14 minute read
Identity
Identity I Am More Than My Trauma
By Maura Cowan
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I began questioning my sexuality when I was 12 years old, and during this time, I felt as though I stood at the edge of a world that I was not prepared to enter. Desperate to find stories that could help me make sense of my identity, I eagerly consumed any LGBT+ media I could find.
What I found time and time again were stories of pain and suffering, with gay and transgender characters living traumatic lives and their narratives leaving them unloved or dead. Where were our happy endings?
These overproduced and insensitive storylines are known as tragedy, or trauma, porn, which is a phenomenon used in media that exploits the suffering of others for the entertainment of consumers, according to Medium. It appears in a variety of dramatic narratives, and it especially impacts marginalized communities. The amount of LGBT+ characters in books, movies and TV shows is steadily increasing, but there is still not enough. When the majority of our representation in media is through stories of tragedy, it is easy to internalize intense suffering as an intrinsic part of our lived experience.
Noticing this phenomenon over and over left me unsettled, so as time went on, I started to do my own research. I discovered that the tragic narratives of LGBT+ characters have deep roots in the history of the television and film industry. The Motion Picture Production Code, more commonly known as the Hays Code, was a set of industry censorship guidelines that dictated what studios could and could not air from 1934 to 1968, according to Men’s Health. It forbade any positive portrayal of characters whose lifestyles could be defined as “sinful,” which directly reflected fear and hatred of gay, transgender and gendernonconforming people. As a result, the media rarely included explicitly LGBT+ characters. When they did appear, they were villainous or tragic figures, with narratives often ending in death or imprisonment.
While the Hays code ultimately phased out, its influence continues to impact the portrayal of marginalized people in TV and film today. LGBT+ characters, especially lesbian or bisexual women, suffer death or trauma on-screen at extremely high rates, whether inflicted by others or themselves.
I have mourned the deaths of characters I loved and those from shows I didn't even watch — Lexa from “The 100,” Denise from “The Walking Dead” and Rose from “Jane The Virgin.” Every time it happens, it feels legitimately painful, like a little part of me is suffering too.
If we are not killed, we are “inspirations,” bravely overcoming our own systemic oppression to achieve individual success, often through assimilation. This narrative is just as problematic —it creates a world in which the only way for us to survive is to work within existing unjust systems rather than fighting to dismantle the system itself. Non-LGBT+ people in every media industry want us to believe we’re only valuable when we fit the mold they’ve created for us. When I internalized this dominant narrative at a young age, I began to feel as though my life would be nothing but endless fear and sorrow, that the only value to my life would be my own suffering.
This mindset damaged my selfperception, and it began to reflect in my creative work. My poems, stories and essays became stories of fear and trauma — especially those regarding my sexuality.
They say, “write what you know,” so I wrote about my darkest moments.
After all, that was what the world deemed important about my identity.
But, writing this narrative of turmoil and rehashing my pain was exhausting. And worse, I found that my art was further harming my perception of my own identity. It was a vicious cycle, almost a form of self-harm. As I grew, I began to realize that I had more to give to the world. The longer I survived and thrived as a queer woman, the more that my perspective changed from one of sorrow to one of joy.
The core issue within trauma porn is that it caters to the feelings of privileged audiences with marginalized communities as spectacle and collateral, and this bears real consequences. Whether intentionally or accidentally,
These narratives broadcast a clear message: a life under systemic oppression is a life of endless pain and tragedy.
When oppressed people internalize this, it is painful. When privileged people internalize it, it is regressive and dangerous. It is a feedback loop of marginalization, and it is time for all of us, as creators and consumers, to examine our place within it.
I exist neither as a tragic figure nor an inspiration upon which others can project their guilt and sympathy. Beyond the parameters of identity, I am a complex person who deserves to see my true self, at the very least, in my own creations. My true self is joyful, and she is tired of feeling relegated to read and write about her own trauma, of being exploited and exploiting herself.
But, I am left without a clear direction. It is much easier said than done to identify the line between realistic portrayals of suffering in a given community and exploitation of that suffering.
Dramatization is a part of entertainment, and the line between narratively necessary conflict and exploitative tragedy porn will continue to be negotiated far into the future.
One starting point, though, is prioritizing stories told by and for the groups that they intend to represent. This means sending marginalized creators to the front, allowing us to craft our own narratives, ensuring that we are involved in every step of the process — that is how we begin to break this cycle.
In the meantime, at least until I feel it is once again necessary, I am done writing my trauma. I have far too much joy to write instead.
I Am Not Your Fetish
By Damica Feliciano
My ex complimented me on many things: when I wore a plaid skirt with tights or high socks, when I spoke Tagalog with my mother on the phone or when I experimented with different hairstyles and wore pigtails occasionally. I thought it was endearing until I remember him saying, “I’m really attracted to Asian girls — you’re like a cute, little anime girl.”
Suddenly, all those compliments felt shallow. Instead of showing appreciation for my evolving style or acknowledging how important it was to chat with people I deeply love and care about, I was reduced to somebody’s “turn-on.” about me didn’t come out of love, but rather, a fetish. A fetish that objectified my ethnic identities. He even flip-flopped between fetishizing my Filipina identity and my Puerto Rican identity — depending on what seemed more appealing to him that day.
Fetishes can be benign and promote healthy sexual expression when the person respects their partners and consistently prioritizes consent. However, fetishes can also be harmful and discriminatory when they are used to divorce a person from their body and treat them like an object. The normalization of fetishes that sexualize ethnic and racial identities serves to justify the racism, colorism, patriarchy and rape culture that marginalized communities have to contend with. The fetishization of ethnic and
Graphic by Ricki Kalayci
racial identities stem from a long history of white supremacy and colonization. The fetishization of Black women throughout history originated from turning Black people’s bodies into exhibitions when European colonizers invaded different African countries.
Terms like “yellow fever” come from a Westernized fascination with light skinned, East Asian women who were stereotyped in mainstream media as either the “dragon lady”— a seductress who became the demise of white men — or as the submissive, obedient “lotus blossom” whose sole purpose was to be a sexual servant.
The sexualization of racial and ethnic identities have a long history that pervades generationally and
not just within romantic settings. Fetishization is ever-present and seeps into the relationships of marginalized people everywhere. However, I do wish I could say my unfortunate relationship with my ex was the first time where I was satiating someone’s gross desire.
I experienced ethnic fetishes for the first time at a birthday party. Growing up, I always accompanied my mother to birthday parties with a tray filled with piping hot lumpia — traditional Filipino spring rolls — and my mother always received praise and questions about her secret recipe. It helped me feel more comfortable in my culture, especially growing up in predominantly white spaces of North Carolina. That was the case until an old-white-man infringed on the uplifting space, making me and my mother uncomfortable.
It started out seemingly innocent; raving about the lumpia and asking questions about her upbringing. But then, he confessed his gross obsession with Filipina and Japanese women and how exotic our features are. And, to my horror, his wife was Filipina, and he had three young daughters.
I was 14 years old, and I had just experienced a terrifying instance of fetishization for the first time.
I often return to this memory whenever I’m swiping on Tinder and the person I match with asks me, “What are you?” I always know how this conversation will pan out: it’ll turn into the other person ticking off a list of stereotypical ways my ethnic and cultural identity is desirable to them. Asian women are petite, feminine, and submissive. Latina women are sassy with boatloads of attitude and allure.
My matches on these dating apps are always casual with talking about my superficial attributes as if they are trophies to explore, to conquer, and to exploit.
Microaggressions like these had a detrimental effect on my selfesteem as I became more hyperfocused on my ethnic identities. Slowly, I found myself scrutinizing over my body and features rather than embracing them.
When fetishes are expressed nonconsensually, it can reveal the inherent harm behind the fetishes and the history behind them, according to Cosmopolitan. I believe there is value in exploring our desires and expressing them without feeling ashamed. When I entered the dating scene, I made an intention to prioritize my desires and express them unapologetically. Women, especially women of color, are often shamed for wanting, not just being wanted.
But with pleasure comes consent, and there’s a big difference between having desires and weaponizing your desires at the expense of someone’s identity.
Fetishes are normal to have, but when they reduce a person's identity to a sexual desire, it takes away our agency to represent our whole individuality and causes oppression to be replicated in oneon-one relationships. This changes the dating landscape because it leads many to believe that their preferences are innocent and not prejudicial.
Nothing about problematic fetishes should be considered endearing or “a preference.” My ethnic identity does not deserve to be informed by white men whose fetishization only applies to the idea of me, rather than my actual self.
I don’t exist for your pleasure, and I am not your fetish.
By Sydney Taylor
Everyone remembers the 2014 crop top and bandeau fashion trend. Celebrities showed up to the MET Gala displaying their midriffs, teenage girls sported the tops all summer and Pinterest couldn’t get enough of the “perfect” warm weather staple. But, crop tops were just another clothing trend that I couldn’t indulge in.
I wasn’t able to find a crop top or bandeau in my size until 2019. It took clothing brands five years to cater to plus-size bodies — to remember that plus-size women want to wear cute, trendy clothes and embrace our bodies too. And, this is just only one example of how the fashion industry continuously upholds the idea that certain body types can pull off particular styles of clothing.
I am a size 20 plus-size woman who struggles with self-confidence and self-image. However, I did not choose to feel this way.
My internalization of the plussize discrimination of the fashion industry began at a young age. Growing up, I never saw any plus-size representation in magazines, billboard advertisements or television. I was
surrounded by images of thinner white women, which is considered the beauty standard.
When I went shopping with my friends in middle school, I frequently separated myself from them to find the clearance rack — which may not include items in my size — or to find the small, hidden aisle labeled “plus-size.” These establishments made it clear that my presence was not needed or wanted.
And, whenever I tried to step outside my comfort zone of baggy T-shirts to wear something slimfitting, I felt like everyone was staring at me. And, to make it worse, my family continuously told me the way I was dressed wasn’t flattering. I felt ashamed and embarrassed whenever I tried to express myself through fashion — something all adolescents should have the opportunity to do without judgment.
All my life, I’ve noticed that stores rarely displayed plus-size mannequins in window displays nor any clothes above a size large. And this is not because they aren’t in stock; it’s because they often just aren’t produced, according to Business of Business. The little variety of plus-size clothing large department stores do have is lackluster and mediocre at best, leaving women to shop at plus-size or e-commerce websites for their needs. I used to shop for clothes exclusively at plus-size stores, not because I liked the offerings but because that was my only option. I didn’t want to endure the headache of looking tirelessly through racks in hopes of finding something that fit or was close to my size.
In recent years, the body positivity movement propelled more brands into size inclusivity. However, there is still a large in-store separation between plus-size departments and sizes extra small through large. Many clothing brands such as Topshop and Urban Outfitters have tried to implement inclusive sizing but do not take into account what flatters a plus-size woman’s body. If brands put more effort into working with plus-size women when they produce and market our clothes, they would not perpetuate as much harm on plus-size women’s self-image.
One example of a brand that has issues with plus-size inclusivity is Brandy Melville, which has been criticized for years for their “one-
How The Fashion Industry Perpetuates
Plus-Size Discrimination size-fits-most” clothing options feeling excluded and ashamed for that only tailors to a 25-inch waist, so many years. These brands are according to Popsugar. The irony actively harming the mental health is: the average waist size for United of young girls and women on the States teen girls is 32.6 inches, margins of the beauty standard’s and the average waist size for U.S. ideal body size. women is 38.7 inches. Additionally, this perpetual In response to the backlash, Brandy negative impact on plus-size Melville began to release larger women's self-image is a tactic sizes in January 2021. However, to confine us to strict societal all the sizes bigger than a medium standards. Brands, such as Brandy were labeled as “oversized.” Such Melville, have been designed to language gives off the impression fat-shame women and contribute to that there is a normal size and that plus-size displacement. plus-size consumers don’t fit that standard. Many stores such as Zara Plus-size women should not feel and Free People also label their like a burden when they walk into clothes in this way, which makes a mall. We have been told to be many plus-sized women believe happy with the options presented they aren’t good enough to shop there. I’ve always tried to ignore the signs of fat stigma and convinced myself what I experienced growing up was normal. However, when I realized all my friends and classmates wore outfits from brands I couldn’t shop from, I couldn’t ignore these feelings any longer. The failure of brands to dismantle their plus-size discrimination and become inclusive had left me to us for far too long. But, what is needed are warm and welcoming environments that carry clothes for our bodies, alongside those tailored to thinner women and every body type in between.
This is not to say that plus-size women are urging designers to simply add more fabric to their clothes — as we have seen time and time again, according to Refinery29. We want a variety of cute and trendy options. We want clothes that have been carefully designed to complement our figures, so we too can feel sexy and confident in what we wear.
Ultimately, all we want is more choices. It is a simple request that we are included and accepted in the fashion industry. Stop selling us tent-sized shirts and put effort into understanding what our actual needs are.
