Issue 14 ✦ Queerlient

c u n t e n t s

The News ✦ Kawe Pūrongo

05. Stafford House Evades the Residential Tenancies Act: Payout of $4800 Ordered

09. Notes on Defiance: An Interview with QED

—Goose and Amal Samaha

12. Dykes Like Us: a Butch-Femme Introduction

—Amelia Kirkness

16. Coming of Age in Queer Time—Seren Ashmore

22. ‘Freak of Nature’ Artist’s Note—Zia Ravenscroft

24. It’s Not Me, It’s You: Why Should I Have to Come Out?—Kiran Patel

29. Confessions of a Reformed U-Haul Lesbian

—Lauren Davies

30. A Girl(ish)’s Guide to Gay Awakenings—Pip Cov

4

06. Change Your Legal Name With a Prezzy Card

06. Wake Up Babe, New Council Housing Just Dropped

07. Queerline Junkie

08. Hot Takes in the Hub

7 Puzzles ✦ Panga

About Us

Salient is published by, but remains editorially independent from, the Victoria University of Wellington Students’ Association (VUWSA).

Salient is funded in part by VUWSA through the Student Services Levy. Salient is a member of the Aotearoa Student Press Association (ASPA).

The views expressed in Salient do not necessarily reflect those of the Editors, VUWSA, or the University.

Complaints

Complaints regarding the material published in Salient should first be brought to the Editors in writing (editor@salient.org.nz).

If not satisfied with the response, complaints should be directed to the Media Council (info@mediacouncil.org.nz).

Find Us

Twitter: @salientmagazine

Facebook: fb.com/salientmagazine

Instagram: @salientgram

www.salient.org.nz

Salient Podcasts

Instagram: @salient_podcasts

32. Manawa Ora

33. Teaspoonie

Catch us on:

The Unedited Session

Salient Podcasts

E d i to r i a l

The Bitch is Back!

Kia ora koutou, e hoa mā.

I’d like to share with you a memory:

It’s late March this year, and I’m standing at the back of a crowd overlooking Civic Square. It’s the counterprotest against a TERF rally to spread transphobic hate in our city. In front of me is a sea of coloured hair and pronouns. I can’t even see the square.

I text a friend and ask him where he is. He says he’s in the square. I tell him that’s where the TERFs are. He says there aren’t any.

We won.

That rally was organised by an activist organisation called Queer Endurance / Defiance, and in the spirit of their excellent work I wanted this year’s Queerlient to be all about queer defiance.

From powerful protests and rainbow histories, to examining the smaller ways we resist cisheteronormativity in our everyday queer lives, queer defiance covers a broad range of topics.

Seren explores the ideas of coming of age through a queer lens, while Kiran offers an alternative to ‘coming out’. Amelia regales us with the proud history of butch and femme lesbian identities, and we even have a queer quiz!

We are so lucky to have such talented queer writers and artists from our diverse student community coming together for something like this. The work we do here reaches many and is no small feat.

It’s been 40 years now since the first AIDS cases were reported in Aotearoa, the targeted discrimination that came with that sparked our country’s queer rights movement and brought us into the spotlight.

After decades of tireless battles, our predecessors built a world for us that, while far from perfect, allows us freedoms and opportunities they couldn’t have— from marriage rights, to name changes, to taking over the student magazine once in a while. Though we still have a way to go, it’s a real testament to the power of their defiance that I am able to write this to you all now.

‘Queer’ by definition means to be different, outside the mainstream. If we want our own spaces and better representation, we have to create them ourselves in spite of tradition. For us, by us, from the beginning.

So go forth and defy. Be unashamed and abrasive. Let’s make a world for us.

Yours in arms, Goose

Salient is fuelled by:

Stafford House Evades the Residential Tenancies Act: Payout of $4800 Ordered

Words by Maia Ingoe (she/her)

Apast resident of Stafford House has been awarded $4800 in compensation and damages by the Tenancy Tribunal, in a ruling combining eight different breaches of the Residential Tenancies Act 1986 (RTA).

The resident lived at Stafford House from February to November 2022, during his first year at Te Herenga Waka— Victoria University of Wellington, in accommodation he described as “disgusting”.

Stafford House is operated by UniLodge, who operated under agreement with VUW as a Hall of Residence until 31 December 2021, at which time they became liable to the RTA. Stafford House made no changes to their apartments or residence agreement to become RTA compliant, and continued to claim exemption from the RTA in the Student Hall Handbook.

The resident said Stafford House was “sketchy from the beginning”, stating the residence agreement “ looked like they wrote it with Microsoft Word”.

Stafford House’s breaches of the RTA include: requiring $340 of non-refundable key money and letting fees, requiring rent up to ten weeks in advance (above the maximum threshold of two weeks rent under the RTA), taking over two months to lodge the tenant’s bond (the legal requirement is in 23 working days), mouldy rooms with dirty conditions, failing to provide a working fridge and oven, unlawful entry by the landlord, and contracting to evade the RTA.

Under the RTA, landlords must give at least 48 hours notice of unlawful entry. The resident was given two hours notice prior to the landlord abruptly entering his room. “He kept looking around my room like I wasn't there. [It was] terrifying.”

Stafford House made headlines last year after failing to provide facilities to ‘boil and bake’ in their accommodations, and in this most recent ruling, the breaches also included a faulty fridge. The resident’s fridge failed on four different occasions and took months to replace, despite multiple attempts at bringing the issue to hall management.

“If I knew [the fridge had overheated] I would have left the door open and heated the place up because we didn't have a heater,” he said.

The Tenancy Tribunal process has been “horrendous”, he said. “It's been tiring, and even though they've denied it, they've tried to evade the law.” UniLodge has appealed the decision of the Tenancy Tribunal, and a date for an appeal hearing has not yet been set.

UniLodge refused to provide comment to Salient, but did say that their rooms, which cost $319 a week, are “good value for students in the current market”.

“They didn’t understand the seriousness of their breaches,” says VUWSA CEO Matt Tucker, citing an investigation by MBIE in 2022 which found Stafford House to be in breach of six sections of the RTA.

The recent Tenancy Tribunal ruling means that “potentially, other students living at Stafford House in 2022 or now might have a case,” said Erica Schouten, student advocate with VUWSA.

Students experiencing tenancy problems can go to the Aratohu Tenant Advocacy website or contact VUWSA for advice and support.

Change your Legal Name with a Prezzy Card

Words by Francesca Pietkiewicz (she/they)

June 15 was a proud day for the Aotearoa Queer Community, as the amendments to the Births, Deaths, Marriages and Relationships Registration Act 2021 came into full effect. The changes to the act make the process of changing your name and sex marker more accessible and significantly easier.

"Parliament has voted in favour of inclusivity and against discrimination," then Internal Affairs Minister Jan Tinetti said when the bill was first passed.

Individuals over the age of 18 are now able use a ‘selfidentification process’ to apply for a name or marker change for their official identification documents. Applicants must complete a form and attach ID and proof of ‘identity in the community’, such as a bank statement, and have it signed by an authorised witness like a Justice of the Peace.

It costs $170 NZD to change names, and $55 to change a sex marker. Sex marker options include male, female, and nonbinary. According to the New Zealand Government website, you

can pay this fee by credit card, in person, or even by Prezzy card. Individuals aged 16 and 17 can go through the self-identification process as long as they have parental consent.

Prior to these changes, if you wanted to change your name or sex marker you had to “apply to the Family Court for a declaration that the sex on your birth certificate should be changed”, and deal with unaffordable fees, according to the Ministry of Justice website.

MP Elizabeth Kerekere highly commended the changes, reportedly speaking with tears in her eyes as the bill was passed. “This bill recognises that those who need to amend their birth certificate can do so, that the courts do not have the right to make that choice for them,” she said.

She commented that despite the win, 15 June was still “bittersweet”, as the self identification process will only be available to NZ citizens. “People who hold birth certificates from other countries will not have access to the self-ID process, including residents, recent migrants, refugees, and asylum seekers,” she said.

Wake Up Babe, New Council Housing Just Dropped

Words by Zoë Mills (they/she)

…except it’s not the type of housing that Wellingtonians were hoping for.

Wellington City Council (WCC) have completed the latest installment of Te Kāinga affordable rental programme, a development consisting of three different apartment buildings on Willis Street. Combined, the buildings house a total of 178 two or three bedroom apartments, but the price tag has raised eyebrows.

The two bedroom apartments advertised on the Te Kāinga website range between $621 per week to a steep $770 p/w. Three bedroom apartments aren't much better, sitting at $803 p/w for certain buildings.

As of March this year, the average cost of rent in Wellington central is between $600 and $800 p/w for a two bedroom apartment. Te Kāinga development rentals match these figures.

One disgruntled Twitter user wrote, “I live in a backpackers. If by some miracle I get to move to Te Kāinga apartments, it will be circa 40% of my weekly income.”

The WCC outlines the target demographic for tenants on the official Te Kāinga website as “people on incomes under $95,000 for an individual and $150,000 for a couple or family and who are not eligible for income related rent”, and people who are not homeowners. Workers in the arts, hospitality, tourism, and the public sectors are listed as priority tenants.

Although the prices are high for the targeted tenants, Eimhim O’Shea, a representative of Renters United, affirms that “building these high-density homes is a net positive”.

“My understanding of that project is [it is] aimed at yo-pros who are working people [and] who do have that higher level of income. I think that the idea is by increasing supply [it will] help reduce the cost of other housing,” he explains. “I'm far more concerned with private rentals, which are of far worse quality, charging the same or even greater prices, [and] exploiting the undersupply of housing.”

Although O’Shea says that even though “the prices aren't accessible to a huge part of our community, which is super unfortunate”, the WCC as a whole is doing “pretty well”.

QUEERLINE

Words by Phoebe Robertson (she/her)

SHIT’S FUCKED IN THE STATES

On 30 June, the US Supreme Court dealt a historical blow to queer rights by ruling a website designer could discriminate against LGBTQIA+ customers. The judgement cites the constitutional right to free speech and allows certain businesses to refuse to provide services for same-sex weddings, a decision that dissenting liberal judges called a "license to discriminate". Associate Justice Sonia Sotomayor stated, "By issuing this new license to discriminate in a case brought by a company that seeks to deny same-sex couples the full and equal enjoyment of its services, the immediate, symbolic effect of the decision is to mark gays and lesbians for second-class status. In this way, the decision itself inflicts a kind of stigmatic harm, on top of any harm caused by denials of service."

GOOD NEWS

NEW HBO DOCUMENTARY FOCUSES ON TRANS SEX WORKERS

In a new documentary titled The Stroll, two trans filmmakers Kristen Lovell and Zackary Drucker aim to shed light on a community often stereotyped and undervalued. It was released on HBO Max on 21 June, after premiering at the Sundance Film Festival on 23 January. In an interview with The Guardian, Drucker said, “It was just time to tell this story. [...] There was a void, a generational void, where we went from the likes of Sylvia Rivera and Marsha P Johnson to this new generation that’s coming up and fighting again for trans rights, and there’s a generational gap. Trans history is something that’s not taught in schools, so the new generation really didn’t have an understanding of all this stuff.”

LONDON MAYOR ANNOUNCES NEW SHELTER FOR LGBTQIA+ PEOPLE WITHOUT HOMES

On 10 July, Sadiq Khan, Mayor of London, confirmed an additional £20 million of funding will be invested to help those sleeping on the streets in the capital. Out of this, £2.75m will be spent on setting up specific services to reduce homelessness, such as a new shelter for members of the LGBTQIA+ community sleeping rough.

BILLIONAIRE GOT HIS FEELINGS HURT ON HIS OWN PLATFORM

Elon Musk, a billionaire, white, cisgender male who wants to start launching people into space, took to Twitter on 20 June to announce the word ‘cis’ is now a slur. Unsurprisingly, everyone’s (least) favourite transphobic children's book author, JK Rowling, backed him up. Because, you know, a billionaire not understanding gender surely equates to the historical oppression of minorities.

GOOGLE PULLS OUT OF SPONSORING DRAG SHOW BECAUSE… JESUS

Google recently pulled their sponsorship of a drag show after Christian employees called it offensive. The show was scheduled to close out the company's Pride Month festivities, but they dropped the sponsorship after hundreds of employees signed a petition, calling drag a “direct affront to the religious beliefs and sensitivities of Christians”. Peaches Christ, an American drag performer, took to Facebook to respond, stating, “This is another example of the really disturbing rise in anti-queer and anti-gay rhetoric that is using drag performers and trans people as scapegoats.”

NEPAL BECOMES SECOND COUNTRY IN ASIA TO RECOGNISE SAMESEX MARRIAGE

A landmark Supreme Court ruling in Nepal on 28 June cleared the way for marriage equality in the country. Although Nepal’s Civil Code currently describes marriage as being between a man and a woman, Justice Til Pradad Shrestha ordered the government to immediately begin registering same-sex marriages while it prepares legislation to amend the law. Now, hundreds of same-sex couples will be able to legally register their marriages.

HOT TAKES If you could add a colour to the pride flag what would it be and why?

Brick-red to represent the first brick thrown at Stonewall.

I would say cerulean… to me that would represent connection and community.

I think I’d add silver ‘cause, like, older men, ya know? ;)

Wine-red for the milfs— shoutout to Cate Blanchett for being my lesbian awakening.

DEFIANCE NOTES ON

An Interview with QED

This year, Queerlient is themed ‘Queer Defiance’, inspired by the work of local activist group Queer Endurance / Defiance (QED). I sat down with Amal from QED for a chat about their fight for queer rights in Aotearoa.

Amal has been with QED since its founding and is also part of the Bolshevik Club and Students Against Cuts VUW.

Goose: For anyone who doesn’t know what QED is, would you mind giving us an intro?

Amal: Queer Endurance / Defiance is a coalition of queer activists, founded in 2021 to oppose the Wellington International Pride Parade’s willingness to work with police and military at Pride. The basic idea was that we didn’t want pinkwashing of imperialism and police violence in Aotearoa.

A similar disagreement about the involvement of police ended up being a really big deal in the Auckland queer community, to the point where there was a huge public meeting with a mediator brought in. I was there, and it was incredible. There ended up being two pride parades in Auckland. One was anti-police, which had the vast majority of people, and another that was mostly police [and] small business owners, and it was much smaller.

QED founder Elle Brocherie wanted to have that kind of conversation in the community here as well.

G: What does queer defiance mean to you?

A: Queer defiance means a refusal to be used for the ideology of the state and capital. The refusal to participate in pinkwashing was the first impetus behind us. Also, going beyond that, to refuse to be silent while our rights are taken away and while trans people internationally are not doing well.

The Posie Parker rally, in particular, was not just us, but part of an international wave of queer defiance, propelled along by people in Melbourne and Hobart. It wouldn’t have been anything here without that. So it’s international resistance to anti-queer hate.

G: One of the things we’re looking at in the magazine is the idea of defying cisheteronormativity in little ways. How do you feel you manifest the smaller side of queer defiance in your daily life?

A: Communism is pretty much my entire life. I don’t know if there is a smaller side that I think about often. I guess the smaller side is loving queer people and refusing to even think about letting anything happen to them.

Words by Goose (she/they) and Amal Samaha (she/her)

DEFIANCE Q U E E R MEANS

G: That’s wonderful. Do you have advice for others on how to be more active in their defiance?

A: All oppression is interconnected. It isn’t necessarily just standing up for queer people, it’s standing up for all aspects of their existence—standing up for workers, standing up for students, standing up as queer people. Anything you can do to get organised, to start thinking critically about the society in which we live and the way we live, is practising defiance.

G: Defiance is a very active thing, and not everyone has the capacity for fighting. Shifting to the other side of your group’s name, ‘Queer Endurance’, is there anything you can advise on how to endure in a more subtle way?

A: Knowing when to opt out. We live highly politicised lives and we need to protect ourselves by knowing when to step back from the fighting.

G: Do you consider being queer an inherently political act?

A: No. I think that often gets said, but on one level, simply refusing to give in, to be forced back into the closet, or to detransition, is a form of resistance—the most necessary form of resistance. On another level, that’s not a form of resistance with which we’ll win. That requires a more active kind of resistance. We do actually want to win. We do actually want to be free, not just temporarily, but permanently.

Queer people currently in Aotearoa are living in a relatively liberal society, one that has gone through a small wave of increased rights, but that can reverse quickly. It’s reversed internationally in a lot of places. We need to be aware of how we’re not actually free while it still can reverse.

That’s why we say things like ‘queer liberation’, rather than ‘queer rights’. It is always possible to achieve more rights, but rights are never secured without liberation. Liberation would require a genuine revolutionary approach to society as a whole. Not just a tactical victory against people who hate queers, but a strategic victory against those people, the actual elimination of the conditions that give rise to those who hate us.

G: So do you think there’s an obligation for our people to get involved in fighting for this liberation?

A: I would hesitate to say obligation. That would seem to say they should be morally condemned if they don't. Each person has different capacities. For some it'll mean googling the meaning of a term, for others it'll mean attending a rally or joining a group.

G: You say liberation requires a total restructuring of what we have. Do you think we would be better off building our own world, rather than trying to reform something?

A: Reform is the means by which we can build the forces necessary to reshape the world. Without reform campaigns, you have nothing to show for your struggle.

There is an enormous change in ideas that is necessary before any change in the actual structure of the world. We need any opportunity we can to have those kinds of conversations in united fronts, like QED, where people can have political discussions openly with people of different kinds of politics and views on how to reshape the world.

G: What do you think makes your group so effective?

A: We have so many people in socialist groups. There’s a very strong tradition of united fronts in the socialist movement, and this avoids problems like cliqueism, where it’s just a small group of friends who aren't really open to new ideas or new people.

G: As a member of Students Against Cuts VUW as well, what’s your position on the importance of education for the queer community?

A: I think our resistance needs to be on all fronts, and that includes anything that will make our society a less vibrant, less interesting place to live in. A less free place to live. The question at stake with these cuts is academic freedom, and ultimately queer people never benefit from a society that doesn’t value certain forms of knowledge. We know that often the first sciences to go are the ones studying us, so I think that’s one of the many reasons queer people should be thinking about how attacks on all parts of society can ultimately damage us.

G: You’ve just finished your rally for better queer healthcare. What’s next on the horizon for QED?

A: We’re going to continue working towards making queer healthcare demands an election issue, so we’re going to continue rallying prior to the election. We will also be pushing our healthcare demands through lobbying and petitions. They won’t get through purely by the actions of politicians. Politicians need to be kept accountable by mass popular support for effective healthcare demands.

D Y K E S LIKE US

A Butch-Femme Introduction

Words by Amelia Kirkness (she/they)

As a lesbian, gender can be a messy topic. In a patriarchal society that stratifies women by their adherence to the male gaze and assumes attraction to men as the standard, the simple lack of this attraction can leave one alienated from the baseline of womanhood. And that’s without taking into account the complex relationships individual lesbians have with gender presentation—all the ways in which some of us have never had a chance to pass as straight. Enter butch and femme.

Butch and femme, in the historical sense, are a pair of discrete identities that can encapsulate gender presentation, relationship dynamics, self-perception, and behaviour. While historically the categories and expectations were more rigid, the modern definitions of butch and femme are more diffused and variable. As identities, they are not interchangeable with ‘masc’ and ‘fem’, which have come to function mostly as aesthetic descriptors, and not all lesbians are butch or femme.

Butch typically denotes a more traditionally masculine gender presentation (short hair, menswear, looking better in a pair of cargo shorts than any straight man ever has, etc), but it exists outside of just the physical aspects. Butch is the ‘outlaw’ figure of lesbianism—visibly gender-nonconforming and often the most stereotypical image of a lesbian in straight culture. Butch lesbians take the brunt of stereotyping and homophobia within the lesbian community, being perceived as ‘the wrong type of lesbian’ compared to those that fit more neatly into femininity.

They also have unbelievable amounts of swag. Stone butch is often misrepresented as just being extreme butch, likely due to the proliferation of the ‘futch scale’ meme. It actually refers to specific sexual boundaries that some butches have

where they prefer not to receive touch during sex. This frequently stems from factors like trauma or dysphoria, and is a boundary to be respected.

Femme is the other side of the coin, a lesbian with a more typically feminine style of presentation or role within a relationship. In recent years, femme style and femininity have come to be associated with playful, exaggerated, and kitschy aesthetics—femininity that alienates men rather than entices them—but this isn’t true of all femmes. Ms Frizzle from The Magic School Bus was definitely on some gay shit though. Femmes have been a contradiction to historical notions of sexuality that used to posit that all lesbians wanted to be men (the ‘invert’ model) and a contradiction to notions of butch undesirability.

High femme, also featured on the ‘futch scale’, is not an aesthetic descriptor either, though it is often co-opted to refer to an exaggeratedly feminine aesthetic. As the inverse of stone butch, high femme refers to a femme who prefers not to give touch during sex. This is once again an important boundary that should be respected, even though the internet loves to dunk on pillow princesses.

In some schools of thought, butch and femme function as lesbian genders divorced from womanhood. Some lesbians don’t see themselves as women at all, but as lesbians. There is a long and beautiful history of transmasculinity, transfemininity, and non-binaryness within lesbianism. I align myself broadly in this category. ‘Femme lesbian’ describes my gender identity a whole lot better than just ‘woman’, although the latter isn’t necessarily incorrect for me. My lesbianism shapes my relationship to my femininity and the world. If I could choose to be an amorphous blob of shapes to cishet men and a girl only to the gays that get it, I would.

AS A FEMME , MY INVISIBILITY BE FRUSTRATING . I AS AVAILABLE FOR

AND ASSUMED AS STRAIGHT PLENTY OF SITUATIONS

Butch and femme as distinct labels largely originated in working-class lesbian bar culture around the 1940s and 50s, when women’s freedom to attend bars alone began to grow. Historically, butches who refused to compromise their presentation and had a harder time ‘blending in’ to straight society were often forced to work blue-collar, manual jobs where dress codes were less oppressive.

Some of these historical butches may have chosen to instead identify as trans men if they had been alive today and had access to modern terminology, but transness has always been closely intertwined with butch-femme identities. Even in the 20th century, lesbians like Leslie Feinberg have existed across the trans spectrum. Feinberg chronicled elements of this experience in hir seminal novel Stone Butch Blues, an essential read for this period of lesbian history. Femmes of this era were less obviously identifiable as lesbians, able to access wider social mobility through their more acceptable presentation, but by no means did working-class bar femmes have easy lives.

Lesbian bars became a safe haven for butches and femmes to explore their identities and express themselves freely, away from the eyes of the world. These were hard-won spaces subject to frequent police raids, often requiring butches to be ready to physically defend themselves and the bars as a lesbian space. Butch-femme dynamics were a highly codified norm in these communities. There was an intricate sense of ritual to lesbian bar courtship. In this

period, the roles in a butch-femme relationship were more stereotypical. The butch would be strong, willing to fight for their femme, while the femme would provide emotional support.

Though this has evolved throughout history, it often falls to a femme to weaponise their acceptability or invisibility to defend their butch, gender non-conforming, and trans friends or lovers. As a femme, my invisibility can be frustrating. I am perceived as available for male attention and assumed as straight in plenty of situations. Joan Nestle, writer and founder of the Lesbian Herstory Archives, argues that though the femme in a butch-femme couple is invisible without her partner, they make the pair exceedingly visible by publicly showing their desire for the butch and highlighting their difference.

In the 1970s, butch-femme roles were pushed out of favour by the lesbian feminist movement which decried them as heteronormative, imitating straight couples. Men’s masculinity and androgyny was favoured by the typical white feminist movement, with little place for butch and femme identities, as well as little inclusion of working-class or POC lesbian issues.

In spite of this, butch and femme identities persisted, albeit as a less dominant force in the lesbian community. Their comparative lack of visibility in the media as distinct identities, as well as a disconnect from our history and from

INVISIBILITY CAN AM PERCEIVED MALE ATTENTION STRAIGHT IN SITUATIONS ."

queer elders, means that butch-femme identities have continued to remain on the sidelines of younger generations’ visions of lesbianism.

New generations of butches and femmes have built considerable communities through social media platforms like Tumblr, Twitter, and TikTok, sharing resources and support. My ‘femme awakening’ happened in high school, when I found a Tumblr blog that discussed lesbian history in-depth and talked about the owner’s experience as a high femme. They shared PDFs of books like The Persistent Desire and Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold, reblogged pictures of vintage lesbian pins or slogan t-shirts, and posted scans of DIY zines.

That was my first real engagement with femme and butch as rich, full identities rather than just archaic words. Understanding myself as a femme dyke was revelatory to me. This new wave of femme-butch community-building continues the spirit of the aforementioned lesbian DIY culture of the 20th century, with new femme-butch zines like Beloved, Dyke Diaries, and Femme Dyke being made, as well as artist Stella Hobart’s iconic custom ‘BUTCH BAIT’ and ‘FEMME BAIT’ shirts in the slogan shirt tradition.

As far as wider media representation goes, although queerness in general continues to gain visibility, there is still a long way to go in representing the depth and breadth of lesbian identity. Not only do the powers-that-be keep

cancelling lesbian shows (rip Netflix’s First Kill, trashy but forever in my heart), the most commonly depicted image of lesbian remains largely white, thin, able-bodied, and fem4fem—sometimes fem4slightly-edgier-fem if you want to get really crazy. Butches are harder to find depicted favourably in media and butch4butch relationships are particularly scarce. It’s extremely important to be able to see representations of people like you and in relationships like you in the media, and I hope on behalf of every other baby dyke that this sphere continues to improve. It would have probably saved me a few years of confusion if I had realised sooner my attraction to butch masculinity rather than… male masculinity.

Ultimately, present-day butch-femme communities are a love letter to our elders and our community’s past, cherishing our history and continuing to defy the social pressure to abide by the ‘acceptable’ images of lesbianism. Butch-femme is frequently misunderstood in frustrating ways, with people branding it as heteronormative, toxic, or restrictive. It isn’t for everyone. Still, the butch-femme community is a vibrant demonstration of the expansiveness and power of lesbian identity and the diversity within it. I take strength from the proud dykes who came before me. It is an honour to carry their legacy.

Words by Seren Ashmore (he/him)

Coming-of-age stories are usually found in adolescence—in the front seats of L-plated cars, the strangled coughs of first cigarettes, in shrinking PE uniforms, itchy ball gowns, and timid forehead kisses between sweat and pimples. They emerge parallel to the body’s development. Puberty unfolds in sync, alongside a checklist set of milestones guaranteed to accomplish ‘growing up’. Very rarely do we see coming of age stick around once 21st birthday candles are blown out. By then, we’re meant to have already blossomed into maturity, the past left as an inelegant memory.

Why, then, does seeing my high school peers getting married or falling pregnant feel uncanny and inconceivable? Why do I see old classmates on real estate billboards and behind company name badges, while I’m searching for new excuses to enrol for another year of student loans? Why can my younger brother grow a better beard than me, and why is my flatmate still waiting for his voice to drop?

Why do my early 20s feel like the beginning of my coming of age story, when everyone else is watching the credits roll?

Time is phenomenological—it exists only through our conscious experience of it. Whether a moment feels ‘long’, ‘short’, ‘fast’, ‘slow’, ‘late’, or ‘early’ relies on the context. The 60 seconds before a loved one leaves ‘flies by’ too quickly, but the 60 seconds before being burned alive (I’m assuming) feels agonisingly long.

The way we comprehend and make sense of time is socially determined—capitalism interrupts and prescribes a work-life rhythm to our 24hr cycle. The five-day workweek, twoday weekend, and breakfast, lunch, and dinner in between are considered ‘common sense’. Everything from clocks, calendars, time zones, age-based laws, the concept of

generations, and expected age milestones keep us in check. They conduct us into a synchronised hive, puppeteered to maximise productivity.

Cis-heteronormativity works smoothly alongside this system. Reproduction fills the labour pool, domestic partnership serves the privatisation of property, and passivity protects the scheme itself.

Despite the name, age is not inherent to coming of age. Though the genre is saturated with themes tied to teenagehood, a coming of age narrative is simply one that centres a character’s journey of self-discovery. Coming of age isn’t about age, it’s about coming into your true self. Unscripted by the cis-heteronormativity that structures traditional temporality, the queer experience of ‘coming of self’ often doesn't often fit into the expected timeline.

Queer theorist Jack Halberstam claims that queerness “has the potential to open up new narratives and alternative relations to time and space”—a phenomenon he calls ‘queer time’.

To be queer means to bend, to twist and diverge from the line of normativity. Queer time often delays, or entirely bypasses, traditional milestones of adulthood, like getting married or having children. By nature, queerness opposes the logics of reproduction and lineage, of inheritance and legacy, resisting traditional life paths that loop generationally. Queer time disrupts the adult/youth binary, rejecting the idea that particular experiences have an expiry date.

Queer individuals often experience time-warping phenomena that fractures their linear timeline. A 60-year-old just discovering their queer identity could feel ‘younger’ than an experienced queer 20-year-old. Queer kids are forced to move out of home before they’re ready, making decisions between safety and authenticity, and necessitating their accelerated maturation. Puberty blockers can halt the speed at which the body is developing, and transition can make someone feel like a teenager again as they re-experience puberty. The liminal time spent in the closet, or waiting for family members to adjust to one’s queerness after coming out, can feel like time lost.

I stopped growing at age 12, and started again at 17. Once ostensibly settled into my adult height, the stop-start recordscratch of my second puberty awoke my dormant bones and stretched another few centimetres from them. My voice began to break in Year 13, alongside the Year 9 boys I was peer supporting. Halfway between fulfilling my mother’s shape and anticipating assuming my father’s, I floated in the limbo of queer time.

The experience of ‘coming out’ ruptures the concept of time once again. The road forward bends backwards to accommodate the roots erupting in either direction, splitting off from where one’s life was heading and expected to head. Time folds in and onto itself as the existence of the queer child is born at this intersection, from the ashes of where one’s ‘straight’ life lies. Queerness of the past is only able to be recognised in retrospect, once it is known in the present.

Looking back at photos I took of myself from before I knew my transness, I find my iPhone-4-self doused in chiaroscuro—greyed out like an unselectable video game character you haven’t unlocked yet. My self was something yet-to-be. The silhouette I inhabited literally foreshadowed who I was to become.

I didn’t give a fuck about anything before I knew I was trans. Something about not being in the right body, or personhood, meant nothing was real, and I didn’t care if it was. Unable to comprehend a future for myself, it didn’t matter if I embarrassed myself, or bleached off all my hair, or said something I shouldn’t—I was living off borrowed time, and I didn’t anticipate having to deal with the repercussions.

Theorists have attempted to design a framework to outline a ‘coming of queerness’. Various milestones have been proposed, such as the iconic falling-in-love-with-yourstraight-best-friend moment, or trialling out a new name on your private Tumblr. But no two queer experiences are alike. Scattered inconsistency between individuals shows queer coming of identity’s refusal to be homogeneous or organised. This defiance of conformity itself is, ironically, the most common denominator between experiences of queerness. It is in the limitless manifestations of queerness that I find its most stable characterisation. The subversion of cis-heteronormativity is the only true requirement built into its definition.

While anti-queer rhetoric wants to convince us that queerness is a new concept, queer communities throughout history have been developing their own rites of passage since the beginning of time. Branching over a diaspora of place and time, there are an infinite number of ways to come of age as a queer person. In ancient Greek paederastic relationships, a boy was no longer considered an eromenos once the physical signs of maturation began to show—a notion of maturity based entirely on physical puberty. Pre-colonial Māori culture largely accepted takatāpui identity, but this was threatened when settlers introduced Western religion and queerphobia. In response to the oppression of ancient Māoritanga, contemporary tikanga often intentionally reclaims mana takatāpui, making the discovery of takatāpui identity a spiritual and cultural passage.

Coming out has been used throughout history as a radical, grassroots political strategy to prove queer existence and its normalcy. The process of coming out mirrors how coming of age is traditionally expected to go—a separation (often accompanied by symbolic rituals like cutting hair; a cutting away the former self) before transition (a period of questioning, the act of coming out, or a literal gender transition), and then re-entering with a ‘new’ identity. Directly tied to histories of activism and survival, coming out is a uniquely queer ritual of coming of identity, and arguably the most recognisable rite of passage in queer culture today.

Queer rites of passage can happen at any age of a person’s life. I have friends who have known they’re queer since childhood, and friends who have just figured it out this year. Self-discovery is a significant experience of growth and maturation, but for queer people, it’s often illogical to refer to it as ‘coming of age’. Reconceptualising the notion of ‘coming of age’ as ‘coming of identity’ instead allows space for all journeys of self-discovery, unbound by age.

While others have had their whole lives to bond, I feel like I’ve only just been introduced to myself. Embracing queer time has freed me from the fear that time is running out, and that I should know myself more by now. I still have no idea if I want to have kids, get married, or ever finally leave academia. It’s okay to not have it all sorted out, and it’s okay to never sort it out. I almost don’t want to.

Time doesn’t have to bind us. In hidden corners and fleeting moments, in words between friends and breath between lovers, cis-heteronormative assumptions cease to exist and time is infused with a sense of infinity. Queer time liberates us from the burden of regret and expectation. It gives us permission to continue to come of age for our entire lives.

Freak of Nature Artist’s Note

Words by Zia Ravenscroft (he/they)

Hi gay! I’m Zia, your UniQ Vice-President and Social Media Officer. More importantly, I am honoured to be the sub-editor of this year’s Queerlient. If you’re a regular reader, you might know me for important journalism on the two genders: poppers and My Chemical Romance.

When my friend Goose told me earlier in the year that she wanted me on the Queerlient centrefold, I was nervous to say yes. I taught myself to read at age 3, and first stepped onstage the next year, so words—written or performed— have always been my chosen medium. I started zinemaking and collaging in high school, seeking a less pressured creative outlet, and picked it up seriously after uni last year. I see collages as an inherently trans style. I cut and glue together my identity like I do images—a patchwork of my experiences, curated like a museum exhibit.

‘Freak of Nature’ is inspired by iconic figures and moments in queer history and culture that resonate with my personal queerness. I’m from a small, rural town, and was horrifically bullied growing up, used to being one of about three queer people in my year. Working at my local library in high school, I read every single queer book we had on my breaks, searching for a connection with a community I didn’t have in real life. The more I read about our ancestors and elders, the more I learnt to love myself. I thought that if people have been gay and trans for thousands and thousands of years, so can I. I firmly believe in the importance of learning about queer theory and history. By knowing who and where we’ve come from, we know where we’re going.

The first time I encountered the word ‘gay’—beyond a playground insult—was in an Oscar Wilde book when I was 11. He’s remained one of my biggest inspirations, and I wish I could travel back in time to tell him how much he means to me. In his court trial for gross indecency, he spoke about “the love that dare not speak its name”. We have to speak its name, now more than ever. I’m here and I’m goddamn queer. It’s all for and because of you, Oscar.

I called this ‘Freak of Nature’ because I find defiance in fighting against assimilation and conformity, and celebrating the unnatural natural. I’ve always been visibly queer and was deemed ‘weird’ the second I started school. It took me ages to find comfort in this. If I can, you can too. Validity is just a concept the oppressor decides, and being ‘valid’ only means being acceptable to violent, cis-heteronormative standards. We cannot make queerness seem normal to those who deemed us abnormal in the first place. Queer people shouldn’t want to be valid when we live in systems that only validate cis-het people, since radical queer theory is about dismantling those systems entirely.

Get freakier. Get sluttier. Get faggier! They’ll hate us anyway—let’s have some fucking fun with it.

Do you see yourself in Government?

18 months.

2 govt agencies. One fulfilling experience.

Apply today at govtechtalent.sjs.co.nz Applications close 30 July!

WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO C O M E O U T ?

Words by Kiran Patel (he/they)

When I came out of the closet, I thought my life would turn into a rainbow-washed dance sequence to Whitney Houston’s iconic hit ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’.

Okay, so I might have stolen that from Love, Simon

But being the attention-seeking little gremlin that I was, I knew from a young age that my inevitable coming out would have to be nothing short of a momentous occasion for society, our culture, and the social fabric of the world at large.

I had it all mapped out. First, I would quietly switch off the TV and turn to face my family (dim lighting, neutral clothing, sombre expression). I would confess to them I was gay (cue shaky voice), that I’ve always known I was gay (cue tearglazed eyes), but that I was still the same Kiran they know and love (cue single tear rolling down my cheek). They would (tearfully) tell me that they accept me for who I am, and that after all, love is love (tears, hugs, more tears). After that, I’d be whisked down to Ivy by the unknowable gay force for my first dance to ‘Born This Way’, crop top and glitter eyes galore. The rainbow flag would wave proudly above my head as I boogied the night away and finally became one with my people (applause, thunderous applause!).

Unsurprisingly, none of that happened.

In retrospect, it was probably for the best that my coming out happened gradually rather than in a singular, isolated event, even if most of the time it wasn’t out of choice. And sure, maybe I was a tad delusional in thinking that my coming out moment would cure cancer, water crops, and bring world peace. But the more that I thought about it, the more I realised how unfair it was that I even had to plan a ‘coming

out’ in the first place. Where exactly did that expectation and pressure come from?

At the height of early-2010s progressivism, when YouTuber ‘coming out’ videos, fake Tumblr stories, and Ellen were my key references for how to be queer, I really did believe that my life would reach its coming of age happy ending only once I came out. Sure, a sprinkling of homophobia was to be expected. But as long as we had Hilary Duff to call the public out on using ‘gay’ derogatively, the future of queerness looked pretty promising.

After all, coming out was inescapable. The Western media I consumed had me convinced that it was the final puzzle piece I needed to complete my transformation from a shy, self-conscious caterpillar into the confident, girlypop butterfly I was always meant to be. It meant that I could finally alleviate my gay panic everytime someone asked about my sexuality. Even more so, it meant I would finally gain society’s acceptance by confessing to it.

So when my coming out didn’t pan out the way I thought it would, I felt like I had been cheated of the grand metamorphosis I was promised. All around me I saw the gays living their best lives once they were out. Spontaneous hook ups, drag culture, and a built-in community seemed part and parcel with the coming out experience. And yet, as I continued to get the filthiest looks each time I stepped into a queer space, I couldn’t qwhite figure out what I was doing wrong.

WHEN I CAME OUT OF I THOUGHT MY LIFE WOULD A R A I N B O W - WASHED TO WHITNEY HOUSTON

I WANNA DANCE WITH

Given the ungodly amount of pressure I put on myself to be out, I suddenly felt disillusioned. I thought that exposing my sexuality to the world would be my magic bullet to cure a lifetime of self-loathing, and I’d finally get to enjoy the fruits of my trauma with people just like me. But on top of that, wasn’t the whole point of coming out so that I would finally receive that gold star of validation from society for exposing my ‘hidden’ identity and be welcomed back into its good graces?

Don’t get me wrong, the act of coming out can be extremely empowering. For many queer people, it's usually the first real opportunity we have to outwardly express our truth to the world. Not to mention that positive visibility of queerness is essential. It might seem cringey now, but I don’t know if I would’ve had the courage to embrace my authentic identity had it not been for people like Tyler Oakley and Connor Franta paving the path for me at a young age.

But the idea that coming out should be a right of passage for all queer people seems somewhat problematic.

Vinod Bal, the co-founder of the ethnic queer organisation Adhikaar Aotearoa, explained the ways that Pākehādominant practices, like coming out, can often shape unrealistic expectations of queerness for ethnic people. “Globally speaking, queer people of colour, as a sub-group, outnumber white queer people. But the media we consume about queerness is predominantly told from a white queer perspective. So when our experiences of queerness as ethnic

people don’t meet those expectations, it can be incredibly damaging to our self-image.”

Similarly, as Professor Camille Nakhid observed in her research on ethnic queer agency in disclosing queerness, the importance placed on coming out in Pākehā culture often invalidates the lived realities of those outside of it. “Coming out as the standard for queerness often makes ethnic queer people feel like they’re doing something wrong. The Pākehā world is so dominant that it only recognises the strength of vocal queer expression, rather than the secret strength that ethnic queer people carry in their silence.”

For ethnic queer people in particular, safe spaces to express their queerness aren’t always guaranteed. Culturally sensitive issues like familial shame and intergenerational dogma not only ostracise queerness from its zeitgeist, but can even be used to incite violence and abuse towards openly queer people.

While ethnic queer people may choose not to come out primarily to protect themselves, it’s also done to protect their family. Non-nuclear family structures in ethnic cultures makes coming out less of a personal choice and more so a communal consideration. Being open about your queerness could isolate your parents, your grandparents, and your entire family tree from the safety and protection of their cultural community.

OF THE CLOSET , WOULD TURN INTO WASHED DANCE SEQUENCE HOUSTON ’S ICONIC HIT WITH SOMEBODY ’.

So if coming out is a no-go, how exactly can ethnic queer people express their queerness without compromising their own wellbeing and that of their whānau? The answer, as Professor Nakhid identified, is through ‘letting in’.

‘Letting in’ describes the gradual process of revealing your queer identity, explicitly or tacitly, to those you feel safe in doing so. Rather than being obligated to have a singular ‘coming out’ moment that will likely be traumatic or authenticating, letting in emphasises your personal agency in choosing who you let in to your queerness. Professor Nakhid finds that for ethnic queer people, “letting in is about seeing your own agency as a strength, especially for those that choose not to publicly come out from a point of safety or in protecting those close to them.”

Beyond just a safety lens, what letting in really highlights is a fundamental shift in perspective from coming out. The idea that queer people have to come out of a closet has always felt a bit obscure. What ‘closet’ are we coming out of exactly, and is that closet in the room with us now?

Coming out seems to suggest that it's somehow queer people’s responsibility to declare their ‘deviant’ sexuality to the normal world and patiently wait for their acceptance or rejection. We know that the ‘norm’ is inherently skewed to serve a favoured few. The last time I checked, our society was still dominated by heterosexual, cis, patriarchal, and white structures that have historically invisibilised nonconforming identities to suit their own ideological agenda.

With letting in, we’re finally putting queer identity at the centre. Why should it be our responsibility to continually barter our queerness for a shred of empathy from society? Why should we have to continually educate, appeal to, and compromise with their heteronormativity and cisnormativity? It’s about time that the onus is put on the rest of the world to self-explore their own reductive beliefs on what constitutes normalcy.

Is it a little idealistic to think that we shouldn’t have to declare our queerness anymore? Of course. In fact, expressing queerness outwardly, making it politically visible through labels, and normalising what is still seen as an abnormality is important now more than ever. But at the end of the day, as Professor Nakhid expressed, it all comes down to your own personal agency.

To those that hold space in courageously expressing queerness in an increasingly repressive world, God bless! To those who consciously protect their families, support in silence, and choose to let people in, absolute legends! As long as you’re putting your own needs first, it shouldn’t be anyone else's business how exactly you choose to express your authentic identity.

Perhaps the drama queen in me still feels a little bit jaded that I never got to have the grand closet exodus and superficial lifestyle I dreamed of. But in hindsight, I’m so much more grateful knowing that I got to let those that truly matter into the closet with me.

CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED U-HAUL LESBIAN

A year of live laugh lesbianing by myself.

Lauren Davies (she/they)

To U-Haul, or not to U-Haul, that is the question. Disclaimer for the non ‘in the know’ folk: the esteemed Urban Dictionary defines a U-Haul lesbian as a “LGBTQ+ term for a lesbian who gets attached very quickly”. So to speak, the U-Hauler’s second date involves a moving truck.

I must confess, I have been the quick move in, the ‘I love yous’ and forever, and the cat co-parent in the space of a mere few months. It took a U-Haul relationship and heartbreak for me to be slapped with an existential crisis—Who the fuck am I? Who am I alone, as an individual outside of a relationship?

It’s been a year or so of singledom, dating, situationships, hard work, living alone, supportive friends, undercuts, and a few more piercings and tattoos, and I have never felt so comfortable with being me. Just Lauren.

My teenage years of being closeted and uncomfortable with my own sexuality attracted me to confident partners—the loudest, brightest person in the room—as compensation for my apprehensive nature. The result of heart obliteration made me realise that I did not have a sense of self.

I was someone’s significant other, latched on, dependent, arm-candy to ‘show off’, relying on validation from them but not myself.

‘Yours’ and ‘mine’ felt so right in the moment. I was not confident with my sexuality, let alone gender expression. Being by myself, and true to myself, is now an assertion of queer joy, euphoria, and pride.

I have never really felt comfortable being the gendered binary view of a ‘woman’. I feel neutral, sometimes on the feminine side. I don’t feel dysphoric being perceived as a woman, but I see womanhood and gender as a societal construction.

Acts of self love, self expression, gender performance, and queer love for oneself and another are beautiful. It was not a straightforward rainbow brick road to the land of queer for me, and it most definitely has more turns ahead. I am so blessed to navigate this journey in Te Whanganui-a-Tara, surrounded by so many genuine humans who uplift, advocate, and celebrate queerness.

Three tips for U-Haul reformees. One: take a step back— let yourself be with this new person without full commitment. Don’t run in too fast. Two: discover your boundaries and your needs before jumping into the deep end. And Three: check in with yourself. Is this happening in a way you feel comfortable with?

Forgo the matching tattoos, house keys, engagement rings, and animal adoption (at least for the first while). I know that one day I will be wifed-up in a cottage in the woods, but I have a lot of living and growing to do before that.

Loving is magical, scary, and turbulent. It can feel allconsuming, but don’t let it shadow who you are! Partnership is something I am looking forward to, but self-acceptance and independence is valuable and necessary to my identity.

Finally, before I go, I must digress with a very camp, romantic musing (warning: it rhymes).

Now I am trying my best not to imagine how cute our furniture could be together. Every morning, I don’t need your affirmation, but when I do wake up next to you, it is so sweet. Without you I didn’t feel incomplete. I love hanging out with you, our date nights, and adventures. I am the Bubblegum to your Marceline. Reformed U-Haulers, ready to explore what falling for someone new but loving yourself first means.

A GIRL ( ISH ) ’S GUIDE TO GAY AWAKENINGS

Pip Cov (she/they; Ngāti Tūwharetoa, Ngāi Tahu, Ngāti Raukawa)

It’s a Saturday evening, you’re 13 years old, and your dad puts Bend It Like Beckham on TV. He likes football, you’re a teenage girl, and someone needed to make a decision for movie night. Flash forward 112 minutes, and Keira Knightley in a football uniform has brought you to the realisation that you may, in fact, be gay. What follows is a period of fairly confusing years full of new feelings, awkward interactions, and 100 ‘Am I Gay?’ quizzes. Amidst these years, I found solace in the pockets of queer joy that unintentionally queercoded films provided. In an attempt to remember these quiet crushes and long standing obsessions, I’ve compiled a list of my top films that confirmed my queer identity.

Bend It Like Beckham

2002, directed by Gurinder Chadha

Discussing queer awakenings with girl-friends and girlfriends has almost always elicited the same response: Bend It Like Beckham. However, when it comes to unintentional queer awakenings, then I debate if this film should really top the list. I mean, who gives Keira Knightley that haircut and scripts that level of tension and gay pining between the two female leads without queer intention? If you’re after some pure nostalgia and the gayest love story that was never actually told, this is the film for you.

She's The Man

2006, directed by Andy Fickman

The age old question of ‘do I want to be her or be with her?’ takes itself to new levels in She’s The Man. This gender-bending comedy was simultaneously brilliant and deeply confusing to watch as a gay tween trying to work out where they belonged on the spectrum of gender, and for that reason it will always remain a classic. This film created a visceral response, leaving me with a serious desire to become a teenage boy by glueing on some crappy sideburns, adopting their swagger, and going and flirting with girls in a restaurant.

Labyrinth 1986, directed by Jim Henson

It would be a disservice to discuss queer awakenings without mentioning the one and only David Bowie trotting around in tight, grey pants singing about magic. By the time my mum sat me in front of Labyrinth to further my ‘film education’, I already had a sense of my own queer existence, and the unapologetic sense of gender fluidity within this film only strengthened this. Searching for a film that pairs impenitent queerness with magic and goblins? Look no further!

Pirates of the Caribbean 2003-2007, directed by Gore Verbinski

Last but by no means least, a list like this would be incomplete without reference to Pirates of the Caribbean. Ask pretty much any queer individual you know, and they’ll have some sort of deep history with Elizabeth Swann. Trust me. Upon first watch, I thought I just loved these films for the plot. However, by the sixth rewatch, it clicked that it might be more about Keira Knightley in a pirate costume possessing all the confidence and wit of 100 men combined. Watch these if you want to be entertained whilst also hardcore crushing.

WHICH QUEER ICON ARE YOU?

Words by Lu (any/all) from W.I.F.E (Women and Non-Binary in Film and Entertainment)

Can you smooth talk your way out of anything?

Do you love an enemies-to-lovers trope?

Do you love the way music can make you feel?

Do you desperately want to fit in but don't care what others think?

Are you a creative thinker or a taskoriented thinker?

Will you never stop until you get what you want?

Would your friends call you an equal mix of funny and unhinged?

Can you talk your way out of anything?

Will you do anything to complete your goals?

Are you always looking out for your friends not matter what?

Will you stop at nothing to figure out a mystery?

Have you had a long journey with your gender identity but have never felt so you?

Do you thrive in crowds and large groups of friends?

Do you consider yourself a lone wolf?

Would people describe you as mature for your age?

You are always unapologetically yourself and nothing can knock you down. You’ve been through a lot in your journey of selfdiscovery, but that has only made you stronger. You are very loyal, but your friends know you will always speak your mind, even if that means telling them the hard truth (with love).

You’re very passionate (and sometimes a bit crazy) but your charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and talent never fail to command the attention of any room you enter. When you’re great you’re great, and when you’re awful… honestly you’re so iconic your friends probably overlook it.

You’re incredibly loyal and will always protect your own. You are very sure of yourself, never swaying from who you are no matter what anyone thinks or does. Keep being you and you’ll begin inspiring those around you to be courageous and true to themselves too.

You are very independent and courageous. You will always stay true to yourself and wait for others to come around before you change yourself for them. You have a big heart and have lots of love to give to all your friends.

Eric Effiong Sex Education

Frank N Furter Rocky Horror Ellie The Last of Us

Theo Putnam Chilling Adventures of Sabrina

Manawa Ora

THE MOST DIFFICULT FORM OF DEFIANCE

Words by Sterling Jones (they/them)

People often think of queer defiance as brick throwing, riots, and protests, and they’re not wrong. Throughout our history, it has been the only way to make our voices heard, especially for queer black people, indigenous people, and people of colour. We only need to remember the trans rallies from earlier this year to understand why. Still, as queerness becomes more acceptable and we inch our way to achieving equality, we must adapt to honour the progress made and those who made it happen. They had no choice except to fight for their survival and our future, and thanks to them, we no longer only have to survive. We can be defiant by thriving.

Thriving is the antithesis of oppression. It is the affirmation of our freedom; it is the dream of our progenitors. We stick up the middle finger to those who would tell us ‘you cannot’ and say ‘I will’. We keep on doing it again and again and again for the rest of our lives.

But where do you start?

The first step is to survive, get by day-by-day, put one foot in front of the other, and learn to do what you can while knowing things will improve. Survival is about doing whatever is necessary to care for, be kind to, and show love to ourselves. Wow, that’s it? It’s an easier task for some than others. For me, I try to remember that coffee isn’t food and to hold on a little longer to hugs. But for 15-year-old me, surviving meant leaving home for school one day and deciding never to return.

Do whatever it takes.

Oh, and your most important tool for survival? Ask for help. The worst they can say is ‘no’, but I wouldn’t turn away someone who asked for my help—would you?

The next step is to overcome. Overcome what? Everything! Start with that Tupperware container that’s been sitting at the back of your fridge for half the year (what was even in there?). Next, do your laundry, vacuum your room, and punch a Nazi. It’s about facing a challenge, and what makes a challenge is risk. There is a risk in everything we do in our lives, including cleaning out mouldfilled leftovers. The risk is that something will not go our way, that we won’t be able to do it, and that we will fail.

So don’t do it. Just leave it. Walk away from it because you might fail. Coward.

That is the same paralysing fear those protesters, rioters, and brick throwers endured so that we could be proud of who we are. They had no way of knowing that homosexuality would be decriminalised, a treatment for HIV/AIDS would be found, marriage equality would happen, or that someday we could change the gender marker on our birth certificates. But they did know something: the people standing in their way relied on them to be too afraid of failure to demand change to maintain the status quo.

They saw hope in the opportunity for change.

There is opportunity in everything we do in our lives, including opening mould-filled leftovers, that something is going to go our way, that we will be able to do it, and that we will succeed. So do it. Just give it a go. Stick with it because everything in life has the risk of failure, and there is the hope of success in every risk.

To truly understand this, to live this, is to thrive.

And that is why the most difficult form of queer defiance is thriving.

MULTITASKING QWEEN

Words by Teddi (they/he/she)

Gay people can also be disabled! Shocking, I know. But I did once have someone say “how could you be both?” I am a Multitasking Qween. Sure, we are less common than non-disabled queers, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t here and full of pride.

Research suggests that people who have an autism diagnosis or autistic traits are two to three times more likely to be transgender than the general population, and autistic AFAB people are three times more likely to identify as homosexual or bisexual. We don’t know for sure the reasons why that is. There isn’t a lot of research into autistic adult life, and especially not much research into disabled queer life. But the point remains: while we are a small percentage of the queer population, being queer is the majority of the autistic population.

Since getting diagnosed with a connective tissue disorder at age 15, I have been aware of how unwelcome disabled people can be in certain situations. I see my future struggles happen to others and see how differently I will be treated. I know it’s not out of malice, people are just unaware of how disabled people exist and how our lives are different from able-bodied people.

Take ramps, for example. Everyone knows that they are there for people in wheelchairs or people with luggage. But they are also there for people with knee, hip, and ankle issues, since stairs require you to put full body weight on a single leg when descending. Usually I get questions about why I’m taking a much longer ramp when stairs are right there. I’m not in a rush, I’m usually late to most things. The goal is getting there safely and being able to enjoy myself. There is no point going out, getting injured, and then being in a foul mood from pain when I can just think through my actions and make safer choices.

So much of my time is taken up by being disabled. There isn’t a stop to it. It is in both my body and mind. I can’t just forget about it while I am doing other things, even if I am enjoying myself. Being AuADHD is how my brain works and how I perceive the world around me. It’s fucking exhausting having to weigh up each option for everything. But the alternative is not going out, sticking to my safe routine, and missing out on seeing my friends and engaging with the community.

Pride is known for its parties and parades. Most parade floats aren’t accessible if you can’t manage stairs. Parties are overstimulating and often don’t have a lot of seating. If you can’t drink, advertisements can make you uncomfortable. Even on RuPaul’s Drag Race, alcohol is promoted.

I can’t stand for long periods of time, but I’m not at the point of needing a wheelchair yet. I still can’t just go somewhere and hope it works out, because if it doesn’t, I end up in hospital. Eventually I will become an ambulant wheelchair user.

Wellington Pride is really inclusive. Sure, Ivy is down a flight of stairs, but other venues were labelled as wheelchair friendly, and it was included on the program if it was accessible. One event noted that the gender neutral toilet was not accessible but everything else was. There were even some events that included closed captions for their videos. Usually, these are things we have to figure out from snooping online or ringing venues in advance. The work done by the Wellington Pride 2023 committee was so great and I hope it continues being included.

the outline of where you were sitting

words by stephen jackson (he/him)

it’s just a building now, nothing else a skeleton of some unearthed creature there is something to be destroyed, but maybe it isn’t you and you’re not going to hell, not yet sometimes it really is that simple; sometimes there is no secret answer only the wind splintering your fingertips, the same night sky over and over it’s terrifying to think there might be nothing out there but isn’t it better to be afraid on our own terms?

i loved you in a way i didn’t have words for not when i was fifteen and burying myself you were the northern lights, caustic and fleeting something to believe in that wasn’t a threat i dream of us sitting in the church yard again one more evening knelt down in the grass until we glow fluorescent UFOs over a quiet street, incomprehensible like whales calling out in the dark i dream of a giant’s ribcage around us and it was only ever a building

To weather the storm of corporeal existence you must luxuriate in your most essential self. They're someone you've always wanted to meet.

Are the symbioses you find yourself in truly mutualistic? The season to re-evaluate your alliances has begun. If it doesn’t strengthen you, set it free.

I sense a metamorphosis on the horizon. Defy the forces holding you back from the change you know you're capable of.

As a new moon waxes, the tides sweep you towards an investment of the heart. Trust the lunar influence and go for it.

Galactic entities indicate that resisting the tug of entropy is a good move this week. It’s time to stabilise, energise, and organise.

Aeons of atomic alignment have led you to this exact moment of transformation. Seek synchrony with your community during this revolution of the self.

The gravitational vibrations underpinning time and space hum through you a bit discordantly this week. Try to tune into a frequency that innervates you.

The mycelia suggest you make like a fungus and focus your energy on strengthening only your most nourishing connections to the universe. Enrich the environment in which you thrive.

Cosmic forces would like to discourage looking to the comfort of nostalgia for inspiration as you inch ever closer to selfdefinition. Reminiscence can be an unreliable bitch.

Celestial energies of an incomprehensible wavelength are making it hard to pick up on your frequency right now. It's temporary interference— trust your gut.

The omniscient attention of our mother, the ocean, might have you struggling for breath right now, but the tides that matter answer only to you. Go swimming!

The Earth calls you to bask in the sun. You nurtured this abundance and let it thrive. Now trust your intuition and make the most of it.

ACROSS

1. Dakota's acting sister (4,7) *

7. Hold up; steal (3)

9. Russian ruling house until the February revolution of 1917 (7)

10. "Holy smokes!" (3,4) *

11. Group going to the polls (10)

12. It's alloyed with copper to make brass (4)

14. Old phrase for a preoccupation or obsession; 2002 Supertramp song with the line "for every sting there's a cure" (3,2,4,6) *

17. Follow instructions; word on a Shepard Fairey image of Andre the Giant (4)

19. Like Kiwirail, Metservice, and Transpower (5-5)

23. Plant that gives an antiseptic oil (3,4) *

24. 'The Life ____ with Steve Zissou' (Wes Anderson film) (7)

25. Remy the chef in a Pixar movie, for one (3)

26. Someone who cuts in line (5,6) *

DOWN

1. Creepy and mysterious (5)

2. Candlestick in 'Beauty and the Beast', named after the inventors of cinema (7)

3. Tweak to get the details right (4-4)

4. Guitarist Dave of Jane's Addiction and the Red Hot Chili Peppers (7)

5. Bar of precious metal (5)

6. Nerd (4)

7. Tapu placed on certain locations to restict access (5)

8. Short hairstyle, commonly associated with the military (4,3)

13. Hawaii's capital (8)

14. Word that can come before 'shot' or 'seat', or after 'Joel Kim' (7)

15. Go back over something, such as your steps (7)

16. Without pausing (3-4)

18. Spot-on; precise (5)

20. Overarching idea that this crossword has (read the first words of the answers to the starred clues!) (5)

22. Interior design (5)

LOOKING FOR THE RIGHT STUDY BUDDY?

the team

GUEST-EDITOR

SUB-EDITOR

DESIGNER

Bella

CO-EDITOR

Maia

CO-EDITOR

PODCAST MANAGER

SUB-EDITOR

VIDEO

SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER

CONTRIBUTORS

Amal Samaha (she/her)

Amelia Kirkness (she/they)

Pip Cov (she/they

Lu (any/all)

Sterling Jones (they/them)

Teddi (they/he/she)

Stephen Jackson (he/him)

Puck (cross/word)

Lauren Davies (she/they) Hyphae (horo/scope)

COVER

Francesca Pietkiewicz (she/they)

Ingoe (she/her)

Maresca (they/them) @cupids.kiss

Willem Koller (he/they)

CONTENT CREATOR Seren Ashmore (he/him)

Alex Marinkovich-Josey (he/him)

Ethan Manera (he/him)

NEWS EDITOR

Zoë Mills (they/she)

NEWS EDITOR

Niamh Vaughan (she/her)

CHIEF REPORTER

Maia Armistead (she/her)

POETRY EDITOR

Tessa Keenan (she/her)

Joanna Fan (she/her)

EDITORIAL SUPPORT

Phoebe Robertson (she/her)

STAFF WRITER Kiran Patel (he/they)

STAFF WRITER

Pippi Jean (she/her)

STAFF WRITER

Ethan Rogacion (he/him)

NEWS INTERN

Zia Ravenscroft (he/they)

Goose (she/they)

Kermit @grotesquik