The Pete They Wanted: Queer Identity and the Campaign Trail

Mayor Pete Buttigieg and husband Chasten at a fundraising event in Austin, Texas. Photo by Lawrence Jackson.

When Pete Buttigieg launched his campaign for the Democratic presidential nomination in April 2019, he was unabashed in revealing the platform he intended to run upon in the coming year. Clad in what has become his stereotypical attire—a crisp white dress shirt, cuffed at the elbows, and a marine blue tie—the young Midwestern former mayor of South Bend, Indiana, announced that his motivations to run included his aversion to the Trump administration’s current policies, as well as his belief that a youthful perspective was necessary for effective progressive leadership in America. Just under a year later, Buttigieg’s inability to form a supportive coalition of minority voters brought his campaign to a close.

Even though Buttigieg ultimately made the decision to suspend his campaign, there is still much to consider from his precedent-setting presidential run. When he announced his decision to pursue the presidency, under the roof of a Studebaker factory, Buttigieg spoke to what he called Donald Trump’s appeal to “resentment and nostalgia.” He then allowed himself to do something he rarely did during his recently-terminated bid for the White House: he spoke directly to his identity as a married gay man, citing the single vote that federally legalized his marriage to husband Chasten Glezman, a drama teacher he had married only a year prior. “Nine men and women sat down in a room and took a vote, and they brought me the most important freedom in my life,” Buttigieg told the crowded room of local supporters, many still in their grease-stained uniforms from the afternoon’s work. It was a stunning declaration of same-sex love in America, coming directly from the mouth of the first openly gay presidential nominee. It promised that Buttigieg was planning to run a campaign aware of the precedent it was seeking to shatter.

That same explicit reference to his marriage, however, remained notably absent as Buttigieg’s campaign began gaining national attention. As the candidate who temporarily possessed the greatest number of delegates in the Democratic race, following a contentious Iowa caucus, Mayor Buttigieg made it clear that the moderate challenge he posed to the Republican Party had serious potential. The unprecedented image of an openly gay candidate, aware of the long-disputed rights that allowed him to seek the role of Commander-in-Chief, was relegated into an afterthought of the Buttigieg campaign. While Chasten still accompanied his husband on stage at the conclusion of rallies, and campaigned on Buttigieg’s behalf in various Democratic strongholds, Buttigieg still largely sidestepped the significance of his candidacy as a gay man, resulting in a lack of support from queer voters. 

The narrative of courage and the queer struggle that defined the factory campaign announcement revealed that Buttigieg was indeed aware of the fraught queer liberation movement that had paved the way for an LGBT candidate. Nevertheless, the subject of sexual equity was notably absent in recent appearances, even when the campaign began to lose momentum in national polling. As Caitlin McCormick suggests in a recent piece for the Columbia Political Review, “Buttigieg’s success speaks to what level of sexual difference our nation is ready to accept in a president—evidently, that is very little.” Buttigieg’s sexuality was no longer integral to the success of a potential President Buttigieg, even at a moment when this symbolic candidacy could have preserved the longevity of his campaign. Instead, it was very unusual to hear the candidate explicitly mention his own sexuality. As a way to reconcile this silence, Chasten Buttigieg was dispatched to speak more openly about his life as Buttigieg’s husband.

The reluctance of Pete Buttigieg to fully embrace his queer identity throughout his entire campaign is an unfortunate reflection of the current landscape of LGBT+ acceptance in America and the Buttigieg campaign’s sordid attempts to reconcile his campaign with open sexual expression. While critics might argue that this attempt directly ostracized the work of LGBT+ organizations in America, it is evident that Buttigieg was carefully aware of the risk that he would be taking if he chose to explicitly build a campaign on the foundation of his sexuality. 

In her piece, McCormick critiques his campaign “as one which stands divorced from the central goals of American LGBTQ political work.” However, it is difficult to understand the challenges that would have likely befallen Buttigieg if he chose to be more outright in his sexuality. Following the Iowa caucus, a video went viral that depicted a pledged Buttigieg delegate attempting to rescind her support after discovering the candidate’s sexuality. Similarly, Democratic pollster John Zogby recently found that the key issue that voters had with Buttigieg’s identity had less to do with his identifying as gay and far more to do with his marriage to his husband. In other words, while Americans have become more supportive of LGBT individuals in recent years, the thought of a gay husband evidently still remains a point of extreme controversy.

With all of this in mind, it is not difficult to understand why the Buttigieg campaign team was hesitant to focus directly on the politics that allowed him to openly run as the husband of another man. Instead, Chasten Buttigieg was placed at various rallies and events along the campaign trail, openly sharing anecdotes of his relationship with Mayor Buttigieg, and campaigning on a platform of tolerance and diversity. It only takes a single look at Chasten’s Twitter feed to see a series of declarations of support for trans women and queer young people. If his husband campaigned on a return to moderate morality, Chasten Glezman Buttigieg attempted to thread a dual narrative founded on the historical precedent that would be set by a same-sex first couple. The reasons for this are simple: it was not Chasten who was seeking the Democratic nomination, nor was it Chasten who needed to attempt to cater to Democratic constituencies in the 30 states where conversion therapy is still a legal form of queer oppression. Through Buttigieg’s systematic decision to rarely personally reflect on his own marriage while campaigning, homophobic Americans seemed to be able to pretend that Buttigieg represented all of their ideals—male, white, and straight. 

The ideals of America have seemed to shift significantly over the course of the last two decades, with the public choosing to elect and nominate presidential candidates who better mirrored the diversity of the nation’s population. In 2008, Barack Obama was elected as the first African-American president. In his inaugural address, he spoke to equity and the right to liberty that is outlined in the American Constitution. From any white candidate, this reference might have felt generic and expected. When it came from the mouth of the first black leader of our nation, however, it was a powerful symbol of the ability to overcome. It was a phrase that harkened back to a history of segregation, Jim Crow laws, and an economy founded on slavery, while simultaneously acknowledging the pervasive racist policies that still govern our social ventures and economic markets today. When Barack Obama spoke about liberty and equality, however, his words symbolized our nation’s chance to finally embrace its promised identity as the land of the free. 

When Hillary Clinton delivered her concession speech on November 9, 2016, she made the careful and deliberate choice to directly address the young girls who may have been watching and dreaming of their own chances at the presidency. In a moving testament to the values upon which her campaign had been founded, standing upon a stage at the New Yorker Hotel, Secretary Clinton encouraged these young women to “never doubt that you are valuable and powerful and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world to pursue and achieve your own dreams.” And, through tear-soaked faces, a room of heartbroken supporters erupted in applause.

In his speech announcing the suspension of his bid for the White House, Buttigieg stood before a group of supporters in his hometown of South Bend, Indiana, and finally acknowledged the historical significance of his campaign. Acknowledging the cheering mass of community members and campaign volunteers, Buttigieg spoke to his campaign’s ability to send “a message to every kid out there, wondering if whatever marks them out as different means they are somehow destined to be less than, to see that someone who once felt that exact same way can become a leading presidential candidate with his husband at his side.” It was Chasten, however, visibly emotional as he introduced his husband, who characteristically expanded even further upon the narrative of queer love that defines his relationship with Buttigieg, telling the audience that “After falling in love with Pete, Pete got me to believe in myself again. And I told Pete to run because I knew there were other kids sitting out there in this country who needed to believe in themselves, too." Following his own remarks, Chasten wrapped his husband in a fierce embrace. It was a gentle and heartfelt image of the sobering, legitimate queer love of the two. It was an image that, once again, relied on Chasten to drive home the narrative of queer love. 

Pete Buttigieg was a novelty candidate. He was a symbol of queer liberation and equality on the national stage, representing a momentous shift in the gender and sexual politics that have governed our society since the advent of organized government. Buttigieg was also a brilliant orator, and was focused and assertive on a breadth of policy issues, speaking to his education as a Rhodes Scholar and his talents with domestic politics and foreign policy. Buttigieg’s resistance to his own queerness allowed him the opportunity to capitalize on the various characteristics and abilities that existed outside of his sexuality, and ultimately allowed him to rise from the underdog status of an unknown Midwestern mayor to a Democratic presidential hopeful. As that field dwindled down to two septuagenarian white men, evoking a more antiquated era of presidential politics, Buttigieg began to lose support with communities of color, while also finding his campaign unable to recoup the depleted funds it had expended campaigning for the Iowa caucus. It is difficult to know for certain whether a stronger public display of his sexuality might have allowed his campaign to endure, or whether his being LGBT was the very thing that ultimately sunk his prospects.

As the first openly gay presidential candidate, Pete Buttigieg had an opportunity to encourage equity for the queer community he represents, inspiring LGBT+ youth to never allow their identities to hinder their aspirations. Just as Clinton and Obama spoke to their respective feminine and African-American identities, Buttigieg had the chance to normalize the love a man running for president had for his husband. In many ways, however, Buttigieg did not need to rely on this opportunity to create a name for himself and his campaign. He relied heavily on his own scholarship, military experience, and careful awareness of a moderate base. The inspiration and encouragement of young queer people instead became the task of his husband, Chasten, who effortlessly became the symbol Buttigieg never wanted to be. 

Pete Buttigieg’s campaign existed as a symbol of what can come out of tolerance for non-traditional presidental candidates that better represent the landscape of America, after four years of a presidency dominated by xenophobic and homophobic rhetoric. Yet, Buttigieg campaigned in a manner that distanced his run from his sexuality, with his husband speaking to their love story while he spoke to policy. Given his experience and awareness of homophobia in America, there was no obligation that required Buttigieg to even mention his gay identity on the national stage, as long as Chasten supplied his usual anecdotes and embraces. 

There were only the faces of queer youth across America, sitting in front of their televisions, anxiously awaiting the voice of their hero. A voice that, save for its reliance on Chasten, was never fully able to embrace its own potential, stifled by a country not yet ready for change.