Guest Post: On Queer Visibilities by Tim Jones-Yelvington
[Roxane Gay / October 14th, 2009 / Check it Out & Random Meandering Thoughts & Young Bright Things ]Pank asked me to write about queer visibility and acceptance in the independent publishing community. I should confess much of my thinking re: this topic is unresearched and anecdotal. Some is based more on speculation than direct experience, and so, like Roxane Gay’s pieces (here and in the Luna Park Review) on race and gender, I hope this will be the beginning of an ongoing conversation. I am fairly certain I will be guilty of making broad generalizations – this tends to be unavoidable when writing about systemic patterns and realities. Please note: I’m aware there are always exceptions – but that doesn’t mean there aren’t norms.
Are there issues of Queer visibility and acceptance in the independent publishing community*? I think there are issues with queer visibility and acceptance in all communities. That said, the independent publishing community, insomuch as it invites and celebrates transgression, offers opportunities unavailable elsewhere for writers who challenge sexual and gendered norms. Ours is, after all, a community where radical folks like Dennis Cooper, Kathy Acker and Rikki Ducornet are revered by many.
However, I have at times found myself anxious about drawing too much attention to Queerness, to “difference,” in my work. I’ve got an internalized stereotype about folks in the independent publishing community, which may or not be accurate, but is nonetheless shaped by my own experiences as a Queer person within this culture: I often assume folks will adopt what I’d call a “post-gay” attitude wherein to “make too big a deal” about sexual orientation and gender identity is considered highly uncool – we are supposed to be “beyond” these differences. My assumption comes in part from what I’ve perceived as the independent publishing community’s association, however involuntary, with so-called “hipster” culture – a culture of young, mostly white urban folks described by many as ironic, intellectually detached and apolitical.
This is a gnarly issue for me, in that on the one hand, I am myself somewhat critical of gay identity as it’s defined in the mainstream. I believe sexual identity based upon what academics call “gender object choice” (the primary gender we desire) is arbitrary, a historically recent concept, and as a Queer activist, I’m far more invested in complicating and transforming what we consider “normal” and promoting broad-based social justice movement-building related to race, class, gender, sexuality, ability, etc, than I am in promoting a narrow platform of rights (marriage, military, etc, a platform that may not meet the needs of Queers for whom other problems, ie healthcare, unemployment, immigration, are more salient) for folks who identify as gay and lesbian. And at the same time, folks who identify (or are identified by others) as gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered, have particular experiences of marginalization. And it’s fucked up, when folks call attention to their experiences, to accuse them of creating a problem when all they’ve done is name it.
It’s considered common wisdom that when writing fiction, we should never treat sexual identity as interesting in and of itself. Generally, I agree with this. To treat Queerness as somehow inherently interesting would be sensationalistic, toxic. Yet to a certain extent, what is true of sexuality is true of every issue or topic – a topic’s perceived provocativeness should never trump its importance to our characters. Adultery, violence, death, for instance, are only interesting to the extent they reveal character. And so I am a bit suspicious of how specifically and frequently folks warn against overemphasizing sexuality.
Writers from marginalized groups face a dilemma – should we emphasize our similarities to the dominant group, or should we embrace our differences? We risk invisibility on the one hand, becoming ghettoized and/or “exotic” fetish objects on the other. But rarely do we ask ourselves – different from what? We are all of us constituted by multiple differences, “normal” is more an idea, albeit a very powerful one, than a reality, but the so-called “unmarked” nature of folks from dominant groups prevents us from articulating this complexity. That is, white folks have a race. Straight folks have a sexuality. Cismen and women (non-transgendered folks) have a gender identity, etc.
This is where I believe the independent publishing community can step up. As writers, we create our own narratives within the context of many pre-existing ones. Heteronormativity (the systematic privileging of a particular kind of heterosexual family as “normal”) has narratives. Birth-adolescence-dating-marriage-kids-grandkids-death – that’s a narrative. Although as fiction writers, we know we should strive as much as possible to specify our characters, I think too often we resort to narrative shorthand, relying on readers’ assumptions in a way I think reinforces certain hetero scripts. For instance – I cannot tell you how many 1st-person stories I’ve read by male authors who make constant reference to a character called “my wife” without ever particularizing this woman’s personality, needs, or role in the protagonist’s life.
Similarly, I’ve noticed existing narratives about gay identity shape how my work is received. For instance, I’m more or less completely disinterested in the “coming out” narrative, but have found it haunts nearly all my stories with gay characters. In my first draft of one longer story, I made what I thought was a throwaway reference (reminder: every word matters) to a fight the protagonist once had with his family. One woman who reviewed my draft latched onto this sentence and wanted more – what was the source of his conflict with his parents? Was it sexuality? How did they respond to him coming out? From an artistic standpoint, this reviewer’s questions were totally fair – she wanted to better understand my character’s background. But her feedback reminded me that even when I consciously avoid prevalent narratives, they continue to shape how I’m read.
As writers and editors in the independent publishing community, I think we have unique opportunities to reinvent and complicate dominant narratives. Many “indie lit” writers already excel at making the normal strange. Some of my favorite writers in the independent publishing community are so-called “straight” folks who write what strike me as highly non-normative heterosexualities, ie Spencer Dew’s fetishists, my friend Meg Pokrass’s wacky women, or Matt Bell’s conjoined twin sex worker in “The Girls of 2112” from Monkeybicycle 6.
All of us write, read and edit from particular social locations shaped by race, class, gender, sexuality, ability, etc. I believe awareness of our social location and how it shapes our reading, writing and editing, only makes the art we create richer and more transgressive.
*I think it’s important to provide a tentative definition of this term “independent publishing community.” In the discussion thread for Roxane Gay’s Pank blog post on race and gender, someone posed a reasonable question – after all, isn’t “independent publishing” a distribution mechanism available to any who have the will and resources to initiate their own projects? …This is not what I mean by “independent publishing community.” I am referring, rather, to a particular loose network or networks of writers, many younger, emerging and internet-based (although this is not necessarily exclusively the case), connected to one another by publications, social networking tools, local reading series, etc. This community’s borders cannot be clearly demarcated, yet this community is real to me, is where I spend much of my time socializing, gossiping, forging relationships, etc.
I would like to respond to this statement: “Although as fiction writers, we know we should strive as much as possible to specify our characters, I think too often we resort to narrative shorthand, relying on readers’ assumptions in a way I think reinforces certain hetero scripts. For instance – I cannot tell you how many 1st-person stories I’ve read by male authors who make constant reference to a character called ‘my wife’ without ever particularizing this woman’s personality, needs, or role in the protagonist’s life.”
Re: all these stories you’ve read by male authors whose narrators talk about a “wife” without “particularizing” her–those stories surely are not all of a piece; they differ, perhaps widely, from each other (I assume). Each narrator has his own reasons for not describing “the wife”–and these reasons help define that narrator for us.
I am guilty of writing stories in which there is “a husband”–but he is never described or “particularized.” Reviewers have said, Who is the husband? Describe him. How does he feel? Show him to us. And I’m like, No. I won’t. I don’t want to. Let John Updike tell us about men! I am not talking about men here! I am making a conscious choice not to talk about men! So…a narrator’s avoidance of talking about the “significant other” can tell us something (perhaps a lot) about that narrator. I don’t believe that a good story must, be definition, include detailed description of the narrator’s significant other (whoever he or she or it may be! and whatever his/her/its sexual orientation)–and I don’t believe that a writer’s choice to omit description of a significant other necessarily “reinforces certain … scripts.” In fact, not describing the significant other can be a device that the writer is using to work against those scripts!
Is my point here germane? Perhaps not. Perhaps it’s not apropos to your topic. I’m merely voicing my immediate reaction to part of what you said here (which is all quite interesting).
If you’re choosing not to write about men, why does your “Husband” even appear? I think Tim’s point was that writers get lazy and choose not to make interesting characters because it’s easier to take advantage of what he or she deems as the cultural norm.
But if you’re choosing not to write about men, why does a man appear at all? Simply to admit that men exist in the world? I’d say that’s a given at this point and would require no mentioning in the same way that you wouldn’t need to describe that your characters breathed air or they were held down by gravity. Unless we’re talking about a genre piece.
Granted, it could say a lot about a narrator to withhold that but in the terms your describing I’d say that you’re falling into the same pit that Tim’s describing:
appealing to the culture’s preconceived notions about men and husbands instead of taking the time to make a character a living, breathing person.
It’s not my “husband.” It’s the character’s “husband.” She has a “husband.” But does he have to take up too much space in the story?
“But if you’re choosing not to write about men, why does a man appear at all? Simply to admit that men exist in the world?”
Yes. To admit that men exist in the world. I suppose this must be admitted.
Not to make light of this argument, but i do agree with both Ellen and with Chris – and i have evidence, that yes, men do exist.
Sometimes, I like my character to be married, but don’t want the marriage to be an active part of the story. In that case, I’d write something like, “Her husband often traveled, which left Lily a bit bored and interested feeding feral cats.”
true love.
Thanks Chris, you absolutely understood my point.
Knowing Ellen’s writing, I highly doubt it would ever read as lazy, but I think it’s hard to move this part of the conversation beyond abstraction w/ a specific text and character in front of us to dissect.
Actually, the more I think about this, the more I feel like in the stories I’m describing, the wives are characters, may even play a prominent role in the narrative, but play that role generically, whereas I think Ellen’s husbands, as she’s describing them, really are of little import to the narrative, which is possibly something different. Also, the gender politics are relevant, I think… considering patriarchy, dismissal of husbands may potentially have different significance, possibly be less “normative.”
I found this passage interesting: ” Many “indie lit” writers already excel at making the normal strange. Some of my favorite writers in the independent publishing community are so-called “straight” folks who write what strike me as highly non-normative heterosexualities, ie Spencer Dew’s fetishists, my friend Meg Pokrass’s wacky women, or Matt Bell’s conjoined twin sex worker in “The Girls of 2112” from Monkeybicycle 6.” I think the big thing here is that regardless of whether sexuality of these characters, they’re interesting because of they are viewed as “normal.” The big question is how to shift the paradigm in regards to what we see as “normal.” The quirky is always interesting, whether it regards sexuality or something else which is uncommon. As for those who ask questions, who want more- good! Wanting more is always a good thing!
This is great. I’m very happy to see this being addressed from a sexual politics angle. Somehow the systemic architecture always manages to marginalize each group differently, so the problems inherent to Queers is different than it is for Hmongs, but the role of artists in addressing these problems is usually the same; question hegemony.
Though yesterday I found myself re-evaluating my perspective on how art makes the world a better place. Like, I wasn’t happy with my nebulous conviction that just by writing poetry, I was solving hunger and AIDS, and I wanted to know how I can address these issues more directly. What would my next book be about, if I held conscious to my goal of bettering the world? Where do I place that intentionality when I begin a poem? I think foregrounding social justice as a starting point results in bad writing.
So I like the generality you’re approaching the subject with. I feel like an “awareness of social location” would compel me to make my life good so that, writing from my person, my art will reflect that same goodness. And in this way, with these convictions, I am liberated to write whatever I want — even a gay-bashing story, or a racist story.
Ellen, what you’re saying makes total sense.
I intended to make a point abt how, when writing from or about a norm, or dominant narrative, certain things may be taken for granted or assumed by the writer, probably unconsciously, and I believe developing some consciousness about that (which is maybe really just an awareness of how privilege operates to blind us to ways our experiences are not universal) is generally enriching to the writer and their work. I would never want to be prescriptive about any particular writer’s content — I’m as opposed to that as you.
Adam — yes, I think I like what your saying abt generality. I agree stuff written toward a particular political end is generally shitty and also — I know from experience feeling beholden to particular social justice movement communities (what will they say when they read this!?) can be artistically crippling, but I think everything we write is in some way shaped by our values and worldview, whether consciously or unconsciously.
Hi Tim,
Thank you for this eloquent post. Your observations on gender object choice, the dilemmas marginalized writers face between emphasizing similarities or embracing difference, and heteronormative narratives are astutely addressed. Thanks!
Great post, Tim.
What about how people portray themselves in regard to their sexual preference as actual people, in the indie lit community?
By how folks portray themselves, you mean like comments individuals make on message boards, in blogs, etc and the environment they create with those comments? I think that’s a really important conversation… and I think some of my initial thoughts veered in that direction, but to be perfectly honest, I think maybe I was afraid of going there — it’s sort of inherently accusatory, right? For instance, if I were to say something like, “The way indie lit people talk about gender & sexuality, or the way indie lit people project their own gender and sexuality in this or that forum makes me feel less safe… or less ‘represented,’ or somehow marginalized,” it would be hard to do that intelligibly w/o naming those “forums,” and then people would not hear it as a systemic critique, they would be more likely to hear it as a critique of individuals, and probably everybody would be all, “Tim called so-and-so homophobic,” which wouldn’t really have been my goal.
haha- good point. But honestly, I find that discussion more relevant than how people portray anyone – men women gays straights husbands children- in fiction. Fiction to me is wild and free in regard to depiction, not though in terms of underlying moral meaning (this is a nod to Adam’s point I guess). But how everyone interacts in the “scene” is more significant to me but yeah- I’m not gonna go there either. Too heavy and too accusatory as you say.
Tim,
I am waiting for characters that sincerely believe that they have had sexual relations with extraterrestrials to begin to come out into the independent publishing community with their flashes. I feel sorry for the cultural repression that these folks face in our society. The fact that some of them would reveal Queer or inter-racial tendencies I hope would not deter us from accepting what is so often taken as mental instability, schizophrenia or a hotness of the libidinal imagination. It is not enough that they get clinical exposure on cable television (History Channel). If we can learn to accept them then possibly there is hope that we could move on to embrace the celibate and religious ecstatic communities.
Dear Mr Orgrease,
I too hope those ET fuckers (fuckers of ET) tell stories of their encounters, so long as said encounters involve slime.
Tim: Why, yes, of multicolored rainbow hues, yes, a rowdy chorus of intergalactic, “Slime me!”