out how someone can live more fully and feel better about themselves.
Being More Than One Thing
When I started to understand myself as a queer, non-straight, queer Muslim person, people would say, “Why do you always talk about the differences? Why not focus on what makes us the same?”
But here’s the thing — I had to talk about differences. Because my story wasn’t reflected back to me. I couldn’t turn on Netflix and see someone like me. So if I didn’t speak up, I’d be invisible.
People from dominant groups — heterosexual, cisgender folks — get their stories told all the time. If you’re racialized, you probably know what I mean. You might see yourself on screen, but it’s often filtered through stereotypes. Sometimes they’re even true, which is why they’re sticky. But even then, we’re fighting to tell our full, real stories.
So yes — I am more than one thing. But today, I want to talk specifically about being queer. That part of me matters. I’m going to take you on a journey from grade five to grade twelve. A journey of friendship, heartache, questions, joy, and survival.
Growing Up: Grade 5–8
Grade 5: A Spark
Grade five was a turning point. My teacher, Miss Murphy, told me, “You know what you’re doing.” That tiny vote of confidence changed everything.
I had nearly failed grades three and four. I had undiagnosed ADHD, a hearing problem, and I was labeled as the “problem child.” Reading was hard, so I stopped trying. It was embarrassing to fall behind.
That one compliment pushed me forward. Suddenly I felt smart. And that feeling opened doors.
All my friends were girls — not good or bad, just different. But the world is heavily gendered. Boys’ groups. Girls’ groups. Even teachers made generalizations. I felt caught between.
Every week, I had awkward moments: in gym, at recess, during bathroom breaks. I remember the few times boys invited me to play football — and how incredible that felt. I was ten. I’m 38 now. And I still remember what that inclusion felt like. It tells me something: I was always seeking belonging.
Grade 6: No More Recess
We moved to middle school. Rotary classes. Lunch breaks. But no recess. And I loved it.
Now as an adult, I love taking breaks. But back then, recess meant exposure. If you weren’t athletic or didn’t fit in, you were vulnerable. So I welcomed the structure.
I also started to like school. But that shift began back in grade five — with a teacher who believed in me. Encouragement changes everything.
In grade six, people started asking me where I was from. It was hard to explain. I’d just say I was Guyanese — because that’s what people expected. A teacher told me I was East Indian, and I clung to that. Eventually I learned my family is from Tanzania, East Africa, and our roots are in India.
This is what we call diaspora — when your family comes from one place but migrates to another. If your parents were born somewhere else, you’re part of a diaspora. That word helped me realize I wasn’t confused — I was complex.
Understanding where I came from helped me later when people asked, “Can you be queer and Muslim? Queer and South Asian?” I needed to know my past to claim my present.
One last memory from grade six: I hated gym class. I was the only one with body hair. I looked at myself with disgust. My culture, my body, it all felt… wrong. I started to dislike myself.
Grade 7–8: The Cost of Visibility
As I got stronger academically, I became more visible. But with visibility came name-calling.
“Why do you walk like that?”
“Why do you talk like that?”
I didn’t know I was different until others pointed it out.
I remember exploding once in class. I wasn’t actually angry at that moment — I was angry all the time. Angry that I didn’t fit. Angry that I was alone.
Choir was one of my joys. But boys in choir got mocked. I’d cry before bed, asking, “Why am I like this?”
So I focused on school. It was something I could control.
In grade eight, I found relief in my religious community. I’m from a Shia Muslim, Ismaili background. I had friends, elders who believed in me, and moments of genuine support. When I helped an elder, they’d give me a du’a — a blessing. That felt so affirming.
I joined every club — not because I was ambitious, but because I wanted to skip lunch and recess. That strategy worked. I even won an award at graduation. Some of the same people who mocked me now congratulated me. But I still wondered — was I liked, or just known?
To prevent being mocked, I tried to act more masculine. That wasn’t great either. Because sometimes, to avoid being targeted, I targeted others. I stayed quiet when people said sexist things. I even joined in.
That’s called punching down. And I’m not proud of it.
High School & Coming Out
Grade 9–11: Hiding, Blending, Surviving
High school was exciting and overwhelming. A new world. I laid low at school and got more involved in my religious community.
I had three solid friends. That was enough.
I calculated where I was safe and spent my energy there. That’s how a lack of inclusion can shape your whole life: your classes, clubs, even who you talk to.
Eventually, I came out to three friends — Arav, Alicia, and Shekhina. It was awkward. But they said they still loved me. Arav had a lot of questions, and I’m glad he asked.
Grade 12: Cracks Appear
Grade 12 is stressful for everyone — college, university, the future.
But for me, there was an added layer: What if my community rejected me?
Someone once asked, “Do you think being gay is a test from Allah?” I spiraled. I felt depressed, missed classes, and only got into one of the five schools I applied to.
I moved away for university feeling disappointed, but hopeful.
University Years & Challenges
First Year: Freedom or Lost?
University was anonymous. I felt invisible. I wasn’t sure if that was freedom or if I was just… drifting.
My brother supported me. He even visited a campus queer group to get me information. That was huge. He helped carry the load.
But now I couldn’t unsee the exclusions. The jokes. The assumptions. I started to retreat from my straight friends. When I asked one of them to come to a queer club, they said, “What if someone thinks I’m gay?”
That stung. You support me, but you wouldn’t want to be seen as me?
So I went dancing alone. Weekly. It was the best escape.
Homophobia, Assault, and Fear
One night, I was targeted at a party by South Asian peers. The slurs and threats were real. I felt fear like never before. That shifted something in me. Suddenly, I didn’t feel safe anywhere.
A year later, my friend Sean was beaten in an elevator. On my birthday. We rushed him to the hospital. And I realized — hate is not just opinion. Hate has consequences.
Spirituality & Belonging
At 22, I came out to my parents.
I said, “My friends know me better than you do. And I want that to change.”
Their first questions were:
“Did something bad happen to you?”
“Can you change?”
Thanks to my brother, I was prepared. I told them:
— I didn’t become this way.
— This isn’t trauma.
— And no, I can’t change. Nor would I want to.
A few days later, my dad said:
“I don’t understand this. But in this house, you’re family. And you won’t be discriminated against.”
That meant the world.
Eight Life Lessons
- Don’t always expect validation from people who don’t share your lived experience. If it comes, great. But don’t make it your goal.
- Critique isn’t blasphemy. It’s critical thinking.
- Sadness can be self-protection. Sometimes retreating is survival.
- Everything I was taught to hate about myself — I now love. I’m a fem boy, and I wouldn’t change that for anything.
- Oppression is intersectional. Discomfort in my presence says more about them than me.
- Culture isn’t static — it’s shaped by us. I am culture.
- Family love can coexist with grief. We don’t need to be everything they expected.
- My queerness is a superpower. It’s not just about who I love — it’s how I see the world. And I wouldn’t trade that insight for anything.
Q&A Highlights
Q: How did you cope with negativity?
A: I held it inside. And in hindsight, I wish I had talked to more people. But I focused on the friendships that felt safe. Avoided settings that triggered fear. Skipping lunch and recess? That was self-protection, not avoidance.
Q: How did your family react when you came out?
A: There were tears. Questions. Fear. But eventually — love. Especially from my dad.
Q: What about being queer and Muslim?
A: It’s tiring being asked to justify your existence. My straight peers aren’t asked if they’re “good Muslims.” I’m done answering, “Can you be both?” I am both. That’s the answer.
Q: How did you persevere through it all?
A: Everyone needs a sanctuary. For me, it was school, my community, dancing, people who saw me fully. Wherever you can be your whole self — that’s your sanctuary.
Being queer isn’t something I tolerate about myself. It’s something I celebrate. That idea — that you could celebrate what once made you feel alone — changed my life.
Watch the video on YouTube
Recorded Workshop hosted by the Peel District School Board — May 2024.
This essay was first published on Medium on June 13, 2025.
