There isn't a singular face of the LGBTQ+ community, so why is only one ever shown?
As a queer bookworm, I am always looking for queer fiction to read, as I am desperate for the representation. I’ve been reading fiction my entire life, but I’ve only really been reading queer literature since 2018. And I have to ask, why? Why is it, that I, a queer person who loves to read, and who especially loves to read adorable YA romance / coming of age novels, has only read queer fiction for the past two years? I’ll tell you why.
Queer fiction, despite being around for centuries, has only recently been popularised in the YA community. Admittedly, queer YA books have been a thing for 50 years now, popularising in 2010, but I’ve only known about it for the past two years. This wasn’t from me not caring. I’ve been a huge advocate for normalising the queer community since I was barely a teen, way before I realised I was queer. I would prowl the young adult and teen sections of Waterstones for ages hoping to find my next favourite book. And yes, I may have come across one or two queer coming of age books in my time, but they were minimal, and they didn’t stand out to me.
Until bam. The release of the 2018 movie Love Simon was announced. By this point, I had realised I wasn’t straight. I’d noticed that the attraction I felt to girls wasn’t just something that everyone felt, that not every girl would think ‘oh gosh, she’s so pretty. If I was gay, I’d totally love to date her.’ And the announcement of this film made me feel seen. For one, a coming of age romance movie wasn’t a typical heterosexual one. This kid had a secret. A secret that I knew all too well.
I knew what it was like to hide a part of myself from my family. Some of my friends knew, and I didn’t try to hide it, I just didn’t always talk about it. But with my family, it was a different situation. I didn’t want to tell them because, in some ways, I didn’t think I should have to. Like Simon points out in the movie, straight people don’t have to come out, so why should queer people? But admittedly, I think, like Simon, I used that as an excuse. I was scared. Not because my family are homophobic, I just didn’t know how they’d react to me. I didn’t know if they’d question me, or accept me, or think it was ‘just a phase’. So I stayed silent. Every time something about Pride came on the news, or a gay couple were on TV, I felt that typical ‘gay panic’, waiting for a comment or a joke.
I’m still not out to most of my family, although it wouldn’t surprise me if most of them know; that they’ve just agreed to keep it quiet until I brought it up. I remember one time, before I even figured myself out, my oldest cousin asked me if I was dating a boy, ‘or a girl’ she added, without a trace of mockery, but with a tone of reassurance. That it was fine, and nothing to worry about if I was. This reassured me that it was okay, even though I didn’t realise at the time why that meant so much to me. I don’t think she even remembers that, but it’s something that has stuck with me for years. I still feel that gay panic every time something happens. I still anxiously wait for a comment to be passed. I’m not ashamed of being queer, absolutely not. I love it. It’s a beautiful thing. It’s just a step that I still haven’t taken. I want it to be done my way.
Like Simon. I saw the film the day it was released, and it was the first time I was able to cry in the cinema. In past years, I’d been mocked by my family for being heartless, as they’d be crying their eyes out in the cinema, or the Theatre, and I’d just be sat there. Yes, I’d be moved, I’d feel emotional. But I wouldn’t cry. I couldn’t. But, in 2018, for the first time, I felt seen. I knew the pain Simon was going through. I knew how it felt for him to have this huge secret. I knew that fear that he felt about being outed. And I couldn’t help it. There, sat in a half-full room with people I knew to be queer, I cried. It was truly beautiful. I know that it has helped so many people. It helped me, and countless other teens, come out to their family. I watched this film with my mam and came out to her at the end of it. I know the film isn’t perfect. And I can’t even fully relate with Simon because he doesn’t fully represent me. But it was the first time I had seen something like this. It was the first time there was a queer coming out, coming of age and queer romance story, and it was aimed at people my age, and younger. It was mainstream. For the first time that I’d ever seen, there was an actual queer film being heavily publicised. The trailer was everywhere. There were posters for it everywhere. And it came from a book.
For the first time, after watching this film, I became aware of queer literature. For the first time, I saw it become a mainstream topic. Other queer books, ones just as old as Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda, sometimes older, were coming into conversation. They were being shown off in bookstores. There were whole displays about queer books, especially ones in the YA genre. All of a sudden, I felt seen. I felt loved. But now, I’m realising that I’m still not being fully represented.
You see, as much as I adore the fact that queer lit is now such a huge thing, I can’t help but notice that the more mainstream ones have several things in common. The majority of them feature White, cis, gay men. It’s beautiful that they’re being represented. I love it. They’re some of my favourite books. And yes, I feel represented that there’re queer books out there. But they don’t represent me. Yes, I’m White, and I’m cis. But I’m a queer girl, and there just aren’t that many popular novels about queer women. And when I do see them, they’re usually about older women. There are barely any YA novels with bisexual, or queer-identifying teen girls. Or at least, if there are any, they’re not mainstream. They’re not as publicised as the likes of Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda, or any Adam Silvera book. I love them, I absolutely do, and I will advocate for them as long as I have breath in my lungs. But White, cis, gay men ARE NOT the face of the LGBTQ+ community. There are so many identities in our beautiful community, but they’re hidden. And this isn’t really anybody’s fault. It’s just how it is. But it does hurt.
I think that’s one of the reasons why Leah on the Offbeat means so much to me. The main character is a plus sized bisexual girl. This book makes me feel more seen than anything else I’ve ever read, and I think everybody needs to feel that experience. Because too many people in the LGBTQ+ community don’t see themselves represented enough in literature. And in 2020, that just isn’t good enough.
And it’s even worse in films. There are so many issues with how queer people, queer women in particular, are represented. And this isn’t to say that the films are inherently bad, because I’m sure they’re not. It’s simply that the representation sucks, and it’s often super problematic. In queer movies, it’s not uncommon for there to be a significant age gap between the two love interests, which plays into the old stereotype that queer people - particularly gay men - were predators and targeted or ‘tainted’ children. Another trope that queer films, especially wlw ones, tend to go down is creating an overly sexualised relationship, playing into the idea that queer people are sex-obsessed and that queer relationships aren’t something that young people should see. For years, queer couples have been frowned at or hurled abuse at for showing affection towards one another in public, because ‘there’re kids around’ or ‘I don’t want my kids seeing this’ but these protestors don’t have a problem with straight PDA. This isn’t to say that these films exploring and celebrating sex shouldn’t exist, but it’s a little disheartening when that’s the only rep you’re getting.
Other issues in queer media is the whitewashing of history. I haven’t seen this film, but Stonewall is a classic example of erasure within the LGBTQ+ community. Most of us know that the Stonewall riots were started by trans women of colour, sex workers, and drag queens. And yet this film attempts to push the White, cis, gay male as the hero. This narrative erases the importance of so many identities in the community, giving a voice to a group who already have voices. This isn’t to say that White, cis, gay men aren’t discriminated against, or don’t have their own battles in films. But their voices are heard the most out of the LGBTQ+ community, they don’t need to be taking the voices away from other people. And this isn’t their fault. This is purely the fault of the film industry.
The film industry has so much power to give us the representation we need. I can’t even count how many action films there are with straight, middle-aged, White men playing the leads, allowing men around the world to live out their fantasy of being a hero. And yet, queer people have to search endlessly to find even a sliver of representation, and that representation is often lacking. I’m a sucker for a period piece, and I’m a sucker for women in period clothing. But queer women exist today. Why can’t I have a film set in 2020, of a young bisexual girl coming out of her shell and finding love? Why do I have to turn to the past to find this? Gay guys don’t.
I just want a nice, wholesome movie with a whole lot of gay. I don’t want the angst, or the homophobia, or the unaccepting parents. I don’t even really need a coming out, I just want it to be normalised. I want to be able to watch your every day coming-of-age movie with some dumb-ass friends, a fun soundtrack, a bit of romance, only it’s queer. There’s such a demand for it too, so I don’t fully understand why these types of films are so hard to find?
And as much as I love everyone in the LGBTQ+ community, I’m tired of White, cis, gay guys being seen as the face of the community. Because they aren’t. There is no singular face of the community. That’s why it’s beautiful - because it’s so diverse. And it’s time that literature and media reflect that.
Every queer kid deserves to feel seen. So let’s start shining our lights.