On "Being Enough"

 OR What Even IS a Titleholder Anyway?

“Over the years I've found the titleholders who have the most longevity and impact are those who do the work in the background for years before stepping onto the stage. Of course there are exceptions but I would advise anyone seeking a title to take the time to learn who you are as a BDSM player/activist/contributor long before running for a title.” 

I came across this quote in the comments section of a Facebook post with possibly the worst timing imaginable: the night before my IML interview. But this was not the first time that I’d come across such sentiments. As alluded to previously, in the mix of the many flavors of encouragement came those “hard hitting questions:” what clubs are you part of, what do you do for the community, so on and so forth. These really aren’t particularly controversial, by any means, and yet they never failed to produce some gut churning in me. Because truth be told, sure I was part of a few clubs, been to a fair few events locally and nationally, but, well, is that “titleholder material?”

A lot of titleholders, especially in my IML class, have been doing stellar work before, during, and even after their titles, and then there’s me. I don’t have thousands of fundraising capital to my name, or club leadership accolades, or the sorts of things that’re often associated with “doing the work in the background” that to some is highly recommended before even considering competing for one in the first place. And admittedly, while in the right lighting I suppose simply making my presence known in spaces that often skew significantly older is surely “work,” perhaps I’m just too cynical when I say it doesn’t feel like it is. 

While I don’t have the full timeline of how or even if we got to this point, I don’t think that it would be unfounded to say that in general, our expectations for leadership involves a workhorse mentality of doing everything, everywhere, all at once. Hell look at your average titleholder’s schedule and you’ll see what I mean. Fundraising, hosting, traveling, judging (oh do I wish I was worthy of such a privilege but I digress.) But what does that mean for those who aren’t as big of a cog in the Leather machine? 

Despite my parentage neither event organizing nor the bureaucracy of leadership have really been in my wheelhouse. Which, if one were to conjure the image of what one often sees (or rather expects) out of Leather titleholders, is about as hopeful as tripping over one’s laces at the starting block of an Olympic sprint. I suppose this is what’s at the crux of my feelings of ineptitude above anything else. Being elevated to the position of a somebody as, in the grand scheme of things, someone who is pretty unremarkable when it comes to output that actually matters in terms of community building. The numbers just simply aren’t there. 

And yet I still got on that stage last November, didn’t I? At least I had the guts to go and do the thing, right? And yet, so have thousands of others that’ve received the IML medallion over the years, which brings me right back to the dilemma of “when surrounded by the extraordinary, that’s what becomes ordinary.” 

I’m pretty privileged to have access to (and in some cases, richer relationships with) some incredible people. And yet I feel like I’m on such a different frequency to them. It’s this vile inadequacy that, even in the face of the rate of growth I’ve experienced that one could consider significant it has still infected my internal dialogue, always hesitant to grant myself even an ounce of charitability or acknowledgement of my present circumstances. 

I know it’s not that simple, that all of the folks I’d label “the greats” didn’t come out of the womb as these Leather titans and fully formed community leaders, but it’s all I know, and, dare I say, all that is celebrated, acknowledged, and seen. 

I just fear being lost in the shuffle as someone who isn’t quite there yet.