Queer Writes Edition Two

QUEER WRITES

Edition Two ð&#x;–Œ The Frida Kahlo Edition THE QUEER COLLECTIVE MAGAZINE

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Contents 1.

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Inspiring: This woman manages to be politically engaged AND still has the will to live

whiskey, cat food, and the art of lying to your parents

Queer Fortunes

16.

Queer Shot Part Two

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The Pale Ail Pub

It’s okay to be fucked up; I am, so let’s talk about it.

I’ve dated boys, but I’ve only kissed girls

Subtle Asian Gripes

Spider Monologue

Editors Letter Welcome to the second edition of Queer Writes.

Proudly brought you by the SRC Queer Collective, Queer Writes aims to bring to light the challenges and quarrels endured by the LGBTQIA+ community whilst having a good dose of light-hearted and humorous content.

In this edition, we pay homage to the legendary bisexual artist Frida Kahlo. Kahlo was an ardent feminist, an incredible artist, and a social activist who intertwined personal experience, ideology, and cultural commentary in her art and lifestyle. Encountering a challenging life rife with racism, sexism, and debilitating health conditions, we admire Frida for her relentless commitment to her work, her pride in her Mexican heritage, and fearlessness in standing up for what she believed in.

Our history as a community is so often untold and forgotten – as such, Queer Writes hopes to keep it alive every edition by giving you covers celebrating the people that have fought so hard before us and those who continue to do so among us.

Editors Eric Qian Lungol Wekina Indi Sofyar Administration Jacqui Orme Valerie Ho Design Indi Sofyar Cover Photograph Indi Sofyar Frida Kahlo Drawing Mikaela Ucherek

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Inspiring: This woman manages to be politically engaged AND still has the will to live.

By Oliver Watson I LIVED IT: My mother told me I should “reconnect” with one of my primary school classmates she just found out was gay.

A normal car ride to a family lunch shouldn’t have been too much to ask for, but if anyone knows how deny me the simple peace I need to not throw myself in front of a bus it’s my mother!

of messaging him out of the blue. I explained that I wasn’t particularly interested. I even explained that he didn’t even live in the same city anymore! But my mother, ever the staunch ally, couldn’t be deterred.

We all know that forced time with your family is the best time to reminisce on past eras and friendships, and nothing brings up memories of primary school more than a heartfelt coming out on Instagram from an old classmate you haven’t seen in ten years. There wasn’t even an attempt to be subtle about slipping it into conversation when my mother abruptly announced to the entire car “You should reconnect with Matthew from primary school!”

“I just think it would be nice for you two to catch up!

Just as friends! It would be such a shame for you to lose contact, and you know, finding a boyfriend would do wonders for your self-esteem!”

I might have expected my siblings or father to come to my defence as they were subjected to the relentless encouragements being thrown at me, but not a syllable of support was heard. Whether they were enjoying the scene or just didn’t care, it’s good to be reminded that not even your family can be trusted.

The implications of the statement were not lost on me, having seen the social media post where he proudly and bravely detailed his struggles with accepting himself as a gay man over a week ago, but just in case there was any ambiguity, my mother made sure to clear it up by going on to clarify “He’s gay, you know. Why don’t you send him a message? You were such good friends!”

What can you do? I explained that I hadn’t had anything to do with him for ten years. I explained the transparency

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Thankfully the car ride came to an end, and I managed to escape and sprint down the road and away from my family forever, but not before I heard my mother musing on the possibility of catching up with Matthew’s mother for lunch.

So moral of the story: guess I’ll see you all at the wedding!

The Pale Ail Pub

By Eldon Oarlouis

Walking fast paced, nothing unusual.

But my nervousness grows, not quite knowing what awaits in the white house on the corner.

It’s simple luck, not fate, that a long lost mate sits at the open door.

I’m invited inside and I’m already lost in jargon, jugs & Jack Daniels’.

First awe, then introductions: anxiety fades.

I’m offered a glass but I politely refuse.

It will be another three months before I enjoy drinking.

Twenty smiles hide their ails better than I thought possible: a pack of perky, passionate and compassion-filled folk alike in mind, as we all wine and unwind, on a night so divine.

Little do I know, I’ll soon call this family mine.

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By Tina Chen

Once, when I mistakenly commented on my exgirlfriend’s inability to use chopsticks because she wasn’t “(East) Asian” enough – I realised that I still internalised cultural shame. I thought it was a compliment that she was more white-washed than I was, even though using the best type of cutlery (personally speaking) wasn’t in her set of skills. She was ‘mixed’, half Australian, half Indian. I still am jealous about the half-white side of her genes. Although I can get really into talking about my culture, explaining all the little fun details of the Chinese characters and what they resemble sometimes influences the meaning, but I am still an outsider, I was born in Australia, everything I know about Chinese culture are from my short-ish stays in various cities in China and my parent’s way of living. I have a hard time distinguishing what my parents do differently from the rest of China but I’m glad to be fluent in the language, even though as an angsty teenager I refused to speak it outside of home.

I’m glad Subtle Asian Traits is a thing now and that things I thought were obscure and not on brand with the Australian dream are gaining traction.

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Asian Gripes

I despise the fact that I get the Asian flush, that my eyes become swollen, not so much like a bee-sting, but so much that I feel sleepy, and that I become so red that everyone thinks I’m more wasted than I actually am. But hey, being economically savvy? Amazing. I hate that it shows – and it turns out it happens because hereditarily East Asians may encompass the gene that is less efficient at processing alcohol and neutralising it than others.

Last year, my ex said to me, “You have big eyes,” and she isn’t wrong, I do. I’m sure she didn’t mean anything else by it. Yet, in my head – I finished her sentence, “for an Asian”. It’s stupid, really. It doesn’t particularly offend me anymore when I hear ‘micro-aggressions’ muttered in a public setting. I’ve come to terms that there will always be those exaggerate differences to create false enemies amongst us.

My experience as a sometimes bisexual, sometimes homosexual woman is also affected by my culture. For example, although my mum will never accept me directly, and as I haven’t tried to affirm her suspicions – she’s told me several times that I can love whoever, since I’m young, but agrees with my dad when he comments on the “immoral celebrations” when Mardi Gras rolls around.

Yet, when I couldn’t make it to Mardi Gras this year, she accompanied me while I watched the live broadcast of the parade on my laptop in my dimly lit dining room. I explained to her in Chinese what all the floats were for, and for once I felt okay with myself and whatever the future brings.

The truth is, I’d never fit in to one certain demographic – because I am not just a string of words that describe me – there is so much more to me, and I’m sure – to everyone else.

whiskey, cat food, and the art of lying to your parents

By Astrid Eden Hawker

The other day I was tidying up my apartment, getting all my notes in order before sitting down for a heavy session of studying, when I came awfully close to panic.

The cause? I was unable to open my filing cabinet. The lock was jammed, and no amount of jiggling either of the two keys around inside was making it budge. It’s not as if I had a particularly urgent need to access something inside — hell, it was mostly archived summaries from last term along with the various knick-knacks one can’t seem to make it through O-Week without acquiring. It’s not as if there was anything of particular value locked inside either — from recollection, the most expensive item was a copy of Photoshop that I’d already installed on my laptop anyway.

No, the issue was the fact that if I was unable to pry open those drawers at some point in the near future, I was going to have to call upon my dad to help. And then I wouldn’t be opening a drawer so much as a very large can of worms, because there were things in that cabinet that would raise some incredibly awkward questions. It was in that moment that I realised just how large a web of lies I’d managed to spin, and just how easily it could all be unravelled.

In the bottom drawer of the cabinet, tucked away in a green canvas bag beneath borderline-illegible Physics 1A notes, sat the strap-on dick that my girlfriend’s best friend had given her for her 18th birthday because apparently it’s “what every lesbian needs”. Beside that lay a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label whiskey, and a bag of Whiskas cat food.

Regarding the first of these contraband items, the dildo alone was not the issue. My mother is well aware of the fact I’ve been out drinking on Oxford Street (even though truth be told I was there for all of five minutes before one of my friends got turned away and we headed off to a house party instead), so that particular item could easily be passed off as a drunken purchase for solitary pleasure, or even a gag gift. The fact that it’s the rainbow “pride edition”? Simple: it’s what was on sale. The leather harness in the bag with it though? Highly incriminating. Don’t think even I’d be able to talk my way out of that one.

The whiskey, whilst less obviously incriminating, was still likely to get me in hot water with my parents. The thing is, at home we pretty much only drink wine. Red wine, white wine, sparkling wine, port — basically if it’s

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grapes, it’s good. Dad will have a beer on occasion, but the couple of times I’ve done the same I could instantly feel my mother’s judgmental gaze burning into my skin.

Apparently it’s too much of a “masculine” drink, and it’s “unattractive” for women to drink. Yikes. If that’s how she feels about me downing a schooner or two, I’m terrified of how she’ll react upon discovering my aptitude for scotch. And even more so the fact that I bought the bottle to share with my girlfriend when she stayed over.

So I lie. I’m intentionally vague about what I drink at uni — “Wine. Cider. Whatever’s cheapest really.” — and since Oxford Street wasn’t exactly a wine-and-cheese endeavour, I panicked and told her we all drank vodka lemonade. That’s feminine enough, right? Now I just have to pretend to like it in order to keep up the façade. A small price to pay.

The explanation for the cat food is less that I’m gay and more that I’m impulsive. There’s a stray cat that lives in a nearby laneway, and I’ve taken to feeding it.

I figured cheese wasn’t the healthiest diet for a cat, so I invested in something more nutritious. I suppose it’s not incriminating, per se, but by this point lying had just become the easier option. Besides, there’s always a chance that I might be judged for it, and why take that chance when I can get away without it?

From those I’ve met, I find that most young queer people are freakishly good at bending the truth. We lie about our identity, we lie about where we’re going and who we’re going there with, and we lie about why the fuck we’ve suddenly developed such a great affinity for rainbowcoloured trinkets. We lie so often when we’re in the closet, or when we’re circumnavigating rules imposed to stop us exploring our identities further, that by the time we’re young adults it’s just second nature.

I make up stories so often that on more than one occasion I’ve even fooled myself into believing them for a hot minute. This probably isn’t a healthy habit in the slightest — but on the bright side, at least I’ve gotten over my old fear of impromptu public speaking. If there was an Olympic event for bullshitting? These days, I reckon I’d have a shot at gold.

But as for the filing cabinet, I did eventually get it open.

Turns out a metal ruler had gotten caught in the lock mechanism and I simply had to tilt the whole thing on its side so that it slid back out. Thankfully, the bottle didn’t break in the process and lead to an equally incriminating carpet stain. I’m safe, for now.

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It’s okay to be fucked up; I am, so let’s talk about it.

By Caity B. CW: eating disorders, discussions around body weight/image, weight loss, and mentions of addiction and self-harm.

Disclaimer: This article is a reflection of the author’s experiences and is not meant to be taken as professional, medical advice. Should you feel the need to see a professional, please contact the Butterfly Foundation for help with disordered eating at 1800 33 4673 or Lifeline for 13 11 14 for crisis support or suicide prevention. If your life is in danger or you need urgent assistance, please call 000.

I used to laugh at all those ads as a kid that said: “Silence is the number one killer”. But damn, were they right.

Eating disorders don’t want you to be loud, vocal, or tell anyone you’re suffering. The ever-present poison in your mind slowly seeps throughout your body, until you don’t know how to exist without it. A disordered relationship with food thrives in your silence. Frankly, at least half the time, people that are suffering don’t realise how bad it is; or, when they do, it can be too late.

For context, I’m a queer woman and I honestly don’t know when my weird attitudes towards food really started. My family is quite openly fatphobic, and has been since I was little; I have relatives that have struggled with eating disorders, however this was only revealed to me more recently. I remember giving away parts of my recess or lunch everyday when I was younger, because often I was given more food than others, and they always seemed hungrier than I was.

When I started high school, I would consume multiple forms of sweets and chocolates before getting to school, then replace my other meals with iced coffees and energy drinks. It became worse when I was forced to quit ballet due to injury; there went at least 10 hours of physical exercise a week that I had been maintaining since I was very young.

Although I was still playing other forms of sport, it wasn’t enough to me and my body could never keep up with how much I wanted to be doing. In addition to this, a day wouldn’t go by where my mother or other relatives weren’t making some comment about my weight and appearance.

I felt pressured to be better, to be as ‘perfect’ and ‘slim’ as my brother seemed to be; comparison was a constant companion in our household. In my final year of high school, I was still struggling with (undiagnosed but severe) depression and anxiety, being in the closet, HSC stress, and family financial pressures. My way of coping was fluctuating between restricting and binge eating, excessive exercise, and purging.

In my final year of school until mid-2018, I was also a part of a gym that focused largely on personal training and monitoring food. I joined at the pushing of my mother, who wanted me to lose more weight. The trainer changed my diet, like all clients, to a low-carb diet, and I finally started to see the results I wanted; I was losing at least 1kg a week, and would factor in one “extreme” low carb day as well during the week. My personal trainer was concerned when I started to factor in two “extreme” days a week, but as my body weight was still “healthy”, he never really questioned it. I’ve since left that gym, but the mindset and obsession with food tracking is still

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prevalent in my day-to-day life.

What I’ve noticed since coming out in 2017, and actually monitoring and improving my mental health, is that eating disorders and body dysmorphia effect a large number of those in the LGBTQI+ community, if not more-so than those that aren’t.

Somehow, in a community that is meant to be about love, respect, freedom, and passion, the same Eurocentric beauty standards have infiltrated this space and are more damaging. And wI write ‘more damaging’ because no matter WHAT you look like, if you aren’t queer, the world is still in your favour ahead of those in the LGBTQI+ community. The queer community is meant to be a safe space for those that have already been deemed ‘outsiders’ or ‘weirdos’ by the rest of the world, a place where you can be whomever you want to be and present yourself however you choose, free of judgment. But, if you are not slender, slim, toned, or comfortable flashing your skin, you can struggle with the feeling that you aren’t “queer” enough, or “loud” enough, that you don’t look like a “stereotypical” gay.

The majority of people I know that have a disordered relationship with food are in the queer community.

I believe it’s a coping mechanism by so many in this community because a number of us have been told since we were young that our preference, or who we are, is unacceptable. It’s harsh. It’s unfair. Is anyone really surprised that we have fucked up coping mechanisms and turn towards food, a source of life, to damage ourselves? I’m honestly not.

But I want us to talk about it. No more hiding in the shadows. Eating disorders are always going to be an

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uncomfortable reality, but how can we help anyone, let alone ourselves, or know HOW to help, if everyone stays silent? Eating disorders can get to a point of being a form of self-harm… I know that’s sometimes the case for myself.

So, here we are. I have an eating disorder. Do I want to let go of it? No. Am I terrified of losing control?

Constantly. But I’m now talking to my psychologist about it; at the moment I have a mixture of orthorexia (which yes, is valid and real) and bulimia, but I have also struggled with anorexia in the past. Seeking help is, in no way, an easy task. But trust me, it’s 100% worth it. I do not want to start each day by avoiding mirrors, or looking in a mirror and grabbing all the parts of myself that I hate. I am tired of weighing myself, weighing my food, or panicking when people suggest eating at restaurants. I am tired of lying and I miss eating food during the movies. I want to drink coffee for pleasure, and not be addicted to it, or addicted to sugar-free energy drinks, diet coke, or high-protein low-carb snacks. I want to exercise for the fun of it, but right now I can’t because I’m in a dangerous mental place.

If you think your friend is struggling, offer help.

Reach out to them; suggest help sites, contacts to The Butterfly Foundation, anything. Often, people with eating disorders will isolate their friends and family.

Connection is a crucial step in helping combat this.

And, to anyone reading that may be struggling, know that you are not alone. The LGBTQI+ community IS a safe space; you, and your struggles whatever they may be, are valid. Keep fighting babes xxx

SPIDER MONOLOGUE

By Thea Ebeling

The Spider I once saw a spider wandering across my white sheets She was a tiny, young thing, with eight lacy arms with a lovely mind, an interesting heart, an open heart – she cracked that egg, and bid me into the yolk

Jealousy But she was black and bold and my village saw her clearer than they’d seen me when I was her age Stark night against the ivory snowy plane, my bedcovers, both equal, and most important, to the creation of a majestic, silhouetted fixture but it is the ink given credit, not the contrasting porcelain of the page, for the brilliance of the writer’s words.

And so I refused, snarled, beat, tore, ripped, (not to her face, of course, I’m not a bitch.) because I thought if her heart was bleeding it’d stain her mind and dye the most handsome thoughts some ugly shade make sticky her lacy limbs and incapacitate the balletic enchantress clog her aorta so she couldn’t invite others into her chamber. because how can one love if they’re suffering cardiac-arrest?

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threat But to my disadvantage these thoughts were formed whilst time ventured on and in that brief age, an extraordinarily curt epoch, she had crafted a silken orchestra of philosophies, silver tapestries in the images of the villagers who showered adoring droplets whose glass-like lens when caught on the vines of webbing, fragmented light and sprayed fantastical wings of great spectrums, colour across my barren sheets.

And they loved her, as they loved me also but they loved her for it just too much.

Turncoat But one. swung between the extremity of roles that people in our lives mould themselves to in moments her rescuer, greatest love, guardian, sanctuary. and not in those moments her deceiver, ridiculer, torturer, Devil.

To what end?

Perhaps a similar agenda to my own, Perhaps, as was their way with others, a feeding of power, and dramatics, a source of evidence that one towers above their fellows. or perhaps shame, an older bond, (whose heart the spider broke) in which they also took dichotic roles; and on this, I suggest, the swings mirrored each other, granting one side the opposing role of the other.

An avoidance of guilt for their inconsistent loyalty‌or honesty.

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In privacy, with her, one day, they swung too far one way, the way of kindness till above the 90° mark of that swing a new location for their intimacy placed.

Which to the clear minded of us, those who pursue pursuit not dramatics, or power, or control/manipulation this new territory found bears no effect to the geography of an entirely separate land.

But to some, as we know from history or our own lives Some aren’t concerned with…that.

It is self-endowment that seems A more promising voyage.

Thus was the nature of this one.

So to conserve their position in a grotesque hierarchy which they themselves fashioned but was not necessarily present to any others of the village,

panicked Guilt-ridden. and wicked.

For a treachery they felt they had committed.

Cannibalism.

The consumption of a fellow to ensure the survival of oneself. a most, most, gluttonous felony.

So With sharp words to cut the gums, and plyers of thought to pull the teeth from their dewy sockets false events to wet the tongue bloody disease, welting madness, forced down the throats of the villagers.

“She is cruel and most tricky – I had no part in forging the new location forced upon me no guilt claims me (and, yes) whore.”

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beggar I knew it was a lie.

But you see the way she flaunted – I hated her.

And that’s not wrong – surely, it can’t be otherwise why would envy exist?

Fountain With her eliminated a gap in our world bursts open a space which I can fill.

Then her resources pushed on tracks, structured in my direction – carriages of golden, glittered “Can you do this for me? I know you’re really good at it” encasing thick metal boxes of invitations congratulations celebrations and the girl the porcelain arms wrapped round my waist her soft curtain against my face our laughs pouring fire in the distance safe under the trees

away from the party “And we’ll all go to Bodensee together, you me him the boys the girls and get high as fuck in the sand and dance Mr. November till the magpies screech with the glowing rise of the clouds over the summer sea And a family And a home And the warm beat of an eternal companion And a joy to hear the alarm at 5AM And a joy to collapse in fur at 12

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And a ‘What are you up to tonight?’

And a swaying wheat fields, golden in afternoon, rocking through the valley, somewhere (Switzerland? Majorca?), us on wooden lawn chairs, and ice tea, Sharon van Eltern echoing across the vale, fingers entwined, the sun kisses our bare limbs, some ten of us, maybe less or more, a fire as the sun melts down the now inky flat And a love -”

CHILD LOVE WHY NOT ME

Murder So I joined in.

I echoed the false crimes I spread them.

When that was good, worked I raised my fist, (even the shadow, as it rose above her, dark, black, somehow did not make her any less bold, distinguishable beautiful) threw it down with the weight of my hate some thousands of tons of stone and rock and hurt, and bloody hurt. the Heaviest Thing I have Dragged Round my existence like a damn fucking sleigh – whose contents finally held value – unto her bones, her muscles stretched elastic and snapped rubber blood splattering, spray and flecks, across my knuckles fountains in spurts, repealing itself from her stomach and chest in pulse gold, orange liquids oozing, delicious, like melted fudge, then pooling round lungs, now punctured by ribs, hissing with air escaping, their balloon chambers deflating pink plateaus sinking back down to the flatted earth –

Vapour There: the chamber, its yellow fuzz spoiled rotten with dark clots the fur congested dripping, stuck – sticky now useless for warmth or comfort.

Then her spirit exploding, shooting from her body, some fireworks of white, rose pink, and golden fizz with the smallest whimper crunching, the fragility of reputation.

A Corpse, I suppose.

The Grave I don’t think I’m allowed to kill something Just because I’m scared.

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Queer Fortunes Because queers are unfortunate people

Aries

Cancer

March 21 – April 9 Do it, buy that ticket, go on that trip, meet that person, fall in love, and dance with Danny Devito.

June 22 – July 22 The bouts of crying from trimester stress aren’t ceasing soon. Maybe try competitive swimming! No one will know what water is from where.

Taurus

Leo

April 20 – May 20 Ahh, precious cow babies, we are publishing this during Scorpio season, which means you’re undoubtedly having A Time™. Best wishes xo

July 23 – August 22 Bubble butt twinks getting you down? Make friends with a flannel loving lesbian is the key.

Gemini May 21 – June 21 Today you’ll meet your evil interdimensional twin, only for them to compliment you and realise that actually, you’re the evil one.

Libra September 23 – October 23 When Diego Rivera cheated on Frida Kahlo, Kahlo would cheat back . Has anyone done you wrong Libra? Is there a way to balance the scales?

Virgo August 23 – September 22 Today you are sisyphus, and the privatisation of buses by the Berekjilian government, is your rock.

Capricorn December 22 – January 19 In the coming zombie apocalypse, it is you, yes you that knows the key.

But for now, you’re just a janitor.

Scorpio October 24 – November 22 Congress just passed a bill where billionaires are legally allowed to murder people. Now you just need to get rich enough to take revenge on everyone who has ever done you wrong.

Sagittarius November 23 – December 21 Hello, this is yet another reminder for you not to do that thing. You know what thing. The thing literally everyone in your life is telling you not to do.

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Aquarius January 20 – February 18 And i oop and i oop.

Skskskskskskskksksk

Pisces February 19 – March 20 You are cute hehe. Don’t you ever forget that.

I’ve dated boys, but I’ve only kissed girls

By G.

I feel myself entering a season of change, where the old ways of doing things are discarded and I’m blindly feeling around in the dark to find the new methods. I am slowly shedding the labels that no longer serve me; labels that I had given myself, that others had given me, and some that I didn’t even know were placed upon me.

Some of these preconceptions were easy to shed. They weren’t too firmly attached, not too important to my sense of self.

Where once I wore push up bras and tight, uncomfortable clothes, perfected my winged eyeliner and forced myself to throw up, in its place is a sense of comfort. I am not yet completely comfortable in my body and mind, but I’m getting there. These uncomfortable practices were learned things, expected things. The years at an all-girls school had done a number on me, I thought that the only way I could be pretty was to be skinny but not too skinny, tanned but not brown, and dressed up but not trying too hard.

I’ve moved away from this existence, partly out of laziness, partly out of self-preservation. But other pressures are harder to escape from.

I’ve known I was queer since before I knew what it meant. I always had crushes on people, regardless of their gender.

When it was a boy it was cute and “a part of growing up”, but when it was a girl, I was “just jealous”. I started to learn that girls were competition and boys were the prize. I thought that female friendships were of lower value, and that being “one of the boys” was the goal. I was proud of people saying that I didn’t “throw like a girl”, despite being able to throw a cricket ball farther than anyone in my class, boy or girl. I learnt that girlhood and womanhood was purely performative, and inherently shallow.

I’ve dated boys, but only kissed girls.

When I started examining my sexuality there wasn’t a question. I knew that I liked girls, but I struggled enough making friends with them, let alone dating them. It was so much easier just to date boys; it didn’t raise questions, they were easy to impress, easy to read.

So I did.

Queer is a label that is mainly internal for me. I have no shame telling people, but it’s not something I wear on my sleeve. It’s not out of a sense of shame of the label, but rather I don’t feel like I have the evidence to validate my claim. I feel like I have to explain myself, that I’m not really queer if I’m straight passing.

Even now, I feel that the “straight” label falling off. The adhesive is wearing out and the stickiness is fading, but still hanging on by a small corner.

But I still haven’t told my parents.

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Queer Shot Part Two

By Indi Sofyar insta @indi_sofyar

Queer Shot is a photographic series that aims to frame queer people in different and unexpected ways.

Through this series, delicate balances, unrealised tensions, different modes of being, and the inextricable physicalities of “The Queer� are examined.

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