I’m not trendy. Ask me the definition of
“chic” and I’ll gawk with confusion. Don’t
even consider inquiring about “American Idol” ““
all I know is that I hate the show. Clearly, I’m not the
crowned head of pop culture. But, like the most accidental of
triumphs, I’ve been dubbed cutting-edge. How, exactly, am I
justified as “cooler than thou?” Well, the answer
““ simplistic, offensive, even bizarre ““ is that
I’m bisexual.
According to teen sitcoms and popular movies, I’m
endearingly “different.” From “Queer Eye for the
Straight Guy” to the lightweight lesbianism of “Wild
Things,” queerness seems like the newest public
fascination.
But I’ve got a problem with this keen social attention: I
don’t want to be a girl from “Wild Things.”
Moreover, my gay male friends devote themselves to issues beyond
Diesel jeans and the battle against clashing colors. Certainly, I
commend the growing homosexual presence in mainstream media. But,
more than anything, pop culture’s vague, generalized
assumptions of the “average” queer person don’t
promise sexual equality. Rather, they often render the lesbian,
gay, bisexual and transgender community as acceptably different. In
other words, queer folks are portrayed as ornaments, even
accessories.
I’m not ready to be a cheap handbag.
When I was in middle school, there was no “Will and
Grace.” But in 2002, a whopping 25.3 million people tuned
into the tales of Will, Grace, Jack and Karen during February
sweeps. Moreover, “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” has
made Bravo the third most popular television network ““
broadcast or cable ““ during its time slot.
No doubt, there is something to be said for representing
homosexuality in a positive light. Even political outlook has
shifted: This summer, the Supreme Court struck down the Texas
sodomy laws and most recently, in a true victory, Canada legalized
same sex marriage.
But, is this decadent ““ even absurd ““ hedonism truly
the queer eye? Referring back to “Will and Grace,”
sometimes Will and Jack are absolutely hilarious. But, on the same
token, I wonder why every queer male on TV is just like him.
Witnessing one cliché and predictable portrayal after another,
I feel cheated of my unique identity, and branded with labels
I’ve never claimed my own. Instead, words like queer
don’t only represent me ““ they stand as profitable
products, consistently marked-down cheaper and cheaper.
A few days ago, a heterosexual friend approached me. To my
surprise, she expressed sincere and enthusiastic interest in the
Queer Alliance. Not only did she wish to learn about the
organization, but she also hoped to join. I was ecstatic. But, upon
casual questioning, I was left thoroughly disgusted by seemingly
inescapable homosexual stereotypes.
According to my friend, the men in the Queer Alliance were
probably similar to those from “Queer Eye.” To be
blunt, she wanted to befriend distinctly effervescent and whimsical
men, in hopes to shop and party with the most stylish of all.
To clarify, I treasure every member of the LGBT community, and
in particular, the rich and very colorful culture it possesses.
However, my friend seemed to believe that gay people, like objects,
serve specific, unquestionable purposes. As she witnessed common
homosexual stereotypes, she incorporated these images into her own
perception.
I admit I’m hurt. Stereotypical perceptions of queer women
““ introspective folkstars, tortured and tattooed women
warriors, and androgynous, crew-cut butches ““ don’t
necessarily resemble my look. My own queerness is constantly under
question, and thus, I sometimes borderline on defensive. Words such
as “poseur” and “fence-sitter” never rub
the right way, and I don’t understand why I must always
defend against them.
Even my closest friends have asked if my queerness is an attempt
at seeming hip. I guarantee that my high school years would have
proved easier without the lengthy, emotional process of coming out.
In fact, I’m still coming out, and it’s not easy. As
distant and inconsequential as popular representations may appear,
for myself, they stab at my most sensitive. So, if you’re
wondering, I’m not “trying” to be queer.
Sexual-orientation just happens.
I, however, am not a pessimist. This year I began to watch
“Queer as Folk,” a Showtime melodrama. Like millions of
other people, I don’t have HBO or Showtime. But, I heard
about the show and decided to rent video editions at Hollywood
Video. I was pleased to find both sensitive, compassionate men and
easy-going, approachable women. I only wish more people had access
to such a diverse range of queer characters. Perhaps, then, I
wouldn’t need to write this article.
Fried is a first-year history student. E-mail her at
ifried@media.ucla.edu.