Finding Out, Ch13: Film and Television

    This chapter focuses on the various representations of LGBT individuals and struggles in film and television, in quality and quantity. They suggest that the films and shows that represent LGB relationships are one of the positive productions. In some cases, this is true; comparing the hundreds of films and shows featuring or focusing on heterosexual relationships, it is good to have some variety by introducing LGB characters as legitimate lovers. But when the only representations of LGBT characters are focused on their sexualities or portraying them as murderous and unstable (still focused on their sexualities), is that really a full and honest depiction? Sexuality becomes the whole of the characters’ identities, so they end up playing out stereotypes and having little or no meaning beyond their sexuality. It brings to mind Carl Wittman’s claim that “we’ll be gay until everyone has forgotten that it’s an issue. Then we’ll begin to be complete.” Once we can stop acting as if sexuality is the only thing that matters in a person’s identity or life, perhaps we can start building LGBT characters as the equivalent to straight characters (“straight” as conventional and conforming as well as heterosexual) and create a more realistic and sincere version of their lives. The problems faced by LGBT individuals are not always related to their LGBT identities. They are not always unique because of their identities. Until we can portray them all as people like any others, are we really where we want to be? 

Of course, homophobia and transphobia/gender discrimination are still a problem, and they should be mentioned, but there are ways of including the issues without making them define a character.Doctor Who and Torchwood’s Jack Harkness is a good example. As an omnisexual 51st-century man living in present-day England, Harkness occasionally encounters homophobia. He has relationships with both men and women, including non-humans. But when characters do bring up his sexuality, he acts like it’s no big deal, like 21st-century humans are overreacting or ridiculously preoccupied with sexuality when it shouldn’t matter. A post by gladkov on Daily Kos explains the character’s presence well: “[Torchwood] is about a character so confident in himself that he demands respect as he saves the world, never caring if his sexuality should be approved by others. In fact, in the universe of Torchwood, sexuality is not much of an issue.” Jack’s sexuality influences his character and the story--he flirts with everyone, we see his old partner with whom he seems to have had a sexual relationship, and he has a long-term relationship with a man (and with an alien, if we count his feelings for the Doctor)--but it never becomes his defining trait. Rather, his character is as complex as the heterosexual characters on Doctor Who and Torchwood, with the shows emphasizing his other traits enough that his sexuality seems far less important than his compassion, intellect, or courage. Later in his post, gladkov notes that “Most importantly, [Captain Jack’s] sexuality is one single aspect of a much more complex, flawed character.” Viewers are encouraged to concern themselves with emotional and moral struggles that could be faced by anyone--regardless of sexuality.

         The show even pushes boundaries in a way that gives a slightly queer reading of the character when Jack says, “You people and your quaint little categories.” If the fluidity between desire and bodies isn’t enough from the possibility of alien sexual encounters, Jack suggests that naming desire is restrictive and perhaps prescriptive rather than accurately descriptive of a person’s possibilities. Rather than the “queer” elements that Alexander, Gibson, and Meem discuss in Ch13, film and television should implement more characters and ideas that destabilize, blur, or challenge dominant modes of thinking about sexuality.

http://www.dailykos.com/story/2009/07/24/757421/-Yearning-for-Ianto-Torchwood-Redefining-Sci-Fi-Gothic-Horror-and-Gay-Romance

Finding Out, Ch12: Censorship and Moral Panic

It makes little sense that people whose desires remained the same after exposure to these themes feared that they would change the desires of others. If people like Helms had different feelings after being exposed to these themes, then they may have good reason to believe that it would change others, as well. The Hindu activists cited in the book as saying that Mehta’s film would “spoil our women” (320) bring sexism into the issue; they suppose that the women are 

1. so impressionable and gullible that they would believe and act out anything they see (even if it means facing great difficulty), and 

2. free of same-sex desire to begin with, even as Fire portrays a struggle that actually exists.

What makes even less sense is that parents advocate education and exposure to LGBT issues in high school, even middle school, but not in elementary school. If most kids--not just LGBT students--face homophobia in middle school, why shouldn’t children be exposed to these issues sooner? Clearly, they are taught that LGBT individuals exist from somewhere. If they could be taught in a controlled and accepting environment, perhaps the bullying and suicide rates would decline. 

In the Afterword to Heather has Two Mommies, Newman writes that “I’m somebody...who knows firsthand what it’s like to grow up without seeing families just like her own in books, in films, or on TV. . . Since I had never read a book or seen a TV show or movie about a young Jewish girl with frizzy brown hair eating matzo ball soup with her bubbe on Friday night, I was convinced there was something wrong with my family. My family didn’t look like any of the families I saw in my picture books or on my television set. My family was different. My family was wrong.” People seem to care much more about maintaining their own version of the way the world should be than about the people who are suffering from keeping it that way--even if the ones suffering are children. Newman explains, “I believe that had I had those images and role models at an early age, the experience would have greatly enhanced my self-esteem. And so I took on the challenge of writing Heather has Two Mommies, my only goal being to create a book that would help children with lesbian mothers feel good about themselves.” Letters from parents (lesbians and heterosexuals) and their children show that the book did help them feel good about themselves. Yet, by taking the focus away from the children who could benefit from the book (really, all children) and focusing on a “militant homosexual agenda” that corrupts children, opponents manage to control the opinions of the majority and ban such messages.

In Sir Biron’s Judgment regarding The Well of Loneliness, he judges the book “obscene libel” in part because “there is not a single word from beginning to end of this book which suggests that anyone with these horrible tendencies is in the least blameworthy or that they should in any way resist them” (328). By this reasoning, The Picture of Dorian Gray should have been judged as proper rather than obscene. It is not only Dorian’s death at the end of the novel that marks the narrative as acceptable; people whose lives are touched by Dorian have their lives ruined, presumably for indulging in the same pleasures themselves. In addition, Dorian goes nearly mad from the guilt over the things he has done. His death is not simply an accident; it is caused by Dorian himself. It is his attempt to escape responsibility and consequences for his actions that ends in his death. Basil Hallward serves as a voice of reason for Dorian, lamenting Dorian’s descent into “sin” and pleading for change. Wilde definitely shows that Dorian and Lord Henry are “blameworthy,” and Hallward is evidence of why they should resist those “horrible tendencies.” 

Community Interaction 3

There have been a lot of great events on campus, but I am restricted by a lack of transportation. After searching for events near my house and failing to find any (results were about “finding a therapist” and AA--disheartening), I considered other options. I thought, “There must be a community space online somewhere.” Message boards failed to offer what I was looking for, but eventually I stumbled upon a tinychat room called Gay Pride 17. With 1,034 followers and over 20 (average 40) people live at any one time, it seemed like a good place to start. Most of the respondents were aged 15-17, with some in their 20’s. 

LGBT spaces seem to do different things for different people. Gay Pride 17 seems to give Sandro more confidence, perhaps enough to come out himself, someday. 

sandro: here you can be yourself and [talk] about anything you need

sandro: like am not out yet but i really like coming here cause i see how people are so happy and . . . they are out

Sandro really sees the room as evidence that “it gets better,” that people can be happy and out even in unsupportive families or communities. For Georgie, who found the room after coming out, “LGBT space makes me more comfortable talking to my parents about it [being gay].” Jordan sees LGBT spaces as an escape, as an outlet for self-expression that is restricted in “straight spaces.” His favorite place is a gay bar. “I go every weekend, and it helps me so much...” Jordan said. “It feels awkward for me. In a gay club, hanging out with my friends, I can be myself. I’m comfortable around them because I can be myself.” When asked why they liked the space, why they were there instead of somewhere else, they replied:

ari: because i can be myself . . . and not be judged

georgie: I was introduced by a friend. There are a lot of cute boys here and a lot of cute girls here. It’s loving...you feel welcomed. I like being with people that are like me, and everyone’s understanding.

chip: i hate being 16 i gotta hide that i am gay

emily: Well I’m in a strict catholic school and my parents don’t like the idea of me being gay... I’m quite shy and i’m more confident with talking to people on here.

For a lot of them, being out and accepted was a problem. Chip, Ari, Sandro, Jordan, and others felt that they could not “be themselves” outside of what they considered a safe space.

All respondents felt that LGBT space was important. Georgie said, “I definitely feel like you need it. Even straight people need it. You learn--you see it from a different point of view, you know what i’m saying?” Indeed, a high school girl who identified herself as straight also saw the importance of LGBT spaces for non-LGBT folk. Like Georgie, she believes that these spaces allow more acceptance of LGBT individuals because they allow straight people to see LGBT individuals as people instead of others. She said that she found the group by accident and felt drawn in by the supportive, helpful atmosphere. Now she frequents the group because, even though she sees herself as different from them, she feels like she’s been welcomed into a family.

Finding Out, Ch11: Queer Transgressive Aesthetics

Alexander, Gibson, and Meem ask, “if, as often happens in capitalist societies,  art is commodified and accepted as part of the popular culture, can it still be considered transgressive? Are there ways in which art popularized and commodified in a culture can transgress traditional boundaries  by reaching an audience that would not necessarily seek exposure to that which is more clearly transgressive?” (293). I believe that it definitely can. Art can still make people uncomfortable and urge them to question the values held by themselves and by society. If it is on the edge of acceptability, then it pushes the boundaries of what is appropriate. It may be a smaller resistance than more extreme, outrageous works, but it is still resistance. Even after something becomes acceptable, even taken for granted, the original work is still transgressive--as Alexander, Gibson, and Meem point out at the start of Finding Out, we cannot judge the past by pretending that events occurred in the present. In the late 19th century, some women, such as Victoria Woodhull, advocated “free love” in sexually restrictive Victorian society. Woodhull, refusing to take back her statement that she was a “free lover,” said, “I will supplement this by saying now: That I will love whom I may; that I will love as long or as short a period as I can; that I will change this love when the conditions to which I have referred indicate that it ought to be changed; and neither you nor any law you can make shall deter me” (Schneir 154). This “free love” is now accepted: nearly everyone in America follows this pattern in their relationships by dating. Is this, then, no longer transgressive? Much of our capitalist system relies on Woodhull’s idea of “free love” as it is enacted in society. The idea is sold to us on holidays, in television shows, movies, commercials, books, magazines. Dating services and speed dating events are sold to us, so that “free love” itself has been commodified. Although it no longer pushes the boundaries of social acceptability because it has been accepted into society--it has become the new boundary--“free love” and Woodhull’s actions are still transgressive as a product of the time and place in which she lived.

Schneir, Mariam. Feminism: The Essential Historical Writings. New York: Vintage Books, 1972.

Finding Out, Ch10: Lesbian Pulp Novels and Gay Physique Pictorials

Both physique pictorials and lesbian pulp novels were intended for heterosexual audiences. They encouraged the heterosexual constructions of work, family, and relationships and condemned homosexuality and deviance from gender norms. Bernarr Macfadden “publicly denounced his gay readers as ‘painted, perfumed, kohl-eyed, lisping, mincing youths’ whom he encouraged other men to ‘beat up’” (Bianco, quoted on 271); Lesbian pulp novels were “frequently homophobic” (274) and “[warned] of the dangers of lesbians and lesbianism” (269). Although lesbian pulp novels were written by and for straight males, actual lesbians found in them places for themselves. They discovered a space in which their desires could thrive, a space that allowed them to insert themselves into the story and live out their fantasies. This is similar to the way that many gay men and lesbians created a space in straight musicals (focused on heterosexual couples) where they could explore desire by imagining themselves and their experiences in heterosexual characters. For example, Stacy Wolf says that gay male scholars “appreciate how musical theater is built around a female star, which, they assert, allows gay male crossidentification” (Wolf 356). Despite the intentions of creators to erase homosexual desire and promote heterosexual ideals, these stories often became spaces in popular culture that gay men could take pleasure in. 1940s and 1950s musicals “enabled richer and more fulfilling fantasies for gay male spectators to read against the grain and to cross-identify with than the pallid representations of actual gays and lesbians in contemporary musical theater” (Wolf 356). The “lesbians of heterosexual male fantasies” (275) in pulp novels were, as Alexander, Gibson, and Meem explain, often used to label female same-sex desire as problematic, undesirable, and dangerous. Nonetheless, these women transformed these novels into lesbian spaces by writing them by and for themselves. Wolf says that Mary Martin did the same by bringing a possible lesbian reading to her acting roles in shows like Peter Pan and The Sound of Music. Gender deviance and intimate female-female moments and duets allowed the audience to read the characters, relationships, and interactions as lesbian.

Wolf, Stacy. “We’ll Always Be Bosom Buddies:” Female Duets and the Queering of Broadway Musical Theater. GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies. Duke University Press, 2006. 351-376.

Finding Out, Ch9: Homosexed Art and Literature

With Whitman, Eakins, and Homer, there seems to be an emphasis on the difference (or uncertainty) between the homosexual and the homosocial. Homer “typically portrayed the camaraderie of men doing “masculine” things: hunting, laboring, boxing, and so on” (234). These men could not be seen as inverts because they were models of masculinity; their sexuality never brought into question their manliness--nor could a lack of manliness make them suspect in their sexuality. When John Addington Symonds asked Whitman about male-on-male sex, hoping “that Whitman was making a place for physical sex between men” (234), Whitman’s defense against what he may have seen as an accusation or a dangerous discovery leaves many possibilities. Was Whitman afraid of losing popularity? Was he reluctant to admit to himself that he was what we would label a gay man? If he called sex between men “damnable,” did he perhaps see it as something that was morally wrong while the emotional connection was okay? It is difficult to decipher his motives in the letter to Symonds without understanding the extent of the prosecution of “sexual inverts” or the various ideas about sex, sexuality, or gender in America at the time. 

Today, male homosocial relationships are encouraged, even lauded as one of the greatest and most essential connections between any two people. In many places, we still see a delicate balance between the acceptable homosocial relationship and the unacceptable, contemptible homosexual relationship. We end up with homophobic language that divides a gesture that is meant to be homosocial from one that is perceived as homosexual; for example, many guys will use the phrase “no homo” after confessing something intimate or taking part in emotional bonding. While the act stays the same (and even the meaning, in most cases), the perception of the act changes with whether or not it is homosexual in nature. A more striking example of this division is in same-sex interaction in the military. Military recruits are automatically more masculine than others by justification of being in the military, and many acts committed as recruits are forgivable as homosocial acts--even those that would be problematic and ridiculed as homosexual in other contexts. In The Culture of Desire, Frank Browning notes that “homosexual acts in the military are often ignored as long as the participants do not acknowledge homosexual desire” (217). Acts, then, are not what is threatening. The threat must lie in the possibility of disturbing an important structure of homosocial environments--of camaraderie--that would allows men to be “real” men while indulging in emotional and even physical intimacy with other men. Additionally, Browning believes that “only by excluding the prospect of homosexuality in a homosocial setting is it possible to police and exclude desire, and even then it doesn’t always work” (217). The men who write off their sexual exploits as relief rather than desire are distancing themselves from homosexuality in order to maintain a homosocial atmosphere. In effect, they remain masculine, their relationships legitimate. Browning asks, “Could that barracks retain the same sort of esprit de corps, the same sense of homosocial bonding (or buddy love), that displaces desire with comradeship?” (217). Perhaps Whitman did the same in his disavowal of male sex: Browning even uses the same terms, as Whitman called himself “the poet of the comrades” (quoted on Alexander, Gibson, and Meem 233).

Browning, Frank. The Culture of Desire: Paradox and Perversity in Gay Lives Today. New York: Vintage Books, 1993.