This photoshoot queers the iconic painting “Achilles Lamenting The Death of Patroclus.” The title is a collage sourced from past print issues of OutWrite and our former moniker, Ten Percent.
Photographed by Zoë Collins Edited by Christopher Ikonomou
Table Of Contents Letter From The Editor
2
The Realities of (Mis)Representation
4
The Mask of Anarchy
7
Back In My Day, We Stayed Closeted in Middle School
8
Pride Born From Ashes
13
“Achilles Lamenting The Death of Patroclus” Queered - Close-Ups
14
To Be Ugly
16
La Loteria Queered
20
Archaic
24
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Letter From The Editor Welcome back to OutWrite Newsmagazine! After a chaotic year and a half without a proper print edition of this magazine, in part because of the COVID-19 pandemic, we are happy to welcome our readers back! Over the past 20 months, our country has had a reckoning with the nation’s gross political divide, wide-sweeping racial injustice, and a debilitating and ongoing pandemic that has taken the lives of more than 800,000 Americans and more than 5 million lives globally. (cont. on next page)
Contributors Editor-In-Chief: Jaden King Managing Editor: Christopher Ikonomou Developmental Editor: Ethan L. Stokes Graphics Editors: Zoë Collins, Jackson Harris Copy Chief: Bella Hou Writers: Naturana, Stephanie Liu, Jackson Harris Artists: Zoë Collins, Chrys Marr, Stephanie Liu, Cole Lopez, Christopher Ikonomou Copy Editors: Emma Blakely, Brooke Borders Layout: Christopher Ikonomou Cover Production Photographer: Zoë Collins Editor: Christopher Ikonomou Models: Amy Yin, Cole Lopez Makeup: Jaden King Stylist: Zoë Collins
In other words, our nation has experienced a public health tragedy on top of another tragedy that is deeply seeded in this country’s racist history and upbringing. OutWrite recognizes this and wishes to dedicate this issue to those who have died of COVID-19, to those who have ever experienced racial injustice, and those murdered by police violence and systemic racism. With this issue, OutWrite pays homage to the queer community’s past, present, and future through rage, resistance, and renaissance. Rage is key to making any progress toward a more inclusive future. The institutions and systems in place reinforce a white and cisheteronormative narrative that continues to displace queer people to the margins and further displaces queer people of color to the margins of those margins. If we cannot find rage and anger, both individually and collectively, to disrupt and uproot these oppressive institutions, nothing can be changed. Rage is the start. Resistance is channeling that rage into meaningful action. Understanding how to wield our rage as queer people is essential. We must constantly bring into question the institutions that we operate under and disrupt them (sometimes by simply existing, sometimes by resisting emotionally and socially, and other times through physical resistance). Resistance is the journey. Renaissance is the result of that resistance. Renaissance is the realization of a queer future, a future that is no longer constricted by white cisheternormativity. This future is one without boundaries and one without limits, where people are truly free to be themselves without fear of repercussions. This future is a place where equity is promised and equity is delivered. Renaissance is the destination. As you navigate this edition, think of it as a renaissance of OutWrite Newsmagazine as a whole. Think of this as the culmination of the past and present’s rage and resistance within the queer community, resulting in a renewed and rebirthed mission to serve the queer community through strategic reimagining and radicalism. Overall, this issue is the beginning of a new OutWrite, and we’re so excited to take you on this journey with us.
Written by Naturana Graphic by Zoë Collins
We’re constantly told as queer people that representation matters. There is this pervasive narrative sold to us that seeing our faces in high places means progress towards equality for our community. That by being included in diverse organizations of power means we are closer to the political and social goals of queer activism. I worry that this leads us down an unsafe spiral. How powerful is this narrative of inclusion? What does it really mean for queer people when the people with our identities are in power? The roots of this idea lie in identity politics, something that the Combahee River Collective, a group of black feminists, defined as a belief that the most powerful, potent, and radical politics can come out of one’s own lived experiences and their identity. This radical sentiment extended from attitudes about race all the way to sexuality. Yet, like most radical, progressive ideas, the Democratic party has managed to co-opt it and defang it of its revolutionary potential in liberating us from our oppressors. When I say defang, I mean that the power that radical queer leadership brings is removed when this process of inclusion begins. When queer people are elevated or elected to positions of power— all the way from mayorship to Congress and the executive branch— the inherent political systems that oppress queer people still serve as an impasse for meaningful change. Queer people can be just as oppressive in these positions if not more. They can come in with meaningful intentions, but the idea that they are magically exempt from enabling oppression is false. Representation does nothing for us in this regard. Queer politicians can start off with great intentions. Take US Senator Kyrsten Sinema, who started out as a Green Party organizer and wrote in a 2002 Arizona Republic column before running for state house that “until the average American realizes that capitalism damages her livelihood while augmenting the livelihoods of the wealthy, 5
the Almighty Dollar will continue to rule.” Yet over time, Sinema has shown that queer people’s radical politics can be dissolved by the American political machine as well. A striking moment highlighting this is when Sinema flippantly, and almost comically, gave her viral “thumbs down” vote to a $15 minimum wage. She shows us that queer politicans can easily stand against the working class.
“[T]he power that radical queer leadership brings is removed when this process of inclusion begins.” She’s one of two LGBT Senators, both of whom oppose guaranteed healthcare measures like Medicare for All. She’s joined by Tammy Baldwin, who was the first openly LGBT woman elected to the House of Representatives and the Senate. Yet, these two both oppose something that could undoubtedly improve the lifespans of queer people when our access to healthcare is more important than ever. My question is: what do all these firsts mean if they don’t actively work to help improve the conditions of queer people in this country? Election after election, Democrats prop up queer folks as electeds to sell their parties idea of progressivism, but we should question if they’re actually propping up queer ideas, or selling us a watered down notion of queerness.
6
The Mask of Anarchy by Chrys Marr
Back in My Day, We Stayed Closeted in Middle School Written and Illustrated by Stephanie Liu
Personally, middle school is neither a place nor a period of my life I ever need to revisit, but since I have a younger sister in middle school, I’ve had to go back to the school grounds for events and rediscover the hellscape of my youth. I am always struck by how much can change in six years. They repainted everything a slightly different shade. They added a whole new building and replaced the crusty water fountains with new shiny ones, and the arc of the water goes way higher than the sad dribble from my middle school days. And, perhaps the weirdest change of all: they’ve started putting up posters affirming the identities of their queer 8
students, and I feel incredibly weird about it for reasons I feel uneasy thinking about. To clarify, these posters aren’t just the one-size-fitsall “Be nice to each other! Don’t be a bully!” flyers that were plastered around when I was 12. These posters have pride flags on them, and they say things like “Your identity is valid!” and “This is a safe space for LGBTQ+ students!” There are other details I hear from my sister about what it’s like to be queer at her middle school now. She tells me about the high attendance of the school’s GSA club and that kids in her friend group can come out and talk about their identities openly and easily. Someone in her English class last year felt comfortable enough to joke about being gay in a class Jackbox game on the last day of school. I almost can’t wrap my head around the enormity of change that has occurred in the last several years. Was it really only six years ago that I went to this school and felt locked in the closet with no key, knowing next to no one who shared my identity as a queer kid? A large part of me is ecstatic about how far the school culture has come. Of course the place is not cured of queerphobia, but there is visible progress, and I can’t help but be excited for these kids. The smaller part is less excited. A bit of it wants to shake the kids by their shoulders and tell them to hide. Another bit of it bares its teeth at progress. All the joy I feel when I look at the posters has a darker undertone of what first tastes like skepticism, then the sourness of scorn, then the bitterness of resentment. Why is this place which felt borderline hostile to me only six years ago somehow so friendly now? Why do these children have it so easy? I am not proud of that part of me. I try to hush it up and paint over it. There is no reason for me to feel upset at progress, especially when I dedicated my time and energy into creating such a culture at my high school. I was a GSA club admin for three years. I represented the campus’s queer community during diversity events. It makes no sense for me to resent the kids of today having the freedom that I didn’t. 9
But here we are. I tend to cringe away from acknowledging my negativity, but if I poke a bit further at that writhing ball of bitterness and shine a bright enough light on it, I could see its stem—I could find out exactly what it is about queer middle schoolers openly being themselves that bothers me so much. Here is the answer I discover: I have fallen into the easy trap of thinking that oppression defines the queer experience. I see one layer of oppression fall away, and my brain fixates on its absence. The bitter part of it sneers at the progress, saying, “Are you really queer if you didn’t have a shitty time in middle school?” In other words, I am semi-consciously gatekeeping who is or is not “authentically queer.” Unfortunately, gatekeeping within the queer community does not begin and end with my lowly simmering resentment towards openly queer pre-teens.
“I see one layer of oppression fall away, and my brain fixates on its absence. The bitter part of it sneers at the progress, saying, ‘Are you really queer if you didn’t have a shitty time in middle school?’” For example, there is a faction of the transgender community called transmedicalists, or transmeds, who believe that a person must experience gender dysphoria and have a strong desire to medically transition in order to be legitimately transgender. Transmeds denounce individuals who claim the transgender identity without experincing dysphoria as “transtrenders,” or people who use the trans label to gain clout. Although “dysphoria” could simply refer to an incongruence between a person’s assigned gender at birth and 10
the gender they experience, it also commonly refers to the feelings of discomfort or distress that may accompany that incongruence. Thus, defining trans identity through dysphoria becomes tricky; how much discomfort or distress should a person experience and how visible does their dysphoria have to be before they are acceptably trans? Another example of inter-community gatekeeping is acephobia, sometimes referred to as aphobia: prejudice against asexuals, people who experience little to no sexual attraction. Some argue that asexuality does not prompt the same oppression and violence as other sexual identities, and thus do not count as queer. Acephobic members of the community also argue that heteroromantic asexuals are “straight-passing” and do not deserve a space in the community.
“Straight-passing” arguments have also been used against bisexual, pansexual, and polysexual people in heterosexual relationships. These voices become especially loud during Pride month, when they police who should and should not come to events such as pride parades. In their view, people in non-heterosexual relationships have a more legitimate claim over queer spaces because they are visibly, unquestionably queer. Meanwhile, the queerness of people in heterosexual couples are less immediately apparent, and they must verify their queer identities before they can be accepted into the space. But even then, straight-passing couples may still be subject to skepticism over whether they belong in a queer space. The issue with gatekeeping is that it treats queerness as something that must be proven before it can be legitimate. But how does one prove that they are queer? Exclusionists point to oppression as a way to measure queerness. But this measurement is problematic in itself; it 11
emphasizes a pessimistic view that treats oppression as an inherent part of queer identity. This view burdens queer individuals with a standard of oppression when oppression is really a product of a queerphobic culture; there is nothing inevitable about queer suffering.
“The issue with gatekeeping is that it treats queerness as something that must be proven before it can be legitimate.” It costs nothing to be queer and costs even less to welcome others into the queer community. Exclusion and gatekeeping undercut the strength of the community and further marginalize the already marginalized. How do we combat exclusionary forces in the community and in ourselves? My suggestion is that we should de-center suffering and re-center joy in our definitions of queerness. Rather than demanding that queer folks meet quotas of queerphobic experiences to justify their place in the community, community membership should be solely based on the individual’s relationship with their queer identity.
“[C]ommunity membership should be solely based on the individual’s relationship with their queer identity.” To the queer kids at my old middle school: I am sorry for my bitterness. It is not all I have—I promise, there’s much more I see when I look at you. I am proud of you. I am excited for you. I admire you. I will work to fight the part of me that clutches queerness to my chest like it’s something to hoard, and instead I will hold it out to you in open hands. 12
Pride Born From Ashes by Cole Lopez
Photographed by Zoë Collins Edited by Christopher Ikonomou
To Be
Ugly
ch
est
by Christopher Ikonomou
’s man
“Gawking, gaping, staring seeped into my
ined croo k gra
ness ed
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bones, became the marrow” - Eli Clare
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I will never be pretty. Most people’s view on “growing up ugly” consists of a nerdy brunette taking off her glasses to reveal she was a stunner the whole time. The irony of an indicator of disability being the barrier between ugliness and attractiveness is not lost on me, in fact it’s the point. As a disabled, transgender person, I really did “grow up ugly.” My blind eyes shrunk behind thick, small-framed glasses, my spider-like fingers and toes, my hips and shoulders uneven from scoliosis, my knees wonky from flat feet, my skeletal frame, my broad shoulders and flat chest unfit for a young girl. Despite the rarity of my condition, I am still recognized as someone not quite right, something in need of fixing. Add in my ambiguous gender presentation as a child and my current visible transness, and the questions never end: “What’s wrong with you?” “Is that a boy or a girl?” “I couldn’t bear to live like you, I’d kill myself!” “Have you tried this diet? I heard it can cure anything!” “How do you... ya know...?”
And the constant staring. The incessant curiosity. The uncertainty of what they’re witnessing as I pass by. I can’t help but be reminded of “Gaping Gawking Staring” by trans disabled butch poet Eli Clare: “Their hatred snarls into me, and often I can’t separate the homophobia from the ableism from the transphobia.” In a cisnormative, ableist world, people like me are disposable. Our lack of conformity to expectations of gender, productivity, and literal physical being alienates us from value and attractiveness. 18
To resist these systems is to embrace ugliness. To defeat the gawkers is to give them something to stare at. To truly affirm myself is to flaunt my crookedness in all its forms; to love the surgery scars scattered like constellations across my torso, the chest that redefines manhood, the shoulders in their uneven and masculine glory, the knees that knock with every step, the weak arms that give a good hug, the wrists that hang waiting for use, the low vision eyes that conceptualize art that speaks volumes, the hip that serves as a shelf for my tired limbs, the towering height despite feet that fall flat and a spine that refuses straightness as much as I do, the bloodstream that can’t handle HRT, the heart full of love for my community that threatens to beat out of my chest, the body that has never been quite right and never will be. To be transgender and disabled is to be ugly, and I no longer have a problem with that.
“These days I practice gawking at the gawkers and flirting as hard as I know how. The first is an act of resistance; the second, an act of pride.” - Eli Clare 19
LA LOTERIA QUEERED by Cole Lopez
The artwork for La Loteria was originally introduced by the Spaniards in 1769 to the Indigenous people of what is now Mexico. It carried with it the desire to convert these people to Christianity and to enforce strict gender roles and unequivocal heterosexuality. The artwork has since been updated, but imagine a deck where the cards show a queer world, our world; imagine a deck where La Sirena was non-binary and had a trans lover; imagine La Bota as a towering stiletto complete with glitter and a long, slim metal heel; imagine queer icon Gladys Bentley in her majestic white suit and top hat adorning the card El Catrin. Imagine a deck where we see our queer past, present, and future.
20
La Sirena
21
LA BOTA
22
EL CATRIN
23
Archaic
Written by Jackson Harris Illustrated by Christopher Ikonomou
assembled in the literal and reaching out to touch suits and ties and evil eyes on years and years of dust I’m not who I remember now older? yes, but I should not be proud as the passerby hold up scarves and roses not in my backyard, condolence no context in the apartment complex I know who you are a little metaphysical, these bodies in the dark the token chose archaic, holding tight to metal stars faking names and age and playing games to feign a beating heart made for those suburban dreams just clawing for release we gather round 24
our time is up our shoes are in the street please! please. one day I’ll be a story, always prefaced before I’m told: the rhinestone cowboy, heartbreak prince and boy who sold his soul all glory, God and lightning rods you have my hand to hold while yours will move to fix my collar forever young and dumb and whole no chasing women around the kitchen no chasing kids around the backyard blue traditions and basement living where home isn’t very far where we sit down, happy, where it must be enough to be on fire in my little room with a nameless pill to crush I have a fake name and age and role to play to feign a human heart be a man, do what you can until you fall apart remission lust Arcadia rust my lifeless body in the car and your hand has moved to fix my collar the room has grown so dark as it starts to bleed inside the dream that once was oh-so lush the homegrown girls, matchbox prince, and endings all made up I start to scream inside the dream with lungs all full of dust oh, I was a shooting star I was shot down I was grateful for the touch please? please. a little metaphysical a little unoriginal 25
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