"I teach the largest gay and lesbian history class in the country," said Gender & Sexuality Studies Professor Lane Fenrich. "Not that size matters."
That sense of humor makes the 6'2" yoga instructor and dean of the Weinberg College of Arts & Sciences one of the most popular professors at Northwestern University. Before his rise to teaching fame, however, he was a first-generation college student who had yet to move away from his hometown or question his own sexual identity.
Growing up in Tacoma, Washington, he moved fewer than 10 miles from home to enroll in Pacific Lutheran University. For graduate school, he migrated much farther, coming to Northwestern University to study the history of genocide.
He likened his transition to graduate school to high-achieving college students who come from being top of their high schools to mediocre at a competitive university. He'd never had to study much, but slacking off was no longer acceptable.
But academics were only half the battle: at the same time, he was beginning to come to terms with his sexuality. Coincidentally, his graduate adviser had just started teaching the first ever class at Northwestern on gay and lesbian history. He signed up on a whim. Maybe in learning more about what being gay meant in a historical context, he could learn more about himself. Maybe he'd meet someone.
Both his love life and process of self-discovery benefitted from the class, but it also had an unexpected perk: it helped his career. Today, his course, "U.S. Gay and Lesbian History," brings in more than 100 students each spring quarter.
He attributes the remarkable popularity of the class to its subject matter. High school history courses often skate over the LGBTQ community, and few have had frank conversations about sexuality. More personally, the course helped him discover more about his own identity, and he loves bringing that to others.
"There's a moment when students are just exhilarated," he said. "They hear something about the past that really inspires them, and that's history at its best."
School of Education and Social Policy sophomore Katherine Ericson, who took the course last spring, said the historical content is only part of why it's so beloved. According to her, it's all about Fenrich. Frolicking around the perimeter of the lecture hall, he "makes the subject matter come to life," making fun of himself and engaging students with history in a personal way.
Although his class may seem universally beloved, Fenrich realizes he can't please everyone. His favorite critique was from a student who came up to him after a lecture to share that the course was "too gay for him."
Fenrich has faced more legitimate criticism about a lack of intersectionality, or how race, class and gender interact in situations of oppression. As a white man, some colleagues and students fear he may not tell the stories of minorities within the LGBTQ rights movement. He has a hard time hiding his frustration at this complaint. Since gay and lesbian history is a new field with major gaps in scholarship, he's put concerted effort into assigning the most inclusive and diverse texts possible.
"People want to know more about Black lesbians, and I'm like, 'Well, so do I!'" Fenrich said. "Why don't you go to grad school and write that book?"
Criticism about intersectionality has been just one change in the student body that signs up for his class. Over the last few years, he's seen a growing number of visibly out gay, lesbian and trans people fill his lecture hall.
As the students change, so does his syllabus. This year, he added a lecture on the It Gets Better campaign and dedicates part of a class to the television show Glee. After marriage equality, he doesn't know where the movementor the classwill go next.
Fenrich also describes a palpable shift from when he was a student in the middle of the AIDS crisis. Back then, students wanted to know more about the disease because it was happening, and they wanted to put that knowledge to use in their daily lives. When everyone in the room knew someone infected by HIV, learning about the crisis was much more than a typical history lesson. He's thankful for the greater representation and acceptance of out members of the community, though he notes that his pupils are still primarily "women and gay boys." Perhaps straight men, he said, are still not quite as comfortable signing up.
"Now when I teach about [the '80s AIDS crisis], the room goes silent, people are furiously taking notes, and it becomes clear that we've passed the moment," he said. "Back then, it was a vital reality. Now it's just history."