Queer Pressure

Written by: Ethan L. Stokes | Illustration by: Nick Griffin | Layout by: Martha Cabot

CW: Transphobia, gender dysphoria, body dysmorphia, discussion of exclusion, alienation, anxiety and depression

With a loving family, a great support network, and the best friends I could ask for, it’s difficult to explain how dark things can get for me sometimes. For a while it was hard to explain it to myself, since it didn’t seem like I had a good excuse to feel the way I did. There are a lot of questions I’d catch myself asking, like ”why are you so worried if your family accepts you for who you are?” or “how can you feel so isolated when you’re not alone?” and the real kickers like “are you going to get up tomorrow morning?” I had anxiety and depression for a while before I started really exploring my identity, so I was pretty familiar with questions like these flooding in from time to time. After I came out to my parents for the first time, I started to notice new questions, prodding and picking at very different itches in the back of my mind: Why didn’t you know about this sooner if it’s really true? How do you know this isn’t just a phase? Are you really queer?

I couldn’t find a good answer to any of them. I was probably too scared to even think about it. The idea that I had to “prove” my identity somehow didn’t just make me feel insecure, helpless, and small; it made me angry. A slow-burning hatred was directed at the image of rainbow flags, drag queens, and every image I associated with the queer community. I wasn’t into that style, at the time I just wanted to be a guy, not “gay” or a “queer person.” It didn’t seem like there was a place for me in this community. I wasn’t poor, I had a great relationship with my family, and I didn’t have any real “gay stories” or queer experiences to share. I came out on my college applications when my mom noticed I put “bisexual” as my orientation and that was it. “I don’t even have a good coming out story,” I thought to myself whenever I’d hear about the drama involved in gay friends’ experiences; there weren’t any secret conversations, no fights than ended with everyone in tears, my “story” had so little substance I was surprised I even remembered it. I felt alone, left to my own devices with struggles I thought no one else shared...

With time, I realized that the community I’d felt such resentment towards wasn’t as exclusive or homogenous as I originally thought. Talking to people allowed me to alter my perspective on trans issues, other sexual and romantic minorities, the struggles of people of color within the queer community-- all things I would never have learned about had I kept myself from exploring this vast and diverse community. I discovered new things about myself and ended up in a very happy place. While I’m much more comfortable with the queer community now that I understand what it actually is, I still hear those questions about whether or not it’s a phase or how I know that I really am who I am. Strangely enough, I hear them primarily from other members of the queer community, not necessarily word for word, but more or less prying at the same area: are you really queer?

This sentiment of “defending one’s identity” spread most widely over the past few years, particularly within the trans community as they gained more mainstream attention. In response to the demands of a heteronormative society having a midlife crisis, many narratives have been created in an attempt to legitimize not only trans people, but also the queer community at large. Some of these descriptions of general experiences, however, are less a comprehensive understanding of queerness so much as “woke” disguises for bigotry. Gender-critical feminists, cis people who believe feminism is somehow harmed by trans people existing, transmedicalists, folks who think you need to be diagnosed with gender dysphoria and be medically transitioning to be considered “truly trans,” and other toxic people have tried to silence marginalized groups within our community in a distorted attempt to make queerness more “acceptable” by the standards of heteronormative society. This happens within many marginalized groups as they attempt to reinvent themselves as “model minorities.”

The concept behind the model minority is simple: instead of forcibly demanding rights and recognition, disadvantaged groups should stay in school, study harder, work harder, and out-compete the dominant group with sheer academic and professional ability. This philosophy is something I hear echoed by my mom quite often whenever we talk about my experiences as a non-binary person, since her frame of reference as a third generation “Sansei” Japanese American was greatly influenced by this concept. Before she was born, her parents were sent to internment camps, where they were effectively subjected to forced patriotism. Many of their fellow internees were converted to Christianity from Buddhism, taught with American curricula, and all of them were provided a copy of the Japanese American Creed, a document which stated:

“Although some individuals may discriminate against me, I shall never become bitter or lose faith… I shall do all in my power to discourage such practices, but I shall do it in the American way--above board, in the open, through courts of law, by education, by proving myself to be worthy of equal treatment and consideration.”

This mindset worked for many people and ultimately led to a lot of would-be victims to great success beyond anything they would have achieved had they “become bitter or lost faith.” While this works to an extent and the core message clearly appeals to some, I just don’t buy it. For some of us, especially those of us within the queer community, working harder isn’t an option, courts of law won’t protect us, and in most parts of the world we’ll never be able to prove ourselves “worthy of equal treatment and consideration.” We can’t present a framework to transphobes to prove that we are what we identify as, no matter how solid the reasoning or how much Facts and Logic™ you stuff into it. Sometimes the status quo can’t be appealed to, and all we end up doing is hurting each other by setting standards for who’s valid and who’s just a “trender.” To hear queer people I know and care about say “I guess you might be trans after all” or “it’s okay to just be a cis man” is shocking and hurtful. I usually can’t respond to those statements directly because I’m worried about the conversation I’ll have to have to justify why I am who I am. It’s already hard enough to have that conversation with myself if I’m faced with my body dysmorphia or thinking about how some people still call me “sir.” I’m still completely unsure how to approach that conversation with other people, folks who I’m certain have struggled every day with the standards and expectations imposed upon them by a society that doesn’t understand them. It’s hard for me to comprehend how people who seek out queer spaces to escape dichotomies, obligations, and generalizations can spread similar exclusionary attitudes on other people running from the same thing.

I don’t want to see this community become like the restrictive world so many queer folks are trying to escape, with its ideal image of the “model queer” enforced by exclusion, harassment, and coercion. I want queerness to be something for everyone, a way for people to find themselves and grow comfortable in their own skin. I want the image of queerness to be more diverse and inclusive to people in the position I was in when I first came out. I want a lot of things that I think are possible but incredibly difficult. We have to help each other be better than the people who tell us to stay in the closet and “grow out of it.” The queer community can’t sit still whenever our oppressors tell us to in the hopes that they’ll stop discriminating against us because, breaking news, they don’t actually care. I say to you, fellow Ls, Gs, Bees, and Tees, be as queer as humanly possible, never sacrifice an ounce of yourself to people who don’t accept you for who you are. Queerness isn’t a competition, we don’t need anyone keeping score.