Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(S)

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Journal of Homosexuality

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Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s)

The Journal of Homosexuality Monographic “Separates” Below is a list of “separates,” which in serials librarianship means a special issue simultaneously published as a special journal issue or double-issue and as a “separate” hardbound monograph. (This is a format which we also call a “DocuSerial.”) “Separates” are published because specialized libraries or professionals may wish to purchase a specific thematic issue by itself in a format which can be separately cataloged and shelved, as opposed to purchasing the journal on an on-going basis. Faculty members may also more easily consider a “separate” for classroom adoption. “Separates” are carefully classified separately with the major book jobbers so that the journal tie-in can be noted on new book order slips to avoid duplicate purchasing. You may wish to visit Haworth’s website at . . .

http://www.HaworthPress.com . . . to search our online catalog for complete tables of contents of these separates and related publications. You may also call 1-800-HAWORTH (outside US/Canada: 607-722-5857), or Fax 1-800-895-0582 (outside US/Canada: 607-771-0012), or e-mail at:

[email protected] Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s), edited by Gust A. Yep, PhD, Karen E. Lovaas, PhD, and John P. Elia, PhD (Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003). “Sheds light on how sexual orientation and identity are socially produced–and how they can be challenged and changed–through everyday practices and institutional activities, as well as academic research and teaching. . . . Illuminates the theoretical and practical significance of queer theory–not only as a specific area of inquiry, but also as a productive challenge to the heteronormativity of mainstream communication theory, research, and pedagogy.” (Julia T. Wood, PhD, Lineberger Professor of Humanities, Professor of Communication Studies, The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill) Gay Bathhouses and Public Health Policy, edited by William J. Woods, PhD, and Diane Binson, PhD (Vol. 44, No. 3/4, 2003). “Important. . . . Long overdue. . . . a unique and valuable contribution to the social science and public health literature. The inclusion of detailed historical descriptions of public policy debates about the place of bathhouses in urban gay communities, together with summaries of the legal controversies about bathhouses, insightful examinations of patrons’ behaviors and reviews of successful program for HIV/STD education and testing programs in bathhouses provides. A well rounded and informative overview.” (Richard Tewksbury, PhD, Professor of Justice Administration, University of Louisville) Icelandic Lives: The Queer Experience, edited by Voon Chin Phua (Vol. 44, No. 2, 2002). “The first of its kind, this book shows the emergence of gay and lesbian visibility through the biographical narratives of a dozen Icelanders. Through their lives can be seen a small nation’s transition, in just a few decades, from a pervasive silence concealing its queer citizens to widespread acknowledgment characterized by some of the most progressive laws in the world.” (Barry D. Adam, PhD, University Professor, Department of Sociology & Anthropology, University of Windsor, Ontario, Canada) The Drag King Anthology, edited by Donna Troka, PhD (cand.), Kathleen Le Besco, PhD, and Jean Bobby Noble, PhD (Vol. 43, No. 3/4, 2002). “All university courses on masculinity should use this book . . . challenges preconceptions through the empirical richness of direct experience. The contributors and editors have worked together to produce cultural analysis that enhances our perception of the dynamic uncertainty of gendered experience.” (Sally R. Munt, DPhil, Subject Chair, Media Studies, University of Sussex) Homosexuality in French History and Culture, edited by Jeffrey Merrick, PhD, and Michael Sibalis, PhD (Vol. 41, No. 3/4, 2001). “Fascinating . . . Merrick and Sibalis bring together historians, literary scholars, and political activists from both sides of the Atlantic to examine same-sex sexuality in the past and present.” (Bryant T. Ragan, PhD, Associate Professor of History, Fordham University, New York)

Gay and Lesbian Asia: Culture, Identity, Community, edited by Gerard Sullivan, PhD, and Peter A. Jackson, PhD (Vol. 40, No. 3/4, 2001). “Superb. . . . Covers a happily wide range of styles . . . will appeal to both students and educated fans.” (Gary Morris, Editor/Publisher, Bright Lights Film Journal) Queer Asian Cinema: Shadows in the Shade, edited by Andrew Grossman, MA (Vol. 39, No. 3/4, 2000). “An extremely rich tapestry of detailed ethnographies and state-of-the-art theorizing. . . . Not only is this a landmark record of queer Asia, but it will certainly also be a seminal, contributive challenge to gender and sexuality studies in general.” (Dédé Oetomo, PhD, Coordinator of the Indonesian organization GAYa NUSANTARA: Adjunct Reader in Linguistics and Anthropology, School of Social Sciences, Universitas Airlangga, Surabaya, Indonesia) Gay Community Survival in the New Millennium, edited by Michael R. Botnick, PhD (cand.), (Vol. 38, No. 4, 2000). Examines the notion of community from several different perspectives focusing on the imagined, the structural, and the emotive. You will explore a theoretical overview and you will peek into the moral discourses that frame “gay community,” the rift between HIV-positive and HIV-negative gay men, and how Israeli gays seek their place in the public sphere. The Ideal Gay Man: The Story of Der Kreis, by Hubert Kennedy, PhD (Vol. 38, No. 1/2, 1999). “Very Profound. . . . Excellent insight into the problems of the early fight for homosexual emancipation in Europe and in the USA. . . . The ideal gay man (high-mindedness, purity, cleanness), as he was imagined by the editor of Der Kreis, is delineated by the fascinating quotations out of the published erotic stories.” (Wolfgang Breidert, PhD, Academic Director, Institute of Philosophy, University Karlsruhe, Germany) Multicultural Queer: Australian Narratives, edited by Peter A. Jackson, PhD, and Gerard Sullivan, PhD (Vol. 36, No. 3/4, 1999). Shares the way that people from ethnic minorities in Australia (those who are not of Anglo-Celtic background) view homosexuality, their experiences as homosexual men and women, and their feelings about the lesbian and gay community. Scandinavian Homosexualities: Essays on Gay and Lesbian Studies, edited by Jan Löfström, PhD (Vol. 35, No. 3/4, 1998). “Everybody interested in the formation of lesbian and gay identities and their interaction with the sociopolitical can find something to suit their taste in this volume.” (Judith Schuyf, PhD, Assistant Professor of Lesbian and Gay Studies, Center for Gay and Lesbian Studies, Utrecht University, The Netherlands) Gay and Lesbian Literature Since World War II: History and Memory, edited by Sonya L. Jones, PhD (Vol. 34, No. 3/4, 1998). “The authors of these essays manage to gracefully incorporate the latest insights of feminist, postmodernist, and queer theory into solidly grounded readings . . . challenging and moving, informed by the passion that prompts both readers and critics into deeper inquiry.” (Diane Griffin Growder, PhD, Professor of French and Women's Studies, Cornell College, Mt. Vernon, Iowa) Reclaiming the Sacred: The Bible in Gay and Lesbian Culture, edited by Raymond-Jean Frontain, PhD (Vol. 33, No. 3/4, 1997). “Finely wrought, sharply focused, daring, and always dignified. . . . In chapter after chapter, the Bible is shown to be a more sympathetic and humane book in its attitudes toward homosexuality than usually thought and a challenge equally to the straight and gay moral imagination.” (Joseph Wittreich, PhD, Distinguished Professor of English, The Graduate School, The City University of New York) Activism and Marginalization in the AIDS Crisis, edited by Michael A. Hallett, PhD (Vol. 32, No. 3/4, 1997). Shows readers how the advent of HIV-disease has brought into question the utility of certain forms of “activism” as they relate to understanding and fighting the social impacts of disease. Gays, Lesbians, and Consumer Behavior: Theory, Practice, and Research Issues in Marketing, edited by Daniel L. Wardlow, PhD (Vol. 31, No. 1/2, 1996). “For those scholars, market researchers, and marketing managers who are considering marketing to the gay and lesbian community, this book should be on required reading list.” (Mississippi Voice)

Gay Men and the Sexual History of the Political Left, edited by Gert Hekma, PhD, Harry Oosterhuis, PhD, and James Steakley, PhD (Vol. 29, No. 2/3/4, 1995). “Contributors delve into the contours of a long-forgotten history, bringing to light new historical data and fresh insight. . . . An excellent account of the tense historical relationship between the political left and gay liberation.” (People’s Voice) Sex, Cells, and Same-Sex Desire: The Biology of Sexual Preference, edited by John P. De Cecco, PhD, and David Allen Parker, MA (Vol. 28, No. 1/2/3/4, 1995). “A stellar compilation of chapters examining the most important evidence underlying theories on the biological basis of human sexual orientation.” (MGW) Gay Ethics: Controversies in Outing, Civil Rights, and Sexual Science, edited by Timothy F. Murphy, PhD (Vol. 27, No. 3/4, 1994). “The contributors bring the traditional tools of ethics and political philosophy to bear in a clear and forceful way on issues surrounding the rights of homosexuals.” (David L. Hull, Dressler Professor in the Humanities, Department of Philosophy, Northwestern University) Gay and Lesbian Studies in Art History, edited by Whitney Davis, PhD (Vol. 27, No. 1/2, 1994). “Informed, challenging . . . never dull. . . . Contributors take risks and, within the restrictions of scholarly publishing, find new ways to use materials already available or examine topics never previously explored.” (Lambda Book Report) Critical Essays: Gay and Lesbian Writers of Color, edited by Emmanuel S. Nelson, PhD (Vol. 26, No. 2/3, 1993). “A much-needed book, sparkling with stirring perceptions and resonating with depth. . . . The anthology not only breaks new ground, it also attempts to heal wounds inflicted by our oppressed pasts.” (Lambda Book Report) Gay Studies from the French Cultures: Voices from France, Belgium, Brazil, Canada, and The Netherlands, edited by Rommel Mendès-Leite, PhD, and Pierre-Olivier de Busscher, PhD (Vol. 25, No. 1/2/3, 1993). “The first book that allows an English-speaking world to have a comprehensive look at the principal trends in gay studies in France and French-speaking countries.” (André Bèjin, PhD, Directeur, de Recherche au Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS), Paris) If You Seduce a Straight Person, Can You Make Them Gay? Issues in Biological Essentialism versus Social Constructionism in Gay and Lesbian Identities, edited by John P. De Cecco, PhD, and John P. Elia, PhD (cand.) (Vol. 24, No. 3/4, 1993). “You'll find this alternative view of the age old question to be one that will become the subject of many conversations to come. Thought-provoking to say the least!” (Prime Timers) Gay and Lesbian Studies: The Emergence of a Discipline, edited by Henry L. Minton, PhD (Vol. 24, No. 1/2, 1993). “The volume’s essays provide insight into the field’sremarkable accomplishments and future goals.” (Lambda Book Report) Homosexuality in Renaissance and Enlightenment England: Literary Representations in Historical Context, edited by Claude J. Summers, PhD (Vol. 23, No. 1/2, 1992). “It is remarkable among studies in this field in its depth of scholarship and variety of approaches and is accessible.” (Chronique) Coming Out of the Classroom Closet: Gay and Lesbian Students, Teachers, and Curricula, edited by Karen M. Harbeck, PhD, JD, Recipient of Lesbian and Gay Educators Award by the American Educational Research Association’s Lesbian and Gay Studies Special Interest Group (AREA) (Vol. 22, No. 3/4, 1992). “Presents recent research about gay and lesbian students and teachers and the school system in which they function.” (Contemporary Psychology) Homosexuality and Male Bonding in Pre-Nazi Germany: The Youth Movement, the Gay Movement, and Male Bonding Before Hitler’s Rise: Original Transcripts from Der Eigene, the First Gay Journal in the World, edited by Harry Oosterhuis, PhD, and Hubert Kennedy, PhD (Vol. 22, No. 1/2, 1992). “Provide[s] insight into the early gay movement, particularly in its relation to the various political currents in pre-World War II Germany.” (Lambda Book Report)

Monographs “Separates” list continued at the back

Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) Gust A. Yep, PhD Karen E. Lovaas, PhD John P. Elia, PhD Guest Editors Journal of Homosexuality Volume 45, Numbers 2/3/4

Harrington Park Press An Imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc. New York

The Journal of Homosexuality is devoted to scholarly research on homosexuality, including sexual practices and gender roles and their cultural, historical, interpersonal, and modern social contexts. More particularly, the Journal has the following purposes: (a) to serve the allied disciplinary and professional groups represented by anthropology, art, history, the law, literature, philosophy, politics, religion, and sociology, as well as research in the biological sciences, medicine, psychiatry, and psychology; (b) to serve as a forum, for essentialist, social constructionist, and postmodern views of homosexuality; (c) to serve as the scholarly source of materials for research and educational programs dealing with homosexuality, particularly gay, lesbian, and queer studies programs; (d) to serve as a vehicle for the international dissemination of research on homosexuality by scholars throughout the world; and (e) to confront homophobia through the encouragement of scholarly inquiry and the dissemination of sound research. EDITOR JOHN P. DE CECCO, PhD, Professor Emeritus of Psychology, Director, Center for Research and Education in Sexuality (CERES); San Francisco State University; Adjunct Professor, Institute for the Advanced Study of Human Sexuality; Editor-in-Chief, Gay & Lesbian Studies, Harrington Park Press ASSOCIATE EDITOR AND BOOK REVIEW EDITOR JOHN P. ELIA, PhD, Assistant Professor of Health Education and Associate Director, CERES, San Francisco State University EDITORIAL ASSISTANT JOHN P. HARCOURT III, BS, Dr. Ph. (cand.), University of California, Berkeley; Research Associate, CERES, San Francisco State University BOOK REVIEW EDITORS AND AREAS WILLIAM BYNE, Biology and Psychiatry CLAUDIA CARD, Philosophy LARRY GROSS, Politics and Communication STEVEN MURRAY, Sociology WILLIAM PERCY, Classical and Medieval Periods JAMES SEARS, Education RANDOLF TRUMBACH, Early Modern and Modern European History EDITORIAL BOARD HENRY ABELOVE, PhD, Professor of English, Wesleyan University, Connecticut BARRY D. ADAM, PhD, Professor of Sociology, University of Windsor, Ontario, Canada CHRISTOPHER J. ALEXANDER, PhD, Clinical Psychologist, Santa Fe, New Mexico AARON BELKIN, PhD, Assistant Professor of Political Science and Director, Center for the Study of Sexual Minorities in the Military, University of California, Santa Barbara TALIA BEN-ZEEV, Assistant Professor of Psychology, San Francisco State University

RAYMOND M. BERGER, PhD, Professor (Ret.) of Social Work, California State University at Long Beach; Honorary Editor, Journal of Gay & Lesbian Social Services, Arroyo Grande, California ALLEN BERUBE, Political and Social Historian, Liberty, NY EVELYN BLACKWOOD, PhD, Assistant Professor of Anthropology and Women Studies, Purdue University JOHN BLONDE, PhD, Department of Counseling, San Francisco State University WARREN J. BLUMENFELD, EdD, Department of Educational Studies, Colgate University, Hamilton, New York, Editor, International Journal of Sexuality and Gender Studies WALTER O. BOCKTING, PhD, Assistant Professor, Department of Family Practice and Community Health; Coordinator, Transgender Services, Program in Human Sexuality, Medical School, University of Minnesota RALPH BOLTON, PhD, Professor of Anthropology, Pomona College, Pomona California PAMELA BRAND, PhD, Associate Professor of Psychology, Oswego State College, Oswego, New York ALAN BRAY, Historian, Renaissance England, London, United Kingdom JAMES BROGAN, PhD, Professor of English, San Francisco State University VERN L. BULLOUGH, RN, PhD, Distinguished Professor Emeritus of History, Buffalo State College, State University of New York; Founder and Research Associate, Center for Sex Research, California State University, Northridge WILLIAM BYNE, PhD, MD, Assistant Professor of Psychiatry and Director, Neuroanatomy Laboratory, Mt. Sinai School of Medicine, New York City CLAUDIA CARD, PhD, Professor of Philosophy, University of Wisconsin, Madison JOSEPH M. CARRIER, PhD, Independent Research Anthropologist, Orange County Health Agency and Grupo Argullo Homosexual Liberacion, Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico VIVIENNE CASS, PhD, Clinical Psychologist and Psychotherapist, South Perth, Western Australia GEORGE CHAUNCEY, Jr., PhD, Associate Professor of History, University of Chicago PETER COHEN, PhD, Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island ELI COLEMAN, PhD, Director and Professor, Program in Human Sexuality, University of Minnesota Medical School; Editor, Journal of Psychology & Human Sexuality JACK COLLINS, PhD, Chair, Gay and Lesbian Studies, City College of San Francisco LOUIE CREW, PhD, Professor Emeritus of English, Rutgers University, Newark, New Jersey LOUIS CROMPTON, PhD, Professor Emeritus of English, University of Nebraska, Lincoln GIOVANNI DALL’ORTO, Diretorre responabile, Pride, Milano, Italia MARTIN DANNECKER, PhD, Lecturer, Abteilung fur Sexualwissenschaft, Johann Wolfgang Goethe-Universitat, Frankfurt am Main, Germany JOHN D’EMILIO, PhD, Professor of History and Women Studies, University of Illinois, Chicago JEFFREY DICKEMANN, PhD, Professor Emeritus of Anthropology, Sonoma State University, California CAROLYN DINSHAW, PhD, Professor of English and Director of the Center for the Study of Gender and Sexuality, New York University; Co-Editor, GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies JACK DRESCHER, MD, Faculty, William Allyson White Institute; Editor-in-Chief, Journal of Gay and Lesbian Psychotherapy; Psychoanalyst, New York City WAYNE R. DYNES, PhD, Professor of Art, Hunter College, City University of New York; Former Editor, Encyclopedia of Homosexuality; Former Editor, Cabirion ALAN ELLIS, PhD, Research Associate, Center for Research and Education in Sexuality and Lecturer in Social Psychology, San Francisco State University STEVEN EPSTEIN, PhD, Assistant Professor of Sociology, University of California, San Diego LILLIAN FADERMAN, PhD, Professor of English, California State University, Fresno; Co-Editor, Among Men/Among Women Series, Columbia University Press

ANNE FAUSTO-STERLING, PhD, Professor of Biology and Medicine, Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island MICHAEL FERGUSON, PhD, Philosophy, Center for Research and Education in Sexuality, San Francisco State University JESSICA FIELDS, PhD, Assistant Professor of Sociology, San Francisco State University ESTELLE B. FREEDMAN, PhD, Professor of History, Stanford University JOHN GAGNON, PhD, Professor Emeritus of Sociology, State University of New York, Stony Brook ROLF GINDORF, Clinical and Research Sexologist; Vice-President, Deutsche Gesellschaft für Sozialwissenschaftliche Sexualforschung, Düsseldorf, Germany LOUIS GOOREN, PhD, MD, Professor of Endocrinology, Vrije Universiteit, Amsterdam, The Netherlands GÜNTER GRAU, PhD, Institut für Geschichte der Medizin, Universitatsklinikum Charite, Medizinische Fakultät, Humbolt Universität, Berlin, Germany HELMUT GRAUPER, JD, Attorney at Law, Austrian Society for Sex Research, Vienna DAVID F. GREENBERG, PhD, Professor of Sociology, New York University, New York City LARRY GROSS, PhD, Sol Worth Professor of Communications, Annenburg School of Communications, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia; Co-Editor, Among Men/Among Women Series, Columbia University Press ERWIN J. HAEBERLE, PhD, EdD, Director and Professor Emeritus (ret.), Archive of Sexology, Robert Koch Institute, Berlin, Germany DAVID M. HALPERIN, PhD, Professor of English Language and Literature, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor; Co-Editor, GLQ: A Journal of Gay and Lesbian Studies JOSEPH HARRY, PhD, Professor Emeritus of Sociology, Northern Illinois University, DeKalb JAMES D. HAYNES, PhD, Professor of Biology, Buffalo State College, State University of New York LINDA HEIDENREICH, PhD, Assistant Professor of Women’s Studies, Washington State University, Pullman, Washington GERT HEKMA, PhD, Chair, Gay Studies, and Lecturer, Gay Studies and Sociology, Universiteit van Amsterdam, The Netherlands GILBERT HERDT, PhD, Director, Human Sexuality Studies and Professor of Anthropology, San Francisco State University GREGORY M. HEREK, PhD, Professor of Psychology, University of California, Davis MANFRED HERZER, Librarian, Amerika-Gedenkbibliothek; Founder, Gay Archives and Historian, Berlin, Germany RICHARD J. HOFFMAN, PhD, Professor of History, San Francisco State University PETER JACKSON, PhD, Division of Pacific and Asian History, Australia National University, Canberra, Australia SONYA JONES, PhD, Professor of English (ret.), Allegheny College, Meadville, PA SIMON KARLINSKY, PhD, Professor Emeritus of Slavic Languages and Literature, University of California, Berkeley JONATHAN D. KATZ, PhD, Assistant Professor of Art History, State University of New York, Stony Brook MONIKA KEHOE, PhD, Professor Emerita, University of Guam; Research Associate, CERES, San Francisco State University HUBERT KENNEDY, PhD, Historian and Research Associate, CERES, San Francisco State University. MICHAEL KIMMEL, PhD, Professor of Sociology, State University of New York, Stony Brook; Editor, Masculinities: Interdisciplinary Studies on Gender ROBERT KLITZMAN, MD, Assistant Professor of Clinical Psychiatry, College of Physicians and Surgeons, Columbia University, New York NORETTA KOERTGE, PhD, Professor of the History and Philosophy of Science, Indiana University, Bloomington

IGOR KON, PhD, Professor and Chief Researcher, Institute of Ethnology and Anthropology, Russian Academy of Sciences; Member, Russian Academy of Pedagogical Sciences; A. J. White Professor-at-Large, Cornell University MARY RIEGE LANER, PhD, Professor of Sociology, Arizona State University, Tempe RUDIGER LAUTMANN, Dr. phil., Dr. jur, Professor of Sociology, Universitat Bremen, Germany JOHN ALAN LEE, PhD, Associate Professor Emeritus of Sociology, Scarborough College, University of Toronto, Scarborough, Ontario, Canada DAVID D. LEITAO, Associate Professor of Classics, San Francisco State University BRIGITTE LHOMOND, Researcher in Sociology, National Center for Scientific Research (CNRS), Lyon, France ARTHUR LIPKIN, EdD, Professor, Graduate School of Education, Harvard University, Cambridge Massachusetts KAREN LOVAAS, PhD, Assistant Professor of Speech and Communication Studies, San Francisco State University JEAN M. LYNCH, PhD, Associate Professor of Sociology, Miami University, Middletown, Ohio DONALD MADER, PhD (cand.), BA, MDiv, University of Amsterdam, Assistant, Pauluskerk (Ned. Hervormd) Rotterdam; Rotterdam, The Netherlands MICHEL MAFFESOLI, Dr. d’Etat, Professor of Sociology; Director, Centre d’Etudes sur l’Actuel et le Quotidien, Universite de Paris V (Rene Descartes), à la Sorbonne, Paris, France RUTH MAHANEY, MA, Lecturer in Human Sexuality Studies, San Francisco State University and the City College of San Francisco LAWRENCE DAVID MASS, MD, Physician and Writer; Co-Founder, Gay Men’s Health Crisis, New York City VICKIE M. MAYS, Associate Professor of Psychology, University of California, Los Angeles PETER MCLAREN, PhD, Professor, Graduate School of Education, University of California, Los Angeles DAVID P. MCWHIRTER, MD, Medical Director, San Diego Telecare Corporation, San Diego, California HENRY L. MINTON, PhD, Professor Emeritus of Psychology, University of Windsor, Ontario, Canada RICHARD D. MOHR, PhD, Professor of Philosophy, University of Illinois, Urbana TODD G. MORRISON, PhD, Assistant Professor of Psychology, Red Deer College, Red Deer, AB, Canada TIMOTHY F. MURPHY, PhD, Associate Professor, Medical Humanities Program, Department of Medical Education, University of Illinois College of Medicine, Chicago STEPHEN O. MURRAY, PhD, Founder and Director, El Instituto Obregon, San Francisco PETER M. NARDI, PhD, Professor of Sociology, Pitzer College, Claremont, California EMMANUEL S. NELSON, PhD, Associate Professor of English, State University College at Cortland, New York ESTHER NEWTON, PhD, Professor of Anthropology, State University of New York, College at Purchase HARRY OOSTERHUIS, PhD, Lecturer in Arts and Sciences, Rijksuniversiteit Limburg, Maastricht, The Netherlands WILLIAM F. OWEN, Jr., MD, Founder, Bay Area Physicians for Human Rights; Physician, Internal Medicine, San Francisco JAY P. PAUL, PhD, Psychologist, University of California Center for AIDS Prevention Studies; Faculty, Institute for the Advanced Study of Human Sexuality; Psychotherapist (private practice), San Francisco WILLIAM PERCY, PhD, Professor of History, University of Massachusetts, Boston KENNETH PLUMMER, PhD, Senior Lecturer in Sociology, University of Essex, United Kingdom; Editor, Sexualities

IVO PROSCHAZKA, MD, Psychiatry, Institute of Sexology, Charles University, Prague, Czech Republic DAVID A. J. RICHARDS, JD, DPhil, Edwin D. Webb Professor of Law, New York University MICHAEL ROCKE, PhD, Historian, Italian Renaissance, Syracuse University Center, Firenze, Italy VERNON A. ROSARIO, MD, PhD, Neuropsychiatric Institute, University of California, Los Angeles WILL ROSCOE, PhD, Research Associate, CERES, San Francisco State University MICHAEL ROSS, PhD, MPH, Professor of Public Health, University of Texas, Houston ESTHER ROTHBLUM, PhD, Professor of Psychology, University of Vermont GEORGE ROUSSEAU, PhD, DeMontfort University, Oxford, England GAYLE RUBIN, PhD, Department of Anthropology, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor THEO SANDFORT, PhD, Assistant Professor of Psychiatry, HIV Center, Columbia University JAMES M. SASLOW, PhD, Professor of Art History, Queens College, City University of New York RITCH SAVIN-WILLIAMS, PhD, Professor of Human Development and Family Studies, Cornell University GUNTER SCHMIDT, PhD, Professor, Abteilung fur Sexualforschung, Universitats-Krankenhaus, Universitat Hamburg, Germany JAMES SEARS, PhD, Professor of Education, University of South Carolina, Columbia WOLFRAM SETZ, PhD, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Munich, Germany DENNIS SHELBY, PhD, Clinical Psychologist, Chicago, Illinois CHARLES SHIVELY, PhD, Professor of American Studies, University of Massachusetts, Boston. CHARLES C. SILVERSTEIN, PhD, Founding Editor, Journal of Homosexuality; Founder, Institute of Human Identity; Clinical Psychologist, New York City JAMES STEAKLEY, PhD, Professor of German, University of Wisconsin, Madison EDWARD STEIN, PhD, Associate Professor of Law, Cardozo Law School, New York City TERRY STEIN, MD, Professor Emeritus of Psychiatry, Michigan State University, East Lansing BRETT C. STOCKDILL, PhD, Assistant Professor of Behavioral Sciences, California State Polytechnic University, Pomona GERARD SULLIVAN, PhD, Associate Professor, Faculty of Education, University of Sydney, Australia CLAUDE J. SUMMERS, PhD, William E. Stirton Professor of Humanities and Professor of English, University of Michigan-Dearborn RANDOLPH TRUMBACH, PhD, Professor of History, Baruch College, City University of New York DANIEL CHUN-TUEN TSANG, PhD (pre-cand.), Social Sciences Librarian/Bibliographer and Lecturer in the School of Social Sciences, University of California, Irvine THEO VAN DER MEER, PhD, Research Scholar, Faculty of Law, Free University, Amsterdam ALEX L. VAN NAERSSEN, PhD, Lecturer in Sexology and Research Coordinator, Social Psychology, Rijksuniversiteit te Utrecht, The Netherlands CAROLE S. VANCE, PhD, Director, Program for the Study of Sexuality, Gender, Health, and Human Rights, School of Public Health, Columbia University, New York City BEERT VERSTRAATE, PhD, Professor of Classics, Arcadia University, Newfoundland, Canada DANIEL L. WARDLOW, PhD, Professor of Marketing, San Francisco State University JEFFREY WEEKS, MPhil, PhD, Professor of Sociology and Dean of Faculty of Humanities and Social Science, South Bank University, London, United Kingdom DAVID WHITTIER, PhD, National Center for Disease Control, Atlanta WALTER L. WILLIAMS, PhD, Professor of Anthropology and the Study of Women and Men in Society, University of Southern California, Los Angeles

MICHELLE A. WOLF, PhD, Professor of Broadcasting and Electronic Communication Arts, San Francisco State University WAYNE S. WOODEN, PhD, Professor of Sociology, California State University, Pomona WILLIAM J. WOODS, PhD, Psychologist, Center for AIDS Prevention Studies, University of California, San Francisco LESLIE KIRK WRIGHT, PhD, Associate Professor of Humanities, Mt. Ida College, Newton Center, Massachusetts KENNETH YEAGER, PhD, Lecturer in Political Science, San Jose State University; Supervisor, City Council, San Jose, California GUSTAVO A. YEP, PhD, Professor of Speech and Communication Studies and Human Sexuality Studies, San Francisco State University

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• Abstracts in Anthropology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1982 • Academic Abstracts/CD-ROM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1989 • Academic ASAP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2000 • Academic Search: Database of 2,000 selected academic serials, updated monthly: EBSCO Publishing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1995 • Academic Search Elite (EBSCO) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1993 • Alternative Press Index (print, online & CD-ROM from NISC) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1996 • Applied Social Sciences Index & Abstracts (ASSIA) (Online: ASSI via Data-Star) (CD-Rom: ASSIA Plus) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1987 • This periodical is indexed in ATLA Religion Database, published by the American Theological Library Association . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1986 • Book Review Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1996 • Cambridge Scientific Abstracts . . . . . . . . . . . 1993 (continued)

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Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) Journal of Homosexuality Volume 45, Numbers 2/3/4

CONTENTS Acknowledgments

xxvii

Foreword: My Trip to Queer Sally Miller Gearhart

xxix

I. RESEARCH AND INTERVENTIONS Introduction: Queering Communication: Starting the Conversation Gust A. Yep, PhD Karen E. Lovaas, PhD John P. Elia, PhD The Violence of Heteronormativity in Communication Studies: Notes on Injury, Healing, and Queer World-Making Gust A. Yep, PhD

1

11

Heteronormativity is everywhere. It is always already present in our individual and collective psyches, social institutions, cultural practices, and knowledge systems. In this essay, I provide some sketches for a critical analysis of heteronormativity in the communication discipline. More specifically, I examine the symbolic, discursive, psychological, and material violence of heteronormativity, and begin exploring ways to heal, grow, transform, and contemplate new possibilities in our social world. To accomplish this, this essay is divided into five sections. First, I discuss the

study of sexuality in Communication. Next, through the notion of injury, I focus on the violence of heteronormativity. Third, using the concept of healing, I discuss ways of unpacking heteronormativity through a critique of hegemonic heterosexuality. Further, I offer potential ways for queer world-making through the lens of queer theory. I conclude by exploring the need for more sexuality research in the discipline by engaging the productive tensions between constructive and deconstructive impulses. KEYWORDS. Communication, heteronormativity, heterosexuality, identity, normalization, queer, sexual hierarchy, sexuality

Queering Relationships: Toward a Paradigmatic Shift John P. Elia, PhD

61

This article exposes, and is critical of, the blatant and insidious ways in which a specific brand of heterosexual relationship has been promoted as the ultimate relational form at the expense of others who neither believe in nor practice such idealized relationships. To uncover this multilayered and deeply imbedded ideology, this piece turns to a description and analysis of how various institutions (e.g., organized religion, medicine, education, law, politics, and the family) perpetuate heteronormative practices in general. Next, specific traits considered to constitute the best and most respectable relationship style are identified. Then, notions of how heteronormativity is marketed and reproduced to create a sexual relationship hierarchy–with a certain form of heterosexuality elevated to the top, as the most revered and cherished relational form–are described and analyzed. Turning to the results of such a well-established and entrenched “marketing campaign,” the author offers some notes regarding attitudes about sexual relationships gleaned from teaching a course, “Sex and Relationships,” for over a decade. Finally, the author explores the merits and potential drawbacks of a paradigmatic shift toward queering relationships and possible directions for theoretical interventions. KEYWORDS. Bisexual, gay, heteronormativity, heterosexism, lesbian, queer, relationship construction

Speaking to Silence: Toward Queering Nonverbal Communication Karen E. Lovaas, PhD

87

The majority of nonverbal communication research and pedagogy reproduces heterosexist and sexist ideologies, normalizing and naturalizing gender and sexual binaries, and sanctioning an exceedingly narrow range of gendered and sexualized subjects, practices, and relationships. This essay proposes that nonverbal communication scholarship and pedagogy need to address these issues. First, I provide a brief summary of the history of the field of nonverbal communication. Second, I critique the conspicuous absence of the queer subject, the rigid essentialism, and the pervasive heterosexism in nonverbal communication textbooks in particular. Finally, I discuss three examples of communication research that avoid these pitfalls and herald what queering nonverbal communication might look like. KEYWORDS. Communication, heteronormativity, heterosexism, nonverbal communication, queer theory, sexual identity

Racisms, Heterosexisms, and Identities: A Semiotic Phenomenology of Self-Understanding Jacqueline M. Martinez, PhD

109

This article examines the contributions of lesbians of color to the developmental relationship between queer theory and qualitative research methodology. Its thesis is that the contributions of lesbians of color in this context have been overlooked despite being featured. This oversight is explained through an examination of theoretical perspectives that dominate our current understanding of the relationship between queer theory and qualitative research. Postmodernism is revealed as susceptible to liberal bias and racist exclusions common in U.S. culture. Semiotic phenomenology is offered as a non-essentialist approach to queer theory and qualitative research that reduces the liberal bias and racist exclusions often perpetuated in postmodern theorizing that have led to the exclusion of contributions of lesbians of color in queer theory. KEYWORDS. Heterosexisms, identities, lesbians of color, liberalism, queer theory, semiotic phenomenology, racisms

Queer Criticism and Sexual Normativity: The Case of Pee-wee Herman R. Anthony Slagle, PhD

129

One of the most useful aspects of queer theory is the critical force that the perspective provides scholars. The tenets of queer theory provide scholars with a model to interrogate how sexuality and other differences play a fundamental role in rhetorical practice. Focusing on differences rather than similarities, queer critics seek to dismantle hierarchies by blurring the definitions of specific identity categories. A framework for queer rhetorical criticism is described and illustrated with a variety of examples from popular culture. The model is further illustrated through an examination of the body of work of Pee-wee Herman. KEYWORDS. Pee-wee Herman, popular culture, queer criticism, queer theory, rhetorical criticism

Kuaering Queer Theory: My Autocritography and a Race-Conscious, Womanist, Transnational Turn Wenshu Lee, PhD

147

Critiquing queer theory’s omissions in race and class, E. Patrick Johnson (2001) suggests “quare” studies, a turn similar to that being made from feminism to womanism. I fully embrace Johnson’s theorizing. But to make relevant the worlds lying beyond the pale of North America, Europe, and the English language to the study of sexualities and other dimensions of systematic discrimination, I use kuaer theory to make another turn. One that is at once race-conscious, womanist and transnational. I travel through three awakenings, and look into nu nu (female-female) words in Taiwanese and Chinese lesbian existence in different historical periods. I also offer a rhetorical analysis of the title of Ai Bao, the first officially registered Taiwanese lesbian magazine, exploring its persuasiveness via wordplay and multiple entendre. In addition, from jin lan hui to nu tongzhi, from T/puo and lazi to kuer, I provide sketches of heterogeneous and complex Taiwanese and Chinese nu nu worlds.

As I get deeper into my autocritography, these women become my women and I learn to utter my own words in a language that is little pre-packaged. My crossing marks a daring but humble beginning. If nothing else, there is at least more space for bringing up race and transnational complicity queerly. KEYWORDS. Autocritography, lesbianism, quare studies, queer theory, rhetorical invention, Taiwanese/Chinese, transnationalism, womanism

Immigrant Closets: Tactical-Micro-Practices-in-the-Hyphen Diana Fisher, PhD (cand.)

171

The theoretical and material moves within this essay suggest that culturally hybrid agents use the “closet” as a space to negotiate the intersections of sexuality and ethnicity in everyday life. Discussing some conclusions of my ethnographic research project with the Russian Gay and Lesbian Group of West Hollywood, this essay applies Michel de Certeau’s notion of tactics to the daily micro-practices of queer identified immigrants as they move between the demands of overlapping and contradictory cultures. Examining the circumstances in the Russian-Americanimmigrant-imagined community shared by the informants in this site, I argue that, contrary to a popularized valorization of queer “outness,” there is a great deal of power in the oscillation between visibility and invisibility. KEYWORDS. Closet, immigrant, invisibility, micro-practices, queer, Russian, visibility

Negotiating Multiple Identities in a Queer Vietnamese Support Group Gina Masequesmay, PhD

193

My participant-observation with Ô-Môi, a support group for Vietnamese lesbians, bisexual women and female-to-male transgenders, and interviews with members, focusing on how different identity issues are negotiated, suggest that despite Ô-Môi’s claim to support its members’ multiple marginalized identities, group processes in everyday pragmatic interactions construct a hierarchy that centers and normalizes experiences of bilingual Vietnamese lesbians. This renders the marginalization of bisexual women, transgender men, and Vietnamese/English monolingual members. Using the concept of “identity work” to examine the intersection of race/ethnicity, class, and gender/sexuality as everyday (counter)hegemonic processes, I discuss how organizational structure, discourse resources, and personal politics orient and mold members’ talk and interactions leading to normalization and/or marginalization of certain groups’ experiences. KEYWORDS. Identity work, lesbian, multiple identities, queer, support group, Vietnamese American

The Specter of the Black Fag: Parody, Blackness, and Hetero/Homosexual B(r)others E. Patrick Johnson, PhD

217

This essay investigates the ways in which three African American heterosexual males–Eddie Murphy, Damon Wayans, and David Alan Grier–appropriate signifiers of gayness to parody, stereotype, and repudiate black gay men. These perfor-

mances are also attempts to circumscribe the boundaries of blackness, ultimately suggesting that “authentic” blackness is lodged within hegemonic black masculinity. Contrary to this desired effect, the essay demonstrates how these performers, in the act of repudiation, ironically and unwittingly queer heteronormative black masculinity, securing further the dialectic between heterosexuality and homosexuality. Finally, the essay argues that these performances manifest the black heterosexual male’s melancholia, his refusal to grieve the loss of his sexual B(r)other. KEYWORDS. Authenticity, blackness, masculinity, melancholia, performance, parody

The Queering of Swan Lake: A New Male Gaze for the Performance of Sexual Desire Kent G. Drummond, PhD

235

This essay argues that, by re-gendering the ballet classic Swan Lake, choreographer Matthew Bourne has also queered it. He thrusts center stage an unstable relationship between two male characters, and in so doing, de-centers the conventionally fixed categories of sex, gender and sexual desire. He also forces a long-simmering relationship between homosexuality and dance out of the closet and into mainstream popular culture. Applying Mulvey’s theory of spectatorship and Butler’s theory of gendered performance, the essay describes how viewers may be intrigued, rather than repulsed, by the ambiguities surrounding Bourne’s portrayal of sexual identity. KEYWORDS. Homoeroticism in dance, male dancer, male gaze, performance of gender

Queering Marriage: An Ideographic Interrogation of Heteronormative Subjectivity Davin Grindstaff, PhD

257

Recent debates on same-sex marriage mark the institution, practice, and concept of marriage as a significant site of power and resistance within American culture. Adopting Michel Foucault’s conception of “discipline,” this essay examines how marriage discourse reinforces heteronormative power relations through its rhetorical constitution of gay male identity. Supplementing “ideographic” critique with Judith Butler’s theory of performative speech acts enables us to better interrogate and resist these operations of power. This essay maps the contemporary scene of heteronormative power and resistance through two rhetorical performances of gay male identity. The marriage debates, in the first instance, demonstrate how a conventional desire for masculine agency influences the heteronormative production of gay male identity. In the second instance, gay male SM [sadomasochism] performs a concept of “relational agency,” which potentially resists heteronormativity. KEYWORDS. Critical rhetoric, gay male identity, heteronormativity, ideograph, performativity, resistance, same-sex marriage

Transgender DeKalb: Observations of an Advocacy Campaign John R. Butler, PhD

277

In September 2000, the Community Members Against Discrimination (CMAD), a grassroots LGBT organization in DeKalb, Illinois, convinced their city council to add protection against discrimination on the basis of gender identity and expression.

Written as an autoethnography, this essay considers the events of the campaign in terms of queer theory and the study of public argument by isolating a set of episodes that bring the reader closer to the experiences of transgender citizens who act in a public culture. The author also explores his own responsibilities as a scholar of communication, an activist, and a member of the LGBT community. KEYWORDS. Activism, autoethnography, public argument, queer theory, transgender

Disciplining “Sextext”: Queers, Fears, and Communication Studies A. Susan Owen, PhD

297

This essay is a critical interrogation of disciplinary responses to Tom Nakayama and Fred Corey’s 1997 Text and Performance Quarterly essay, “Sextext.” Disciplinary responses to the essay suggest strong resistance to queer theory as a “legitimate” intellectual and critical framework. By reading the responses to “Sextext” through the lens of queer theory, and by offering a political reading of conventional studies of sexual representation, this essay suggests how disciplinary boundaries in Communication Studies are policed to protect the production of “legitimate” scholarship. By revealing these practices, this essay provides further support for the central value of queer theory to the discipline of Communication Studies. KEYWORDS. Body rhetorics, citizenship, feminist criticism, pornography, queer theory

Nextext Thomas K. Nakayama, PhD Frederick C. Corey, PhD

319

Gay men who are marked as “sexual outlaws” have unique and tense relationships with social regulatory forces, and for the porn star, the tensions are exacerbated. Surveillance, attraction, seduction, repulsion, authority, and discipline mark the communicative dynamics between the bodies of subject/object, performer/spectator, image-maker/imagined. This essay, which is a follow-up to “Sextext,” is a fictional account of a porn star who navigates personal and social relationships in the context of a culture that averts overt discussions of carnal desire. KEYWORDS. Performative writing, pornography, queer theory, representation

II. REFLECTIONS Reflections on Queer Theory: Disparate Points of View John P. Elia, PhD Karen E. Lovaas, PhD Gust A. Yep, PhD

335

The Normalization of Queer Theory David M. Halperin, PhD

339

Queer Theory, Gay Movements, and Political Communication Ralph R. Smith, PhD Querying Queer Theory Again (or Queer Theory as Drag Performance) Bryant Alexander, PhD

345

349

Queer Theory and Performance Craig Gingrich-Philbrook, PhD

353

Queer Theory in Education William F. Pinar, PhD

357

Reflections on Queer Studies and Queer Pedagogy Judith Halberstam, PhD

361

Queer Ideals in Education Kevin K. Kumashiro, PhD

365

Sounds Queer to Me: The Politics of Disillusionment Bettina Heinz, PhD

369

Queer Theory, New Millennium Lisa Henderson, PhD

375

Run Queer Asia Run John Nguyet Erni, PhD

381

Reflections on Queer Theory and Communication Joshua Gamson, PhD

385

III. RESOURCES More Queer: Resources on Queer Theory John P. Elia, PhD Catherine Swanson, MPH (cand.) Amanda R. Goldberg, MPH (cand.)

391

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Monographs “Separates” list continued Gay People, Sex, and the Media, edited by Michelle A. Wolf, PhD, and Alfred P. Kielwasser, MA (Vol. 21, No. 1/2, 1991). “Altogether, the kind of research anthology which is useful to many disciplines in gay studies. Good stuff!” (Communique) Gay Midlife and Maturity: Crises, Opportunities, and Fulfillment, edited by John Alan Lee, PhD (Vol. 20, No. 3/4, 1991). “The insight into gay aging is amazing, accurate, and much-needed. . . . A real contribution to the older gay community.” (Prime Timers) Male Intergenerational Intimacy: Historical, Socio-Psychological, and Legal Perspectives, edited by Theo G. M. Sandfort, PhD, Edward Brongersma, JD, and A. X. van Naerssen, PhD (Vol. 20, No. 1/2, 1991). “The most important book on the subject since Tom O’Carroll’s 1980 Paedophilia: The Radical Case.” (The North America Man/Boy Love Association Bulletin, May 1991) Love Letters Between a Certain Late Nobleman and the Famous Mr. Wilson, edited by Michael S. Kimmel, PhD (Vol. 19, No. 2, 1990). “An intriguing book about homosexuality in 18th-Century England. Many details of the period, such as meeting places, coded language, and ‘camping’ are all covered in the book. If you’re a history buff, you’ll enjoy this one.” (Prime Timers) Homosexuality and Religion, edited by Richard Hasbany, PhD (Vol. 18, No. 3/4, 1990). “A welcome resource that provides historical and contemporary views on many issues involving religious life and homosexuality.” (Journal of Sex education and Therapy) Homosexuality and the Family, edited by Frederick W. Bozett, PhD (Vol. 18, No. 1/2, 1989). “Enlightening and answers a host of questions about the effects of homosexuality upon family members and the family as a unit.” (Ambush Magazine) Gay and Lesbian Youth, edited by Gilbert Herdt, PhD (Vol. 17, No. 1/2/3/4, 1989). “Provides a much-needed compilation of research dealing with homosexuality and adolescents.” (GLTF Newsletter) Lesbians Over 60 Speak for Themselves, edited by Monika Kehoe, PhD (Vol. 16, No. 3/4, 1989). “A pioneering book examining the social, economical, physical, sexual, and emotional lives of aging lesbians.” (Feminist Bookstore News) The Pursuit of Sodomy: Male Homosexuality in Renaissance and Enlightenment Europe, edited by Kent Gerard, PhD, and Gert Hekma, PhD (Vol. 16, No. 1/2, 1989). “Presenting a wealth of information in a compact form, this book should be welcomed by anyone with an interest in this period in European history or in the precursors to modern concepts of homosexuality.” (The Canadian Journal of Human Sexuality) Psychopathology and Psychotherapy in Homosexuality, edited by Michael W. Ross, PhD (Vol. 15, No. 1/2, 1988). “One of the more objective, scientific collections of articles concerning the mental health of gays and lesbians. . . . Extraordinarily thoughtful. . . . New thoughts about treatments. Vital viewpoints.” (The Book Reader) Psychotherapy with Homosexual Men and Women: Integrated Identity Approaches for Clinical Practice, edited by Eli Coleman, PhD (Vol. 14, No. 1/2, 1987). “An invaluable tool. . . . This is an extremely useful book for the clinician seeking better ways to understand gay and lesbian patients.” (Hospital and Community Psychiatry) Interdisciplinary Research on Homosexuality in The Netherlands, edited by A. X. van Naerssen, PhD (Vol. 13, No. 2/3, 1987). “Valuable not just for its insightful analysis of the evolution of gay rights in The Netherlands, but also for the lessons that can be extracted by our own society from the Dutch tradition of tolerance for homosexuals.” (The San Francisco Chronicle) Historical, Literary, and Erotic Aspects of Lesbianism, edited by Monica Kehoe, PhD (Vol. 12, No. 3/4, 1986). “Fascinating . . . Even though this entire volume is serious scholarship penned by degreed writers, most of it is vital, accessible, and thoroughly readable even to the casual student of lesbian history.” (Lambda Rising)

Anthropology and Homosexual Behavior, edited by Evelyn Blackwood, PhD (cand.) (Vol. 11, No. 3/4, 1986). “A fascinating account of homosexuality during various historical periods and in non-Western cultures.” (SIECUS Report) Bisexualities: Theory and Research, edited by Fritz Klein, MD, and Timothy J. Wolf, PhD (Vol. 11, No. 1/2, 1985). “The editors have brought together a formidable array of new data challenging old stereotypes about a very important human phenomenon . . . A milestone in furthering our knowledge about sexual orientation.” (David P. McWhirter, Co-author, The Male Couple) Homophobia: An Overview, edited by John P. De Cecco, PhD (Vol. 10, No. 1/2, 1984). “Breaks ground in helping to make the study of homophobia a science.” (Contemporary Psychiatry) Bisexual and Homosexual Identities: Critical Clinical Issues, edited by John P. De Cecco, PhD (Vol. 9, No. 4, 1985). Leading experts provide valuable insights into sexual identity within a clinical context–broadly defined to include depth psychology, diagnostic classification, therapy, and psychomedical research on the hormonal basis of homosexuality. Bisexual and Homosexual Identities: Critical Theoretical Issues, edited by John P. De Cecco, PhD, and Michael G. Shively, MA (Vol. 9, No. 2/3, 1984). “A valuable book . . . The careful scholarship, analytic rigor, and lucid exposition of virtually all of these essays make them thought-provoking and worth more than one reading.” (Sex Roles, A Journal of Research) Homosexuality and Social Sex Roles, edited by Michael W. Ross, PhD (Vol. 9, No. 1, 1983). “For a comprehensive review of the literature in this domain, exposure to some interesting methodological models, and a glance at ‘older’ theories undergoing contemporary scrutiny, I recommend this book.” (Journal of Sex Education & Therapy) Literary Visions of Homosexuality, edited by Stuart Kellogg, PhD (Vol. 8, No. 3/4, 1985). “An important book. Gay sensibility has never been given such a boost.” (The Advocate) Alcoholism and Homosexuality, edited by Thomas O. Ziebold, PhD, and John E. Mongeon (Vol. 7, No. 4, 1985). “A landmark in the fields of both alcoholism and homosexuality . . . a very lush work of high caliber.” (The Journal of Sex Research) Homosexuality and Psychotherapy: A Practitioner’s Handbook of Affirmative Models, edited by John C. Gonsiorek, PhD (Vol. 7, No. 2/3, 1985). “A book that seeks to create affirmative psychotherapeutic models. . . . To say this book is needed by all doing therapy with gay or lesbian clients is an understatement.” (The Advocate) Nature and Causes of Homosexuality: A Philosophic and Scientific Inquiry, edited by Noretta Koertge, PhD (Vol. 6, No. 4, 1982). “An interesting, thought-provoking book, well worth reading as a corrective to much of the research literature on homosexuality.” (Australian Journal of Sex, Marriage & Family) Historical Perspectives on Homosexuality, edited by Salvatore J. Licata, PhD, and Robert P. Petersen, PhD (cand.) (Vol. 6, No. 1/2, 1986). “Scholarly and excellent. Its authority is impeccable, and its treatment of this neglected area exemplary.” (Choice) Homosexuality and the Law, edited by Donald C. Knutson, PhD (Vol. 5, No. 1/2, 1979). A comprehensive analysis of current legal issues and court decisions relevant to male and female homosexuality.

ABOUT THE GUEST EDITORS Gust A. Yep (PhD, University of Southern California, 1990) is Professor of Speech and Communication Studies and Human Sexuality Studies at San Francisco State University. He is co-author of Disclosure of HIV in Interpersonal Relationships: A Sourcebook for Researchers and Practitioners (Lawrence Erlbaum). His research has been published in numerous interdisciplinary journals and anthologies. His work has appeared in the following scholarly journals: AIDS Education and Prevention; CATESOL Journal; Communication Quarterly; Hispanic Journal of Behavioral Sciences; International and Intercultural Communication Annual; International Quarterly of Community Health Education; Journal of American College Health; Journal of Gay, Lesbian, and Bisexual Identity; Journal of Health Communication; Journal of Homosexuality; Journal of Lesbian Studies, and Journal of Social Behavior and Personality. Dr. Yep’s work has appeared as chapters in books such as Queer Families, Queer Politics: Challenging Culture and the State (Columbia University Press); Overcoming Heterosexism and Homophobia: Strategies that Work (Columbia University Press); Balancing the Secrets of Private Disclosures (Lawrence Erlbaum); Readings in Intercultural Communication: Experiences and Contexts (McGraw-Hill); Explaining Illness: Theory, Research, and Strategies (Lawrence Erlbaum); Power in the Blood: A Handbook on AIDS, Politics and Communication (Lawrence Erlbaum); Progress in Preventing AIDS? Dogma, Dissent, and Innovation: Global Perspectives (Baywood Publications); Communicating about Communicable Diseases (Human Resource Development Press); Confronting the AIDS Epidemic: Cross-Cultural Perspectives in HIV/AIDS Education (Africa World Press); Women and AIDS: Negotiating Safer Practices, Care, and Representation (Harrington Park Press), and Hispanic Psychology: Critical Issues in Theory and Research (Sage Publications), among others. He also has forthcoming essays in the following

anthologies: Communicating Ethnic and Cultural Identity (Rowman & Littlefield); Group Communication in Context: Studies of Natural Groups (Lawrence Erlbaum); Handbook of Health Communication (Lawrence Erlbaum); Race/Gender/Media: Considering Diversity Across Audiences, Content, and Producers (Longman); Media-Mediated AIDS (Hampton Press), and National Days/National Ways (Greenwood Press). He has received over a dozen research grants and several teaching and community service awards in the past decade. Dr. Yep was nominated for “Outstanding Professor Award” in 1992-93, 1993-94, and 1994-95 at California State University, Los Angeles before joining the faculty at San Francisco State. He was named “Outstanding American Educator” in Who’s Who Among America’s Teachers (1994), was nationally recognized for his teaching and mentoring in the “Teachers on Teaching” Series at the Annual Meeting of the National Communication Association (1997), and was honored as a founding member of the Gamma Psi Chapter of Phi Beta Delta, an Honor Society for International Scholars. He was the 1999 university-wide nominee for the Carnegie Foundation “U.S. Professors of the Year” Award. Karen E. Lovaas (PhD, University of Hawaii at Manoa, 1993) is Assistant Professor of Speech and Communication Studies at San Francisco State University. Her teaching, research, and consulting work are in the areas of gender, sexuality, culture, conflict, and communication, with an emphasis on critical theory. Several recent publications underscore her interest in queer theory, queer communities, and queer pedagogy. “Sexual Practices, Identification, and the Paradoxes of Identity in the Era of AIDS: The Case of ‘Riding Bareback,’” co-authored with Gust Yep and Alex Pagonis, is in the Journal of Homosexuality, 42(4), 2002. She is the lead author of an article written with two former students entitled “Transcending Heteronormativity in the Classroom: Using Queer and Critical Pedagogies to Alleviate Trans-Anxieties,” in Journal of Lesbian Studies, 6(3/4), 2002. In press is “A Critical Appraisal of Assimilationist and Radical Ideologies Underlying Same-Sex Marriage in LGBT Communities in the United States,” written with Gust Yep and John Elia. A book chapter entitled, “Communication in ‘Asian American’ Families with Queer Members: A Relational Dialectics Perspec-

tive,” co-authored with Gust Yep and Philip Ho, is in the anthology, Queer Families, Queer Politics: Challenging Culture and the State (Columbia University Press, 2001). Dr. Lovaas is on the editorial board of the Journal of Homosexuality and is the Guest Editor for an upcoming special issue of the journal on The Contested Terrain of Queer Theory and LGBT Studies. John P. Elia (PhD, University of California, Davis, 1997) is Assistant Professor of Health Education at San Francisco State University. Besides teaching at San Francisco State University in the Departments of Health Education and Psychology and in the Human Sexuality Studies Program since 1987, Dr. Elia has served as Associate Editor and Senior Book Review Editor for the Journal of Homosexuality since 1997, in addition to serving on the Publications Committee of the SIECUS Report from 1998-2000. He has edited three books entitled (co-edited with John De Cecco) If You Seduce a Straight Person, Can You make Him Gay: Issues of Biological Essentialism and Social Constructionism in Gay and Lesbian Identities (The Haworth Press, Inc., 1993), Sex and Relationships: An Anthology (Kendall Hunt, 1999), and (co-edited with Albert Angelo) Readings in Contemporary Sexuality (Kendall Hunt, 2000). His recent scholarship has focused on democracy and sexuality education in public schools, and recently he has been published in The Educational Forum, The Journal of Sex Education and Therapy, and the Journal of the History of Sexuality. Most recently, Dr. Elia has been appointed as an Advisory Board Member of the International Encyclopedia of Sexuality, Education, and Culture (a three-volume work to be published by Greenwood Press in 2004), and he has been invited to join the editorial board of the Journal of Gay and Lesbian Issues in Education, an international peer-reviewed scholarly journal. Besides teaching and research, Dr. Elia gives presentations and workshops for San Francisco Unified School District’s School Health Programs, University of California, Berkeley’s Health and Wellness courses, University of California, Davis’ Behavioral Sciences Extension Program, and he speaks at local community-based organizations on sexuality education and health.

Acknowledgments This project was conceived and actualized in the hope that it will start conversations, enhance critical consciousness, and increase dialogue about discourses of sexuality in the Communication discipline and beyond. Without the support and guidance of our colleagues, friends, and partners, this project would not be a reality. In addition to all of the contributors to this volume, we collectively express our heartfelt thanks to: John De Cecco, Editor-in-Chief of the Journal of Homosexuality, for his vision and generosity; Nancy McDermid, former Dean of the College of Humanities at San Francisco State University, for her wisdom and institutional assistance; Rudolph Busby, former Chair of the Department of Speech and Communication Studies, for his assistance; Bryant Alexander, Jim Chesebro, Larry Gross, E. Patrick Johnson, Wenshu Lee, Tony Slagle, and Ralph Smith, our reviewers, for their knowledge and expertise; Members of the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender Division of the National Communication Association, for their support. Individually, Gust thanks Mark Elkin, for his love, wisdom, support, and patience, and Tyler and Dino, for their loving presence, exuberance, and companionship. Karen acknowledges her partner, Erich Hunt, who offered unwavering support throughout this long project, as well as helping in many concrete ways. His love, patience, and intellectual curiosity have been essential companions. She also thanks her feline friend, Kobo, whose frequent interruptions at the computer keyboard are a marvelous form of stress reduction and reminder of other priorities: affection given, affection reciprocated. xxvii

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John sends special thanks to Bruce Whaley, a dear friend with whom he has had scores of conversations over the past couple of years that have contributed to his scholarship and personal growth. He also acknowledges Copper, his incorrigible and feisty Springer Spaniel, who, when not getting himself into trouble, often provides John with comfort by lying patiently on the floor of the study while John does his academic work. Finally, we salute each other as fellow members of The Radical San Francisco Trio, an entity that provides us a greater sense of belonging to a true academic community, one in which we push each other’s thinking, critique and celebrate each other’s work, support each other personally, and even remember to stop and play from time to time. Very queer.

Foreword: My Trip to Queer When Gust Yep and his co-editors asked me to lend a bit of historical perspective to the publication of these articles, I felt a glow of pride, for I had long respected these three colleagues of mine. In my experience, each of them had amply demonstrated the separate virtues of worthy scholarship and openhearted outrageousness. I have now devoured these articles, gradually comprehending the scope and the integrity of what the editors wish to accomplish. I’m convinced that they have at last wedded their scholarship to their outrageousness and produced here for us a thought-provoking collection of speculative ideas and research. During most of my life, hearing the word “queer” simply meant that I was probably in trouble, and even during the 1980s and ’90s I used the word only reluctantly and self-consciously. If asked, I identified myself as I had for twenty years: an able-bodied, post-Christian, water-treading-middle-class, Southernwhite, lesbian-feminist female-separatist, supportive of peace, freedom, jobs, justice, self-determination, and environmental redemption. Moreover, since I formally left academia in 1992, I’ve read very little Queer Theory, and certainly none in my own field of Communication. I thus set out upon this present intellectual journey with what I hoped was an open mind and light baggage. I’ve come home with an overflowing backpack and fond memories of many late-into-the night discussions sparked by the concepts and inquiries presented here. As I am coming to understand it, Queer Theory explores the interface of gender and sexuality with the cross-currents of race, ethnicity, social class, and individual bodily existence (complete with all the subcategories that pertain thereunto). It contends that our culture imposes upon us multiple “essentialist” identities that fragment us into strings of hyphenated racial, ethnic, gender-related, and body-image labels–labels that we vainly hope will “name” each individual “me.” In contrast to these traditional cultural assumptions, Queer Theory suggests that every part of our identity is both fluid and mixed, and is [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Foreword: My Trip to Queer.” Gearhart, Sally Miller. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. xxix-xxxviii; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. xxi-xxx.

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thus capable of transformation. In other words, it urges us toward the possibility that we are not trapped in those essentialist identities. Some articles in this collection, Queer Theory and Communication, emerge from scholars in Asian American Studies, Cultural Studies, Education, English, Journalism, Literature, Performance Studies, Theatre Arts, and Sociology. Still, the focus of the anthology is upon communication, and the large majority of its contributors are Communication scholars. The authors of these essays hope to ignite vigorous and ongoing dialogue about non-normative sexuality, particularly as the discipline of Communication Studies participates in that dialogue. I take pleasure in stepping back now to my memory of the earlier days of gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgender (GLBT) liberation, approximately the decade of the 1970s, before “queer,” “intersex,” “questioning,” and “straight supportive” were added to our vocabulary of community identities. Among queer theorists, those years are appropriately understood to be our time of “identity politics,” since, in the ebbs and flows of social movements, we respond first to our oppression, proudly claiming our identity, and then move from there to self-reflection and self-criticism, typically still using the very categories we have developed in the name of our collective liberation. *** In 1970 I was determined to leave forever both my fourteen-year career as a college professor and my increasingly uncomfortable Texas closet. When I stepped into the San Francisco Bay Area’s boiling cauldron of social unrest, I was so exhilarated by the spirit of liberation that I greeted perfect strangers on the street with, “Hi, I’m Sally Gearhart and I’m a lesbian.” I made this announcement so often and so blithely that once on a panel where we were asked to introduce ourselves, I said, “Hi, I’m Sally Lesbian and I’m a Gearhart.” In the laughter that followed, I vowed to remind myself daily that I was a quantity greater than my lesbianism. I was an academic, too, I recalled. And a feminist. Thus, in 1971 I brought my revolutionary self to the national convention of my discipline, newly named in 1970 the Speech Communication Association. From the floor of a plenary session of that body, I urged the presenters to mend their sexist ways and to begin by using language that included women, instead of the oppressive masculine generic. The laughter and hooting that greeted my suggestion apparently fed the zeal of a number of feminists in the audience. A few of them approached me after the session and urged me to join them at an evening meeting of female colleagues who had long felt that our discipline was ripe for fundamental change. Some of the intelligent and fiercely committed women at that meeting had, in 1970, petitioned the Legislative Assembly for the formation of a Women’s Caucus. The petition had been granted, and the very session that I attended that evening was probably the first meeting of the newly formed Women’s Caucus of the Association.

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San Francisco State University had received wide recognition in 1968-69 when its students and faculty closed down classes there for months in support of the proposal for a Black Studies Department and a School of Third World Studies. Thanks to the courage and good will of gay/lesbian/bisexual supporters on that campus, I began teaching again in the early ’70s, albeit only part-time, at SFSU. I felt fortunate to be there, and very much at home. Lois Flynne, Assistant Professor of Social Science and Interdisciplinary Studies, had succeeded in getting me hired as the instructor for the popular course she had designed and taught entitled “Homosexuality as a Social Issue,” perhaps the first course in the nation taught with the word “homosexuality” in its title. She and John De Cecco, Professor of Psychology, subsequently emerged in the vanguard of SFSU’s growing curriculum of courses that included lesbian, gay, and bisexual content. Not only did their work become the model for other colleges in the Bay Area, but John De Cecco’s efforts also blossomed into C.H.E.E.R. (the Center for Homosexual Education, Evaluation, and Research, 1975 to 1980), and later into C.E.R.E.S. (the Center for Research and Education in Sexuality, 1980 to the present), which he and John Elia still direct. In 1977 De Cecco became the editor of the three-year-old Journal of Homosexuality, which Charles Silverstein had founded in New York in 1974. De Cecco is still its editor, thus establishing a probable record for the longest uninterrupted editorship of an academic journal. C.H.E.E.R., C.E.R.E.S., and the journal were all precursors of San Francisco State’s presently flourishing Human Sexuality Program. Nancy McDermid, Professor of Speech Communication, and later Dean of the College of Humanities at San Francisco State, drew me back into my home discipline with her introduction into the Speech Communication Department of “The Rhetoric of Sexual Liberation,” overtly feminist and the first such course to be offered nationally in our discipline. She and I, along with three graduate students, team-taught its opening semester. Several semesters later, the course was given a more interpersonal focus and changed into “Sex Roles and Communication,” and later into “Gender and Communication,” joining a larger curriculum of the department’s Gender Communication courses. The finest contribution of Nancy McDermid to Gay-Lesbian-Bisexual-Transgender Studies rests in her leadership of faculty, staff, students, and community participants in the design and implementation of SFSU’s Women Studies Program, one of the four unapologetically radical programs in the nation. Its very title even today keeps it distinct from “Women’s Studies” departments and programs elsewhere. Officially launched in 1976, Women Studies brought the values and processes of the Women’s Liberation Movement into the classroom and developed several courses that were specifically centered upon lesbians and taught by open lesbians. Indicative of the times was the fact that students often audited these classes informally instead of enrolling, in order to avoid having the word “lesbian” on their transcripts. Moreover, in the Program’s early days the

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Women Studies course entitled “Men’s Liberation” was taught by an openly gay man. A number of scholars of Communication or Human Sexuality participated in the design and teaching of the Women Studies Program, among them Merle Woo, Corky Wick, Ruth Mahaney, and Mina Caulfield, who were then all part-timers. In what could be called its finest hour, SFSU’s Women Studies Program laid its very existence on the line in a fierce battle with the state university system and the California Legislature over the hiring of feminist and communist Angela Davis. Women Studies was ultimately successful, and Davis began her present university teaching career as an instructor in that program. During the ’70s, many tenured women in academia came out as lesbians, but before 1977 no lesbians who were open about their sexual orientation had been hired on tenure-track or been granted tenure as scholars. Thus in that year I became, as far as I know, the first open lesbian to be granted tenure in the United States. As Gust Yep points out in his contribution to this collection, the veil of silence about human sexuality blanketed our field of Communication until the 1990s when research on the subject finally began to appear in the discipline’s publications. Until the ’90s, “out” lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender scholars of Communication risked advancement and in fact their entire academic careers by any openness about their sexual orientation. It was with justifiable trepidation that we began making ourselves visible to our professional discipline. In 1978, Fred Jandt, then a Visiting Instructor of Speech Communication at San Francisco State, actively sought out other scholars in our field from institutions across the nation who might be interested in forming a caucus on gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender concerns within the Speech Communication Association. He and James Darsey, then a Communications graduate student at the University of Wisconsin, inspired me to join them in uniting such a group of scholars; Randy Majors and Jan Carl Park, both graduate students at Indiana University, also joined in that effort. With the indispensable help of James Chesebro, then Associate Professor of Speech at Temple University, and other respected members of the Association, a group of gay, lesbian, and bisexual communication scholars–and at least one transgender scholar–formulated a proposal for the formation of the Caucus. At its national convention in 1978 the Association’s Legislative Assembly, after considerable heated controversy, approved the proposal, ultimately naming the new group the “Caucus on Gay and Lesbian Concerns.” Chesebro shepherded the Caucus proposal through the Legislative Assembly, and both he and Joseph A. DeVito, then Professor of Communication Arts and Science at Queens College, City University of New York, helped to sustain its continuing growth and vitality in the years that followed. It is important to note that the formation of the Caucus could never have come about without the strong, proactive, and constant support of the women of the Speech Com-

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munication Association–heterosexual as well as lesbian and bisexual. The names of Jo Sprague, then Associate Professor of Speech Communication at San Jose State University, and Anita Taylor, then Professor of Communication at Florissant Valley Community College in Missouri, shine especially bright in the Caucus’s history. Though the founding of the Caucus did not grant us a vote in the Assembly, it nevertheless gave us a voice, a visible presence there, and an acknowledgement of our potential power. Certainly the Assembly’s decision was a strong and clear response to the gathering storm of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and (increasingly) transgender activism that was sweeping the nation. We were a community under siege and we were fighting back. Anita Bryant had launched her national campaign to Save the Children (from “homosexuals”); three U.S. cities had passed anti-gay legislation; and California State Senator John Briggs had placed on the ballot an initiative that would have denied homosexual people and their overt supporters the right to teach in any of California’s public schools. We stumped the state with San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk as part of a massive–and ultimately successful–educational campaign to mend such attitudes. Our bumper stickers read, “If I’m bisexual, can I teach half-time?” In my own memory, it was the 1978 assassination of Harvey Milk and San Francisco Mayor George Moscone that marked the end of our exhilarated, proactive liberation era and the beginning of our years of more inner contemplation and political sophistication. The AIDS epidemic, the backlash of the rising Christian Right, and the pressures of the Reagan agenda required us as activists to develop new political strategies and skills. Instead of taking to the streets with our demands for social change, we began the unfamiliar task of dragging our feet in resistance to change. Within the halls of higher education, we rode the pendulum swing from counterculture educational values and practices to the reinstatement of rigid, prescripted curricula and methodologies. We were encouraged to look more proper, behave less idiosyncratically, and to distance ourselves from politics, passion, and the stories of our lives. At least in our hearts, we resisted the drift toward order and institutionalized normality. Then we began more frequently to hear the word “queer,” particularly as we spoke with young people, or as we noticed the growing popularity of leather and lace among our acquaintances, or as we sensed a disintegration of the convenient sex and gender categories that had so long comforted us. In the early ’90s, as we were attempting to make some kind of theoretical sense of the personal, social, and political changes surrounding us, the phenomenon of Queer Theory began to take its place in our disciplines. In our field of Communication, gay-lesbian-bisexual-transgender scholars–not yet proposing “queer” as an appropriate adjective–sought a stronger academic emphasis upon their work. They petitioned the Legislative Assembly of the national organization (renamed in the spring of 1997 the “National Communication Association”) for a Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender Studies Division, a status that would carry with it the benefit of voting power

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on the floor of the Assembly and representation on policy-making Association committees. At the fall convention of NCA in 1997, the proposal was approved. The Division now stands side-by-side with the Caucus on Gay and Lesbian Concerns, which is still the more politically and socially oriented body within the Association. One of this anthology’s editors, Gust Yep, played a critical part in the formation of the Division and he continues to be the Division’s representative in the affairs of the Legislative Assembly. Certainly the field of Communication has begun its gradual shift into more diversification of its members and its concerns. Still, at this moment, we must ask just how willing to be “queered” our discipline is going to be. In the exciting tumult of a fast-moving world, the question itself will be worthy of scholarly investigation. *** I’m personally moved by the expansiveness and inclusiveness of Queer Theory. I admire its embrace of discursive possibilities, its unending quest for new paradigms, its conceptual elasticity, and its desire to reach to the outermost edges of human interaction for the ultimate understanding of ourselves and of others. I’m thus persuaded to include myself in the ranks of queer theorists. My enjoyment of these present articles has raised some concerns in me about our future scholarly development. First, I hope we continue in our attempts to make our language more lucid and straightforward, less abstract and ensnarled. I understand that we often need to alter language in order to make it reveal a new or elusive concept, and I’m aware that as academics we shall probably always be criticized for attempting to keep ourselves an “elite class” by our jargon and extensive vocabularies. I still believe, however, that if communication is our purpose and if we are serious about our inclusiveness, then we must find the words and the syntax to make our ideas and our research comprehensible to literate people everywhere. Second, though the ideas of feminists Monique Wittig, Gayle Rubin, Adrienne Rich, Cherríe Moraga, and Gloria Anzaldua appropriately occupy the pages of this collection, I long to see more in-depth appreciation of the contribution of 1970s feminist thinking to Queer Theory. It’s true that such writing exploded in the era of identity politics and bore frequent evidence of essentialist assumptions. Still, we err profoundly if we think of the feminism of the ’70s as the vessel of a limited, singular, fixed, or minority-oriented mentality; or if we dismiss it as merely a bid for equal rights for women within a male system; or if we suggest that it was bereft of revolutionary ideas about human sexuality or global systems transformation. Some feminists of the ’70s were indeed reformists or “assimilationists,” but others were Marxist feminists or cultural feminists who vigorously analyzed

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and challenged the values of the dominant culture, reflecting all the while the storms of dissent that raged among us at the intersections of gender, race, class, and physical differences. I think here of writers like Shulamith Firestone, Robin Morgan, Simone de Beauvoir, the lesbian-feminist Furies. Moreover, authors of feminist fiction (Joanna Russ, Marge Piercy, Ursula LeGuin, and Suzy McKee Charnas) presented paradigms of radical social transformation and unorthodox sexualities that rank with the most audacious of contributions in this present collection. I’d like to hear us speak of the Women’s Liberation Movement and the feminist theory of the ’70s as the first political resistance to the dangers of what we now call “heteronormativity,” as the first true “interrogation” of the global patriarchal culture. I want us to acknowledge that the most thoughtful and self-examined politics of the gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender movements were forged out of a profound dialogue with the feminist ideology of that day. I want us to claim the radical feminism of the ’70s as a direct ancestor of our present understanding of the politics of gender and sexuality. And I want us to continue to thrive in the creative tension that still exists between Queer Theory and that feminist ideology. Third, the essays in this volume represent a noteworthy range of methodologies, cultures, psychological and political perspectives, media (dance, literature, theatre, television) and varieties of sexual experience. That range would be even more noteworthy if there were more research on and theoretical consideration of bisexuality. Bisexual people are differentiated not simply by their sexual orientation, but by their having an affinity for a variety of people–people who have characteristics in common across sex- and gender-labeled lines. A bisexual might seek satisfying social and sexual relationships among compassionate people (or among imaginative people, or among people who are sports enthusiasts, or among people who love Star Trek, and so on) and those people might inhabit a spot anywhere within our rich and proliferating spectrums of gender/sexual identity and gender/sexual orientation; that is, they could be intersex persons, transsexual persons, transgender persons, women, and/or men. It seems to me that in being so inclusive in their sexual expression, bisexual people come closer than any group we can name to representing the wholeness and the diversity that Queer Theory holds sacred. As we continue our scholarly dialogue, may we enrich both our research and our theory with the acknowledgement that bisexuality is not only a very present reality in the world that we explore, but, as well, a useful and provocative model for the study of our queer values and processes. Finally, I have a vision of Queer Theory’s future that will require a fundamental change in the minute-by-minute thinking of our thoughts. We stand, it seems to me, at a delicate, almost heart-stopping cusp in our evolution, appalled as we have never been before by the human capacity for cruelty and greed, and surrounded as we have never been before by the speed and the vast

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capability of an electronic revolution. Queer Theory, I believe, is poised to play a critical part in the Western mind’s break with the tyranny of dualistic thinking. As always in our bids for freedom, we want to honor and preserve both the characteristics that make us unique (for example, our language, our stories, our rituals, our foods, our dress, our expressions of love) and the unity that we hunger for which can make us into an organic, whole, peaceful, global family. We are appropriately wary of those who wish to unite us by merging, masking, and diluting our differences; and similarly we are wary of those who wish to divide us into essential little particles that can be (and historically are) made into hierarchies or warring factions. I suggest that, as queer theorists, we make a deliberate and consistent change in one of our primary habits of thinking. Let us replace our practice of constructing dichotomies–the differentiation and total divorce of any pair of qualities, beings, or entities–with the practice of constructing correlatives–the involvement of a mutual, reciprocal relationship between any pair of qualities, beings, or entities. Let us forgo the labeling found in dichotomous thinking and embrace the naming found in correlative thinking, This will mean that, as we think, write, and speak, we confirm the necessary interdependence of every contrasting pair of things. For instance, it means acknowledging the fact that to name myself a lesbian I need the heterosexual woman to distinguish myself from, and the fact that the heterosexual woman can so name herself only in counterdistinction to a lesbian sister; it means acknowledging the fact that “Asian men” is a name that can exist only if there is a category of all men who are not Asian, and vice versa. These groups of men have a reciprocal and absolutely necessary relationship to each other. In short, to think correlatively is to name, to connect, to unify, and to affirm, while to think dichotomously is to label, to disconnect, to separate, and to negate. In shifting our thinking in this way the greater wholeness that we all seek will be implicit in the differences that comprise it, and each identity that we long to preserve will exist because the wholeness that it is different from also exists. A salutary byproduct of correlative thinking would be our understanding at last that since I share a unity with every Other–the That-Which-Is-NotMyself–then to harm that Other is to harm myself. The openness and the expansiveness of queer theorists–at least those represented in this collection–would seem to make us good correlative thinkers, and, indeed, with one prominent exception, I believe we do fortunately incline in that direction. The exception lies in what appears to be our almost unanimous desire to separate ourselves from essentialist thinking, even to the point of making “Others” of those who embrace essentialism. We err in this desire to be separate in two ways. 1. We forget the crucial function of essentialism; that is, we forget its everyday use in definition, in its describing of the heart or the essence of a thing. I

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say, let us raise our queer voices in praise of essentialism, for any definition of “queer” gives “queer” an essence, and on the most elementary level, all of the research and theory in this very collection has required essentialist thinking. Moreover, when we define a thing, a person, or an idea, we not only set it in counterdistinction from–and at best in correlation to–that which it does not define; we also demonstrate what the thing defined has in common with all other things of its kind. So to banish or eschew essentialism is also to banish or eschew commonality. 2. We mistake the extremes to which essentialism can be taken for the whole of essentialism. If we are to remain capable of speaking at all, we must understand that definition does not inherently entail evaluation; the definition of essentialism does not in itself imply fundamentalism, oppression, or tyranny, but only a foundation upon which such hierarchical value judgments too often are placed. When, as queer theorists, we turn our eyes to the essentialism that characterizes identity politics, we stand precisely at the line of division between correlative thinking and dichotomous thinking. At that moment we may think of Queer Theory and identity politics as correlatives, appreciating the singularity and even the fixed nature of these qualities as they are understood by those who claim them; we may acknowledge the clear self-awareness yielded by such identification, and the creative tension that exists between that view and our own. We allow all these things, even though we may not choose them for ourselves. Or, we may hold to the notion that Queer Theory and identity politics are two parts of a dichotomy, insisting that a distinct and fixed sense of self is “rigid,” that separatism and “minority thinking” are “old-fashioned” or no longer useful; we may add even harsher value judgments to simple distinctions, not only not allowing them, but blatantly condemning them. And we may thus miss entirely the fundamental interdependence of Queer Theory and identity politics. Perhaps, then, our most immediate and continuing task as queer theorists will be to monitor our thoughts, to see always the connections between things rather than the disparities, and to catch ourselves when we teeter on the edge of a dichotomous thought, bringing ourselves time and again back to the knowledge that we are, after all, kin–a rowdy human family implicatively set into rough-and-tumble relationships with each other so that we may see the contrasts and glory of it all. *** Queer Theory and Communication, a collection of theory and research that constantly transforms itself, goes forth into a world that is in the process of its own radical transformation. The editors of and the contributors to this collection should be proud of their work. And in the spirit of the queer perspective

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that we embrace, we are aware that the readers of this work are also its contributors. We’re all in one another’s debt. We cannot get it wrong, and we’ll never get it done. Sally Miller Gearhart Willits, California

I. RESEARCH AND INTERVENTIONS Introduction: Queering Communication: Starting the Conversation Gust A. Yep, PhD Karen E. Lovaas, PhD John P. Elia, PhD San Francisco State University

For positive social change to occur we must imagine a reality that differs from what already exists. . . . To treat the wounds and mend the rifts we must sometimes reject the injunctions of culture, group, family, and ego. Activism is the courage to act consciously on our ideas, to exert power in resistance to ideological pressure–to risk leaving home. Empowerment comes from ideas–our revolution is fought with concepts, not with guns, and it is fueled by vision. –Gloria Anzaldúa (2002a, p. 5) Correspondence may be addressed to Gust A. Yep, San Francisco State University, Department of Speech and Communication Studies and Human Sexuality Studies, 1600 Holloway Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94132 (E-mail: [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Introduction: Queering Communication: Starting the Conversation.” Yep, Gust A., Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 1-10; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 1-10. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_01

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This project probably started when the three of us had our first conversation over dinner in January 2000. Although we have known each other on campus, the dinner was our first attempt to get together and talk about our common research and teaching interests. All three of us come from interdisciplinary backgrounds and our work has appeared in interdisciplinary publications. In that first conversation, we discovered that we have much in common. We share a strong interest in theoretical discourses about sexuality and our dissatisfaction with the way sexuality has been theorized, researched, and taught in our disciplines. We felt, and still feel, that much of the scholarly work on sexuality, either consciously or unconsciously, participates in, contributes to, and affirms the normalization of hegemonic heterosexuality as invisible, natural, given, and taken for granted. We also concur that we, as scholars and teachers, do not wish to participate in the reification of current sexual hierarchies and the oppression of sexual others. We come together with a commitment to positive social change by imagining different social realities and sharing ideas, passions, and lived experiences. Since that first conversation, we have engaged in numerous lively exchanges. We believe that queer theory offers ways to imagine different social realities, gender/sexual systems, and participation in cultural politics. We hope that this volume will spark many lively conversations in the Communication discipline and beyond.

QUEERING COMMUNICATION The preference of “queer” represents . . . an aggressive impulse of generalization; it rejects a minoritizing logic of toleration or simple political interest-representation in favor of a more thorough resistance to regimes of the normal. . . . The insistence on “queer”–a term initially generated in the context of terror–has the effect of pointing out a wide field of normalization, rather than simple intolerance, as the site of violence. –Michael Warner (1993, p. xxvi, our emphasis) Queer theory1 is one of the most significant intellectual movements of the last two decades. Based on the fundamental premise that queer theory is “another discursive horizon, another way of thinking the sexual” (de Lauretis, 1991, p. iv) that debunks the stability of identity categories by focusing on the historical, social, and cultural constructions of desire and sexuality intersecting with other identity markers, such as race, class, and gender, among others, queer theory has been influential both in the academy and in cultural politics. In the academy, this “queering” has taken place in a number of disciplines in the social sciences, education, humanities and the arts (e.g., Garber, 2001; Kumashiro, 2001; Letts & Sears, 1999; Patton & Sánchez-Eppler, 2000; Pinar,

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1998; Seidman, 1996a; Somerville, 2000; Tierney, 1997). In the community, queer theory has reshaped identity politics, political organizing, and community activism (e.g., Adam, 1999; Blasius, 2001; Kirsch, 2000; Rimmerman, 2002; Tucker, 1997; Turner, 2000; Warner, 1999). In spite of the theoretical currency and the potential pragmatic utility of queer theory, the Communication discipline is just beginning to acknowledge, recognize, and apply its fundamental tenets to the study of human communication. To date, there are only two published volumes in the field and both of them can best be characterized as projects in the realm of more traditional Gay and Lesbian Studies rather than contemporary queer theory. In 1981, James Chesebro accurately observed, “a communication perspective of homosexuality has been extremely slow to emerge” (p. xiii). He further noted, “the speech communication discipline has only recently assessed its neglect of this research area and established a mechanism to encourage and to examine homosexuality and sexual preference as communication phenomena” (p. xiii). In his groundbreaking volume, Gayspeak: Gay Male and Lesbian Communication, Chesebro went on to offer a communication perspective on the study of “the language, nonverbal acts, and symbols of gay males and lesbians . . . and the symbols employed by heterosexuals to conceive of and to respond to homosexual behavior” (p. xii). Although this pioneering collection of essays was well received, a long period of silence and scholarly inactivity in the discipline followed. It was not until 1994 that a second book, Queer Words, Queer Images: Communication and the Construction of Homosexuality, was published in the field. Jeffrey Ringer, editor of the collection, noted that the anthology was based on premises similar to those of its predecessor. More specifically, he writes, [the book] examines the rhetoric of gay politicians, the symbols and strategies used during the coming out process, the strategies used to resolve conflicts in gay and lesbian relationships, and the decision whether or not to come out in the classroom as these reflect the gay and lesbian experience, primarily in the United States, today. (1994, p. 2, our emphasis) Although both collections are significant in the field of communication, it is apparent that they treat lesbian and gay experiences and identities as singular and stable categories; therefore, they might continue to (re)produce, perpetuate, and normalize heteronormative ideologies and contemporary sexual hierarchies. More simply put, these earlier works assume a minoritizing view of homosexuality and affirm the heterosexual center as normal, invisible, and unquestioned. This volume endeavors to make two significant discursive shifts consistent with contemporary queer theory. The first is the rejection of minoritizing views in favor of the universalizing. The minoritizing view suggests that the homo/heterosexual definition is an issue of enormous importance for only a

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small, discrete, and relatively fixed homosexual minority, while the universalizing view maintains that it is an issue of tremendous importance in the lives of individuals across the spectrum of sexualities (Sedgwick, 1990). The universalizing view locates and exposes the incoherencies of terms such as “natural” sexuality, “woman,” and “man” that stabilize heterosexuality (Jagose, 1996). The second shift is the approach to sexual identities as multiple, unstable, and fluid social constructions intersecting with race, class, and gender, among others, as opposed to singular, stable, and essentialized social positionings. Seidman (1996b) elaborates, The aim [of queer theory] is not to abandon identity as a category of knowledge and politics but to render it permanently open and contestable as to its meaning and political role. . . . [D]ecisions about identity categories become pragmatic, related to concerns of situational advantage, political gain, and conceptual utility. The gain, say Queer theorists, of figuring identity as permanently open as to its meaning and political use is that it encourages the public surfacing of differences or a culture where multiple voices and interests are heard. (p. 12) In short, queer theory challenges the modern system of sexuality as a body of knowledge that structures and organizes the personal, institutional, and cultural life of individuals in Western societies. As such, it shifts the focus from an exclusive concern with the oppression and emancipation of the homosexual subject to an analysis and critique “of the institutional practices and discourses producing sexual knowledges and the way they organize social life, attending in particular to the way these knowledges and social practices repress differences” (Seidman, 1996b, p. 13). Since the publication of Ringer’s (1994) volume, there has been a growing interest in queer theory among communication scholars. For example, the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender (GLBT) Division of the National Communication Association (NCA) was established in 1997 to encourage the production and dissemination of queer scholarship in the discipline. Two years later, the GLBT Division reported an increase in membership to more than 250 scholars. Similarly, the Western States Communication Association (WSCA) sponsored several panels on queer communication at its annual meeting in Vancouver, BC, in 1999. Although current interest in queer theory has been reported in the communication discipline, no attempts have been made to bring together current queer scholarship in communication beyond conference papers and presentations. This volume, in part, begins to fill this gap.

GOALS AND OBJECTIVES This volume recognizes the need for Gay and Lesbian Studies and Queer Theory to coexist in an ongoing productive tension. As such, it does not seek

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theoretical hegemony. The primary goal of this volume is to bring contemporary queer theory into the communication discipline. We have five objectives: (1) to integrate and disseminate current queer scholarship in communication to a larger national and international audience–both academic and nonacademic; (2) to examine the potential implications of queer theory in human communication theory and research across a variety of communication contexts; (3) to stimulate dialogue among queer scholars in the discipline; (4) to set a preliminary research agenda; and (5) to explore the implications of the scholarship in cultural politics and personal empowerment and transformation. To accomplish these objectives, the essays in the collection address at least one of the following three themes. (Although such themes do overlap, we are, for purposes of discussion, identifying them separately.) One theme is interventions, in which essays address, describe, and explain current metatheoretical and theoretical issues related to “queering communication theory” and ways contemporary queer theory changes and provides new possibilities for how we theorize, research, or participate in cultural politics and engage in personal empowerment and transformation. Another theme is research. In this venue, essays present exemplary research in communication, using contemporary queer theory to examine a variety of communication situations. Finally, the Reflections section includes brief essays focusing on personal reflections by prominent queer theorists and young scholars of queer studies on the nature, impact, and challenges of queer theory in their academic scholarship, teaching, personal and collective lives, and engagement in cultural politics. The volume concludes with a resource section.

CONTRIBUTIONS OF THE ARTICLES As mentioned earlier, this volume neither purports nor promises to be the definitive word on queer theory and communication studies. Rather, this collection, taken as a whole, is intended to be a “conversation starter.” In many ways, communication studies has lagged behind other disciplines in terms of including queer theory. The essays contained in this volume not only demonstrate some of the exciting possibilities queer theory holds for communication studies but also how interdisciplinary work in queer theory can inform communication studies and vice versa. As you will discover, this collection includes a number of pieces written by communication scholars and essays by scholars from other fields spanning Asian American studies, education, English literature, and health education, among others. The collection begins with a foreword by Sally Gearhart, one of the pioneers in the communication discipline, who advocated for inclusion of sexual minority issues in the field, and whose efforts for inclusion could be felt from the classroom to the national organization. Her essay provides a rich historical

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context of how the communication discipline began including sexual others. Her essay urges readers to see the theoretical and practical import of queer theory, and applauds its potential for transformative discourse and practice. The first three articles in this collection are incisively critical of heteronormativity and offer ideas about not only the importance and positive aspects of queer theory, but also its potential drawbacks and challenges. Setting the tone for the collection and providing readers with a detailed critical analysis of heteronormativity in the communication discipline, the first piece in the volume, by Gust A. Yep, specifically addresses issues of symbolic, psychological, and discursive violence that result from heteronormativity. Following an explication and analysis of the many forms of violence, he explores ways “for queer world-making through the lens of queer theory,” which he suggests can be used as a theoretical tool to unpack the very foundations and implications of hegemonic heterosexuality and to begin to move toward positive personal and social transformations. Continuing the critique of heteronormativity, the next essay, by John P. Elia, deals with how the culturally dominant form of heterosexuality has specifically served to systematically erase the legitimacy–and thus has been thoroughly discriminatory–of other relational forms. To illustrate this, he offers a description and analysis of how various institutions perpetuate heteronormative ideologies and practices. Elia also raises concerns about how heteronormativity has been marketed, and goes on to describe the manifestations of this culturally reproduced and perpetuated sexual norm. Finally, this essay explores the merits and possible drawbacks of queering relationships, and ends with a call-to-arms position about how scholars of interpersonal relationships need to be far more theoretically inclusive to avoid reproducing narrow and discriminatory research that often does not represent queer people. Also critical of heteronormativity, next in the collection, Karen E. Lovaas turns to an analysis and critique of the subfield of nonverbal communication. Beginning with a brief history of nonverbal communication studies, and then turning to a description of the absence of the queer subject in nonverbal communication scholarship (in particular, textbooks on nonverbal communication), she shows that pedagogy and research in this area reproduce not only heterosexist, but also sexist ideologies. She concludes her essay by showcasing three examples of exemplary scholarship in nonverbal communication that employ queer theory, which she says offer a view of what such scholarship might look like. Finally, Lovaas urges nonverbal communication scholars to be more inclusive of the queer subject in their research. The next two pieces in the collection offer theoretical and methodological interventions. Calling attention to how various lesbians of color have contributed to research dealing with the relationship of queer theory and qualitative research methodologies, Jacqueline M. Martinez addresses the issue of how, though at times invoked, much of the scholarship produced by lesbians of color has been overlooked in scholarship produced by postmodern theorists.

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She uses semiotic phenomenology as a theoretical lens to critically examine and correct this form of erasure; as a result, lesbians of color can be properly credited as having made significant contributions to queer theory and qualitative research. Turning to another kind of intervention is R. Anthony Slagle’s article. From the tenets of queer theory, he has created an elegant model of queer rhetorical criticism that he applies to a thorough look at the television program and films of Pee-wee Herman. Queer criticism, says Slagle, does not end with the description of rhetorical strategies, but serves as a site for social change. Next, the volume turns to descriptions and analyses of transnational issues and immigrant queerness. Wenshu Lee’s essay calls into question how queer theory has been limited to academic white culture of North America and Europe and confined to the English-speaking world. Her piece offers a womanist and transnational perspective of what she calls kuaer theory. To illustrate her points she anchors her analysis to a Taiwanese lesbian magazine, Ai Bao, and draws from her own lived experience by offering readers an autocritography in order to queer race and transnationalism in general. Following Lee, Diana Fisher employs de Certeau’s concept of tactics in her ethnographic analysis of how queer Russian immigrants in West Hollywood utilize the space of the “closet,” and demonstrates the power that can emerge from their negotiation of the dialectic of visibility and invisibility. In keeping with the immigrant experience but along different lines, Gina Masequesmay’s piece describes her involvement in a support group for Vietnamese lesbians, bisexual women, and male-to-female transgenders and how this group was not as inclusive and accepting of many of those whom it purported to support. Maseques may employs the concept of “identity work” to examine the intersections of race/ethnicity, class, sexuality, and gender to ultimately illustrate how certain members of this support group were marginalized. The next few articles are case studies. Comic performances by Eddie Murphy, Damon Wayans, and David Alan Grier have included popular parodies of black gay men. In “The Specter of the Black Fag: Parody, Blackness, and the Hetero/Homosexual B(r)others,” E. Patrick Johnson shows how, unintentionally, these acts in fact queer heteronormative black masculinity, as well as reveal the black heterosexual male’s denial of his psychic mourning for his sexual brother. Moving from movies and television shows to ballet, the next piece, by Kent G. Drummond, provides a rich description and analysis of Matthew Bourne’s regendering of Swan Lake. By employing Mulvay’s theory of spectatorship and Butler’s theory of gendered performance, Drummond shows how viewers are likely to be intrigued. The use of Bourne’s unstable relationship between the two male characters destabilizes sex, gender, and sexual desire, thereby thoroughly queering Swan Lake. Focusing on queer theory related to political movements and activism are Davin Grindstaff’s and John Butler’s essays. In the first essay, Grindstaff argues that in the way it rhetorically constitutes the gay male subject, the con-

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temporary discourse on same-sex marriage functions to maintain heteronormativity. He then contrasts this with the relational agency of gay male sadomasochism, which he sees as a potential site of resistance to heteronormative power relations. In the next article, showing the practical applications of queer theory, Butler describes, through the use of autoethnography, a community campaign focusing on ending discrimination toward transgenders. Butler uses queer theory and the study of public argument as a lens through which this campaign can be viewed. The last two full-length articles in the volume relate to a much discussed and extremely controversial work of queer performative text produced by two communication scholars. In 1997, Tom Nakayama and Fred Corey shook up many communication scholars with their essay “Sextext,” published in the most queer friendly of the Communication journals, Text and Performance Quarterly. A. Susan Owen provides a queer reading of the lively, contentious responses their piece elicited and asserts that these responses, in attempting to guard the boundaries of the Communication discipline, indicate that queer theory offers a needed challenge to the field. As the concluding essay in this section, we have the pleasure of presenting “Nextext,” the new installment in what we hope will be Tom Nakayama and Fred Corey’s continuing adventures in queer performative writing.

STARTING THE CONVERSATION We stand at a major threshold in the extension of consciousness, caught in the remolinos (vortices) of systemic change across all fields of knowledge. The binaries of colored/white, female/male, [heterosexual/homosexual], mind/body are collapsing. Living in nepantla, the overlapping space between different perceptions and belief systems, you are aware of the changeability of racial, gender, sexual, and other categories rendering the conventional labelings obsolete. Though these markings are outworn and inaccurate, those in power continue using them to single out and negate those who are “different” because of color, language, notions of reality, or other diversity. You know that the new paradigm must come from outside as well as within the system. –Gloria Anzaldúa (2002b, p. 541) We invite you to join and expand the conversation we started when we conceived this project. It is our hope that you find the pages of this volume filled with ideas that stimulate, provoke, and galvanize you to think about the multiplicity of issues relating to queer theory and communication studies in terms of theory, praxis, intervention, and the lived experience. In the spirit of queer the-

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ory, none of these terms can be contained by neat boundaries; they often bleed together, offering unique opportunities for each of us to explore and expand. We have made an effort to make this collection more accessible than much of what has been historically produced in queer theory, works in which many ideas have been obscured by long, complex phrasing and jargon. We trust that you will find this volume a valuable addition to the canon of queer theory, and that it indeed spurs long-lasting conversations about queer theory and the Communication discipline.

NOTES 1. We recognize that queer theory is not a singular and determinate body of ideas. As a nascent school of thought developed from the more traditional gay and lesbian studies, queer theory is characterized by its definitional indeterminacy, conceptual elasticity, and political commitment. Consistent with Butler (1994), Halperin (1995), Jagose (1996), and Warner (1993, 1999), we are using the term queer as a system of discursive possibilities rather than a fixed theoretical model.

REFERENCES Adam, B. D., Duyvendak, J. W., & Krouwel, A. (Eds.). (1999). The global emergence of gay and lesbian politics: National imprints of a worldwide movement. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Anzaldúa, G. E. (2002a). Preface: (Un)natural bridges, (un)safe spaces. In G. E. Anzaldúa & A. Keating (Eds.), This bridge we call home: Radical visions for transformation (pp. 1-5). New York: Routledge. Anzaldúa, G. E. (2002b). Now let us shift . . . the path of conocimiento . . . inner work, public acts. In G. E. Anzaldúa & A. Keating (Eds.), This bridge we call home: Radical visions for transformation (pp. 540-578). New York: Routledge. Blasius, M. (Ed.). (2001). Sexual identities, queer politics. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Butler, J. (1994). Against proper objects. Differences: A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies, 6 (2/3), 1-26. Chesebro, J. (Ed.). (1981). Gayspeak: Gay male and lesbian communication. New York: The Pilgrim Press. De Lauretis, T. (1991). Queer theory: Lesbian and gay sexualities. Differences: A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies, 3(2), iii-xviii. Garber, L. (2001). Identity poetics: Race, class, and the lesbian-feminist roots of queer theory. New York: Columbia University Press. Halperin, D. (1995). Saint Foucault: Towards a gay hagiography. New York: Oxford University Press. Jagose, A. (1996). Queer Theory: An introduction. Washington Square, NY: New York University Press.

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Kirsch, M. H. (2000). Queer theory and social change. London: Routledge. Kumashiro, K. (Ed.). (2001). Troubling intersections of race and sexuality: Queer students of color and anti-oppressive education. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Letts, W. J., & Sears. J. T. (Eds.). (1999). Queering elementary education: Advancing the dialogue about sexualities and schooling. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Patton, C., & Sánchez-Eppler, B. (Eds.). (2000). Queer diasporas. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Pinar, W. F. (Ed.). (1998). Queer theory in education. Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum. Rimmerman, C. A. (2002). From identity to politics: The lesbian and gay movements in the United States. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Ringer, J. (Ed.). (1994). Queer words, queer images: Communication and the construction of homosexuality. NY: New York University Press. Sedgwick, E. K. (1990). Epistemology of the closet. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Seidman, S. (1996a). Queer theory/Sociology. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Seidman, S. (1996b). Introduction. In S. Seidman (Ed.), Queer theory/Sociology (pp. 1-29). Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Somerville, S. B. (2000). Queering the color line: Race and the invention of homosexuality in American culture. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Tierney, W. G. (1997). Academic outlaws: Queer theory and cultural studies in the academy. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Tucker, S. (1997). The queer question: Essays on desire and democracy. Boston: South End Press. Turner, W. B. (2000). A genealogy of queer theory. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Warner, M. (1993). Introduction. In M. Warner (Ed.), Fear of a queer planet: Queer politics and social theory (pp. vii-xxxi). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Warner, M. (1999). The trouble with normal: Sex, politics, and the ethics of queer life. New York: Free Press.

The Violence of Heteronormativity in Communication Studies: Notes on Injury, Healing, and Queer World-Making Gust A. Yep, PhD San Francisco State University

SUMMARY. Heteronormativity is everywhere. It is always already present in our individual and collective psyches, social institutions, cultural practices, and knowledge systems. In this essay, I provide some sketches for a critical analysis of heteronormativity in the communication discipline. More specifically, I examine the symbolic, discursive, psychological, and material violence of heteronormativity, and begin exploring ways to heal, grow, transform, and contemplate new possibilities in our social world. To accomplish this, this essay is divided into five sections. First, I discuss the study of sexuality in Communication. Next, through the notion of injury, I focus on the violence of heteronormativity. Third, using the concept of healing, I discuss ways of unpacking heteronormativity Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Speech and Communication Studies and Human Sexuality Studies Program, San Francisco State University, 1600 Holloway Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94132 (E-mail: [email protected]). The author is grateful to the two reviewers who provided him with thoughtful feedback on an earlier draft of this paper. [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “The Violence of Heteronormativity in Communication Studies: Notes on Injury, Healing, and Queer World-Making.” Yep, Gust A. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 11-59; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 11-59. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_02

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through a critique of hegemonic heterosexuality. Further, I offer potential ways for queer world-making through the lens of queer theory. I conclude by exploring the need for more sexuality research in the discipline by engaging the productive tensions between constructive and deconstructive impulses. [Article copies available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery

Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.]

KEYWORDS. Communication, heteronormativity, heterosexuality, identity, normalization, queer, sexual hierarchy, sexuality How is it that in a society like ours, sexuality is not simply a means of reproducing the species, the family, and the individual? Not simply a means to obtain pleasure and enjoyment? How has sexuality come to be considered the privileged place where our deepest “truth” is read and expressed? For that is the essential fact: Since Christianity, the Western world has never ceased saying: “To know who you are, know what your sexuality is.” Sex has always been the forum where both the future of our species and our “truth” as human subjects are decided. –Michel Foucault (1988, pp. 110-111) . . . an understanding of virtually any aspect of modern Western culture must be, not merely incomplete, but damaged in its central substance to the degree that it does not incorporate a critical analysis of modern homo/heterosexual definition. –Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (1990, p. 1) Sexuality is a privileged site of social organization, knowledge, identity, experience, and individual and collective “truth” in Western societies (Foucault, 1978/1990; Weeks, 1985, 2000). The symbolic centrality of sexuality is partly due to the way it connects the individual to the social: Sexuality has become a point of entry to the psyches and lives of individuals and to the life and welfare of the population as a whole (Weeks, 1989). In Western cultures, sexuality has been organized around the homosexual/heterosexual binary, a symmetrical and oppositional coupling of a marginal category (homosexuality) with a privileged class (heterosexuality) (Fuss, 1991; Sedgwick, 1990). A closer examination of such a binary, however, reveals that heterosexuality is, in reality, painstakingly dependent on homosexuality to maintain and reproduce its master status (Katz, 1995). Sedgwick (1990) states,

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First, [homosexuality] is not symmetrical with but subordinated to [heterosexuality]; but, second, the ontologically valorized [heterosexuality] actually depends for its meaning on the simultaneous subsumption and exclusion of [homosexuality]; hence, third, the question of priority between the supposed central and the supposed marginal category of each dyad is irresolvably unstable, an instability caused by the fact that [homosexuality] is constituted as at once internal and external to [heterosexuality]. (p. 10) In short, heterosexuality is not an independent and stable master category but rather, a subservient and unstable construct in need of constant affirmation and protection. Unlike popular conceptions of gender and racialized identities in dominant culture that are based on the presumption that difference is “written on the body” and, therefore, serve as biological “proof” of such categories, there is neither definitive nor ultimate “proof” of heterosexuality (Thomas, 2000). We all have heard of individuals who are heterosexually married, with children, and fully participating in heterosexual practices, institutions, and rituals, who confess that they have been “living a lie” all along and proclaim that they have always “really” been lesbian or gay all their lives. Precisely because it can be “faked,” heterosexuality must anxiously, repeatedly, and persistently set about trying to affirm itself, assure itself, defend itself, and insist on itself (Butler, 1993)–a point to which I return later. Fuss (1991) further elaborates: For heterosexuality to achieve the status of “compulsory,” it must present itself as a practice governed by some internal necessity. The language and law that [regulate] the establishment of heterosexuality as both an identity and an institution, both a practice and a system, is the language and law of defense and protection: heterosexuality secures its self-identity and shores up its ontological boundaries by protecting itself from what it sees as the continual predatory encroachment of its contaminated other, homosexuality. (p. 2) In spite of its dependence on homosexuality as a category, heterosexuality has largely remained opaque, unquestioned, and unproblematized (Ingraham, 1996; Katz, 1995; Kitzinger & Wilkinson, 1993a, 1994a; Richardson, 1996, 2000). Heterosexuality escapes critical analysis through its “now-you-see-it” and “now-you-don’t” character: It is simultaneously marked as a natural and given category and unmarked as a ubiquitous and invisible force permeating all aspects of social life (Warner, 2002). When the view is that institutionalized heterosexuality constitutes the standard for legitimate, authentic, prescriptive, and ruling social, cultural, and sexual arrangements, it becomes heteronormativity. The purpose of this essay is to provide some sketches for a critical analysis of heterosexuality by focusing on heteronormativity in the communication discipline. More specifically, I examine the symbolic, discursive, psychological,

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and material violence of heteronormativity, and begin exploring ways to heal, grow, transform, and contemplate new possibilities in our social world. To accomplish this, this essay is divided into five sections. First, I discuss the study of sexuality in the communication discipline. Second, through the notion of injury, I focus on the violence of heteronormativity. Third, using the concept of healing, I discuss ways of unpacking heteronormativity through a critique of heterosexuality. Fourth, I explore potential ways for queer world-making through the lens of queer theory. I conclude by exploring the need for more sexuality research in the discipline by engaging the productive tensions between constructive and deconstructive impulses.

THE STUDY OF SEXUALITY IN COMMUNICATION STUDIES We talk about intersectionality and multiple dimensions of oppression. What will a concrete . . . communication project look like if intersectionality is deeply integrated rather than given lip service? What are the dimensions usually left out? Silenced? I personally do not see a lot of issues regarding “sexuality” raised. –Wenshu Lee (Collier, Hegde, Lee, Nakayama, & Yep, 2002, p. 273, my emphasis) In spite of its preeminent role in the formation and constitution of human subjectivity and experience in modern Western cultures, sexuality has been, until recently, largely a neglected area of inquiry in the communication discipline. To have a proper historical context, it is worth noting that the National Communication Association (formerly the Speech Communication Association) and one of its leading journals, The Quarterly Journal of Speech, were founded in 1915. However, it was not until 1976–after more than six decades of scholarly silence–that an essay on homosexuality appeared in that journal (Hayes, 1976). Since then, a number of important changes have taken place in the discipline. However, Slagle noted, almost twenty years after Hayes’ article was published: “Within the field of communication, scholars have been reluctant to address the issues that affect the lives of the gay, lesbian, and bisexual community” (1995, p. 85). Slagle’s comment still resonates today. In this section, I outline some of the areas of research that have focused on sexuality in the field of communication and describe some of their fundamental features. This is not intended as a comprehensive review of the literature; such reviews already exist in the field. See, for example, Chesebro (1981) for pioneering work on gay male and lesbian communication; Ringer (1994) for research on communication and the construction of homosexuality; Gross & Woods (1999) for a compilation of research on lesbian and gay men in the media; Fejes & Petrich (1993) for a review of lesbians and gays in the media;

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Smith & Windes (2000) for an overview of the current rhetorical war over sexuality; and Henderson (2000) for a recent review of queer communication studies. In the “Bibliography of Articles and Books of Relevance to G/L/B/T Communication Studies” presented at the annual meeting of the National Communication Association in 2001, Corey, Smith, and Nakayama, who compiled the report, found 66 articles published in disciplinary journals between 1973 and 2001. Such journals included Central States Speech Journal (now Communication Studies), Communication Quarterly, Communication Research, Communication Theory, Critical Studies in Media Communication, Human Communication Research, Journal of Communication, Quarterly Journal of Speech, Southern Communication Journal, Speech Monographs (now Communication Monographs), Text and Performance Quarterly, and Western Journal of Communication. Although it was not intended to be an exhaustive bibliography, the report, based on a number of search terms related to sexuality, provides a fairly good view of published research in sexuality and communication in the discipline. Based on this document, I identify five fairly distinctive areas of scholarly writing. They are research on: (a) lesbian and gay movement and activism rhetoric, (b) lesbians and gays in the media, (c) interpersonal communication and HIV/AIDS-related work, (d) performance of sexual and gender identities, and (e) queer readings and analyses of media. Some of the early research in the communication discipline focused on the rhetoric of the lesbian and gay movement. The first published essay in the discipline investigated the functional and rhetorical characteristics of consciousness-raising groups (Chesebro, Cragan, & McCullough, 1973). Other studies examined the language of the gay community (Hayes, 1976), views of homosexuality in the rhetoric of social science (Chesebro, 1980), analysis of ideologies in two gay rights controversies (Brummett, 1979), and successful strategies for influencing content of television programming (Montgomery, 1981). More recent research examines the evolution of gay liberation rhetoric (Darsey, 1991), AIDS activism (Dow, 1994), and progay/antigay rhetoric in public discourse and policy debates (Smith & Windes, 1997). These studies tend to focus on lesbians and gay men as a distinct minority group developing resources, modes of communication, and community-building to fight for civil rights and equal treatment in society in the earlier historical context of lesbian and gay liberation and the more current environment of AIDS activism and public policy debates in the United States. A second body of research in communication focuses on lesbians and gays in the media. Mainstream and alternative media are examined. Focusing on mainstream media, Gross (1991) investigates the ethics and politics of “outing” closeted homosexuals, Kielwasser and Wolf (1992) examine the symbolic annihilation of lesbian and gay youth in mainstream television, Nelson (1985) explores the paradoxes of homosexuality in Hollywood films, and Sender (1999) investigates “gay window advertisements” (p. 172). Research

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on alternative media ranged from gay media (Morton & Duck, 2000; Sender, 2001) to homophobia reduction programs on college campuses (Fuoss, Kistenberg, & Rosenfeld, 1992) to the discursive tensions of graffiti texts (Rodriguez & Clair, 1999). This body of research also tends to conceptualize lesbians and gays as a distinct group in which their sexuality is their common identity feature in mainstream and alternative media texts and representations. A third body of communication research investigates sexuality in the context of HIV/AIDS and in the broader context of interpersonal communication. Earlier work focused on acquiring information and learning about AIDS (Stiff, McCormack, Zook, Stein, & Henry, 1990). More recent research investigates communication of social support in an HIV/AIDS support group (Cawyer & Smith-Dupre’, 1995), and attraction toward and nonverbal stigmatization of gay men and people living with AIDS (Le Poire, 1994). Interpersonal communication research has examined reactions of verbal expression of affection in same-sex interaction (Floyd & Morman, 2000) and the role of sexual orientation in predicting and anticipating communication behaviors (Mottet, 2000). The studies in this group generally assume that gay and lesbian identities are stable and contained categories of selfhood. As such, sexual identities are presented as fixed and unchanging features of individuals. A fourth body of research in the discipline represents a significant departure from previous work on sexuality and communication: These studies highlight the fluidity of sexual identities in different ways. Focusing on the performative aspects of gender and sexual identities, these studies examine the performance of sexuality (Brouwer, 1998; Corey, 1996; Corey & Nakayama, 1997; Meyer, 1995), pleasure (Corey & Nakayama, 1997), gender and sexuality in performance (Bell, 1995; Dillard, 2000; Galloway, 1997; Gingrich-Philbrook, 1994; Miller, 1995; Reinelt, 1994; Taylor, 1995), and performance of race, gender, and sexuality in public culture (Brookey, 1998; Garrett, 1993; Johnson, 1995). These projects, mainly published in Text and Performance Quarterly, tend to present gender and sexuality as contingent, improvisational, unstable, political, and ideologically saturated representations, bodies, pleasures, and relationships. A final and most recent body of work can perhaps be called “queer readings of the media.” Unlike other research on lesbians and gays in the media, these studies examine normativity in popular culture in their analysis of representation, embodiment, and desire. Different forms of media are examined in this research. They include photography (Asen, 1998), telephay (Cohen, 1991a, b), television (Battles & Hilton-Morrow, 2002; Cooper & Pease, 2002; Dow, 2001; McLaughin, 1991; Shugart, 2001), mainstream and independent films (Brookey, 1996; Brookey & Westerfelhaus, 2001, 2002; Cooper, 2002; Evans, 1998; Henderson, 1992; Nakayama, 1994), and print and mixed media (Erni, 1998; Sloop, 2000a, b; Squires & Brouwer, 2002). By interrogating normativity, this body of work attempts to deconstruct and offer alternative readings of media productions of

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gender and sexuality. As such, gender and sexual identities are destabilized, critically examined, and opened to contestation. In this brief overview of research on sexuality and communication, based on Corey, Smith, and Nakayama’s (2001) report, three points seem to bear further discussion. First, although the premier journal of the communication discipline was founded in 1915, there was almost complete scholarly silence on issues of sexuality for the first 61 years of official disciplinary existence. An examination of publications in the 1970s and 1980s shows that sexuality research was generally scant. Starting in the early 1990s and exploding in the mid-1990s, sexuality began to be more widely addressed in communication. However, most of that research is situated within performance studies and critical studies of media. Second, studies on lesbians and gays–particularly research in interpersonal communication, HIV/AIDS, and more traditional research on media representation–tend to use, in Sedgwick’s (1990) terms, a minoritizing view. Such a view suggests that the homo/heterosexual binary is only an issue of enormous importance for a relatively small, discrete, and fairly fixed homosexual minority. In addition, this body of research tends to treat gender and sexual identities as fixed, stable, and contained. Through such fixed conceptions of identities and a minoritizing view, these studies normalize and perpetuate the current homo/heterosexual binary (Gamson, 1995/1998). In the process, hegemonic heterosexuality remains opaque, reinforced, and unquestioned. Finally, the current explosion of sexuality research in the discipline is starting to endorse, in Sedgwick’s (1990) terms, the universalizing view. Such a view locates and exposes the incoherencies of categories such as “natural” or “normal” sexuality, “woman” and “man,” that stabilize heterosexuality. In this process, normativity and heteronormativity are just beginning to receive critical attention. Although I believe this is a critical step in the discipline, communication scholars have not paid much attention to the violence of heteronormativity in the psyches, souls, and bodies of individuals and communities. It is this violence that I wish to name and articulate in the next section.

INJURY: THE VIOLENCE OF HETERONORMATIVITY I see hatred I am bathed in it, drowning in it since almost the beginning of my life it has been the air I breathe the food I eat, the content of my perceptions; the single most constant fact of my existence is their hatred . . . –Judy Dothard Simmons (quoted in Lorde, 1984, p. 156)

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In this passage, Simmons vividly describes the devastating pervasiveness of hatred and violence in her daily life based on being seen, perceived, labeled, and treated as an “Other.” This process of othering creates individuals, groups, and communities that are deemed to be less important, less worthwhile, less consequential, less authorized, and less human based on historically situated markers of social formation such as race, class, gender, sexuality, ability, and nationality. Othering and marginalization are results of an “invisible center” (Ferguson, 1990, p. 3). The authority, position, and power of such a center are attained through normalization in an ongoing circular movement. Normalization is the process of constructing, establishing, producing, and reproducing a taken-for-granted and all-encompassing standard used to measure goodness, desirability, morality, rationality, superiority, and a host of other dominant cultural values. As such, normalization becomes one of the primary instruments of power in modern society (Foucault, 1978/1990). Normalization is a symbolically, discursively, psychically, psychologically, and materially violent form of social regulation and control, or as Warner (1993) more simply puts it, normalization is “the site of violence” (p. xxvi). Perhaps one of the most powerful forms of normalization in Western social systems is heteronormativity. Through heteronormative discourses, abject and abominable bodies, souls, persons, and life forms are created, examined, and disciplined through current regimes of knowledge and power (Foucault, 1978/1990). Heteronormativity, as the invisible center and the presumed bedrock of society, is the quintessential force creating, sustaining, and perpetuating the erasure, marginalization, disempowerment, and oppression of sexual others. Heteronormativity is ubiquitous in all spheres of social life yet remains largely invisible and elusive. According to Berlant and Warner (in Warner, 2002), heteronormativity refers to: the institutions, structures of understanding, and practical orientations that make heterosexuality seem not only coherent–that is, organized as a sexuality–but also privileged. Its coherence is always provisional, and its privilege can take several (sometimes contradictory) forms: unmarked as the basic idiom of the personal and the social; or marked as a natural state; or projected as an ideal or moral accomplishment. It consists less of norms that could be summarized as a body of doctrine than of a sense of rightness produced in contradictory manifestations–often unconscious, immanent to practice or to institutions. (p. 309, my emphasis) Heteronormativity makes heterosexuality hegemonic through the process of normalization. Although it is experienced consciously or unconsciously and with different degrees of pain and suffering, this process of normalization is a site of violence in the lives of women, men, and transgenders–across the spectrum of sexualities–in modern Western societies. Not unlike the experiences of children who must learn to survive in an emotionally and physically abusive

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environment where violence is the recipe for daily existence (Miller, 1990, 1991, 1998, 2001), individuals living in the heteronormative regime need to learn to conform, ignore, and banish their suffering to survive. The process of coping by repressing the pain and identifying with the perpetrator is, in my view, a powerful mechanism for heteronormativity to perpetuate itself in current forms of social organization. Drawing from the work of feminists and womanists, critical scholars, and mental health researchers, I identify and examine the injurious and violent nature of heteronormativity in this section. For purposes of discussion, I focus on the violence of heteronormativity enacted upon: (a) women inside the heteronormative borders, (b) men inside the heteronormative borders, (c) lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered, and queer people, and (d) individuals living at the intersections of race, class, gender, and sexuality.

Violence on Women Inside the Heteronormative Borders One of the ways in which heteronormativity manifests itself is through “obligatory heterosexuality” (Rubin, 1975, p. 179), “compulsory heterosexuality” (Rich, 1980/1993, p. 227), or “compulsive heterosexuality” (Jackson, 1999, p. 142). Compulsory heterosexuality creates the conditions by which “it never occurs to many women to be anything else” but heterosexual (Kitzinger & Wilkinson, 1993b, p. 31) and channels these women into marriage and motherhood in the service of men (Richardson, 2000). Feminist scholars (see, for example, Carabine, 1996; Delphy & Leonard, 1992; Holland, Ramazanoglu, & Thomson, 1996; Jackson, 1996, 1999; Kitzinger & Wilkinson, 1993a, 1994a, b; Rich, 1980/1993; Richardson, 2000; VanEvery, 1996a, b; Walby, 1997) accurately maintain that heterosexuality is a key site of male power and dominance. (I discuss this further when I examine the relationship between heterosexuality and gender later in this essay.) Heterosexuality is a patriarchal institution that subordinates, degrades, and oppresses women. As such, it is hardly surprising that heterosexually-identified women can readily identify sites of emotional, psychic, physical, and economic suffering in their relationships. According to Kitzinger and Wilkinson (1993b), “the reasons for heterosexual women’s misery have been well documented” (p. 26) and they range from physical and emotional exhaustion to violence and diminished mental health. Because asymmetry of power and sexist norms are common in heterosexual relationships, many heterosexual women live in inequitable and exhausting relationship arrangements: They carry the burden of housework, care-taking expectations, child-rearing obligations, and parenting responsibilities associated with motherhood (Croghan, 1993; Jacklin, 1993). Further, research findings (e.g., Gelles, 1987; Jones, 1998; Kitzinger & Wilkinson, 1993b; Russell, 1990; Wood, 2001) indicate that much of the physical violence against women–battering and physical abuse, rape, murder–occurs within the context of heterosexual relationships. Kitzinger and Wilkinson (1993b) point out, “Women

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who date men, or voluntarily have sex with or marry them, are disproportionately at risk for violence, rape and murder from those men” (p. 27). Because such violence has been normalized in society, many women learn to overlook their suffering (Wood, 2001) or may not even recognize their own torment and pain. Finally, after reviewing previous research, Kitzinger and Wilkinson (1993b) note that heterosexually married women report lesser psychological health (i.e., more mental disorders) than heterosexually married men, and lesser psychological adjustment (i.e., more anxiety, tension, and depression) than lesbians. Based on their extensive work with heterosexual feminists (Wilkinson & Kitzinger, 1993), Kitzinger and Wilkinson (1993b) conclude: The behaviors commonly known as “heterosexuality” are commonplace among our feminist contributors: they are married, have sex with their husbands and/or other men, and bring up children with the fathers of those children. The identity of “heterosexual” (a sense that they are accurately described by that label) is much rarer. We refer to heterosexual identity as “precarious” in part as a way of signifying the difficulty women have in claiming the label “heterosexual” as their own–hard to do when it stands, in so much feminist theory, as synonymous with oppression. . . . Heterosexual identities are precarious, despite the ubiquity of heterosexual behavior, because who would be heterosexual, really, if they had a choice? (p. 28, emphasis in the original) Here they highlight the regulatory power of heteronormativity, as manifested in compulsory heterosexuality, in the lives of women who are well aware of the gender-based patterns of dominance and submission.

Violence on Men Inside the Heteronormative Borders Although the manifestations and effects are different, compulsory heterosexuality is also imposed and enforced on men (Connell, 1995). As a patriarchal institution, heterosexuality privileges, elevates, and maintains the dominant social and material status of men at the expense of women and sexual others. Indeed, men, endowed with their heterosexual privilege, have less impetus and motivation to expose the violence of heteronormativity, as Ramazanoglu (1993) reminds us, “men have much less reason to struggle and go on struggling than women” (p. 60). However, heteronormativity and heteropatriarchy are also harmful to men in perhaps less tangible ways (Thomas & MacGillivray, 2000). Heterosexuality constitutes men as “real” men (Wittig, 1992). To be a “real” man is an exhausting and unending performance, or as Michael Kimmel (2001) puts it, “that nightmare from which we never seem to awaken” (p. 277). Homophobia and the fear of being perceived as gay become the central organizing principle and the cultural policing of manhood. The fear of humiliation

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and emasculation keeps “real” men afraid, ashamed to be afraid, and silent about their own fears (Kimmel, 2001). Fear and shame are sites of psychic violence for these men. In addition, on the level of sexual practice, MacGillivray notes, “there is harm, since I for one would suggest that heterosexuality is based on a repression of all unsanctioned sexual impulses, which most–if not all–of us feel” (Thomas & MacGillivray, 2000, p. 257). In sum, heteronormativity impels heterosexual men into a lifelong labor of “proving” their manhood and concealing, if not banishing, a range of sexual possibilities, gender performances, and pleasures.

Violence on Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgendered, and Queer People While the harm of heteronormativity appears to be less evident for women and men who are living within the boundaries of heterosexuality, the violence against sexual others is unequivocal. In another article, I proposed a model for understanding the violence of heteronormativity for individuals who are assumed or perceived to be living outside the patrolled borders of normative heterosexuality (Yep, 2002). This model focuses on both affective and cognitive understanding of heteronormative injury, and explores both macroscopic (e.g., institutional heterosexism) and microscopic (e.g., individual acts of homophobia) levels of violence against individuals and groups deviating from the heteronormative ideal. Inspired by Wilber’s (1995, 1996, 2000) work, the model is comprised of two interdependent dimensions: (1) interior-exterior, and (2) individual-collective (Yep, 2002). Interior-exterior, the first dimension, focuses on affect, cognition, and bodily sensations that are potentially experienced by the individual (interior) and those practices, actions, and behaviors that are acted out in the social domain (exterior). Individual-collective, the other dimension, emphasizes the subjectivity and experiences of the person (individual) and how the individual relates to others in the social group (collective). These two dimensions, taken together, form four quadrants: (1) interior-individual, (2) exterior-individual, (3) interior-collective, and (4) exterior-collective.

Interior-Individual: Soul Murder and Internalized Homophobia These are the internal injuries that individuals inflict upon themselves. Very early in life children learn from interpersonal contacts and mediated messages that deviations from the heteronormative standard, such as homosexuality, are anxiety-ridden, guilt-producing, fear-inducing, shame-invoking, hate-deserving, psychologically blemishing, and physically threatening. Internalized homophobia, in the form of self-hatred and self-destructive thoughts and behavioral patterns, becomes firmly implanted in the lives and psyches of individuals in heteronormative society. Exemplifying the feelings and experiences of many people who do not fit in the heteronormative mandate, Kevin Jennings (1994) tells us his personal story:

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I was born in 1963. . . . [I] realized in grade school that I was gay. I felt absolutely alone. I had no one to talk to, didn’t know any openly gay people, and saw few representations of gays in the media of the 1970s. I imagined gay people were a tiny, tiny minority, who had been and would always be despised for their “perversion.” Not once in high school did I ever learn a single thing about homosexuality or gay people. I couldn’t imagine a happy life as a gay man. So I withdrew from my peers and used alcohol and drugs to try to dull the pain of my isolation. Eventually, at age seventeen I tried to kill myself, like one out of every three gay teens. I saw nothing in my past, my present, or (it seemed) my future suggesting that things would ever get any better. (pp. 13-14) Heteronormativity is so powerful that its regulation and enforcement are carried out by the individuals themselves through socially endorsed and culturally accepted forms of soul murder. Soul murder is a term that I borrow from the child abuse and neglect literature to highlight the torment of heteronormativity (Yep, 2002). Shengold (1999) defines soul murder as the “apparently willful abuse and neglect of children by adults that are of sufficient intensity and frequency to be traumatic . . . [so that] the children’s subsequent emotional development has been profoundly and predominantly negatively affected” (p. 1). Further explaining this concept, Shengold (1989) writes, “soul murder is neither a diagnosis nor a condition. It is a dramatic term for circumstances that eventuate in crime–the deliberate attempt to eradicate or compromise the separate identity of another person” (p. 2, my emphasis). Isn’t the incessant policing and enforcement, either deliberately or unconsciously, by self and others, of the heteronormative mandate a widespread form of soul murder?

Exterior-Individual: Externalized Homophobia and Hate Crime These are injuries inflicted on others. Fuelled by heteronormativity, externalized homophobia is commonplace. It can be directed to any person who is perceived or assumed to be a sexual other and can be manifested in multiple ways: harassment, avoidance, verbal abuse, differential treatment and discriminatory behavior, and physical violence. The use of name-calling toward individuals who are perceived to be outside the boundaries of heteronormativity (e.g., lesbian, gay, or transgender) is common in everyday interaction. In U.S. middle and high schools, for example, verbal harassment is a pervasive problem: One-third of eleventh grade students who responded to a 1999 CBS poll said that they knew of incidents of harassment of gay and lesbian students. Twenty-eight percent admitted to making antigay remarks themselves. The average high school student in Des Moines, Iowa, public

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schools hears an antigay comment every seven minutes, according to data gathered by students in a year-long study; teachers intervened only 3 percent of the time. (Human Rights Watch, 2001, p. 31) When administrators and fellow students overlook and disregard these situations, they provide a clear message that it is permissible to hate those who are perceived to be sexual others; thus, the cycle of homophobia gets perpetuated in society. In addition, verbal harassment, if allowed to persist, can lead to an overall hostile environment and other forms of violence, including physical violence and sexual assault. Hate crimes are the most extreme expression of externalized homophobia. Antigay violence is increasing (Berrill, 1992; Fone, 2000) and victims are still being blamed for bringing it on to themselves (Herek & Berrill, 1992). Homophobic murder is, as Donna Minkowitz (2000) put it, “still open season on gays” (p. 293). Reports on gay bashing appear regularly in the media and Every such incident carries a message to the victim and the entire community of which he or she is part. Each anti-gay attack is, in effect, a punishment for stepping outside culturally accepted norms [of heteronormativity] and a warning to all gay and lesbian people to stay in “their place,” the invisibility and self-hatred of the closet. (Herek & Berrill, 1992, p. 3) Externalized homophobia, whether in the form of verbal or physical assault, is a potent, and at times deadly, mode of enforcement of the heteronormative order.

Interior-Collective: Discursive Violence Discursive violence refers to words, gestures, tones, images, presentations, and omissions used to differentially treat, degrade, pathologize, and represent lesbian and gay subjectivity and experience (Yep, 2002). In everyday discourse, lesbian and gay people are not only treated differently, but also talked about differently. From everyday conversation to media images, lesbian and gay experiences are represented differently from the heteronormative standard. In everyday conversations, for example, it is not considered socially peculiar for people to closely scrutinize and make the most intimate, intrusive, and personal inquiries about the lives of people living outside of the boundaries of compulsory heterosexuality. Comments and questions such as “what do lesbians do in bed anyway?” or “how does a male-to-female (MTF) transgender (before her gender confirmation surgery) have sex?” directed at lesbians and MTFs, respectively, are not unusual. While these invasive inquiries into the lives of lesbian, gay, or transgendered people are deemed as demonstrations of interest in “their lifestyle,” such scrutiny of sexually unmarked individuals is

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often considered inappropriate, offensive, and in bad taste. Similarly, references to a lesbian or gay partner as a “friend” when their heterosexual counterparts are routinely referred to as “spouses,” although not necessarily ill intentioned, are symbolically violent acts that reaffirm and reproduce the lower status of the lesbian and gay person in current social and sexual hierarchies. In the media, individuals and groups living outside of the heteronormative order are also represented differently. Such individuals have gone from complete invisibility to greater national visibility (Fejes & Petrich, 1993). At the present time, Gross (2001) observes, Gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgendered people have all become reasonably familiar presences on the various stages of America’s media-dominated culture. News professionals–editors, reporters, talk show hosts, columnists, and members of the punditocracy–now include gay-related issues and events as a regular category of news, and we make the front pages and the network evening news with regularity. (p. 252) But such visibility is not necessarily unproblematic, as Gross is quick to add: “yet those appearances are almost invariably in the context of some controversy centering on our right to pursue our lives in ways that heterosexuals take for granted” (2001, p. 252). In a sense, individuals inside the heteronormative borders “just are” while those outside of them are “social issues.” Or worse yet, they become freaks, perverts, misfits, and public spectacles as they are packaged to titillate, captivate, and revolt national talk show audiences as on The Jerry Springer Show (Gamson, 1998).

Exterior-Collective: Institutional Violence These are systematic and socially accepted injuries inflicted upon individuals outside of the heteronormative mandate. Institutional violence is widespread for LGBTQ individuals and communities. Undergirding all social institutions is heteronormative ideology (Berlant & Warner, 1998; Richardson, 1996). Hegemonic heterosexuality permeates the family (VanEvery, 1996a, b), domestic and intimate life (Croghan, 1993; Holland, Ramazanoglu, & Thomson, 1996; VanEvery, 1996b), education (Kumashiro, 2002; Pinar, 1998; Talburt & Steinberg, 2000), social policy (Carabine, 1996; Eskridge, 2002; Kaplan, 1997), the mass media and popular culture (Fejes & Petrich, 1993; Gross, 2001; Gross & Woods, 1999; Ingraham, 1999), among others. In short, heteronormative thinking is deeply ingrained, and strategically invisible, in our social institutions. The process of normalization of heterosexuality in our social system actively and methodically subordinates, disempowers, denies, and rejects individuals who do not conform to the heterosexual mandate by criminalizing them, denying them protection against discrimination, refusing

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them basic rights and recognition, or all of the above (Kaplan, 1997; Rubin, 1984/1993). More simply stated, the regulatory power of heteronormativity denies LGBTQ individuals and couples their citizenship. There are numerous “positive rights” (Stein, 1999, p. 286) that heterosexual individuals take for granted but LGBTQ persons are categorically denied. They include being able to marry a person of the same sex, gain custody of their children, become foster and adoptive parents, visit one’s same-sex partner in the hospital, being able to obtain bereavement leave when one’s partner passes away, being able to file joint income tax returns with one’s partner, among many others. Although the issue of same-sex marriage is highly contested on ideological grounds within LGBTQ communities in the U.S. (Yep, Lovaas, & Elia, 2003), LGBTQ couples are deprived of the numerous rights and privileges accorded to heterosexually married dyads (Kaplan, 1997; Stein, 1999). In sum, heteronormativity is a site of unrelenting, harsh, unforgiving, and continuous violence for LGBTQ individuals. Such violence is everywhere: in the individual psyche and in collective consciousness, in the individual perceptions and experiences and in the social system and institutions.

Violence on Individuals at the Intersections of Race, Class, Gender, and Sexuality People inhabiting and navigating the intersections of race, class, gender, and sexuality experience violence and oppression simultaneously based on such systems of social ordering (Kumashiro, 2001; Yep, Lovaas, & Ho, 2001). These systems are neither independent nor additive (Combahee River Collective, 1979/1998; hooks, 1990; Kumashiro, 2001; Lorde, 1984; Smith, 1998; Takagi, 1996; Yep et al., 2001). It is not theoretically useful or pragmatically helpful to compare and rank different forms of oppression. For example, a claim that Asian Americans are more homophobic is futile without specification of the interplay between race, class, gender, and sexuality, and the purpose and basis for such a comparison. Neither is asking an individual to specify a rank order for their oppression (e.g., do you feel that oppression based on your race is more intense than your sexuality or your gender?). According to Weber (2001), race, class, gender, and sexuality are systems of oppression. As such, they are complex (i.e., intricate and interconnected), pervasive (i.e., widespread throughout all social domains), variable (i.e., ever changing and always transforming), persistent (i.e., prevailing across time and space), severe (i.e., serious consequences for social life), and hierarchical (i.e., creation of social stratifications that benefit and provide options and resources for some and harm and restrict options and resources for others). For individuals located at these intersections, the process of “performing the hybrid self” (Muñoz, 1999, p. 138) means negotiating different histories, economic dispar-

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ities, and sex/gender systems, and experiencing the violence of racism, sexism, classism, and heteronormativity.

HEALING: UNPACKING HETERONORMATIVITY, CRITIQUING HETEROPATRIARCHY In French they have the word recueillement to describe the attitude of someone trying to be himself or herself, not to be dispersed, one member of the body here, another there. One tries to recover, to be once more in good shape, to become whole again. –Thich Nhat Hanh (quoted in hooks, 1989, p. 29) To heal is to recover from injury, fragmentation, and disintegration; to nurture one’s body, psyche, and soul, and to re-integrate, connect, and become whole again. To heal from the ongoing violence of heteronormativity is to understand, unpack, and demystify its invisible power. Jackson (1999) suggests that an effective critique of hegemonic heterosexuality, as an institution, identity, practice, and experience, needs to (a) unpack heteronormativity and (b) critique heteropatriarchy. However, Jackson cautions us that “it cannot, however, be assumed that heteronormativity and male domination always articulate with each other in predictable ways at all four levels, that it is possible to ‘read off’ identity, practice and experience from what is institutionalized” (1999, p. 164). With this in mind, I now turn to explore ways to analyze heteronormativity and scrutinize the complex dynamics of heteropatriarchy.

Unpacking Heteronormativity To reveal the hidden mechanisms through which heteronormativity maintains its disciplinary power in society, there is a need to debunk some of the popular assumptions about heterosexuality in both theory and practice: Heterosexuality is not natural, universal, transhistorical, fixed, stable, or monolithic (Butler, 1993; Jackson, 1999; Katz, 1995; Richardson, 2000). In this section, I discuss the historical, unstable, and multidimensional nature of heterosexuality as an institution, identity, practice, and experience. Heterosexuality Is a Historical Invention. Contrary to popular belief, heterosexuality is neither universal nor transhistorical (D’Emilio & Freedman, 1988; Katz, 1995; Seidman, 1991). In fact, heterosexuality is a fairly recent cultural invention in Western cultures, or to put it another way, heterosexuality has a history (for a detailed history of heterosexuality, see Katz, 1995). I am not arguing that sexual desires, impulses, emotions, and behaviors toward in-

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dividuals of a different sex are recent phenomena. They are not, indeed. However, I am suggesting that the social meanings attached to those desires, impulses, emotions, and behaviors are derived from a modern system of ordering and organizing of sexualities, genders, and their pleasures–a historically specific cultural invention called heterosexuality. According to Katz (1995), “the experience of a proper, middle-class, different-sex lust began to be publicly named and documented” (p. 51) in the 1860s in Europe and, in 1892, heterosexuality made its U.S. debut as a system for talking, articulating, thinking about, and socially organizing sex differences, eroticism, and reproduction. In its early versions, the new term heterosexual was not equated with “normal” or “good” sex. Indeed, in 1892, Dr. Kiernan referred to heterosexuals as a perverse class exhibiting “abnormal manifestations of the sexual appetite” (cited in Katz, 1995, p. 20). Influenced by medical and psychiatric institutions, the new term continued its circulation and mutation in the twentieth century, with meanings fluctuating from nonprocreative “perversion” to procreative, “normal,” different-sex eroticism. It was not until Sigmund Freud that the new heterosexual ethic, proclaimed as “normal” and “healthy,” was born, stabilized, fixed, and accepted as the ruling sexual orthodoxy. Katz (1995) concludes, “as the term heterosexual moved out of the small world of medical discourse into the big world of the American mass media, the heterosexual idea moved from abnormal to normal, and from normal to normative” (p. 82, my emphasis). Although the current theoretical, institutional, psychic, and cultural hegemony of heterosexuality appears constant and irrevocable in modern Western sexual systems, its history reveals that there are other ways of conceiving, ordering, and organizing sexuality, eroticism, and pleasure that are different from the homo/heterosexual binary framework. Foucault (1985/1990), for example, notes that in Ancient Greece, men had intimate inclinations for women and for boys: . . . a Greek could, simultaneously or in turn, be enamored of a boy or a girl. . . . it was common for a male to change to a preference for women after “boy-loving” inclinations in his youth. . . . To their way of thinking, what made it possible to desire a man or a woman was simply the appetite that nature had implanted in man’s heart for “beautiful” human beings, whatever their sex might be. (p. 188) Their sexual system was clearly not governed by our current dualistic conception of homo/heterosexual desires. Foucault (1985/1990) further points out that “the Greeks did not see love for one’s own sex and love for the other sex as opposites, as two exclusive choices, two radically different types of behavior” (p. 187). He cautions us against anachronistic projections in sex history analysis, that is, the tendency to apply our current sexual system to describe and evaluate different ways of ordering eroticism and pleasure from other societies

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and historical periods. However, the urge for anachronistic projections remains strong, thus attesting to the power of the homo/heterosexual binary, the fundamental feature of hegemonic Western sexual systems. But, as I stated before, such binary is “irresolvably unstable” (Sedgwick, 1990, p. 10), and it is this relation that I further explore next. Heterosexuality Needs to Constantly Reproduce Itself. In spite of its immutable appearance, heterosexuality is neither fixed nor stable. Because of the relational nature of the homo/heterosexual binary, heterosexuality can never be completely, positively, and ultimately “free” of its dependence on homosexuality. In a never-ending attempt to appear as “authentic,” “pure,” and “uncontaminated” from homosexual invasion and infringement, heterosexuality erects heavily policed borders. Such borders are closely watched and carefully defended because they are points of danger for one or the other or both identities involved (Johnson, 1997). Just imagine the anxiety, tension, and anger–even violence–which can be provoked by suggesting to a self-proclaimed heterosexual man that he might be gay. But why such anxiety? I contend that the source of anxiety and tension partly emanates from awareness that heterosexuality is fundamentally fragile. “To overcome some constitutive sense of its own tenuousness,” argues Butler (1996), “heterosexuality has to re-elaborate itself, to ritualistically reproduce itself all over the place” (p. 114). Such incessant ritualistic reproduction is an attempt to maintain the fiction of a stable heterosexuality. Calling it “the heterosexual comedy,” Butler maintains that the heterosexual ideal, like other sexual norms, is fragile and fundamentally comic. Elaborating on her notion of comedy, she states, If you say “I can only desire X,” what you’ve immediately done, in rendering desire exclusive, is created a whole set of positions which are unthinkable from the standpoint of your identity. Now, I take it that one of the essential aspects of comedy emerges when you end up actually occupying a position that you have just announced to be unthinkable. (Butler, 1996, p. 114) In a sense, through the erection of boundaries, such as the articulation of one’s exclusive desire for only members of a different sex and engagement in only certain authorized erotic practices, a host of sexual possibilities are denied yet immediately conjured up. If heterosexuality is not independent and stable, then it must continuously re-affirm itself through repeated performance. Invoking her notion of performativity, Butler (1993) points out that . . . hegemonic heterosexuality is itself a constant and repeated effort to imitate its own idealizations. That it must repeat this imitation, that it sets up pathologizing practices and normalizing sciences in order to produce

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and consecrate its own claim on originality and propriety, suggests that heterosexual performativity is beset by an anxiety that it can never fully overcome, that its effort to become its own idealizations can never be finally or fully achieved, and that it is consistently haunted by that domain of sexual possibility that must be excluded for heterosexualized gender to produce itself. (p. 125) In short, heterosexuality, as an institution and identity, is caught up in an anxious and unending cycle of repetition compulsion. Heterosexuality Is Not Monolithic. Although we are living in times of declaration and affirmation of diversity and difference, heterosexuality is still generally treated as a monolithic and unitary concept (Crawford, 1993; Eliason, 1995; Jackson, 1996, 1999; Smart, 1996a). As an institution, radical lesbian feminists simply treat it as eroticized power (Jeffreys, 1990, 1994). Unlike marginalized sexual identities that are achieved after tremendous emotional labor and immense personal struggle, heterosexuality is considered a “default identity” achieved without much effort, thought, or struggle (Kitzinger & Wilkinson, 1993b, p. 31). As such, heterosexual identities are unremarkable. As a practice, heterosexuality, by locating itself inside Rubin’s (1984/1993, p. 13) “charmed circle,” escapes analytical scrutiny. By ignoring that “heterosexuality may be many things” (Smart, 1996a, p. 170), the complexity of heterosexuality–as an institution, identity, practice, and experience–is disregarded. There are reasons for overlooking the complexity of heterosexuality. Perhaps the most important reason for such a move, Smart (1996a) argues, is that the pluralisation [of heterosexuality] might appear as if it were trying to evade the accusation of “holding” institutional power. It might seem that, if we acknowledge heterosexualities, heterosexuals as a “class” cannot be held responsible for heterosexism and homophobia and the range of harms addressed to “other” sexualities. (p. 171) This move is neither new nor unproblematic. For example, the classifications of “white” and “people of color” are used to highlight material and structural power differences in racialized and racist societies. Similarly, feminists used to argue that gender division should be primary, while keeping other categories such as race and social class as secondary in an attempt to challenge sexism and patriarchal power. Such moves, however, tend to homogenize, ignore, silence, and erase important differences from within and can lead to misleading hierarchies of oppression. Heterosexuality, like other forms of human expression, is extremely complex. Heterosexuality is not merely sexual; it is social (VanEvery, 1996b). As such, Jackson (1996, 1999) suggests that, to examine its complexities, four analytical domains should be considered: (1) Heterosexuality as an institution; (2) heterosexuality as identity; (3) heterosexuality as practice; and (4) hetero-

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sexuality as experience. Although such domains obviously interconnect and intersect, Jackson (1999) argues that they are useful analytical tools for debunking myths of monolithic heterosexuality. As an institution, heterosexuality is rooted in gender hierarchy and manifested through its central mechanism, marriage (Jackson, 1996). Implicit in the marriage contract is men’s appropriation and exploitation of women’s bodies (e.g., sexual, reproductive) and labor (e.g., domestic, emotional) (Delphy & Leonard, 1992). Through institutionalized heterosexuality, discourses and representations of sex are articulated in phallocentric terms, that is, the positioning of women as sexual objects and men as sexual subjects (Jackson, 1996). As an identity, heterosexuality tends to be unmarked and uncontested. It is a “normal,” “taken-for-granted” and “default” identity and social location. Its ordinariness represents a lack of reflection characteristic of the privilege of power. However, many of the identities available to women (e.g., wife, girlfriend, mother, and daughter) come from heterosexual relations. Such identities shape, influence, and constrain how women and men operate and function in the social world. For example, cultural conceptions of a “good wife” or “good mother” create expectations and experiences and regulate women’s behavioral choices. Among feminists, heterosexual identities are more problematic. Exemplifying these struggles, Mary Gergen (1993), when asked to contemplate her heterosexuality, wrote, I . . . became aware that no one had ever actually called me a heterosexual before. . . . Yet I don’t deny it; I do not murmur, “There must be some mistake.” No, I do affirm some basic self-identification tag. . . . Then, my reactions shifted to a mingled puzzlement, resentment, a slight annoyance. Why address me so categorically as a heterosexual? Why was anyone so sure? Because I am married? Or because my husband seems “straight”? (p. 62) While Gergen’s reaction is one of puzzlement, others are more defensive. Take Sandra Bem’s, for example: “Although I have lived monogamously with a man I love for over 26 years, I am not now and never have been a ‘heterosexual’ ” (1993, p. 50, my emphasis). Heterosexual identities, then, appear to be highly contested among feminists (for a more detailed presentation of this debate, see Wilkinson & Kitzinger, 1993). As a practice, heterosexuality involves behaviors and actions derived from our current gender hierarchy. Such actions include domestic labor, emotional work, and sexual behaviors. In her research on long-term domestic living arrangements, VanEvery (1996b) observes that men control and appropriate women’s labor in most domestic situations. Male control is also found in committed antisexist living arrangements where a more egalitarian principle governed division of housework and child-rearing practices. Similarly, Holland

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and associates (1994) found that, in terms of sexual practice, sex is still defined as “penetration for men’s pleasure in which women find fulfillment primarily in the relationship, in giving pleasure” (p. 31). As experience, heterosexuality is different for women and men. Jackson (1996) points out that although practice and experience are closely interconnected, experience refers to the mental interpretations, emotional reactions, and bodily sensations. However, physical experiences, such as sexual pleasure, are not simply “raw” bodily sensations; they are discursively mediated through interpretive and sense making processes linking experience with practice. Holland et al. (1996), in their study of “first heterosex” (p. 145) experience for young women and men, found that discourses of first sexual experiences are constructed in masculine terms. Unlike most young women who enter their first experience of heterosexual intercourse already constituted as “woman” (puberty marked by first menstruation), young men constitute themselves as “man” through their first experience of heterosexual intercourse. In other words, a boy becomes a man through this event. While discourses of male sexual agency are defined through “doing,” discourses of female sexual agency are notoriously absent. Holland and colleagues (1996) elaborate, “Proper sex” [is] widely defined as a specific version of heterosexual intercourse in which the man’s penis penetrates the woman’s vagina; it starts with his arousal and finishes with his climax. “First sex” in this embodied but fragmented guise is the young man’s moment. There is no equivalent definition of the “sex act” in terms of female agency, action or desire; her orgasm is his production. (p. 146, my emphasis) In the limited, if not absent, discourses of female agency and desire, it is apparent that heterosexuality as experience is qualitatively–and dramatically–different for women and men. In sum, heterosexuality is not monolithic. Because heterosexuality is founded upon gender hierarchy, it systematically and structurally creates and maintains the subordination of women. Therefore, it is critical to understand the dynamics of heteropatriarchy.

Critiquing Heteropatriarchy Heteropatriarchy is an overarching system of male dominance through the institution of compulsory heterosexuality. In this section, I examine heteropatriarchy through its interlinkages and interconnections with gender, pleasure, and whiteness. Heterosexuality and Gender. Although there is disagreement about whether sexuality or gender should be emphasized in the analysis of heterosexuality, researchers agree that heterosexuality and gender are inextricably linked (Ingraham,

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1996; Jackson, 1996, 1999; Jeffreys, 1996; Kitzinger & Wilkinson, 1993b, 1994b; Rubin, 1975; Wilton, 1996; Wittig, 1992). (For detailed analyses of the link between gender and sexuality, see Butler [1990, 1993], and the connection between heterosexuality and gender, see Ingraham [1996] and Jackson [1999].) Heterosexuality, by its very definition, reinstalls and reaffirms gender division. Kitzinger and Wilkinson (1994b) point out that “ ‘hetero’ means other, different; ‘heterosexuality’ means sexual involvement with one who is other, one who is different–man with woman, woman with man. The otherness of the ‘other’ sex, the ‘differentness’ of man from woman, is thereby immediately reinforced” (p. 444). Through this relation of otherness, a naturalized polarity and binarism–a “heteropolarity” (Wilton, 1996, p. 127)–is created. Heteropolarity is a social construction founded upon a presumed complementarity between women and men (the “natural fit” between penis and vagina). Heteropolarity permeates scientific and popular discourse; people uncritically speak about the “opposite sex” when “there is no biological or somatic sense in which the bodies of women can be understood as opposite to the bodies of men” (Wilton, 1996, p. 126). Yet this discourse is critical for the maintenance of heterosexuality and heteropatriarchy. Wilton (1996) further explains: “This heteropolarity is necessary for patriarchy, for it must be possible to distinguish men from women in order to institute and reproduce a power differential that is (precisely) predicated upon that difference” (p. 127). Thus, a social hierarchy, based on gender to secure male domination and female submission, is maintained as a fundamental feature of social life. Through the “heterosexual contract,” women are constituted as “real” women and men as “real” men (Wittig, 1992, p. 44). In modern Western societies, being a “real” woman means declaring oneself as heterosexual and engaging in heterosexual sexual activity (Kitzinger & Wilkinson, 1994b). Similarly, being a “real” man means maintaining a reputation of an able performer in heterosexual sex (Holland et al., 1996). Through the policing and shaming of sexuality, gender is regulated. From this perspective, lesbians are not proper women and gay men are failed men (Wilton, 1996). By reinscribing the male/female division as fundamental and producing a gender hierarchy at the sexual and social levels, institutionalized heterosexuality arrogates women’s bodies and labors (Delphy & Leonard, 1992; Jackson, 1996, 1999). Grounded in a materialist-feminist perspective, Ingraham (1996) calls for the exposure and debunking of the “heterosexual imaginary,” that is, a way of thinking that masks and conceals how heterosexuality structures gender and forecloses critical analysis of itself as an institution. Ingraham uses the notion of heterogender to reframe gender and to highlight its relationship to heterosexuality. Heterogender challenges and de-naturalizes the “sexual” as the beginning point for unpacking heterosexuality by linking heterosexuality, as an institution, with the gender division of labor, distribution of resources, and the patriarchal relations of production. By focusing on heterosexuality and

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heterogender, Ingraham (1996) argues, “we focus on one of the primary roots of exploitation and oppression rather than on one of the symptoms” (p. 187). Heterosexuality and Pleasure. As I noted earlier, sex is defined in terms of the “penetrative norm” (Jackson, 1999, p. 145), a genitally focused activity in which the man’s penis penetrates the woman’s vagina. This script for sex and sexual pleasure is defined by and for men. Although penetration occupies a privileged place in heterosexual sexual relations, it does not necessarily signify the invasion and subjugation of women’s bodies. Because “men penetrate men, women penetrate women and women can penetrate men,” Smart (1996b, p. 236) writes, This diversity of practices allows penetration to have various meanings, not the exclusive meaning of dominance and subordination which is endlessly mapped onto the binary of male and female. Wrenching penetration out of a heterosexual matrix of meanings deprives it of its symbolic power. Although the possibility of re-coding heterosexual sex as a broader scope of desires, acts, and practices appears promising, the potential for re-signifying penetrative sex, in our current cultural landscape, is limited. Jackson (1999) observes, Even in consensual sex, most straight men are decidedly queasy about the very idea of being penetrated. The unease and revulsion this activity provokes is precisely because it is generally still read within the “heterosexual matrix of meanings.” For most straight men being fucked means being “unmanned.” Most are not particularly receptive, either, to the idea of giving up the idea that sex with women equates with penetrating them. (p. 172) Even for “queer-identified” heterosexual men, penetration is not an option (Thomas, 2000; Thomas & MacGillivray, 2000). A penetrable body is a vulnerable body; to be penetrated is to relinquish power (Bersani, 1988; Robinson, 2000). The limited conceptions of heterosexual pleasure are connected to gender. This is hardly surprising: Under heteropatriarchy, the language of eroticism is man’s language (Frye, 1990). Although there is language for erotic pleasure in literary contexts, everyday discourses of female sexual agency and female sexual pleasure are largely absent (Holland et al., 1994, 1996; Jackson, 1999). The same is true for lesbian sex. Although Frye (1990) is optimistic that a vocabulary of pleasure and sex, a language for “doing it” (p. 314), will emerge among lesbians, she points out that a lexicon for lesbian sex is “utterly inarticulate” (p. 311). In contrast, a diverse language is available to gay men to express and articulate their sexual desires, pleasures, acts, and practices. In short, women

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in general, and heterosexual ones in particular, do not have an adequate language to assert, articulate, and share their pleasures. Heterosexuality and Whiteness. It is apparent that an examination of heterosexuality produces parallel and analogous findings to investigation of whiteness. I am using whiteness to refer to a “historical systemic structural race-based superiority” (Wander, Martin, & Nakayama, 1999, p. 15) which produces a racial subject that is “privileged, normalized, deified, and raceless” (Johnson, 1999, p. 1). Both heterosexuality and whiteness are everywhere and strategically invisible, universalized, naturalized, and taken for granted, seemingly formless, shapeless, and without content, and normalized to evade theoretical scrutiny and critical analysis. Heterosexuality and whiteness appear as the very air we breathe, “the stuff that creates us with no reminder that it is doing so” (Stokes, 2001, p. 14, my emphasis), thus underscoring their normalizing and self-generating power. Observing the similarities between heterosexuality and whiteness, Smart (1996a) points out that heterosexual identity is “akin to a white colonial identity. It entails an effortless superiority, a moral rectitude, a defeat of the emotional and the neurotic by the power of unconscious struggle and, of course, the certain knowledge of masculine superiority” (p. 173). However, a closer examination of heterosexuality and whiteness reveals that their relationship is deeply ambivalent and eminently troubled: Heterosexuality is simultaneously the means of ensuring and the site of endangering the reproduction and perpetuation of whiteness (Dyer, 1997; Stokes, 2001). On the one hand, heterosexuality is absolutely indispensable for the reproduction of whiteness; on the other, it is also the mechanism through which whiteness can annihilate itself (Dyer, 1997). In this sense, heterosexuality makes the reproduction of whiteness unstable. Such an unstable mixture of excitement and horror results in a compulsive imagining of interracial sex (Ferber, 1998; Stokes, 2001; Young, 1995). In the process, white women become silent markers in the systems of exchange that make both whiteness and heterosexuality cultural givens. Simultaneously imagined as the key to whiteness’s future and its weakest defense, white women enable whiteness at the same time that they are denied its fruits. They make it possible, yet are kept from the fullness of its franchise, given their status as women in the always patriarchal shape that whiteness assumes. (Stokes, 2001, p. 17) Once again, gender becomes inextricably linked to sexuality in the ongoing tension and struggle between heterosexuality and whiteness to reproduce and sustain a white heteropatriarchy–a self-evident standard against which all differences are measured. Using the concept of healing from the violence of heteronormativity, I presented two interrelated approaches to demystify its invisible power. First, in the process of unpacking heteronormativity, I discussed the historical, unsta-

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ble, and multidimensional character of the institution, identity, practice, and experience of heterosexuality. Second, in the critique of heteropatriarchy, I explored the relationship between heterosexuality and gender, heterosexuality and pleasure, and heterosexuality and whiteness. In the next section, I explore potential ways to disentangle and liberate our bodies, psyches, and souls from the tyranny of heteronormativity.

QUEER WORLD-MAKING: THE PROMISES AND CHALLENGES OF QUEER THEORY The queer world is a space of entrances, exits, unsystematized lines of acquaintance, projected horizons, typifying examples, alternate routes, blockages, incommensurate geographies. World making, as much in the mode of dirty talk as of print-mediated representation, is dispersed through incommensurate registers, by definition unrealizable as community or identity. –Lauren Berlant and Michael Warner (in Warner, 2002, p. 198) Queer world-making is the opening and creation of spaces without a map, the invention and proliferation of ideas without an unchanging and predetermined goal, and the expansion of individual freedom and collective possibilities without the constraints of suffocating identities and restrictive membership. In this section, I offer some inchoate ideas for such an exciting endeavor. More specifically, I (a) discuss the proliferation of queer, (b) sketch the evolving conceptual terrain of queer theory, and (c) identify some of the challenges for queer theory in its second decade of existence.

The Proliferation of Queer Originally used as slang for homosexual and a homophobic epithet, “queer,” has, in recent years, been re-appropriated in popular culture and academic discourse. Queer can signify self-identified culturally marginal individuals of various sexualities and/or describe an emerging and fluid theoretical model that has evolved and developed out of more traditional lesbian and gay studies (de Lauretis, 1991; Jagose, 1996). Although seemingly simple, the term “queer” is actually astonishingly complex and fairly perplexing (Anzaldúa, 2000; Clarke, 1994; Jakobsen, 1998). It is a category in the process of forming and becoming without predetermined or final borders; it is conceptually elastic, unrestrained, and open-ended (Jagose, 1996). Given that the category of “queer” is never closed, how can it be defined? In a true sense, it cannot. However, I identify some common con-

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ceptions that circulate around the term. In an interview, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick contends that one of the interesting features of the word “queer” is that it isn’t up to one person to define. Any word like that represents a very contested site, and “queer” does so in some especially interesting ways, partly because it started out as a pejorative term and has been consciously reclaimed as an honorific term; partly because it’s an experiment–not the first experiment–with finding a non-gender-specific name for a variety of sexual experiences and practices. Part of what interests me a lot about it is that in reclaiming the term, I don’t think that what’s being done is to disavow a lot of the negative stereotypes associated with it, but rather reinhabit them in different ways. (Chinn, DiGangi, & Horrigan, 1992, pp. 80-81) She further points out that “there are a lot of people that are gay that aren’t queer . . . [and] there are probably a lot of people that are truly queer that aren’t gay” (Chinn et al., 1992, p. 81). Kumashiro (2002) identifies two ways in which he uses the term. In a narrow sense, “queer” is intended to mean lesbian, gay, bisexual, two-spirited, transgender, intersexed, questioning, or different because of one’s sexual orientation, presentation, or identity. Although intended to be fairly narrow, the designation is, in reality, capacious and deliberately inclusive. In a broader sense, “queer” signifies nonnormativity. Agreeing with Warner (1993, 1999), Butler (1993), Seidman (1996, 1997), Kumashiro (2002), and Clarke (1994), Parker (1994) contends that “queerness takes its bearings in defining itself against normativity, not heterosexuality; given the fact that heterosexuality is nothing if not normative” (p. 55). Halperin (1995) extends it beyond normative heterosexuality: Queer is by definition whatever is at odds with the normal, the legitimate, the dominant. There is nothing in particular to which it necessarily refers. . . . [It] demarcates not a positivity but a positionality vis-à-vis the normative. . . . [It] does not designate a class of already objectified pathologies or perversions; rather, it describes a horizon of possibility whose precise extent and heterogeneous scope cannot in principle be delimited in advance. (p. 62, emphasis in the original) Imagining the possibilities of queer-world making, Halperin (1995) further explains, It is from the eccentric positionality occupied by the queer subject that it may become possible to envision a variety of possibilities for reordering the relations among sexual behaviors, erotic identities, constructions of gender, forms of knowledge, regimes of enunciation, logics of represen-

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tation, modes of self-constitution, and practices of community–for restructuring, that is, the relations among power, truth, and desire. (p. 62) Based upon these common conceptions, “queer” can and does coexist with terms such as “lesbian” and “gay”; however, they are not interchangeable with one another (Jagose, 1996; Parker, 1994). Next, I turn to discuss the emerging and fluid theoretical model–queer theory–that I alluded to earlier.

Sketches of the Evolving Conceptual Terrain of Queer Theory Initially coined by Teresa de Lauretis in 1990, queer theory is a relatively recent academic and cultural phenomenon (Halperin, 1995; Turner, 2000). Heavily influenced by poststructuralism, queer theory entered the academy, through a variety of disciplines in the humanities (such as English, film studies, and cultural studies), education, and social sciences (such as sociology), in the 1990s (Dilley, 1999; Hennessy, 2000; Namaste, 2000; Seidman, 1996; Turner, 2000). According to de Lauretis, “‘queer theory’ conveys a double emphasis–on the conceptual and speculative work involved in discourse production, and on the necessary critical work of deconstructing our own discourses and their constructed silences” (1991, p. iv, my emphasis). To put it another way, queer theory is guided by a significant deconstructive impulse. Originating from, developed in, and distancing itself from conventional lesbian and gay studies, queer theory and its predecessor have overlapping but distinctively different theoretical and political goals, neither one of which is necessarily superior to or more inclusive than the other (Berlant & Warner, 1995). Departing from the “gay ‘ethnic’ identity” model of homosexuality (Epstein, 1990, p. 285) and inspired by the radical, confrontational, “in-your-face” queer politics of activist groups such as ACT UP and Queer Nation, queer theory is characterized by a transgressive agenda and a rebellious spirit. As such, queer theory challenges the assumption of the unified homosexual subject undergirding much of Western homophobic and gay-affirmative theory (for a detailed account of this assumption, see Epstein, 1990; Seidman, 1996, 1997). A unified homosexual subject reproduces the homo/heterosexual binary, as Seidman (1996) explains, Modern Western affirmative homosexual theory may naturalize or normalize the gay subject or even register it as an agent of social liberation, but it has the effect of consolidating heterosexuality and homosexuality as master categories of sexual and social identity; it reinforces the modern regime of sexuality. (p. 12, my emphasis) As I argue throughout the essay, this regime of sexuality based on the homo/heterosexual binary becomes injurious and violent to individuals and

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communities through the workings of heteronormativity. Recognizing normalization as a site of violence, Seidman (1996, pp. 12-13) points out that Queer theory wishes to challenge the regime of sexuality itself, that is, the knowledges that construct the self as sexual and that assume heterosexuality and homosexuality as categories marking the truth of sexual selves. . . . Queer theorists view heterosexuality and homosexuality not simply as identities or social statuses but as categories of knowledge, a language that frames what we know as bodies, desires, sexualities, identities. This is a normative language as it shapes moral boundaries and political hierarchies. In the process, queer theory calls for a dramatic shift from lesbian and gay assimilationist politics to a politics of difference (Slagle, 1995). Seidman (1996) further explains, Queer theorists shift their focus from an exclusive preoccupation with the oppression and liberation of the homosexual subject to an analysis of the institutional practices and discourses producing sexual knowledges and the ways they organize social life, attending in particular to the way these knowledges and social practices repress differences. . . . [In short], queer theory aspires to transform homosexual theory into a general social theory or one standpoint from which to analyze social dynamics. (p. 13, my emphasis) As such, queer theory does not aspire to attain theoretical hegemony or domination in cultural politics. Rather, queer theory provides another view, another discursive horizon, and another perspective from which social relations can be analyzed and examined. Because it is an open system, queer theory is neither a singular nor a determinate body of ideas (Berlant & Warner, 1995; Halperin, 1995; Jagose, 1996). As such, it is not a traditional theory that can be described and explicated in propositional form. Queer theory, then, is more about an open system of discursive and conceptual possibilities than a rigid and fixed theoretical model. If queer theory refuses to be normalized (Butler, 1994) or fixed (Jagose, 1996), how can I provide a descriptive overview that does not impinge on its conceptual possibilities? In a literal sense, I cannot. At the expense of potentially domesticating and foreclosing queer theory, and for purposes of discussion, I chart its current conceptual landscape. To accomplish this, I attempt to map its conceptual mobility and sketch some of its evolving conceptual spaces: (1) Contesting categories; (2) contesting identity; and (3) contesting liberalism. Contesting Categories. Influenced by Foucault, Butler, Sedgwick, and many others, queer theory is particularly suspicious of sexual categories. Ho-

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mosexuality and heterosexuality are master sexual categories in the sexual regime of the modern West. But how does a sexual category come to be, what does it entail, and how does it function in a social and cultural landscape? In his pioneering work on homosexuality as a category, Plummer (1981/ 1998) poses four critical questions. What is the nature of the homosexual category? When and how did those categories emerge? How do they come to be bestowed upon certain practices, behaviors, and individuals? What kind of impact do these categories have on people once bestowed? When analyzing how the homosexual category comes to being, Plummer, drawing from earlier research, wonders how engagement in same-sex sexual activity, suspicion of one’s homosexuality, and labeling oneself as homosexual come together. For example, does the act of engaging in same-sex activity lead to labeling oneself as fitting the homosexual category? Or, does a suspicion of one’s homosexuality lead to a homosexual label, and does such a label necessarily include sexual activity? To understand such complexities, Plummer (1981/1998) calls for historically situated, culture-specific, and localized analysis of the meanings and politics underlying such category constructions and deployment. Following a historical analysis, Halperin (1990) poses the question of equivalence. Can the category of the modern homosexual be meaningfully applied to a Greek adult who is married and regularly enjoys sexually penetrating male adolescents? Can the same modern category be applied to a Native American berdache, an adult male who has adopted many female characteristics since childhood and is married to an adult male in a public and socially sanctioned ceremony? It is evident from this discussion that the category of the modern homosexual has limited conceptual space and cannot be meaningfully used transhistorically or cross-culturally. Underlying the suspicion about categories is power: Sexuality–and its accompanying discourses and knowledge systems–is the mechanism through which power is exercised (Foucault, 1978/1990). In addition, categories are rarely conceptually sealed. As such, categories leak, ooze, and bleed, and one of the aims of queer theory is to articulate the problems and leakages of identity categories. Contesting Identity. Since early liberation movements, particularly the civil rights, women’s, and gay and lesbian liberation movements, members of excluded groups–ethnic minorities, women, gays and lesbians–have demanded inclusion in U.S. society and politics by arguing that they possess “the characteristics that allowed white men to govern themselves–that they were fully persons” (Turner, 2000, p. 11). Such a move depends on claims about identity, that is, a sense of recognition and solidarity based on shared characteristics (Ryan, 2001). Although initially conceived in terms of a liberation politics aimed at freeing people who are locked into homo/heterosexual and feminine/masculine roles, the lesbian and gay movement became increasingly interested in community building and gaining civil rights by adopting the ethnic

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model in the mid-1970s (Seidman, 1993). Thus, a unified homosexual subject–a stable gay identity–emerged. A unitary gay identity created visible and commodified lesbian and gay urban communities. Gay culture became mainstreamed and through this process, a new hierarchy emerged with white, middle-class, able-bodied gay men at the top (Seidman, 1997). Women, people of color, transgenders, working-class individuals became increasingly alienated and started interrogating the viability of a gay identity that marginalized, and, in some cases, erased their subjectivities and excluded their participation (Anzaldúa, 2000; Combahee River Collective, 1979/1998; Lorde, 1984; Seidman, 1997). In addition, individuals who engaged in certain erotic practices, such as leather and sadomasochism, also found themselves marginalized by the mainstream gay community (Seidman, 1997). The question “Is and should sexual object choice be the most significant basis for community?” was debated among different individuals and groups within ethnic, gender, and sexual minority communities (see, for example, Anzaldúa, 2000; Brandt, 1999; Clausen, 1990; Lorde, 1984; Moraga & Anzaldúa, 1983; Smith, 1998; Vance, 1984). Queer theory attempts to destabilize identity categories, which, according to Butler (1990), are instruments of regulatory systems, whether as the normalizing labels of oppressive regimes or as the connecting points to fight against that very oppression. Identities can be used to affirm and pathologize. Even in cases of affirmation and connection, identities, if allowed to stabilize, can constrain and limit the experiences and choices available to the individual (Foucault, 1989). For example, in their study of “bareback sex,” or the deliberate practice of unprotected anal intercourse among gay men, Yep, Lovaas, and Pagonis (2002) found that gay sexual identities are paradoxical as they simultaneously connect and constrain individual wishes, experiences, and desires. Queer identity is an identity with an essence (Halperin, 1995). Sedgwick suggests that it is an auto-descriptive term of self-identification that calls into question conventional understandings of sexual identity, and its ambiguity serves as a site of mobilization against regimes of the normal (Chinn, DiGangi, & Horrigan, 1992). Responding to what it means to write or speak by invoking a lesbian identity, Butler (1991) states, . . . I am skeptical about how the “I” is determined as it operates under the title of the lesbian sign, and I am no more comfortable with its homophobic determination than with those normative definitions offered by other members of the “gay and lesbian community” . . . . This is not to say that I will not appear at political occasions under the sign of lesbian, but that I would like to have it permanently unclear what precisely that sign signifies. (p. 14, my emphasis) To leave the meanings of a sexual identity continuously open for re-signification and negotiation is to destabilize such identity permanently. Echoing the

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sentiments of other queer theorists, Butler (1991, p. 14) writes, “I’m permanently troubled by identity categories, consider them to be invariable stumbling-blocks, and understand them, even promote them, as sites of necessary trouble.” Contesting Liberalism. Queer theory, paradoxically, relies on and critiques twentieth century U.S. liberalism (Turner, 2000). For example, on the one hand, it depends on the commitment of liberalism to free inquiry and expression. On the other hand, the model of free, rational persons developing, forming, and participating in political institutions to guarantee liberty for all has not been a very accurate picture for sexual minorities and other marginalized individuals as they have been mostly excluded from such processes and levers of power. Queer theorists believe that the present system is not working and to insure equal rights and treatment for such groups, there is a need to rethink the current system of social organization, identities, and power distribution (Turner, 2000).

Living and Embodying Queer Theory: Some Challenges Queer theory, Crimp (2002) writes, “cannot, however, be counted an unqualified success” (p. 289). As an evolving perspective and a vantage point from which to examine social relations, queer theory is facing some imminent challenges. These are both theoretical and pragmatic. In my view, there are four theoretical challenges that queer theory needs to engage with as it grows, evolves, and transforms; they are questions of race, gender, class, and transnationalism. At the level of praxis, I contend that there are at least two potential areas of engagement: Queer theory as embodied practice and queer theory and social change. Race Problems. Although the broad umbrella of “queer” may appear to include queers of all races and social classes, it is a misleading façade (Anzaldúa, 1991; Johnson, 2001). Calling it a “queer blind spot,” Muñoz (1999) observes, Most of the cornerstones of queer theory that are taught, cited, and canonized in gay and lesbian studies classrooms, publications, and conferences are decidedly directed toward analyzing white lesbians and gay men. The lack of inclusion is most certainly not the main problem with the treatment of race. . . . When race is discussed by most white queer theorists, it is usually a contained reading of an artist of color that does not factor questions of race into the entirety of their project. (p. 10, my emphasis) In light of this situation, Muñoz offers the notion of disindentifications as a lens to interpret minoritarian politics based on interlocking components of race, class, gender, and sexuality and discusses how such components affect the social.

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Focusing on a critique of stable conceptions of identity and committed to racialized and class knowledges, Johnson (2001) introduces quare theory. He explains, Quare studies . . . would not only critique the concept of “race” as historically contingent and socially and culturally constructed/performed, it would also address the material effects of race in a white supremacist society. . . . As a “theory of the flesh” quare necessarily engenders a kind of identity politics, one that acknowledges difference within and between particular groups. Thus, identity politics does not necessarily mean the reduction of multiple identities into a monolithic identity or narrow cultural nationalism. Rather, quare studies moves beyond simply theorizing subjectivity and agency as discursively mediated to theorizing how that mediation may propel material bodies into action. (p. 9) Both disindentifications and quare theory appear productive points of engagement with mainstream queer theory about racialized knowledges and experiences. (For a more detailed explanation of these approaches, see Johnson [2001] and Muñoz [1999].) Gender Trouble. As a non-gender-specific term, “queer” appears inclusive of all genders. However, such terminological breaks can be read as reactionary and potentially dangerous (Thomas, 2000). Under a non-gender specific umbrella, Jeffreys (1997) is concerned about the disappearance of the lesbian and denial of lesbian oppression under patriarchy and heteronormativity. Similarly, Wolfe and Penelope (1993) contend that destabilization of identity categories, a typical move in queer analysis, leads to lesbian erasure. They write, We [cannot] afford to allow privileged patriarchal discourse (of which poststructuralism is but a new variant) to erase the collective identity Lesbians have only recently begun to establish. . . . For what has in fact resulted from the incorporation of deconstructive discourse, in academic “feminist” discourse at least, is that the word Lesbian has been placed in quotation marks, whether used or mentioned, and the existence of real Lesbians has been denied, once again. (p. 3) Given the history that “gay,” as a label, came to signify male homosexuality in a number of contexts, the concern that “queer” might become a male generic is certainly not unwarranted. Queer theory is also guilty of transgender erasure. Namaste (2000), for example, argues that queer theory, with its focus on performativity, fails to take into account the context in which gender performances occur. She points out that Butler’s drag queens perform in gay male cultural spaces and reduces drag to something a person does on stage rather than a person who is. In addition, queer theory ignores the material realities, the lived experiences and the

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subjectivities of transgendered people. Elliot and Roen (1998) call for the development and articulation of transgender theories, that is, ideas and assertions that inform and are informed by transgender political movements and articulated by transgenderists. Queer theory is committed to the deconstruction of gender and sexual categories. Engagement with the social context and the material realities associated with gender performance under heteropatriarchy would diminish the danger of excluding, erasing, and othering genders that are not male. Class Dismissal. According to Anzaldúa (2000), “queer” was a working-class word that has been taken over by academics. In south Texas, the word is used to signify “sexual difference,” someone who was sexually different. Although the seemingly unifying rubric of “queer” appears to include queers of all social classes, the term itself tends to homogenize and erase differences (Anzaldúa, 1991). As such, middle-class values are promoted and working-class subjectivities are stifled and suppressed. Johnson (2001) offers quare theory, as a framework for understanding the racial and class diversity within queer communities of color and an embodied practice of resistance, as a potentially productive engagement with class subjectivities and material realities. Transnational, Diasporic, and Hybrid Queer. As technology re-maps notions of distance and re-draws territories, globalization dramatically shifts the sense of what is local (Altman, 2001). As a result, queerness is now global (Cruz-Malavé & Manalansan, 2002; Grewal & Kaplan, 2002). From forced prostitution to sex tourism to cybersex, sex is now commercialized in new ways as politics, economy, migration, languages, bodies, pleasures, and power come together in “real” and virtual spaces. Through this process of intermingling, new hybridities are created, new identities are negotiated, and new meanings for sexual, diasporic, and transnational experiences emerge. In spite of its tendency to reduce queer sexualities and cultures to a commodity exchangeable in the marketplace, globalization has created and expanded the terrain for intervention and negotiation over sexual meanings and the struggle for queer rights (Cruz-Malavé & Manalansan, 2002). Although some work has already started to examine these complexities (see, for example, Altman, 2001; Cantú, 2002; Cruz-Malavé & Manalansan, 2002; Giorgi, 2002; Hawley, 2001; Kantsa, 2002; La Fountain-Stokes, 2002; Luongo, 2002; Markwell, 2002; Patton, & Sánchez-Eppler, 2000; Puar, 2002; Quiroga, 2000; Rofel, 1999; Rushbrook, 2002), this area of theoretical and pragmatic intervention appears, in my view, extremely productive. Queer Theory as Embodied Practice. By focusing on the unstable character of sexual and gender identities, Butler (1990) suggests that certain embodied practices, such as drag and cross-dressing, can be used to highlight the performative aspects of gender and sexuality. Through such performances, gender and sexuality are denaturalized and exposed: “In imitating gender, drag implicitly reveals the imitative structure of gender itself–as well as its contin-

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gency” (Butler, 1990, p. 137). Recognizing that parodies by themselves are not necessarily subversive, Butler calls for ways to understand and enact certain types of parodic repetitions that can effectively disrupt and destabilize naturalized categories of identity and desire. But do such parodies and subversive performances transform and change the heteronormative regime? There is considerable disagreement on this point. Some scholars insist that we need to return to the material consequences of gestures and practices that challenge heteronormativity. For example, Jackson (1999) argues for the need to re-focus on structural inequalities based on gender. Hennessy (2000) calls for an analysis between late capitalism, labor, and commodification of sexual identities. Another area of embodiment is, of course, the domain of erotic practices. Jackson (1999) argues that the idea of “queering sexual practices”–that is, making them innovative and nonnormative–has little political effect. Foucault (1989) might disagree. Using the example of sadomasochism (S/M) as the real invention of new avenues and possibilities of erotic pleasure, Foucault debunks popular beliefs about the association of S/M with deep-seated psychological violence and aggression. He argues that individuals who engage in S/M “are inventing new possibilities of pleasure with strange parts of their body–through the eroticization of the body” (Foucault, 1989, p. 384). He elaborates, . . . the S/M game is very interesting because it is a strategic relation, but it is always fluid. Of course, there are roles but everybody knows very well that those roles can be reversed. Sometimes the scene begins with the master and slave, and at the end the slave has become the master. Or, even when the roles are stabilized, you know very well that it is always a game. Either the rules are transgressed, or there is an agreement, either explicit or tacit, that makes them aware of certain boundaries. This strategic game as a source of bodily pleasure is very interesting. But I wouldn’t say that it is a reproduction, inside the erotic relationship, of the structures of power. It is an acting out of power structures by a strategic game that is able to give sexual pleasure or bodily pleasure. (Foucault, 1989, pp. 387-388) Contrary to heterosexual relationships where strategic relations, such as pursuit, conquest, or flight, are played out before sex to obtain sex, S/M practices are played out within sex (Foucault, 1989). In this sense, S/M practices are transgressive. Proposing a “queer praxis” through “the transformative potential of queer sex” (Halperin, 1995, p. 86), Foucault suggests that S/M practices, for example, radically re-map and re-orient sites of eroticism and pleasure in the body. This re-mapping of the erogenous zones extends beyond private pleasures: By focusing on the entire surface of the body as a site of potential erotic pleasure, S/M practices challenge to dissolve the monopoly of

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genitally-focused sexuality–that is, penetrative sex encoded within the heterosexual matrix of meanings. Queer Theory and Social Change. Inspired by deconstructive politics, queer theory is a positionality, a framework, and a toolkit that can be used to interrogate, examine, and unpack regimes of the normal (Halperin, 1995). As a position, it is against normativity and normalization (Warner, 1993, 1999). As a framework, it offers us new ways to look at social relations (Seidman, 1996). As a toolkit, it provides individuals and groups with a method to deconstruct the historical situatedness and political nature of social categories (Turner, 2000). In short, queer theorists and activists call for the deconstruction of the homo/heterosexual binary as the basic foundation of social life. In addition, they argue that identity production “is purchased at the price of hierarchy, normalization, and exclusion” (Seidman, 1993, p. 130) where the voices that are heard and listened to are the voices of those with a platform from which to speak. On the other hand, queer theorists are criticized for their neglect of community organizing, based on a shared identity, to promote social change. Kirsch (2000), for example, argues that instead of focusing on specific areas of oppression and strategies to change them, queer theory focuses on the individual as a site of change. Such a move insulates individuals and hinders community building. In other words, collective identities and power in numbers are politically effective. Collective identities require clear membership boundaries, that is, discrete in-group/out-group distinctions (Gamson, 1997). Kirsch (2000) cautions us that queer theory, with a focus on individual self-expression, might actually be harmful to people by making it more difficult to identify with others. Queer theory, Kirsch vociferously argues, “needs to be refocused to take into account the realities of everyday life in a capitalist world system. This means an end to academic posturing, where obfuscation is more valued than strategies for recognition and community-building” (2000, p. 123). Gamson (1995/1998) contends that both proponents of queer theory (boundary-strippers) and supporters of lesbian and gay identity politics (boundary-defenders) are correct in their own ways. However, he points out that The gay and lesbian civil rights strategy, for all its gains, does little to attack the political culture that itself makes the denial of and struggle for civil rights necessary and possible. Marches on Washington, equal protection pursuits, media-image monitoring, and so on, are guided by the attempt to build and prove quasi-national and quasi-ethnic claims. By constructing gays and lesbians as a single community (united by fixed erotic fates), they simplify complex internal differences and complex sexual identities. They also avoid challenging the system of meanings that underlies the political oppression: the division of the world into man/woman and gay/straight. (p. 597)

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Phelan (1989/2001) urges us to rethink the concept of identity politics. For Phelan, identity politics needs to be based on identity and “an appreciation for politics as the art of living together” (1989/2001, p. 313), that is, a politics that recognizes the importance of identities without making them exclusive and nonnegotiable. As an alternative to identity, Lee (in Collier et al., 2002, p. 275) offers the notion of “itineraries of temporalized struggles”–a more fluid and historicized concept focusing on specific people in a specific time and place working together toward the accomplishment of specific goals. To summarize, queer theory, in its current state, is facing several challenges at both theoretical and pragmatic levels. Questions of race, gender, class, and transnationalism haunt the current theoretical terrain of queer theory. Similarly, questions of embodied practice and social change continue to demand accountability in queer politics.

CONCLUDING REMARKS Sexuality has been, and continues to be, a critical site of social organization in the modern West. In modern Western sexual systems, the homo/heterosexual binary has occupied a pivotal position in the definition and constitution of human subjects and their location in the sexual/social hierarchy. When the historical construction of heterosexuality became hegemonic in the last century, individuals and groups came under the rule of the heteronormative regime. I explored, in this essay, the violence of heteronormativity in the communication discipline. In the first section, I examined research on communication and sexuality in the discipline. In the next section, I investigated the violence of heteronormativity on women and men living inside heteronormative borders, people living outside of those borders, and individuals negotiating the intersections of their sexuality with race, class, and gender. In the third section, I offered ways to unpack heteronormativity and critique heterosexuality. In the fourth section, I explored possibilities of queer world-making through the lens of queer theory by sketching its conceptual spaces and its current challenges, both theoretically and pragmatically. In this final section, I suggest that sexuality research in communication needs to maintain the productive tension between the constructive impulses of lesbian and gay studies and the deconstructive impulses in queer/quare theory. As discourses of sexuality proliferated in the nineteenth century and new sexual knowledges were created and developed by medical and psychiatric institutions, new sexual identities emerged and consolidated in the twentieth century (Foucault, 1978/1990). The homosexual became an intensive object of inquiry by these authorized and legitimated institutions (Foucault, 1978/1990; Gilder, 1989). Although such institutions attempted to liberate sexuality from the domain of the church, they generally produced moralizing, uncritical, and pathologizing accounts of the lesbian and gay subject (Weeks, 1985). Lesbian

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and gay studies, in many ways, emerged in the academy as a response to this problematic knowledge production process (Gamson, 2000). Trained in the academy and propelled by the motivation to reclaim lesbian and gay histories, experiences, practices, and realities, scholars in lesbian and gay studies are driven by a constructive impulse. Such impulse attempts to create more accurate and situated knowledges of the lesbian and gay subject. Disenchanted by the current social system and influenced by poststructuralism and deconstruction, queer/quare theorists emerged in the academy as a perspective to examine the sexual by focusing on the greater sexual landscape and the heteronormative regime (Turner, 2000). Queer/quare theorists are driven by a deconstructive impulse and queer politics presupposes, in Seidman’s (2001) terms, a “communicative sexual ethic” (p. 358). Contrary to a normalizing ethic, which assumes that sex acts have inherent moral significance and that sexual desires can be classified as either good or bad by virtue of their intrinsic qualities, a communicative ethic asserts that sex acts are given moral meaning by their communication context. In other words, the communicative ethic, as proposed by these theorists and activists, shifts moral judgements about the character of sexual desires and acts to the qualities of the social exchange and communication encounter, such as mutual consent, responsibility, respect, and reciprocity. I argue that these two seemingly opposing impulses–constructive and deconstructive–should, and must, exist in an ongoing productive tension. This way researchers focusing on sexuality are accountable for their knowledge production practices, as lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender voices, histories, and subjectivities are reclaimed in their own right without being complicit to the normalization of the current sexual regime. Communication scholars, like researchers in other areas of academic study, are profoundly involved and deeply implicated in current systems of power as they produce and disseminate knowledge. In his power/knowledge matrix, Foucault reminds us that knowledge and truth are closely interconnected. He writes, Each society has its regime of truth, its “general politics” of truth: that is, the types of discourse which it accepts and makes function as true; the mechanisms and instances which enable one to distinguish true and false statements, the means by which each is sanctioned; the techniques and procedures accorded value in the acquisition of truth; the status of those who are charged with saying what counts as true. (Foucault, 1980, p. 131) In other words, communication scholars are inextricably involved in current regimes of power and knowledge. As such, communication scholars are profoundly implicated in the maintenance of the homo/heterosexual binary, the fundamental conceptual pair that organizes modern Western discourses of sexuality. In the academy and elsewhere, institutional heterosexuality, through

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the process of normalization, becomes heteronormative. Heteronormativity produces “the equation ‘heterosexual experience = human experience’” and “renders all other forms of human sexual expression pathological, deviant, invisible, unintelligible, or written out of existence” (Yep, 2002, p. 167). More simply put, heteronormativity is violent and harmful to a range of people across the spectrum of sexualities, including those who live within its borders. Aware of the mobility of power relations, queer/quare theorists from a variety of disciplines have provided analytical tools to create new openings and possibilities of change and transformation. Such scholars are not interested in speaking for others, providing definitive solutions, proclaiming transhistorical generalizations, declaring transcultural knowledge, or making universal pronouncements. These queer/quare theorists and activists are invested in “detaching the power of truth from the forms of hegemony, social, economic and cultural, within which it operates at the present time” (Foucault, 1980, p. 133). Committed to the celebration of human differences and dedicated to the interrogation of the normalizing technologies of power, these interdisciplinary scholars and community activists scrutinize the homo/heterosexual binary as the foundation of current discourses of sexuality, and critically examine heteronormativity. As a communication teacher and scholar who travels across academic disciplinary boundaries, I invite communication scholars across the spectrum of social locations to join these theorists and practitioners in this radical project to expand, stretch, reorient, and re-map the conceptual landscape of the field of communication. I urge communication teachers and scholars to interrogate and unpack the homo/heterosexual binary, disentangle and demystify the power of heteronormativity in our scholarship, pedagogy, and cultural politics, and to create and produce historically specific and embodied racialized knowledges of the human sexual subject.

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Queering Relationships: Toward a Paradigmatic Shift John P. Elia, PhD San Francisco State University

SUMMARY. This article exposes, and is critical of, the blatant and insidious ways in which a specific brand of heterosexual relationship has been promoted as the ultimate relational form at the expense of others who neither believe in nor practice such idealized relationships. To uncover this multilayered and deeply imbedded ideology, this piece turns to a description and analysis of how various institutions (e.g., organized religion, medicine, education, law, politics, and the family) perpetuate heteronormative practices in general. Next, specific traits considered to constitute the best and most respectable relationship style are identified. Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Health Education, San Francisco State University, 1600 Holloway Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94132 (E-mail: [email protected]). The author is grateful to the two reviewers for their close reading of, and detailed feedback on, the initial draft of this piece. His thinking about queering relationships and the final version of this article have benefited enormously from their critical appraisals of his work. An earlier version of this paper was presented at the 88th annual meeting of the National Communication Association for the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender (GLBT) Division in November 2002 in New Orleans, Louisiana, and was awarded the “Top Paper Award.” [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Queering Relationships: Toward a Paradigmatic Shift.” Elia, John P. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 61-86; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 61-86. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_03

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Then, notions of how heteronormativity is marketed and reproduced to create a sexual relationship hierarchy–with a certain form of heterosexuality elevated to the top, as the most revered and cherished relational form–are described and analyzed. Turning to the results of such a well-established and entrenched “marketing campaign,” the author offers some notes regarding attitudes about sexual relationships gleaned from teaching a course, “Sex and Relationships,” for over a decade. Finally, the author explores the merits and potential drawbacks of a paradigmatic shift toward queering relationships and possible directions for theoretical interventions. [Article copies available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.]

KEYWORDS. Bisexual, gay, heteronormativity, heterosexism, lesbian, queer, relationship construction A field labeled social and personal relationships would seem to comprise the range of close relationships that people form. Yet this assumption is not borne out by the history of relationship scholarship. Instead, the research community has reduced relationships and aspects of relational life to a narrow and unrepresentative sample [e.g., heterosexual, white, middle-class, marital, monogamous relationships]. –Julia T. Wood and Steve Duck (1995, p. 13) We . . . are the queer’s queers, the ones who will not stay in the boxes marked “gay” or “lesbian” without causing a fuss–just as we all burst out of the boxes the straight world tried to grow us in . . . –Carol Queen and Robert Schimel (1997, p. 25) While there is a wide variety of sexual relationships, there is little question about what most individuals have been taught in terms of what constitutes a “respectable,” healthy, and even an exemplary sexual relationship. A certain type of heterosexual relationship style is often promoted as the best, most respectable, and cherished sexual lifestyle that provides social currency and status. This hegemonic construction has undergone much scrutiny by queer theorists and other cultural critics. Nonetheless, this notion continues to be promoted and reproduced despite the fact that many people–both heterosexuals and non-heterosexuals–actually do not fit into such neatly categorized and

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narrowly defined sexual relationships. This essay is devoted to: (1) describing institutional contexts and relationship construction; (2) describing the markings of what is considered to be the best sexual relationship style; (3) exploring how notions of what is considered to constitute proper sexual relationships are “marketed” and reproduced in the United States; (4) illustrating the impact of the aforementioned hegemonic relationship construction by exploring university students’ attitudes about sexual relationships; (5) describing the qualities of queer relationships and weighing the benefits and potential disadvantages of making a paradigm shift toward queering relationships; and (6) exploring potential directions for theoretical interventions.

INSTITUTIONAL CONTEXTS AND RELATIONSHIP CONSTRUCTION Heteronomativity has a long tradition of being rooted in a number of institutions: organized religion, medicine, education, law, politics, and the family. This directly perpetuates the notion of what constitutes a so-called proper and respectable relationship. It is common knowledge that organized religions, particularly Judaism and Christianity, have played an enormous role in creating the standard that heterosexual, marital, and reproductively bound couples are the most blessed. Religion has had a tremendous influence on attitudes about sexuality (Beck, 1999; Bullough, 1976). Although marriages are ultimately formal legal contracts, they are often shrouded in religious overtones and meanings, which reinforce the sanctity of traditional heterosexual relationships, especially marriages or those ultimately leading to marriage and procreation. Western religions have held sex-negative views, which in turn have created an atmosphere of sexual repression (Bullough & Bullough, 1995), particularly for those who are sexually transgressive. Religion has had an immeasurable impact on the sex lives of North Americans. One large-scale, national study revealed that the more religious a person feels, the more likely that individual’s sexual expression will be tied to what is sexually permissible within the context of her or his religion, and he or she is less likely to engage in sexual activity before marriage (Kelly, 2001; Laumann et al., 1994). Besides religious influences, biomedical experts have done much to pathologize unconventional sexual activities and lifestyles since the nineteenth century (Katz, 1995). Richard von Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis, a catalogue of sexual perversions dating as far back as the 1880s, is perhaps the best example of an influential sexologist who was committed to maintaining the sanctity of heterosexuality and reproduction. Even today, examples of how unconventional sexual practices are viewed as mental illnesses can be found in the latest version of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM), the book that mental health professionals use to make diagnoses. Along these lines, Leonore Tiefer (1995) declares, “Although the DSM does not explicitly en-

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dorse reproduction as the primary purpose of sexual activity, the genital focus of the sexual dysfunction nosology implies such a priority” (p. 53). Given the inviolability of reproductive sexuality within heterosexual marital relationships, one can see a clear link between what was once a part of religious doctrine extending into the biomedical arena. Akin to organized religion and the biomedical field, the educational system has been a major offender. Wedded to disseminating the idea that heterosexuality is the ultimate and best form of sexuality, “Schools have maintained, by social custom and with reinforcement from the law, the promotion of the heterosexual family as predominant, and therefore the essence of normal. From having been presumed to be ‘normal,’ heterosexual behavior has gained status as the right, good, and ideal lifestyle” (Leck, 1999, p. 259). School culture in general is fraught with heteronormativity. Our society has long viewed queer sexualities as “. . . deviant, sinful, or both, and our schools are populated by adolescent peers and adult educators who share these heterosexual values” (Ginsberg, 1999, p. 55). Simply put, heteronormativity and sexual prejudice pervade the curriculum at the elementary, secondary, and post-secondary levels (for examples of this and ways of intervening, see: Adams, Bell, & Griffin, 1997; Letts & Sears, 1999; Lovaas, Baroudi, & Collins, 2002; Yep, 2002). Besides the hegemonic hold schools have had regarding a heterosexual bias, school culture continues to devote much energy to maintaining “. . . the status quo of our dominant social institutions, which are hierarchical, authoritarian, and unequal, competitive, racist, sexist, and homophobic” (Arnstine, 1995, p. 183). While there has been modest success in addressing various forms of prejudice in schools (Kumashiro, 2001), what is sorely lacking is serious attention to how the intersections of race, class, sexuality and gender are interwoven and dialectically create prejudice (e.g., racism, classism, and hetero[sexism]). Schools would be an ideal site to interrogate, and begin to erode, the kind of hegemony upon which heterosexism rests and is supported. To date, not much is being done in a systematic fashion to disrupt the ways in which U.S. schooling has perpetuated such hierarchies. It seems to me that sexuality education is ripe for the opportunity to challenge heterosexism in school culture; however, public school-based sexuality education is presently in serious crisis, as it has turned mostly to the business of pushing for abstinence-only sexuality education. According to federal legislation, states that accept funding for this form of sexuality education require that young people are taught to abstain from sexual activity until they get married. This has numerous implications for relationship construction; a more in-depth description and analysis of this form of sexuality education will follow later in this essay. Turning to another influential and powerful institution, the legal system continues to play a significant role in shaping attitudes and practices. There are a few examples of laws that perpetuate sexual prejudice. One such example is the anti-sodomy laws, which exist in many states (Contemporary Sexuality, 2000, as cited in Crooks & Baur, 2002). These laws, while different in each

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state, have a common aim of targeting those who engage in transgressive sexual activities. These laws, however, are chiefly aimed at eradicating homosexual sexual activities (Leonard, 1993). Another striking example from the legal arena is the Family Protection Act, which, as Steven Seidman (1992) reports, Initially introduced in both houses of Congress in 1979, and again in 1981, it was designed “to preserve the integrity of the American family, to foster and protect the viability of American life . . . and to promote the virtues of the family. . . .” [Petchesky, 1985, p. 265]. The family that the FPA was intent on preserving was the heterosexual married familial unit in which the wife attends primarily to domestic tasks and the husband assumes the breadwinner, head-of-household role. (p. 72) Although legislation like the FPA was never implemented in the 1970s or 1980s, there were other forms of so-called pro-family and other conservative measures that became public policy (Seidman, 1992). Basically, the FPA was an attack on the counterculture movements of the 1960s “. . . that sought to expand sexual choice and diversity, and to depolice desire and pleasures that are private and consensual” (Seidman, 1992, p. 73). The Family Protection Act and subsequent public policies served as sociopolitical forces, which attempted to keep people in line sexually and reinforce the virtues of traditional gender roles and marriage. In addition to various laws–which are inextricably linked to, and often result from, the dominant U.S. political system and other U.S. institutions, for that matter–mainstream politics have exerted enormous pressure to maintain the status quo as far as sexual matters are concerned. Gore Vidal (1983) states, “The sexual attitudes of any given society are the result of political decisions” (p. 152). Politics are a part of our very existence, and create, support and perpetuate dominant culture. The fiercely debated issues such as equal rights, abortion, homosexuality, sexuality education, and so on “. . . are hot issues that affect not only the political process but the private lives of millions of people” (Vidal, 1983, p. 150). Politics, then, contribute substantially to the conservative status quo agenda. The institution of traditional family has set the direction and tone for sexual life. The term family has been synonymous not just with heterosexuality broadly defined, but with a very specific brand of heterosexuality, which ideally involves marriage, baby making, monogamy, ownership of property, espousing middle class and white values, etc. The nuclear family model is held up as the exemplar of the highly prized relational arrangement in the U.S., despite data derived from the U.S. Census Bureau and other major research studies indicating the disintegration of such a family in modern life. For centuries, the biological act of reproduction has been, and continues to be, a “defining feature” of kinship and families (Seidman, 1991; Weston, 1991). The notion of being able to socially construct families without marriage and reproduction, as

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sexual Others have done, is a threat to an institution in which only bona fide heterosexuals have been permitted to participate. The stridency with which politicians and conservative others have attempted to safeguard traditional “family values” from the queers is a testimonial about just how “sacred” and exclusionary this institution has been. This brief examination of various institutions (viz., organized religion, medicine, education, law, politics, and the family) reveals how influential they have been individually and collectively in terms of pushing for traditional sexual relationships. What makes these institutions so powerful is that they are inextricably linked, and, therefore, they inform and support each other in a dialectical fashion. For example, the abstinence-only sexuality education measures involve input and support from all six of the institutions mentioned earlier. The collective discourse that is produced and circulated becomes a strong conservative, oppressive force to retain the perceived superiority of marital, heterosexual relationships, or intimate connections leading down that road. This “charmed” sexual life can continue to be prominently situated at the top of the sex hierarchy, to use the words of Gayle Rubin. Used as a backdrop, queer sexualities are labeled and stigmatized as perverted, damned practices and lifestyles to reinforce the virtues and normalcy of heterosexual unions at the expense of the queers!

MARKINGS OF THE HEGEMONIC RELATIONAL FORM As mentioned earlier, there is a particular type of heterosexual relationship that has been safeguarded and promoted. This has had a long historical tradition in the United States. John D’Emilio and Estelle Freedman (1988) assert, “In early America, a unitary system of sexual regulation that involved family, church, and state rested upon a consensus about the primacy of familial, reproductive sexuality” (p. xvii). They go on to indicate that if individuals deviated from this relationship style they could expect admonishment, severe punishment, and tremendous pressure to return to the status quo. It should be noted that under the best of circumstances this would be the case. How about the oppression from which women suffered in terms of what was dictated to them regarding their relationships? Or even worse yet, how about African-American slaves, who had virtually no say over how they conducted their interpersonal and sexual relationships? Referring to the general landscape of how sex hierarchies have been constructed and maintained in the U.S., Gayle Rubin (1993), in her seminal piece, states, “Modern Western societies appraise sex acts according to a hierarchical system of sexual value. Marital, reproductive, heterosexuals are alone at the top of the erotic pyramid” (p. 11). To illustrate this point, Rubin advances her notion of the charmed circle and outer limits. Essentially, the charmed circle represents the “. . . Good, Normal, Natural, Blessed Sexuality,” which is limited to: heterosexuality, marriage, monog-

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amy, procreative, non-commercial sex, dyadic sexual relationships, individual being from the same generation, sexual activity being restricted to the private sphere, no pornography, bodies only, and vanilla sexual expression (i.e., no kinky activity). The flip side constitutes what she refers to as the outer limits, which is considered “. . . Bad, Abnormal, Unnatural, and Damned Sexuality.” The forms of sexual expression that fall in this category are: homosexuality, sexual activity outside of marriage, promiscuity, non-procreative sex, commercial sex, being sexual alone or in groups, casual sexual interactions, cross-generational sex, sex in public, use of pornography, sex with manufactured objects, and sadomasochism (see, for example, Rubin, 1993).

REIFYING AND REPRODUCING THE STATUS QUO OF HETERONORMATIVITY There are a number of institutional policies and practices in place that perpetuate the notion that not just generic heterosexuality, but a particular brand of it, viz., the type involving marriage and reproduction within the confines of vanilla sex, is the best way to go. There are some sociocultural and material benefits afforded to those who have this type of relationship. Examples of socio-cultural perks include: being treated respectfully, assumed to have good mental health, and social mobility (Rubin, 1993). Perhaps the best example of material benefits includes institutional and financial support in terms of tax benefits. Reification and perpetuation of this brand of heterosexual coupling can be seen in a number of venues. While it is not possible to discuss all of them here, I will, however, turn to a discussion of the more salient examples of how heteronormativity–heterosexism–gets expressed in terms of pushing the particular brand of relationship construction mentioned earlier. To become fully acquainted with just how widespread and insidious this process continues to be, I shall specifically turn to an analysis of: (1) sexuality education in the schools; (2) textbooks for survey courses in human sexuality; and (3) textbooks for survey courses in interpersonal communication.

Sexuality Education in the Schools The chief aims of sexuality education in the public schools from its inception in the early twentieth century were to stop the spread of venereal disease (e.g., syphilis) and instill Victorian morality in the minds of the young (Brandt, 1987; Elia, 2000b). The spirit of this early educational campaign is captured by D’Emilio and Freedman (1988), as they state, Through a “moral education” movement, for example, nineteenth-century reformers issued the first call for sex education in America. Women, they argued, must teach children about sex, lest they learn incorrectly

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from other sources. As one writer exhorted mothers, “show your sons and daughters the sanctities and the terrors of this awful power of sex, its capacities to bless or curse its owner.” Both women and children needed moral education, Lucinda Chandler argued. For children, special education “to fit them for parenthood” would advance social purity, while women needed to be educated to know that they had the right to control their own person. From their exposes of the evils of prostitution to the “No Secrets” approach of the Moral Education Societies, social purity workers called for a public sexual discourse that . . . emphasized love and reproductive responsibility rather than lust. Sex, they wanted children to learn, could be holy; in the absence of love and marriage, however, it defiled woman or man. (pp. 155-156) As in the Victorian period, sexuality education offered in schools today has many of the same qualities. Since sexuality education’s debut in public schools about a century ago, strong foci on reproductive sexual anatomy and physiology along with the dangers of sexual activity have been maintained. This is not surprising given that sexuality has been conceptualized in the Western world as a biological impulse (libido) that needs to be disciplined and contained (Foucault, 1978; Rubin, 1993). The situation has gotten worse in recent years. In 1981, the Adolescent Family Life Act was passed, which prescribed that family life courses be taught in public schools. Of course, “family life,” conceptualized along the lines of the nuclear family model (mom, dad, and the kids) not only waters down what is taught sexually speaking but also offers a very narrow and conventional view of the family, not to mention that it situates the discussion of sexual matters within the context of the traditional family. It continues to be a discourse of containment and a mechanism of sexual and social control, as the curriculum is designed and almost entirely taught from the perspective of traditional family life. By systematically omitting other forms of sexual expression and sexual relationships from the curriculum, they are implicitly judged as inappropriate. In effect, conventional sexuality continues to be highly regarded and ideologically reproduced without being challenged (Katz, 1995). The popularity of such a traditional approach to sexuality is gained at the expense of admonishing less popular, unconventional aspects of sexual life. In additional to the 1981 legislation, an even more pernicious form of legislation was advanced in late 1996, when the U.S. federal government formally instituted abstinence-only sexuality education (Daley, 1997; Haffner, 1997; McKay, 1999). In essence, the federal government devoted 50 million dollars a year (over a five-year period) (Edwards, 1997) to offer individual states funding to carry out abstinence-only sexuality education. In short, this requires students be taught that they must refrain from sexual activity until marriage (Daley, 1997; Elia, 2000a). Capturing the main tenets of abstinence-only sexuality education, Daley (1997) reports that these programs promote such ideas as:

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(1) there are social, psychological, and health advantages of abstaining from sexual activity until married; (2) the only way of preventing out-of-wedlock pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases is by sexual abstinence; (3) monogamy within the context of marriage is the socially expected standard for sexual conduct; (4) sexual expression outside of marriage will probably have detrimental mental and physical effects; and (5) having a child out-of-wedlock often has deleterious effects on the child. This approach is extremely restrictive and heterosexist. (as cited in Elia, 2000a, p. 341) Among some of the mottos that are associated with many abstinence-only and fear-based sexuality education curricula are: “Control your urgin–be a virgin,” “Don’t be a louse–wait for your spouse,” “Do the right thing–wait for the ring,” or “Pet your dog–not your date” (Carroll & Wolpe, 1996, p. 648). Educators who teach about sexuality from such a provincial and misguided perspective impart information that is racist, sexist, not to mention unsympathetic to those with disabilities (Carroll & Wolpe, 1996), and heterosexist. It goes without saying that such a viewpoint portrays unconventional families as troubled and inherently flawed (Kantor, 1992). In fact, this educational campaign and process systematically erases and, therefore, attempts to silence those of us who do not fit the socially accepted mold. It explicitly suggests that proper sexual relationships be initiated and maintained in marriage with the idea that reproduction is part of the program. It reinforces the dominant relationship paradigm that has been promulgated throughout much of the history of the United States (D’Emilio & Freedman, 1988). Abstinence-only sexuality education, then, is a site that promotes a very specific brand of heterosexuality and, therefore, advances an extremely narrow view of what constitutes a socially acceptable sexual relationship. With the exception of a few radical teachers who are willing to discuss a plethora of sexual issues while being mindful of the intersections of race, class, sexuality, and gender, the rest of the curriculum is usually devoid of a discussion of queer topics. Sexuality education has traditionally focused on health and clinical aspects of sexuality, and often issues regarding human diversity, social justice, and democratic principles are omitted (Bickmore, 1999). While lamenting the narrow approach to sexuality education and family life education in public schools, Arthur Lipkin (2000) suggests that “studying the ways gays and lesbians create alternative families would encompass same-gender domestic arrangements, spousal relationships, child-rearing, extended biological and adopted family, work sharing, and financial planning. Students could gain insight into ‘the sophisticated level of interpersonal structure and relationship management that lesbians and gay men must achieve’” (p. 344). School culture–specifically sexuality education–more so than ever before reinforces and reproduces the notion of the superiority of heterosexual marital unions. Much has been written about the harmful effects this has on lesbian, gay, bisexual,

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transgender, and questioning (LGBTQ) youth (see, for example, Ginsberg, 1999; Lipkin, 2000).

Oh Dear, Where’s the Queer(ing) of Textbooks? Along the same lines as the heterosexist nature of sexuality education in the public schools, popular textbooks for general, survey courses on human sexuality at the college and university levels are offenders as well. This exemplifies how (sexuality) education serves to regulate the sexuality of young students in elementary school all the way up the educational ladder to those young adults at the college and university levels. Specifically, I examined a half-dozen popular textbooks that have been used at colleges and universities as required reading for survey human sexuality courses for years. I analyzed the chapters focusing on sexual relationships, and discovered a number of similarities in all of the texts. Even a cursory examination of the chapters in question reveals that these authors have reproduced the conventional relationship in a number of ways. Viewing the pictorial representations of couples engaged in particular sexual acts (e.g., “69” position, various positions of sexual intercourse, kissing, fondling, etc.), for instance, is telling. The majority of these representations are heterocentric. In almost all of the texts, there are few representations of homosexual activity. Interestingly enough, however, when homosexuality is pictured, it is hardly sexualized. For example, in Robert Crooks and Karla Baur’s (2002) text, there is a photograph of two women sitting together fully clothed on a sofa with their arms gingerly draped over each other’s shoulders. Out of context of this chapter, one would assume that these women are best platonic friends or even relatives. There is not so much as a hint that these women are lesbian or queer identified (see Crooks & Baur, 2002, p. 202). Janell Carroll and Paul Wolpe’s (1996) text is quite similar to what Crooks and Baur included; however, when showing two gay men “together sexually,” they are shown hugging in the nude, devoid of any noticeable sexual activity per se (see Carroll & Wolpe, 1996, p. 351). On another page, they include a photograph of two men kissing. The caption below the photo informs readers that this “. . . gay couple kisses after exchanging vows along with eight other homosexual couples at a mass gay wedding . . .” (p. 300). The authors were safe in including such a depiction given that these gay men were imitating marriage, an institution only legally binding and reserved for heterosexuals. To the extent that these gay men in the photograph approximate the blessed and sacred institutional practice of marriage it makes it more acceptable to picture them showing affection for one another. Aping heterosexual marriage is likely to afford gays and lesbians a modicum of societal approval and rewards (Yep, Lovaas, & Elia, 2003) more so than those with sexual minority status who do not fit the mold of the socially expected and authorized relationship construction (e.g., monogamous, long-term, similar background, relationships). In essence, the respect, dignity, rewards, and privileges afforded to non-heterosexuals are

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commensurate with how closely they approximate heteronormative practices (Rubin, 1993). The married gay men who appear in the photograph are a prime example of this. By and large, as I have already described, most authors erase–or camouflage–queer sexualities. This desexualization perpetuates the notion that non-heterosexual involvement, although only tacitly acknowledged, is somehow shameful, distasteful, and downright nasty! The other possibility is that it is dangerous to picture a same-sex couple being explicitly sexual given the questionable status of such sexual relationships, particularly if these unions are transgressive. Also, the blatant depiction of heterosexual sexuality puts it in a positive light and even serves as a source of advertisement. Although never overtly stated in these texts, the message is that heterosexuality is superior to homosexuality, queer sexuality. Jerold Greenberg, Clint Bruess, and Debra Haffner (2000) provide more erotic representations of gay men and lesbians, but they are a far cry from how sexual the heterosexual couples are displayed (see pages 347-352). This pattern can be observed in many of these types of textbooks. The way couples are pictured is only the “tip of the iceberg” in terms of how narrowly sexual relationships are characterized in these texts. Besides the pictorial representations, these textbooks routinely focus textually on not only heterosexuality but also a certain type of relationship construction, usually emphasizing case studies or examples of how heterosexual couples initiate, develop, and maintain romantic/sexual relationships (see, as an example, Bruce King’s [1999] text, pp. 297-298). Nearly all of the books I examined focused on dyadic relationships. In other words, the assumption these authors make is that relationships between two people are the only types of relationships in need of inclusion in their texts. Granted, the majority of people wish to be coupled with another person at least as a primary sexual partner. However, as we all know, there are a multitude of ways sexual relationships are configured. None of the chapters I scrutinized provided adequate treatment–if any coverage at all–of triadic relationships, polyamorous relationships, polyfidelity, sadomashochistically-based relationships, ethical non-monogamy, cross-gender play/roles, queer identified individuals who maintain sexual unions with both men and women or, for that matter, the queer straight people who engage in unconventional relationship styles and non-vanilla sexual activities. These relationship forms only scratch the surface of the myriad relationship possibilities. The above-mentioned texts stick closely to the formula of keeping the chapters on relationships heterocentric, with a heavy focus on monogamy, cohabitation (with an emphasis on “opposite sex”), extramarital affairs, satisfaction with marital sex, masturbation in marriage, sexual patterns in marriage, theories of love, sex and two-career families (see Hyde & DeLameter, 2000, pp. 312-359). Gay and lesbian relationships are usually discussed in these texts, but usually in limited space and along certain lines. As I perused the aforementioned chapters, I found that in many cases gay and lesbian relationships (sometimes

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also referred to as “same-gender intimate relationships”) were discussed in sub-sections of the chapters (an example of this can be seen in Gary Kelly’s [2001] text, pages 256-257). While many of these authors, no doubt, are well intentioned, the feeling one gets is that the discussion of gay and lesbian relationships is quarantined in a particular section of chapters in these texts. The content of the discussion often centers around how gays and lesbians are as capable of having as intimate and loving relationships as heterosexuals. For instance, Crooks and Baur (2002) note that “Homosexual individuals who are in sexual relationships engage in sexual behaviors similar to those of heterosexual persons . . .” (p. 252). Why do Crooks and Baur make such a comparison? The idea that heterosexuality is used as the standard by which all sexual Others are measured and judged is an assumption that is explicitly and implicitly stated in many texts, yet is rarely if ever questioned and taken to task. Once again, the heterosexual center goes unchallenged. Comparing these two groups in this fashion offers an apologetic tone for homosexuality, which ultimately is disempowering for queer folks in general, not to mention that it explicitly places homosexuality in the inferior position of the sex hierarchy. Ultimately, it intimates that queers are victims. Rarely is there an effort to integrate information about gays and lesbians into entire chapters without ghettoizing them in sub-sections or using them for the purpose of comparison. It should also be noted that bisexuality is rarely mentioned, and when it is raised, it is usually in the context of marriage. Again, we see heterosexuality being used as the “anchor” position by which sexual Others are judged. Similarly, coverage of transgender individuals in these chapters is conspicuously absent. Authors of interpersonal communication textbooks are, on the whole, even more negligent about including information about a wide variety of sexual relationships than are the authors of the general human sexuality texts. Using the same criteria for selecting the human sexuality texts, I examined some interpersonal communication textbooks to ascertain how sexual relationships are portrayed. In general, some of the texts I analyzed regarding their content on romantic and sexual relationships have some common themes. One theme is that examples of heterosexual couples are mentioned almost exclusively when examples of communication styles are offered. The same is true for pictorial representations, which is consistent with the general human sexuality texts. In John Stuart and Carole Logan’s (1998) text, the authors employ a typology that was originally developed to categorize heterosexual marriages (see p. 296) to typologize different types of gay and lesbian relationships. Along the same lines, these authors use the results of Blumstein and Schwartz’s (1983) landmark study on U.S. American couples to discuss the similarities and differences of heterosexual and homosexual couples. The discourse of comparing heterosexual couples with homosexual couples is problematic on a number of fronts, and necessarily needs to be interrogated. First, by comparing a group that has been historically marginalized (homosexuals, and queers in general)

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with a group that has been privileged (heterosexuals) means that by default–given the hegemony of heterosexuality in general–the heterosexual relationship style(s) would be used as the anchor or “exemplar” by which homosexual relationships would be judged. This is heterosexist. Secondly, the experiences and world views of queers are likely to be different–sometimes radically different–from their heterosexual counterparts. It shortchanges and erases the variability, richness, and complexity of queer relationships to simply “plug them into” a typology of heterosexual marital types, thereby erasing sexual diversity and downplaying the heterogeneity of heterosexual relationships. As a caution not to employ such techniques of methodology and categorization, Wood and Duck (1995) state, “Inquiry that probes relationships other than those historically studied may well require development of new methods, theories, language, and interpretive lenses. That is to say, we cannot assume it is sufficient–or even appropriate–to use conventional frameworks to investigate under-studied types of relationships” (pp. 20-21). In another passage of this chapter on differences between heterosexual couples and homosexual ones, Stewart and Logan (1998) report, “One significant difference that emerged is that between ‘family of origin’ and ‘family of choice.’ Especially when individuals have been rejected by some or all of their blood relatives, they develop families of choice with whom they share holidays, vacations, and other gathering times” (p. 297). While it is absolutely true that some queers get rejected by their families, the converse is also true whereby queers find their blood relatives to be absolutely objectionable and exercise their agency to extricate themselves from such familial ties, and then decide whether or not to socially construct their own families of choice. It is interesting that this passage in the text portrays queers as victims of heterosexual rejection. The authors are not critical of this characterization and actually perpetuate the stereotype by not challenging it. Other interpersonal texts are as egregiously problematic. While Joseph DeVito’s (2001) text devotes a few pages to heterosexism and heterosexist language, his chapters on interpersonal relationships avoid the topic of bisexual, gay, lesbian, and queer relationships altogether. Mark Knapp and Anita Vangelisti’s (1992) interpersonal text is blatantly heterosexist. Queer sexuality of any sort is not mentioned in this text. Each chapter begins with a brief letter to “Dr. Knapp,” asking him about various aspects of romantic relationships. Upon close examination, these letters are either written by individuals in heterosexual, dyadic relationships or they are indeterminate. In other words, one cannot ascertain whether or not the author of a given letter is female or male, making it impossible to determine the nature of the relationship (i.e., hetero, homo, or queer). While the indeterminate status of the authors might be viewed as a suitable way of examining sexuality and gender, it is curious that the sex of these authors is unclear in some instances. A queer-affirming way of going about this would be to publish letters that are “clearly” non-heteronormative rather than taking the ambiguous approach through which, given the

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hegemony of heteronormativity, readers would likely read the letters as penned by heterosexuals. This might especially be the case given that Knapp and Vangelisti almost exclusively use heterosexual examples of interpersonal communication in the chapters dealing with sexual relationships. To the contrary, however, Julia Wood’s (2002) text is perhaps the best one I examined in terms of its fairly frank coverage of gay and lesbian issues, but it is still not without difficulties. Wood (2002) devotes sections of her text to gay and lesbian couples and various facets of interpersonal communication. However, her focus is mostly on couples in “committed relationships.” While Wood (2002) states in her introduction to the text, “this country, like many others, is enriched by a cornucopia of people, heritages, and customs, and ways of interacting” (p. ix), her coverage is disappointing, as she addresses heterosexual and homosexual relationships along conventional lines, and there is no mention of bisexuals, transgenders, or queers in the sections of her book that deal with sexual relationships. She does a solid job of describing “standard relationships,” but does not capture the diversity of sexual relationships in general. The last two texts I investigated are general texts on personal relationships. These are just a few of the ones that represent the general tone and content of what is available on the market. The treatment of queer relationships in both Dale Wright (1999) and Laura Guerrero, Peter Anderson, and Walid Alfifi (2001) approximates how queers are covered in the above-mentioned texts under review. In both of these books, gays and lesbians are afforded only a finite amount of space (see Wright, 1999, pp. 168, 242, and 259; Guerrero, Anderson, & Alfifi, 2001, pp. 173-175, and 285). Again, the discussion is ghettoized on a few pages. As with the other texts, gays and lesbians are referred to, but only in a way that does not disrupt the standard monogamous, dyadic relationship construction. These two books represent what Wood and Duck (1995) refer to as the literature that “. . . illustrate[s] the limited scope of existing research . . .” (p. 13). Overall, the general human sexuality texts and the interpersonal communication texts fail to include the diversity of “real life” relationships. Queer relationships per se are systematically erased. It is not whether or not authors mention or fail to mention gays and lesbians that is at issue. As revealed earlier, nearly all of the textbooks mention gay and lesbian relationships, but they have done so only insofar as discussing the kinds of homosexual relationships that approximate proper heterosexual unions. As Rubin (1993) says so eloquently, “Stable long-term lesbian and gay couples are verging on respectability, but the bar dykes and promiscuous gay men are hovering just above the groups at the very bottom of the pyramid” (p. 12) (e.g., sex hierarchy or the distant part of the outer limits). Homosexuality, then, approaches legitimacy only so far as it reflects “. . . middle-class conventional romantic norms” (Seidman, 1992, p. 11). It is clear that the works interrogated above are limited to coverage of a traditional, conservative style of relationship whether heterosexual or homosexual. In an age of political correctness, it is unfashionable to “bash” or

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otherwise be critical of queers outwardly, particularly in an academic context, but systematic erasure of various relational forms by limiting the discussion to the respectable forms of “queer” relationships serves, in part, as a form of containment as well as precluding a backdrop by which to call into question, dispute, or interrogate what and who are considered to be sexually and romantically respectable. This kind of rhetorical violence is baneful, disempowering, and downright harmful to those who have transgressive sexual lifestyles. We must not underestimate the damage this causes individually and collectively. Being marked as a social or sexual pariah is injurious to one’s mental well-being not only because of the ostracization that occurs but also because of the verbal and physical assaults that are suffered for being queer.

SOME NOTES FROM A SEX AND RELATIONSHIPS CLASS I taught Sex and Relationships, an undergraduate human sexuality studies and psychology course, at San Francisco State University from 1988 until 2001. Soon after this course was developed, hundreds of students enrolled. Each term nearly 500 students came to McKenna Theatre, the largest auditorium at S.F. State, to take Sex and Relationships. When I first taught this course back in the late 1980s and early 1990s, even though queer-identified, I unwittingly bought into–and dare I say reproduced and perpetuated–heteronormativity and attitudes derived from dominant culture in general. For instance, my lectures and assigned readings, although including various sexual perspectives, were imbued with assumptions and ultimately perpetuated such notions as: (1) a sexual relationship should constitute just two people, a couple; (2) long-term relationships were better than short-term ones; (3) nearly everyone was interested in sexual relationships that involve love and commitment; (4) the two individuals in a given relationship should be roughly the same age; (5) sexual expression in relationships should be limited mostly to “vanilla sex” (i.e., non-kinky); (6) white middle class values were the status quo to which we should all subscribe; (7) individuals should be in romantic/sexual relationships with those of the same ethnic and racial backgrounds; (8) conventional gender roles were, for the most part, a given; (9) stable heterosexual relationships were exemplars to be used as models for proper and ideal relationship development and maintenance; and (10) only able-bodied individuals participate in sexual relationships. In those days I stayed pretty close to teaching about relationships from the perspective of what Gayle Rubin has conceptualized as the charmed circle. I ventured a bit from the charmed circle, but never too far into the realm of the outer limits. After all, I was still heavily influenced by the philosophical underpinnings of Gay and Lesbian Studies and, in retrospect, I was into teaching the minoritizing view and assimilationist politics. And so other than the typical difficulties one encounters as a teacher, my Sex and Relationships classes back

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then were relatively uneventful. I considered them a success and so, too, did my students. All was well. From the mid-1990s on, the Sex and Relationships class was more eventful in the sense that I became a more radical teacher, in part as a result of reading in the areas of queer theory, critical cultural studies, and critical pedagogy. During the initial class meetings, it was always customary for me to ask, “So what does ‘sex’ mean to you?” and “When you think of a relationship, what images or thoughts come to mind?” When wrestling with the “sex” question, invariably, the first thing students referred to was sexual intercourse. This is not surprising given that most individuals view sexual intercourse as “real” sex and other sexual activities as ancillary to the “real thing” (namely penis-vagina fucking) as foreplay, or not sex at all (see Sanders & Reinisch, 1999). Given the historical legitimacy and advocacy of reproductive sexuality, it is not surprising that students blurted this out so quickly and with such conviction. I began interrogating their notion of the supremacy of intercourse. I invited them to participate in a critical discussion about the meanings ascribed to sex and sexualities, and the knowledge production process along hegemonic lines. The same was true when students used terms like the “opposite sex” without a second thought. I asked if females and males are opposite of one another biologically and/or psychologically. When such assertions were made, I used these instances as teachable moments. In the case of “opposite sex,” I introduced the notion that “opposite sex” was perhaps a social construction. I asked them about the implications of the social construction of “opposite sex” for their own sex lives. Also, I asked them about how the notion of “opposite sex” is related to the perpetuation of sexism. Many students resisted such an idea, and most proclaimed their “naturalistic” (biological essentialistic) explanations of sex and sexuality and had a difficult time hearing competing points of view. When asked about their ideas of what it meant to have a “successful” and “healthy” relationship, many students responded by listing attributes commonly associated with heterosexual marriages or relationships that approximate them (e.g., qualities mentioned earlier in terms of the charmed circle). As the semesters progressed, I systematically challenged their notions about what constituted a bona fide sexual relationship. I reminded them that there are a plethora of relationship forms and questioned the criteria for how one form of relationship is viewed as better, more sacred and blessed than another. I routinely asked them why a heterosexual relationship–or homosexual coupling, for that matter–that was monogamous and long-term was viewed as morally and socially superior to a three-way relationship that was open (as opposed to monogamous) and short term. While the possibility of having students discover a multitude of legitimate relational forms was exciting and felt worthwhile, these moments were often exhausting and met with resistance. The types of resistance I encountered were everything from apathy to hostile remarks such as “Why are you making this a gay course? You should be fair and not biased.” Of course I used these occasions to remind them of the ubiquitous

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societal heteronormativity, and that part of the mission of the course was to challenge this, and that heteronormativity attempts to homogenize heterosexual relationships, which is limiting to straight folks as well. Using queer theory to liberate heterosexuality from the confines of the charmed circle continues to be incredibly daunting to most folks. Most of the students appreciated the kind of cultural work all of us were doing in the course when we raised serious questions about conventional notions about sexuality, gender, and relationships. This was as difficult for me as it was for them. The price for going against the grain of dominant cultural beliefs and practices was hefty.

QUALITIES OF QUEER RELATIONSHIPS Queering relationships means thinking and acting outside of the traditional hetero-relational paradigm–for, after all, queer is antithetical to the kinds of boxes, borders, and oppressive qualities that have constituted the heteronormative model of relating. Queering relationships necessarily involves that such a traditional model be problematized, contested, and actively resisted. This does not mean that all of heterosexuality should be summarily attacked or made into the enemy as the oppressive force against queer sexualities and relationships in general. Rather, the main culprit is the oppressive qualities of heterosexuality that comprise the charmed circle, as conceptualized by Gayle Rubin. It is the perceived supremacy and elevated status, along with the resulting material and symbolic rewards that those who perform this brand of heterosexuality enjoy, that need to be interrogated. I am particularly concerned with how individuals get harmed by this form of heteromormativity and heterosexism. The obvious and subtle forms of this prejudice–emotional/psychological and physical–have been widely documented (see Blumenfeld, 1992; Rothblum & Bond, 1996; Sears & Williams, 1997). Using the tenets and sentiments of heteronormativity, some sexual Others, along with their conventional heterosexual counterparts, have joined in the chorus to perpetuate the grand narrative that reinforces and shapes what has been deemed to constitute normal, proper, and acceptable sexual relationships in the Western world. Simply put, a plethora of bisexuals, gays, lesbians, and transgenders are quite conservative about their sexual relationships and ultimately mimic the prescriptively dominant heterosexual norms. They can be just as dogmatic about relationship construction as the most conservative heterosexuals. Let’s face it, the notion of queer upsets the taken-for-granted assumptions about the solidity, fixity of sexual identity, identity politics, and assimilationism, to mention just a few longstanding facets of the politics of sexual minority life. In describing the conceptual flexibility of queer, Annamarie Jagose (1996) avers, “While there is no critical consensus on the definitional limits of queer–indeterminacy being one of its widely promoted charms–its general outlines are frequently sketched and debated” (p. 3). Queer theory destabilizes

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conventional thinking about sexuality and gender, and thus offers “a zone of possibilities” (Edelman, 1994, p. 114, as cited in Jagose, 1996, p. 2). Deploying queer in the spirit in which it has evolved over the last decade necessarily demands de facto that all forms of relationships be constantly questioned with the understanding that queer resists and ruptures the kinds of containment, complacency, and privilege those in culturally sanctioned relationships have enjoyed. It calls for individuals to be the architects of their own relationship construction, while at the same time employing the most rigorous self-reflexivity so as to avoid various and sundry manifestations of elitism, prejudice, and oppression that are byproducts of sex and relationship hierarchies. There are myriad possibilities in terms of relational forms and functions; furthermore, there is marked interest in exploring various options. There is . . . a wider reshaping of both heterosexual and non-heterosexual patterns of relationships, the transformation of inherited family patterns, and the emergence of . . . new ‘life experiments.’ These everyday experiments range across a variety of patterns, from couple relationships to what we call ‘families of choice’: flexible, informal and varied, but strong supportive networks of friends and lovers, often including families of origin. They provide the framework for the development of mutual care, responsibility and commitment for many non-heterosexual people–and indeed for many heterosexuals as well. (Weeks, Heaphy, & Donovan, 2001, p. 4) Some non-heterosexual relationship constructions and processes are occurring more openly at this time, in part due to societal changes, which have been appropriately termed experiments in living (Giddens, 1992, 1994). However, in many cases non-heterosexuals continue to use conventional “. . . language of family, which suggests continuity with traditional patterns, [but this] should not be allowed to obscure the emergence of an important change in the ecology of intimate life” (Weeks, Heaphy, & Donovan, 2001, p. 5). It should be noted that many same-sex marriages, or, for that matter, even domestic partnerships, do not qualify as queer relationships. These unions are frequently based along assimilationist lines (Yep, Lovaas, & Elia, 2003) and such an institutionalization of same-sex marriage normalizes (Warner, 1999) these individuals and relationships, which, in turn, is unequivocally antithetical to the queering process. As indicated earlier, queer relationships go against the grain of heteronormativity and heterosexist beliefs and practices. Queer relationships contest hegemony and boxiness/containment, and constantly call into question the ubiquitous essentialized notions about sexuality and gender. When one thinks about queer(ing) relationships, images of potentiality, expansiveness, plasticity, instability, and lability come to mind. To attempt to capture the innumerable types of queer relationships possible here presents a paradox and is, in fact, a conceptual trap. I could go on and on by listing and describing various con-

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figurations of relationships, such as threesomes, polyamorous/polyfidelity, SM, virtual, cross-ethnic, cross-generational, financially-based, short-term non-monogamous, fuck buddies, fetishistic, etc., but ultimately it would be another way of naming and containing such relationships. Clearly, there are countless types of relationships and various combinations of qualities that constitute queer relationships. It is truly staggering and impressive. It is impossible, and even unwise–in the spirit of queering–to attempt to provide an exhaustive list of the forms of queer relationships. Explicating the various functions queer relationships serve is also an impossible task. However, some functions include: sexual gratification, pair bonding, political activism, liberation from traditional gender roles, emancipation from traditional family structures, freedom from patriarchal ideologies and practices, being extricated from fixed notions about sexual identity, etc. A particular queer relationship might provide one of these functions or share several concomitantly. And it goes without saying that there are incalculable other functions as well. Between forms and functions, there are infinite possibilities for how queer relationships can be constructed and lived.

QUEER RELATIONSHIPS: ADVANTAGES AND POTENTIAL DISADVANTAGES The aforementioned functions of queer relationships reveal some advantages of having them. While it is not possible to discuss all of these in detail here, a brief description and analysis of a few advantages is in order. First, let’s turn to gender. Traditional gender roles are deeply engrained in us no matter what our sexual proclivities. For instance, heterosexuals could be informed by the tenets of queer theory and praxis and begin to erode the traditional gender system that is firmly in place in the majority of heterosexually oriented relationships. These traditional gender roles are often more oppressive (and patriarchal) than useful. Embracing queerness would allow individuals to reformulate their own sexual relationships along the gender and sexual lines that make more sense to them rather than automatically going along with the “cookie cutter” approach that has been in place for so long. Second, queering relationships has an emancipatory flavor in general and can potentially lead to having pleasurable, healthier, creative, and more equitable processes for individuals, various social networks, and families. On a larger scale, queering relationships can begin to address, if not serve as a corrective to, the social injustices that pervade our lives regarding the various sorts of sexual lifestyles and relationships we choose. This is important in general, but it is even more crucial to challenge the injustices from which disenfranchised individuals have suffered for hundreds of years. This means that classism, racism, sexism, and sexual prejudice (e.g., biphobia, homophobia, sex negativity, and transphobia) need to be exposed and challenged very di-

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rectly. Calling attention to the saliency of classism and racism regarding access and obstacles to choosing families, Kath Weston (1991) asserts, “There are constraints on any choice. Color, access to money, and social connections leave some people more constrained than others. . . . Race and racism, class and class pretensions, all go into the evaluative mix” (p. xv). Therefore, it is critical to be cognizant of the reality that some folks have more opportunities available to them than others in terms of being able to create queer romantic and sexual relationships. Sex, socio-economic class, ethnicity and race are significant factors to be taken into consideration. Simply put, for many marginalized individuals, creating and sustaining such relationships is an arduous task, if not seemingly impossible. This becomes yet another outrageous commentary about how omnipresent and deeply entrenched injustices are in U.S. society. The first step to ameliorate and ultimately eliminate such inequities is by “Developing a deep understanding of the forces of oppression and acting in the pursuit of social justice . . .” (Weber, 2001, p. 182). Queering relationships becomes part of the larger ideological commitment to dismantle brick by brick the oppressive forces of dominant cultural beliefs, expectations, and practices. Lynn Weber (2001) puts it best by declaring, The pursuit of social justice gives meaning to people’s lives. To derive meaning from the struggle for justice, we don’t have to bring about a revolution; we can plant together. By preparing the fields and planting the seeds together, we can live fulfilling lives even as we wait for the harvest. (p. 182) There is much potentiality in queering relationships; however, such a cultural project is not without its difficulties. For a theory that, indeed, has the promise of being truly revolutionary in the most theoretical and practical sense, it is not readily accessible. Echoing the sentiments of many, Medhurst and Munt (1997) claim that “whilst Queer Theory seems to have superseded Lesbian and Gay Studies nomenclature in the academy, we are disturbed by the elitism which has come to be associated with it, in spite of its originally inclusive political agenda . . . [It] has become a minority discourse institutionalized within academic and performance/art contexts” (p. xi). Others object to the term queer because its derogatory nature lingers and because using the term could incite violence (Jagose, 1996). Yet others believe that obscuring gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender identities is politically unwise. This is just a modest representation of the resistance some individuals–both scholars and non-scholars alike–have about queer theory and the usage of queer. At a very practical level, it could be extraordinarily difficult, if not downright disadvantageous, to be in a queer relationship. Queer thrives on blurring boundaries, being uncontained and unpredictable, and, at the same time, challenging dominant cultural norms regarding romantic and sexual relationships. This is quite a challenge. Another thing to consider is that a queer relationship

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would necessarily lack the “security” and “anchor” that are features of so many relationships. For some individuals, such a relationship construction would constantly keep them “on edge” and insecure. Such a radical departure from the usual, mainstream relationship construction could potentially disadvantage queers socially in terms of reputation, job security, custody rights of children, material benefits that are usually afforded to those in normalized relationships, and so on. In my view, queering relationships ultimately holds much promise in terms of liberating individuals from the constraints of heteronormativity, addressing inequities, contesting the status quo, redressing social injustices, and allowing for more creativity in relationship construction, in addition to all of the other advantages I referred to earlier. However, the realization of these advantages does not come without immediate costs at the personal and community levels. Many people believe that transforming the bisexual, gay, lesbian, and transgender identities/categories into the less distinct, all-encompassing, and borderless queer identity is problematic and downright misguided (Jagose, 1996). There is much pressure from both heterosexuals and non-heterosexuals to retain sexual identities and the resulting identity politics as they have been for decades. The bottom line is that there is hardly consensus about queering persons, relationships, or communities. There is a lot of angst that needs working through. In any event, it is a good thing that queer theory has served to shake up, disrupt, and deeply contest the hegemony and resulting oppression that has been a major feature of many of our lives.

THEORETICAL INTERVENTIONS AND POTENTIAL FUTURE DIRECTIONS Scholarly discourses about romantic and sexual relationships have largely ignored unconventional relationship styles. Indeed, one cannot deny that there is an ever-quickening and growing body of research on gay and lesbian relationships, but much of this employs models and methods used for studying traditional heterosexual unions. Scholarly work on queer relationships has been underrepresented and mostly conspicuously absent from the academic landscape. Addressing the problem head on, Wood and Duck (1995) assert, “Inquiry that probes relationships other than those historically studied may well require the development of new methods, theories, language, and interpretive lenses. This is to say, we cannot assume it is sufficient–or even appropriate–to use conventional frameworks to investigate understudied types of relationships” (pp. 20-21). The sub-field of interpersonal communication has continued to confine itself to the ideology of dominant culture (Fitch, 1994; Lannamann, 1991). This is exemplified earlier in this essay where I described and analyzed how authors of popular interpersonal textbooks have stayed squarely within the heteronormative framework when discussing romantic and

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sexual relationships. Lannamann (1991) puts it best when he declares, “the interpersonal field is at risk of reifying contemporary values and uncritically reproducing and legitimizing the relations of power that constitute the social order” (p. 179). This is a call-to-arms plea to implore scholars of interpersonal communication to critically examine their assumptions and break free from prevailing cultural ideologies and constructs. Queer theory is well positioned as a conceptual tool to inform interpersonal communication scholarship so as to avoid reproducing dominant and oppressive ideologies and paradigms. This would be a fruitful future direction.

CONCLUSION There is nothing new about queer relationships. After all, they have existed forever. The project or cultural work of queering relationships is mostly about legitimacy and wielding the conceptual tool of queer to question, contest, and deconstruct heteronormativity. The import of queer theory in this effort, in part, then, is to interrogate, challenge, and ultimately eradicate dominant cultural beliefs that are prescriptive. As we have seen, the kinds of marginalization–and sometimes complete systematic erasure–that heteronormativity produces are detrimental, and sometimes deadly, to those who are not in the charmed circle. In an effort to “level the playing field” and, therefore, dismantle the sexual relationship hierarchy to bring respectability and dignity to those who enjoy a plethora of queer sexual interactions (and at the same time dismantle the sex hierarchy), the values upon which we base our relationships should be given all due consideration. Many of the values that support the kind of narrow heteronormative relationship construction to which I have been referring in this piece derive from organized religion and are reproduced in any number of institutions. The idea of supplanting many of the values foisted on us by organized religion with secular values could begin to offer the kind of framework necessary to bring more equity to various sexual liaisons. Specifically, the values of trust, respect, honesty, empathy, playfulness, and attentiveness are important components of sexual relationships no matter what the construction or style of relationships (e.g., heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, queer, transgender, sadomasochistic, monogamous, non-monogamous, multiple partners, intergenerational, commercial, and other configurations). As Michael Ferguson (1999) notes, “Personal fulfillment, emotional bonding, sexual satisfaction, and happiness are important non-religious values for sexual relationships” (p. 190). It is not that these values will, or should, always be the foremost in relationships, but they are generally important when considering the necessary ingredients of fulfilling sexual relationships. Other assumptions we should consider abandoning are that monogamous relationships are better than non-monogamous ones, or that long-term relationships are better and healthier than short-term ones. These are just two ex-

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amples of assumptions that are often made about what qualities constitute respectable relationships. So, it is not just with whom one is having a relationship, in terms of it being categorized as heterosexual or queer, but the conditions of the relationship that should be taken into account. To queer relationships requires that these assumptions be challenged very directly. Abandoning heteronormative ways of thinking and acting requires that we consider the plethora of forces at work that reinforce and perpetuate the sex hierarchy that has been in place for so long. It is futile to tinker with a system that is so severely flawed and unjust. It is also imperative that we move away from the LGBT Studies perspective, which while making initial strides toward liberation and being well intentioned, perpetuates the minoritizing point of view rather than the emancipatory view that queer theories have brought to the proverbial table. In the end, we are talking about quality of life issues. Queers deserve to be treated with dignity and respect, and it would be beneficial to have heterosexuals and LGBT individuals be reflexive about their attitudes and practices. For this to be a reality we need to constantly challenge heteronormativity in all of its forms and the institutions that reify and perpetuate it. Those in the academy, it seems to me, have a moral and ethical responsibility to be inclusive when teaching and writing about sexuality and relationships. It is reprehensible that authors of human sexuality and interpersonal communication texts have not challenged the pervasive heterosexism and have uncritically reflected a narrow and unrepresentative sample of sexual relationships in their books. It also is important that scholars of interpersonal relationships employ new models and methods of studying sexual relationships that capture the diversity and begin to address issues of marginalization and injustice as well as call attention to the positive and fulfilling aspects of such relationships. Concepts from queer theories can be readily employed as praxis to create more justice and equity as far as sexual relationships are concerned.

REFERENCES Adams, M., Bell, L., & Griffin P. (Eds.). (1997). Teaching for diversity and social justice: A sourcebook. New York: Routledge. Arnstine, D. (1995). Democracy and the arts of schooling. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Beck, J. (1999). Should homosexuality be taught as an acceptable alternative lifestyle? A Muslim perspective: A response to Halstead and Lewicka. Cambridge Journal of Education, 29(1), 121-230. Bickmore, K. (1999). Why discuss sexuality in elementary school? In W. Letts & J. Sears (Eds.), Queering elementary education: Advancing the dialogue about sexualities and schooling (pp. 15-26). Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Blumenfeld, W. J. (Ed.). (1992). Homophobia: How we all pay the price. Boston: Beacon Press.

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Blumstein, P. & Schwartz, P. (1983). American couples: Money, work, and sex. New York: William Morrow. Brandt, A. (1987). No magic bullet: A social history of venereal disease in the United States since 1880. New York: Oxford University Press. Bullough, V. L. (1976). Sexual variance in society and history. New York: John Wiley & Sons. Bullough, V. L. & Bullough, B. (1995). Sexual attitudes: Myths and realities. Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books. Carroll, J. & Wolpe, P. (1996). Sexuality and gender in society. New York: HarperCollins Publishers. Crooks, R. & Baur, K. (2002). Our sexuality. (8th ed.) Pacific Grove, CA: Wadsworth. Daley, D. (1997). Exclusive purpose: Abstinence-only proponents create federal entitlement in welfare reform. SIECUS Report, 25(4), 3-8. D’Emilio, J. & Freedman, E. B. (1988). Intimate matters: A history of sexuality in America. New York: Harper & Row. DeVito, J. (2001). The interpersonal communication book. (9th ed.) New York: Addison Wesley Longman. Edelman, L. (1994). Homographesis: Essays in gay literary and cultural theory. New York: Routledge. Edwards, M. (1997). 88 million dollars for abstinence-only. SIECUS Report, 25(4), 2. Elia, J. P. (Ed.). (1999). Introduction: The complexities of sex and relationships. In J. P. Elia (Ed.), Sex and relationships: An anthology (pp. 1-8). Dubuque, IA: Kendall Hunt Publishers. Elia, J. P. (2000a). The necessity of comprehensive sexuality education in the schools. The Educational Forum, 64(4), 340-347. Elia, J. P. (2000b). Democratic sexuality education: A departure from sexual ideologies and traditional schooling. Journal of Sex Education and Therapy, 25(2/3), 122-129. Ferguson, M. (1999). God, values, and sexual relationships. In J. P. Elia (Ed.), Sex and relationships: An anthology (pp. 177-222). Dubuque, IA: Kendall Hunt Publishers. Fitch, K. L. (1994). Culture, ideology, and interpersonal communication research. In S. A. Deetz (Ed.), Communication yearbook 17 (pp. 104-135). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Foucault, M. (1978). History of sexuality, volume 1: An introduction (R. Hurley, Trans.). New York: Vintage Books. (Original work published 1976.) Giddens, A. (1992). The transformation of intimacy: Sexuality, love, and eroticism in modern societies. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press. Giddens, A. (1994). Beyond left and right: The future of radical politics. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press. Ginsberg, R. (1999). In the triangle and out of the circle: Gay and lesbian students facing the heterosexual paradigm. The Educational Forum, 64(1), 46-56. Greenberg, J., Bruess, C., & Haffner, D. (2000). Exploring the dimensions of human sexuality. Boston: Jones & Bartlett Publishers. Guerrero, L., Anderson, P., & Alfifi, W. (2001). Close encounters: Communicating in relationships. Mountain View, CA: Mayfield Publishers.

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Hyde, J. & DeLameter, J. (2000). Understanding human sexuality. (7th ed.) Boston: McGraw Hill. Jagose, A. (1996). Queer theory: An introduction. Washington Square, NY: New York University Press. Kantor, L. (1992). Scared chaste? Fear based educational curricula. SIECUS Reports, 21(2) 1-5. Katz, J. (1995). The invention of heterosexuality. New York: Plume. Kelly, G. (2001). Sexuality today: The human perspective. (7th ed.) Boston: McGraw Hill. King, B. M. (1999). Human sexuality today. (3rd ed.) Upper Saddle River, NJ: Prentice Hall. Knapp, M. & Vangelisti, A. (1992). Interpersonal communication and human relationships. (2nd ed.) Boston: Allyn and Bacon. Kumashiro, K. K. (Ed.). (2001). Troubling intersections of race and sexuality: Queer students of color and anti-oppressive education. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Lannamann, J. W. (1991). Interpersonal communication research as ideological practice. Communication Theory, 1(3), 179-203. Laumann, E., Gagnon, J., Michael, R., & Michaels, S. (1994). The social organization of sexuality. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Leck, G. M. (1999). Afterword. In W. Letts & J. Sears (Eds.), Queering elementary education: Advancing the dialogue about sexualities and schooling (pp. 257-262). Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Leonard, A. S. (1993). Sexuality and the law: An encyclopedia of major legal cases. New York & London: Garland Publishing. Letts, W. & Sears, J. (Eds.). (1999). Queering elementary education: Advancing the dialogue about sexualities and schooling. New York: Rowman & Littlefield. Lipkin, A. (1999). Understanding homosexuality, changing schools: A text for teachers, counselors, and administrators. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Lovaas, K. E., Baroudi, L., & Collins, S. M. (2002). Transcending heteronormativity in the classroom: Using queer and critical pedagogies to alleviate trans-anxieties. Journal of Lesbian Studies, 6(3/4), 177-190. McKay, A. (1999). Sexual ideology and schooling: Towards democratic sexuality education. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Medhurst, A. & Munt, S. A. (Eds.). (1997). Lesbian and gay studies: A critical introduction. London & Washington: Cassell. Petchesky, R. (1985). Abortion and women’s choice. Boston: Northeastern University Press. Queen, C. & Schimel, L. (Eds.). (1997). Pomosexuals: Challenging assumptions about gender and sexuality. San Francisco: Cleis Press. Rothblum, E. D. & Bond, L. A. (Eds.). (1996). Preventing heterosexism and homophobia. Thousand Oaks: Sage. Rubin, G. (1993). Thinking sex: Notes for a radical theory of the politics of sexuality. In H. Abelove, M. A. Barale, & D. M. Halperin (Eds.), The lesbian and gay studies reader (pp. 3-44). New York: Routledge.

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Sanders, S. A. & Reinisch, J. M. (1999, January 20). Would you say you had sex if . . . ? Journal of the American Medical Association, 281(3), 275-277. Sears, J. T. & Williams, W. L. (Eds.). (1997). Overcoming heterosexism and homophobia: Strategies that work. New York: Columbia University Press. Seidman, S. (1991). Romantic longings: Love in America, 1830-1980. New York & London: Routledge. Seidman, S. (1992). Embattled eros: Sexual politics and ethics in contemporary America. New York & London: Routledge. Stewart, J. & Logan, C. (1998). Together: Communicating interpersonally. (5th ed.) Boston: McGraw Hill. Tiefer, L. (1995). Sex is not a natural act & other essays. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Vidal, G. (1983). Second American revolution. New York: Vintage Books. Warner, M. (1999). Normal and normaller: Beyond gay marriage. GLQ, 5(2), 119-171. Weber, L. (2001). Understanding race, class, gender, and sexuality: A conceptual framework. Boston: McGraw Hill. Weeks, J., Heaphy, B., & Donovan, C. (2001). Same-sex intimacies: Families of choice and other life experiments. London & New York: Routledge. Weston, K. (1991). Families we choose. New York: Columbia University Press. Wood, J. (2002). Interpersonal communication: Everyday encounters. (3rd ed.) Pacific Grove, CA: Wadsworth. Wood, J. & Duck, S. (Eds.). (1995). Off the beaten track: New shores for relationship research. In J. T. Wood & S. Duck (Eds.). Under-studied relationships: Off the beaten track (pp. 1-21). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Wright, D. (1999). Personal relationships: An interdisciplinary approach. Mountain View, CA: Mayfield Publishers. Yep, G. A. (2002). From homophobia and heterosexism to heteronormativity: Toward the development of a model of queer interventions in the university classroom. Journal of Lesbian Studies, 6(3/4), 163-176. Yep, G. A., Lovaas, K. E., & Elia, J. P. (2003). A critical appraisal of assimilationist and radical ideologies underlying same-sex marriage in LGBT communities in the United States. Journal of Homosexuality 45(1), 45-64.

Speaking to Silence: Toward Queering Nonverbal Communication Karen E. Lovaas, PhD San Francisco State University

SUMMARY. The majority of nonverbal communication research and pedagogy reproduces heterosexist and sexist ideologies, normalizing and naturalizing gender and sexual binaries, and sanctioning an exceedingly narrow range of gendered and sexualized subjects, practices, and relationships. This essay proposes that nonverbal communication scholarship and pedagogy need to address these issues. First, I provide a brief summary of the history of the field of nonverbal communication. Second, I critique the conspicuous absence of the queer subject, the rigid essentialism, and the pervasive heterosexism in nonverbal communication textbooks in particular. Finally, I discuss three examples of communication research that avoid these pitfalls and herald what queering nonverbal communication might look like. [Ar-

ticle copies available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.]

Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Speech and Communication Studies, San Francisco State University, 1600 Holloway Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94132 (E-mail: [email protected]). The author greatly appreciates the care taken by two reviewers who supplied helpful feedback on an earlier draft of this paper. [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Speaking to Silence: Toward Queering Nonverbal Communication.” Lovaas, Karen E. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 87-107; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 87-107. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_04

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KEYWORDS. Communication, heteronormativity, heterosexism, nonverbal communication, queer theory, sexual identity Whatever is unnamed, undepicted in images, whatever is omitted from biography, censored in collections of letters, whatever is misnamed as something else, made difficult-to-come-by, whatever is buried in the memory by the collapse of meaning under an inadequate or lying language–this will become, not merely unspoken, but unspeakable. –Adrienne Rich (1976, p. 199, author’s italics) Silence can have a variety of functions, such as creating interpersonal distance, showing respect for others, punishing others, and avoiding embarrassment for others. –Virginia P. Richmond and James C. McCroskey (2000, pp. 323-324) Silences also clearly function to mark episode and position boundaries, often closing topics participants are no longer interested in pursuing. –Judee Burgoon, David B. Buller, and W. Gill Woodall (1996, p. 352) If all communication were limited to the linguistic, the body, aside from the vocal sounds and hand movements recognized as constituting symbol systems, would be considered a silent realm. But we do understand the body as speaking via other means as well, through nonverbal messages. And silence itself, as the last two quotations above, taken from two textbooks used in many undergraduate courses in nonverbal communication, assert, may convey a wide range of meanings and perform assorted functions. The field of nonverbal communication has been largely silent regarding sexualities other than heterosexuality. How should we read these silences on queer subjects, queer relationships, queer discourses? With the words of Adrienne Rich in mind, we may ask whether queer realities are left “merely unspoken” or if they are, within the ways of knowing that constitute most nonverbal communication scholarship, “unspeakable.” In this essay, after describing my interest in writing on the subject of queering nonverbal communication, I provide a short summary of the history of the field of nonverbal communication, critique the conspicuous absence of the queer subject, the essentialism, and the pervasive heterosexism in nonverbal textbooks in particular, and look at a few excellent examples of communication research that avoid these pitfalls. I conclude with some thoughts on future possibilities for research and teaching in nonverbal communication from a critical and queer perspective.

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ENTERING NONVERBAL COMMUNICATION TERRITORY While working on a master’s degree in Speech and Communication Studies at one of my alma maters, San Francisco State University, in the late 1970s, I took the Nonverbal Communication course taught by Sally Gearhart and Pat Hunt. My primary focus in the program was gender and communication; I took this particular undergraduate class more from of a desire to work with these professors than from a strong interest in the subject matter. What has remained with me from that class, aside from the fine model of co-teaching–an option that, sadly, is rarely available to professors these days–was the opportunity afforded us in that academic setting to reflect on, better appreciate, and talk about our experience of our bodies. One memorable day our assignment was to come to class having clad ourselves and otherwise arranged our appearance so as to be unlike how our classmates and instructors had previously seen us, an activity that may now be common in introductory courses in nonverbal communication. Both in the prior decision-making, planning, and preparation process, and as we appraised and interacted with each other in the classroom, I remember feeling playful, nervous, curious, serious, and surprised by turns. What was I opening up in myself and revealing to others? What would we newly see in each other and how might the others respond to this version? Though most of us, as I recall, did not make overt shifts between presentations of gender or sexuality, I noticed that gender seemed to shift in some ways, regardless of the transformation enacted. I had heard of “female impersonation” shows in San Francisco but had never before considered that various ways in which I assembled and dis-sembled myself constituted a drag performance. It was all wonderful. The classroom, I concluded, might be a place where mind and body worked–and, more radical, played–in synchrony, furthering understanding and opening possibilities. Fast forward to spring 2000 and I was about to teach nonverbal communication, in that very department. Though nonverbal communication was not a specific focus of my master’s or doctoral work, my research, teaching, and consulting work have dealt with several subjects related to nonverbal communication. For example, my dissertation, entitled Waging Hormones (1993), analyzed the surge in public attention to the “premenstrual syndrome” in the U.S. in the 1980s; it included studying decades of menstrual cycle research and the contemporary popular discourses on PMS, as well as interviews with women regarding their experiences of their menstrual cycles. I was, and am, fascinated by the ways that we talk about the role of hormones in our lives and the relationships we see between hormones, emotions, behaviors, gender, and sexuality. Some of these are continuing themes in my research program. It was my sense that I might bring some of the thinking and work I had done related to gender, culture, sexuality, and critical theory to the nonverbal communication course in our department. So when the customary professor for the nonverbal

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communication course, Pat Hunt, was on a richly deserved leave, I offered to teach the class. I began searching for materials, first to substantially update and enrich my knowledge of the field, and then to select course readings. I was excited about the prospects of applying feminist, critical, multicultural, queer perspectives to the subject. I searched eagerly to see what had been happening within the communication discipline and who was doing critical work in nonverbal communication. These efforts included posting to Crtnet News, the National Communication Association’s listserv, asking if listserv participants knew of anyone doing critical work in nonverbal communication. A couple of people quickly responded, asking that if I find anything I share the wealth with them. Then, fortunately, I heard from Eric Peterson at the University of Maine. Dr. Peterson, whose published work has focused on media consumption, sexism, racism, and personal narrative, also has been striving to integrate critical approaches in his undergraduate course in nonverbal communication. In a series of e-mails, he told me about using semiotics as the theoretical foundation for the class; we agreed that there is a need for more work from critical, queer, and multicultural perspectives. Aside from his helpful advice, I found nothing on approaches to teaching nonverbal communication that diverge from the assumptions and methodologies of traditional social science, and a total of three articles in communication journals that consider nonverbal communication from a queer field of vision. If a nonverbal communication class is a popular offering in departments of communication, it is also widely perceived as a lesser light or distant, slightly embarrassing relative. Richmond and McCroskey speak to this: “Nonverbal communication is the area of communication that simultaneously receives the most positive response from students and the most negative response from some professors in other areas of the field and some outside the communication discipline” (2000, p. xi). They surmise that the main culprits for this state of affairs are, first, that popularized versions on mass market bookshelves “often over-generalize research findings, and such generalizations too often find their way into nonverbal communication classrooms” (2000, p. xi). Among the popular works on nonverbal communication, most cited is Julius Fast’s immensely popular Body Language, which appeared on the New York Times bestseller list for twenty weeks after first being published in 1970 and is out in a new edition in 2002. Following it have come many others with titles such as How to read a person like a book (1973); Signals: How to use body language for power, success, and love (1984); Secrets of sexual body language (1996); Reading people: How to understand people and predict their behavior–anytime, anyplace (1999); and, Male body language that attracts women (2000). Numerous Internet sites offer nonverbal solutions to sales people and men seeking women, for example, see http://nonverbal-sales-seminars. com for a “Nonverbal Sales Seminar” that “can help increase sales, boost your closing rate, improve productivity and give you an edge” (Gant & Donald

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Communications, Inc.) and http://www.sosuave.com for “Using Body Language to Attract Women” where one may “Learn how to use body language and nonverbal communication to meet, date and attract women” (The Don Juan Center). Second, Richmond and McCroskey concede that “many nonverbal communication classes were developed as virtually content-free experiential courses” (2001, p. xi). I am not privy to the evidence on which they base this observation but can confirm that one may readily locate a plethora of exercises and activities for use in the nonverbal communication classroom, none of which, as I recall, acknowledge queer subjects. I come to the task of considering how nonverbal communication currently addresses the queer subject and how queer theory might inform nonverbal research without extensive training in quantitative social science methods in general, or in nonverbal communication theory and research in particular. After reflecting on my experience in teaching an undergraduate class in nonverbal communication and conducting a modest survey of nonverbal texts, books, and journal articles from within the field of communication as well as from other disciplines, I am dismayed by and deeply concerned about the absence of the queer subject in this research and the impact this “silent message” sends to our students. As Sally Gearhart eloquently recalls (Foreword, this volume), and Heinz (2002) and Yep (this volume) succinctly summarize, we have been asking and have asked for some twenty years to take account of sexual diversity in our work, to account for ourselves, our colleagues, our students. How far have we come? I am also optimistic about what may be learned from existing critical and queer exemplars, only a few of which are found in contemporary communication scholarship but a rapidly expanding number of which exist in several sister fields.1

THE HISTORY OF THE STUDY OF NONVERBAL COMMUNICATION If one includes the early elocutionists, the study of nonverbal communication dates back to the work of Roman orators Cicero and Quintilian. The notion that one’s physical delivery should be highly calculated for maximum effect is a continuing theme in some areas of communication and given the most attention in speaking and performance classes, though the subject is now addressed in less elaborate and uniform fashion. A contemporary textbook for either a “hybrid” class introducing the student to the field of communication or a class focusing on public speaking will typically have a single chapter devoted to what are considered important elements of presenting oneself to and engaging one’s audience through use of one’s voice and body. Texts and classes in nonverbal communication are more likely to trace the field back to studies of animal behavior, often as far back as Darwin’s 1872 study, The Expression of Emotions in Man and Animals, through human ethol-

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ogy, biology, primatology, zoology, sociobiology, and evolutionary psychology. Similarities between human and animal species are highlighted, with the source of most nonverbal human communication often explained as arising from more primitive, instinct-based parts of the brain. Other disciplines of study prominently featured in capsule summaries of the field’s development are from anthropology (e.g., Birdwhistle, 1952, 1970; Hall, 1959, 1960, 1966, 1976, 1984), psychiatry (e.g., Ruesch & Kees, 1956), psychology (e.g., Mehrabian, 1971, 1972; Ekman, Friesen, & Ellsworth, 1972; Ekman & Friesen, 1969, 1975), and sociology (e.g., Goffman, 1959, 1963a, 1963b, 1967). There are two extremely disparate foundations for the field, then, which reflect very different assumptions about the human subject. In Burkean terms, these are: our nonverbal communication is largely unconscious motion, emerging from our animality, versus our nonverbal communication reflects human symbolic action and may be highly calculated for maximal persuasive effect (Burke, 1966). Animality appears to have won out in much of the nonverbal research. The only scholarly journal devoted to research on nonverbal communication is the interdisciplinary Journal of Nonverbal Behavior, which began as Environmental Psychology and Nonverbal Behavior in 1976 and changed to its current title in 1979. The journal presents original theoretical and empirical research on all major areas of nonverbal behavior. Specific topics include paralanguage, proxemics, facial expressions, eye contact, face-to-face interaction, and nonverbal emotional expression, as well as other subjects which contribute to the scientific understanding of nonverbal processes and behavior. (http://www. kluweronline.com/issn/0191-5886) Human Communication Research, which publishes a broader scope of positivistic communication research, frequently includes nonverbal communication; otherwise, articles on this subject appear more often in the journals of other fields, such as social psychology. There is no nonverbal communication division or interest group in either the National Communication Association (NCA) or the International Communication Association (ICA). Programs regarding nonverbal communication most often appear within interpersonal communication or language and social interaction, and, occasionally, within semiotics. NCA is the larger of the two organizations, with about twice as many members. Each year NCA hosts an annual convention, an event described on its Website as “the leading outlet for the discipline’s scholarship” (National Communication Association). A search of the 2002 NCA convention program found that out of a total of 1,163 program sessions (not including business meetings), there were sixteen entries including the term “nonverbal,” six of which are entire program sessions. Three of these programs deal with teaching nonverbal communication, one discusses applications of nonverbal communication to reducing communica-

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tion apprehension, another involves analyzing the use of nonverbal cues in a videotaped portion of a meeting. The last of these six appears to stand out as a less traditional example of research on nonverbal communication within the communication discipline; sponsored by the Religious Communication Association, this session considers “The Role of Non-Verbal ‘Rhetoric’ in Religious Worship Practices.” The entries in this program are some of the few that deal in some fashion with nonverbal aspects of communication between members of different racial/ethnic, linguistic, and religious communities. Using the search terms “space” and “body,” for two topics subsumed by nonverbal communication, yields very different results, including, at last, this entry that joins nonverbal communication with sexuality: Mardi Gras and Communication: Issues of the Body, Sexuality, and Public/Private Spaces. It would take a far more thorough review of the literature to ascertain the trends within the field, including the quantity of research overall, variations within and between disciplines, new directions, interests, and approaches.2 My impression, based on preparing to teach a nonverbal communication class in 2000 as well as database searches and looking through issues of Journal of Nonverbal Behavior and Human Communication Research of the last few years in preparation for this article, is that while the sex of participants continues to be included as a factor in quite a few studies published in scholarly periodicals such as the Journal of Nonverbal Behavior, there seem to be many fewer studies focusing on gender than in the 1970s and 1980s. The terms gender and sex are still used interchangeably and constructed as binaries arising from immutable biological foundations, established on the basis of anatomical and genetic differences at birth. Sexuality is almost entirely absent–a search of the empirical research on nonverbal communication in the last decade yielded two studies (Ambady, Hallanan, & Conner, 1999; Le Poire, 1994). The view from the world of nonverbal communication textbooks is even less encouraging.

THE STRAIGHT AND NARROW: GENDER AND SEXUALITY IN NONVERBAL COMMUNICATION TEXTBOOKS Although I have not systematically surveyed the popular texts used in other undergraduate communication courses, I have been teaching long enough to have seen the texts related to gender and communication, intercultural communication, and the introductory communication courses begin to acknowledge that not all same-sex relationships are friendships, not all cross-sex relationships are sexual, not all people identify themselves, their communities, or their practices as straight; further, that as one’s sexuality always “intersects” with other social identities, every grouping based on sex is diverse rather than homogeneous. Since I was a student in a nonverbal communication course, I

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have seen the coverage–and sometimes the integration–of cultural and sexual diversity and the incorporation of critical approaches to scholarship expand substantially. Julia Wood’s texts, Communication in our lives, for a fundamentals communication course, and Gendered lives, for example, have been expanding in each new edition in their integration of culture, gender, and, more slowly, sexuality, and class. For classes in intercultural communication, Martin and Nakayama’s Intercultural communication in contexts (2000) and the accompanying anthology with Flores, Reading in intercultural communication (2002), stand out among the textbooks in this area because they discuss the central roles of power and history in communication, integrate critical and interpretive research as well as functionalist, and include representations of reciprocal relationships between sexual orientation and other identity formations. Cultures and identities are not conceived of as static possessions that influence communication processes; rather, they are understood as constructions produced within specific sets of historical conditions, sites of shifting subjectivities and multiple discourses. If the first contact that a college student has with the subject of nonverbal communication is in the communication classroom, it is extremely likely that she or he will leave that classroom with the impression that all nonverbal scholarship is empirical and that queer subjects, bodies, gazes, spaces, and relationships either are unknown to nonverbal researchers or have been intentionally discursively erased by them. The textbooks used in nonverbal communication courses typically make not one reference to any variety of person or experience other than heterosexual. Not surprisingly, the word heterosexual rarely appears either; heterosexuality is the unmarked, presumed to be universal category of sexuality. I first noted this absence, and by its absence, message, when I was previewing texts to use in teaching nonverbal communication. In preparing this essay, I went back to take another look at and review the popular nonverbal communication texts published within the last ten years: Burgoon, Buller, and Woodall (1996), Leathers (1997), Remland (2000), Richmond and McCroskey (2000), and Knapp and Hall (1997, 2002), as well as the only reader on the subject, edited by Guerrero, DeVito, and Hecht (1999).3 Assessing the field of nonverbal communication solely on the basis of the coverage of queer subjects and relationships in the textbooks used in the majority of classes within communication departments, it is difficult to imagine a more egregious example of heterosexism within the discipline. As Eric Peterson pointed out to me, the index of the latest edition of the Knapp and Hall (2002) text has two listings for “sexual orientation,” one summarizing research measuring one’s skillfulness in identifying others’ sexual orientation and the other reporting on a 1965 study on pupil dilation of male homosexuals looking at photos of men. This doubles the previous edition’s (Knapp & Hall, 1997) single listing for a discussion of whether men–read straight men–avoid most same-sex touch because of “homophobic attitudes and the fear that touching

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will be seen as homosexual” (p. 302). The terms “lesbian,” “gay,” “bisexual,” “transgender,” “queer,” and “homosexual” do not appear in the index of either edition. Some of the articles in The Nonverbal Communication Reader (Guerrero, DeVito, & Hecht, 1999) specify that research participants are heterosexual and one (Guerrero & Andersen, 1999) also acknowledges that “social norms may prevent [gay and lesbian couples] from touching each other as much [as heterosexual couples] in certain public environments” (p. 209). The authors go on to express their feeling that “It would also be interesting to see how touch initiation is accomplished in gay and lesbian relationships,” hypothesizing that in contrast with heterosexual relationships, in which “social rules dictate that the man should initiate the first tactile move,” “a more symmetrical pattern of touch initiation may occur” in gay and lesbian relationships (p. 209). Nonverbal textbooks do consider other social identities such as culture, a term which may be used to designate groupings such as races, continents, and nationalities; an inset “applications” box in Burgoon, Buller, and Woodall (1996, p. 225), headed “East Meets West,” contrasts nonverbal behaviors of Japanese with those of U.S. Americans and Western Europeans. Perhaps gender and cultural identities are assumed to be more easily and accurately discerned by others than are sexual identities, an important consideration for research methodologies involving “neutral” observers. If sexual identity is not perceived as immediately visible, it is no less essential a category than sex, as the example from Guerrero and Anderson (1999) above indicates. When referenced, gay and lesbian subjects behave in particular ways due to their sexual orientation. While sex is sometimes considered in the context of other status relationships and culture, sexuality alone may be sufficiently powerful to drive “homosexual” behavior. “Sex differences” in nonverbal communication is a subject addressed in every nonverbal communication textbook, whether in a separate chapter on “female-male” communication (Andersen, 1999; Hickson, III, & Stacks, 1993; Leathers, 1997; Richmond & McCroskey, 2000) or discussed in relation to specific nonverbal channels or functions (Burgoon, Buller, & Woodall, 1996; Knapp & Hall, 1997, 2002). In discussing how gender is discussed in nonverbal communication texts, I make three main points: 1. There are two sexes and they are defined as opposites. 2. Sex determines gender. 3. Gender (and, therefore, also sex) determines sexual behaviors. The phrase “the opposite sex” is ubiquitous in all of these texts, is not used in quotation marks, and is not qualified in any way. It appears to map a human verity but instead masks an evolution in meaning, a set of moves supported by the sciences that established the belief that women and men are antithetical and males superior (Laqueur, 1986; Lovaas, 1993; Martin, 1987). Historian

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Thomas Laqueur demonstrates that the emphasis on differences between the sexes occurred as a result not of breakthroughs in science but of “new ways of representing and indeed of constituting social realities” (1986, p. 4). “You may think that differences between men and women are too obvious to require discussion,” is the opening sentence of a section on gender identity in one text (Burgoon, Buller, & Woodall, 1996, p. 232). The same text labels a discussion of “some effects of gender differences in nonverbal communication” (p. 239) as “Applications: Nonverbal Battle of the Sexes” (p. 240). The information contained therein begins with the statement that “Gender differences are interesting and often humorous, but in actual practice, they can cause tension in male-female conversations” (Burgoon, Buller, & Woodall, 1996, p. 240). Note how the discourse of incommensurability of the sexes is linked in these examples, slyly and simultaneously, to notions as disparate as “battle” and humor. I hear echoes of the comic’s hackneyed refrain, “Women: you can’t live with ’em, you can’t live without ’em.” Also note how the terms sex and gender are often used interchangeably. Accompanying the term gender in the subject index of one text is simply the note “See Sex” (Knapp & Hall, 1997, p. 494). Some texts define the two terms (e.g., Andersen, 1999; Richmond & McCroskey, 2000) along the lines of the widely used “sex is biology, gender is culture”: Sex is the biological and genetic difference between girls and boys, men and women. In other words, this is the biological sex we are born with. Anatomically, sex is expressed in the sexual organs of men and women, which are distinct for each. Gender is the psychological, social and cultural manifestations of what people perceive to be the appropriate behaviors of females and males. These manifestations may or may not be representative of a person’s biological sex. In other words, not all men exhibit the stereotypical cues of the masculine men. Not all women exhibit the stereotypical cues of the feminine woman. Some men will have a feminine or responsive side and some women will have a masculine or assertive side. Therefore, this chapter will focus upon the nonverbal, possibly biological, sex differences between females and males; this chapter will also focus on the nonverbal gender differences and similarities between females and males. (Richmond & McCroskey, 2000, p. 237) If you look up sex differences in the subject index of this text, you will find the page numbers coinciding with the length of the entire chapter, which is titled, by the way, “Female-Male Nonverbal Communication.” Under gender differences in the index, it says, “See specific topics” (p. 353). I chose the topic “facial behavior” and found two entries for gender differences, related to public expression of grief (p. 82) and perception of TV spokesperson trustworthiness (p. 88). These then are presented as examples of differences related to social

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messages regarding behavioral expectations of women and men. But under sex differences in facial behavior, we are referred to pages within the “Female and Male Nonverbal Communication” chapter, a section titled “Face and Eye Behavior” that begins with a discussion of cultural messages about appropriate facial expressions for men and women. The section ends with “In summary, women and men differ in their use of eye behavior. The differences in large part are due to the cultural stereotypes of how males and females should behave” (Richmond & McCroskey, 2000, p. 246). I am confused. Though I have been informed that the “three theoretical explanations for why males and females develop different nonverbal behavior . . . are genetics, modeling, and conditioning or reinforcement” (p. 237), no evidence of “sex differences” has been provided here. Despite the tension caused by gender differences mentioned previously, and the statements above that gender manifestations are not always congruent with sex, this text warns that straying far from traditional norms is not advisable: Some individuals . . . find these [sex role] norms to be an impediment to their full development as men or women. They see each of the stereotyped gender roles as representing only half a person. Unfortunately, the solution advanced is as bad as the problem. Females sometimes attempt to assume the behavior role of males or males that of females. All that is accomplished in such attempts is to exchange one half a person for the other half, and the new half usually does not work as well as the old one did. There are situations that call for the male to be responsive and situations that call for the female to be assertive. One should remember that the traditional roles developed because they were functional in some ways. There will remain situations where males should be assertive and females should be responsive. (Richmond & McCroskey, 2000, p. 258) Though the authors “hasten to note that [they] are not advocating the desirability of such stereotypical gender-role identifications (after all, the senior author of this book is female!)” (p. 240), and while they stop short of explicit condemnation of individuals who do not conform to behaviors maintaining traditional, conservative prescriptions of sex, gender, and sexuality, the message is clear: females and males are inherently different and deviations from this natural condition are abnormal. What do the authors believe to be the “behavior role” best suited to a male or a female? What functions do the authors believe the traditional roles were developed in order to support? What meanings spin out from the logic of an “assertive” vs. “responsive” dichotomy in the contexts of family roles, workplace roles, roles in sexual interactions? Numerous statements in all of the texts convey the assumption that sex and/or gender leads to specific nonverbal behaviors, often without reference to any context: “For a woman, smiling is an interactional phenomenon, whereas

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for a man, it is an emotional expression” (Burgoon, Buller, & Woodall, 1996, p. 236). A newspaper article selected for inclusion in The Nonverbal Communication Reader (Pothier, 1999) asserts that in the case of this particular behavior, nothing could intervene as, “Women smile regardless” (p. 80). Despite–or perhaps because of?–this eternal visage, the psychology professor who presented the research meriting this conclusion at an International Primatological Association meeting notes that a potential application of this study is “that you can change the behavior of males in all-male groups–which is often boorish, crude, and insensitive–by adding the presence of a woman” (Pothier, 1999, p. 80). Besides this sounding like a heavy responsibility to place on a woman’s shoulders, one should perhaps be concerned about the sexual tensions likely to arise in this scenario. Richmond and McCroskey open their chapter on “Female-Male Nonverbal Communication” with a description of two four-year-old children of similar size walking down a street, one of whom “moves with a swagger,” while the other “sways down the street” (2000, p. 236). If we have surmised that the sex of the former is male and the latter child is female, it is because we are aware that “males tend to exhibit a typical male walk and females tend to exhibit a typical female walk” (2000, p. 236). Here the authors link a belief that anatomical differences produce styles of movement unique to each sex with complementary adult gender role prescriptions. Towards the end of the same chapter in a table summarizing “some of the more important distinctions” (2000, p. 251) between the nonverbal communication of females and males, behaviors “performed primarily by the female” are listed across from those “performed primarily by the male” (2000, p. 251). (No corollary table of important behavioral similarities is provided.) The only information regarding the context in which these behaviors occur is provided in the title of the table: “Nonverbal Behaviors in Female-Male Communication” (2000, p. 251). Examples include: “lowers eyes” vs. “stares”; “smiles” vs. “frowns”; “moves out of the way of his space/yields space” vs. “moves in on her space”; “accepts touch” vs. “initiates touch”; “bats eyelashes” vs. “initiates looks”; “cuddles” vs. “strokes”; and “leans into” vs. “leans over” (2000, p. 251). Clearly, the sexes are defined both in relation to one another and in presumed relationship with one another. Combining the behaviors in each list creates a composite picture of stereotypically gendered individuals in a stereotypically heterosexualized dance. All of the coupling by couples, with the exceptions noted above, is heterosexual. Fortunately for heterosexual men, “females are comparatively unconcerned with the attractiveness of men,” at least according to the 1970s studies cited in one article (Daly, Hogg, Sacks, Smith, & Zimring, 1999, p. 57). Relationships are long-term or failed: “Interpersonal relationships do not materialize instantly; they develop gradually. Some remain stunted, some grow to maturity, some stagnate, and some dissolve” (Burgoon, Buller, & Woodall, 1996, p. 298; see Elia, this volume, for an analysis of the sexual relationship hi-

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erarchy reproduced in interpersonal communication textbooks). Long-term relationships are marriages. Terms that continue to be used in much of the nonverbal research on relational communication are “courtship,” “courtship behavior,” “courtship ritual.” Courtship is the prelude to marriage, the only or at least the primary form of committed relationship. This is not said in so many words, it is in the absence of counterexamples (Hickson, III, & Stacks, 1993) and the presence of other clues. For example, wedding and engagement rings are key “tie-signs” for couples (Hecht & Guerrero, 1999, p. 37). Courtship rituals may fail to provide adequate information to lead to heterosexual couples who are well-matched in terms of physical affection and desire for sex. According to Richmond and McCroskey (2000), “Women may engage in more self-touching in order to fulfill their need for touch. Women who marry touch-resistant men will often engage in sexual relations in order to be held and cuddled” (p. 156). The textbooks examined here all, to varying degrees, reinforce notions that sex, gender and sexuality are natural binaries, leaving no room for queer subjectivities and relationships to even be imagined. What would nonverbal communication scholarship look like if gender categories and the homosexuality/heterosexuality binary were de-naturalized? How might researchers conceptualize queer identities and express queer desires? In the next section, I discuss three examples of communication research de-centering hegemonic heterosexuality.

QUEERING NONVERBAL COMMUNICATION To queer nonverbal communication does not mean simply to include subjects who identify as gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, transsexual, or intersexed in the same kinds of studies presently done, treating them as members of homogeneous groups whose sexuality is a factor influencing their communication practices: Broadly speaking, queer describes those gestures or analytical models which dramatise incoherencies in the allegedly stable relations between chromosomal sex, gender and sexual desire. Resisting that model of stability–which claims heterosexuality as its origin, when it is more properly its effect–queer focuses on mismatches between sex, gender and desire. . . . Whether as transvestite performance or academic deconstruction, queer locates and exploits the incoherencies in those three terms which stabilise heterosexuality. Demonstrating the impossibility of any “natural” sexuality, it calls into question even such apparently unproblematic terms as “man” and “woman” (Jagose, 1996, p. 3)

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As we have seen, the vast majority of nonverbal communication scholarship is based on a stable model of sex, gender, and desire, with heterosexuality as the unmarked ground of the “normal.” Queer nonverbal communication challenges these heteronormative assumptions, interrupts the systematic silencing of the queer, and presents gender and sexual identities as complex, contingent, and political constructions. When I found that the three articles in communication journals that studied some aspect of nonverbal communication from a queer perspective were all published in Text and Performance Quarterly, I was a little surprised. The description of the journal found on the Website of the National Communication Association, which publishes it along with five other journals, does not include the word nonverbal: Text and Performance Quarterly invites scholarship that explores and advances the study of performance as a social, communicative practice; as a technology of representation and expression; and as a hermeneutics. Manuscripts addressing performance and the performative from a wide range of perspectives and methodologies, including the historical, rhetorical, feminist, ethnographic, psychological/psychoanalytic, political, and aesthetic are welcome. Likewise, all sites of performance from the classical stage to popular culture to the practices of everyday life, critically and interpretively engaged, are appropriate for consideration. It does not mention “queer” either, but of the sixty-six articles included in the “Bibliography of Articles and Books of Relevance to G/L/B/T Communication Studies” (Corey, Smith, & Nakayama, 2001), 23 of them came from this one communication journal, over twice as many as in the next closest journal, Critical Studies in Media Communication. The observant reader will have noticed the word “performative” in the journal’s charge, the key to why the queer and the nonverbal may find a warmer reception here than elsewhere to date. Though utilizing different methods and theoretical foundations, these articles by E. Patrick Johnson (1995), Frederick C. Corey (1996), and Dan Brouwer (1998) all deal with gender and sexual identities as performative (Butler, 1990), as fluid, political, discursive productions. E. Patrick Johnson’s article, “SNAP! Culture: A Different Kind of ‘Reading,’” explores the meanings and uses of a particular nonverbal practice in the form of a series of hand movements, including, as the first word of the title tells, one or more instances of “snapping” one’s fingers. At the time of writing, this was a popular form among African American gay men and African American women, and had been featured in documentaries as well as a popular television comedy. His texts are popular culture, interviews, and participant observation. One of the qualities that sets this study apart from much of the research, not only in nonverbal communication but in much of the discipline of communication, is its analysis of an everyday practice as it is performed within

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a variety of contexts and within and between members of different communities linked by sexuality, gender, and race. The language of semiotics is employed in this examination of the SNAP! as a contested signifier. “Snapping’s value,” says Johnson, “is contingent on the set of socially and culturally constructed value systems of a particular group of people” (1995, p. 139). Thus, Heterosexuals, black or white, do not necessarily harbor the same value systems as gays or experience the world from the same subject position; hence, their use of snapping might bear striking differences, uses that may or may not reflect homophobia, racism, and misogyny. (1995, p. 140) Johnson concludes that snapping’s meaning cannot be stabilized either as liberatory or oppressive sign and looks forward, invoking the “persistence of African-American gay men to devise new technologies for self-assertion” (1995, p. 140). In “The Precarious Visibility Politics of Self-Stigmatization: The Case of HIV/AIDS Tattoos” (1998), Dan Brouwer considers the use of HIV/AIDS tattoos as “the conscious and willful marking of oneself as ‘tainted’–as a particular communicative and performative strategy grounded in visibility politics and practiced in the context of AIDS activism” (1998, p. 115). Building on Erving Goffman’s (1963b) notion of stigma, the article explores both the potentialities and constraints of a permanent, visible, nonverbal marker of one’s seropositive status and the strategies individuals choose to conceal and/or reveal their HIV status. The choice of a nonverbal means of disclosure is less discriminate than verbal, says Brouwer, and has the effects of mobilizing and textualizing the body. He is interested in the claims that the wearers of HIV/AIDS tattoos make, specifically regarding being visible as a political statement, and not in terms of locating or fixing a particular meaning of the tattoos. This performative communication contests meanings and practices of mainstream society as well as practices within gay communities, such as prejudice against those who are HIV positive. Like Johnson, Brouwer ends on a forward-looking note, referring to the possibility of conditions “under which the tattoo can be considered a liberating, empowering gesture” (1998, p. 130). Finally, in “Performing Sexualities in an Irish Pub” Frederick Corey (1996) employs the nomadic science of Deleuze and Guattari (1987) in an exploration of how queer identities are enacted in a Dublin pub. Corey elicits the social practices and meanings associated with spaces and periods of time within the pub via the concept of the rhizome, a structure opposed to the hierarchical model of the root-tree system. He wants to “decenter verbal script as the principal artifact of textuality,” instead looking at “space-as-text in which refrains express both identity and history” (1996, p. 148). In traditional nonverbal communication research, the subject of space is studied as territoriality, or how humans, like animals, attempt to own, control, and defend objects and regions; sex is understood to be a central, often determining

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factor in all perceptions and responses to spatial arrangements. Contrast this with Corey’s argument “that while we do not know what ‘causes’ same-sex desire, we do know that public and private semiologies construct realities within which cultural space is de- and reterritorialized and identities are performed” (1996, p. 147). As Brouwer probed the textualizing of the body, Corey asks how “Dubliners textualize a space in which sexuality, . . . informs identity” (1996, p. 147). Through participant observation, he elicits the social practices and meanings associated with both spaces and periods of time within one particular pub. Johnson (1995), Brouwer (1996), and Corey (1998) all provide new insights into communication practices in this scholarship. All proceed from constructionist and performative assumptions about gender and sexual identities and relations, rejecting notions of immutable subjects and spaces. All de-center the verbal as the only or primary text for study. These qualities make them good nonverbal, queer, communication studies.

CONCLUSION To date, most nonverbal communication scholarship and pedagogy have proceeded from assumptions of a seamless “natural” and social world built on stable binary divisions of sex, gender, and sexuality determined by biological difference. In this essay, I have examined the field of nonverbal communication, considering its emergence as a discrete focus of study and critiquing its failure to represent queer subjects. Whatever the intentions of those doing such work within the field of nonverbal communication, it results in the maintenance of oppressive, heteronormative structures that silence and punish the queer and the nontraditional. As Steven Seidman implies, simply adding sexual identity to a list of influences to be factored into a schema will not confront and liberate this system: Queer theory is less a matter of explaining the repression or expression of a homosexual minority than an analysis of the hetero/homosexual figure as a power/knowledge regime that shapes the ordering of desires, behaviors, and social institutions, and social relations–in a word, the constitution of the self and society. (Seidman, 1997, p. 150) Therefore, I have also highlighted three rich examples of recent scholarship in nonverbal communication that lay out new paths of inquiry with greater transformative potential. We must not underestimate the challenge. Claims of innate biological differences between people hold tremendous sway. Books such as The mismeasure of man (1996), The mismeasure of woman (1993), and The mismeasure of desire

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(1999) all chronicle efforts made in the scientific community over the years to locate and quantify evidence of superiority and inferiority, whether “racial,” gender, or sexual, in biological “fact.” As Jeffrey Weeks says, “appeals to nature, to the claims of the natural, are among the most potent we can make. They place us in a world of apparent fixity and truth. They appear to tell us what and who we are, and where we are going. They seem to tell us the truth” (1991, p. 87). I may have future opportunities to teach nonverbal communication. If so, I will remember the promise I saw as a student of nonverbal communication years ago of embodied praxis. I will turn my students’ attention not only to the queer, critical, and feminist work pertaining to the nonverbal that is being done in other fields but also to the three communication articles discussed here, and hopefully by then many more, within my own discipline. I will invite all of the students, as they reflect on this work, to consider their own embodiment, identifications, and movements through and around variously gendered and sexualized spaces. As we enter the silences and speak.

NOTES 1. It was not possible to do justice within this article to the wonderful work that may be considered nonverbal that is being done within and across a variety of disciplines. Nor is it possible in a note to do more than to point the reader to a few examples of this work in the form of books on rethinking the body and space. This division is somewhat arbitrary as some of the listed items address space and the body. On the body, see Bordo (1999); Conboy, Medina, and Stanbury (1997); Davis (1997); Longhurst (2001); Nast and Pile (1998); Prosser (1998); Shildrick and Price (1998); and Williams and Bendelow (1998). On space, see Boone et al. (2000); Duncan (1996); Hemmings (2002); McDowell (1999); McDowell and Sharp (1997); Munt (1998); and Soja (1989). 2. As I was completing this article, Journal of Communication published an issue focusing on the relationship between verbal and nonverbal communication that offers a far more integrated view than is found in any of the textbooks I have seen of two fields that, with few exceptions, have supported separate threads of research and curriculum since the 1960s. See the introduction (Jones & LeBaron, 2002) for a summary of the history of the differences and similarities in assumptions and methods of verbal and nonverbal communication and an interesting argument regarding the possibilities of using quantitative and qualitative research methods in concert in future research. 3. In generalizing about some pertinent areas of these texts, I do not wish to appear to lump them all together. There is, in fact, wide variance in terms of the degree of sophistication in articulating epistemological assumptions underlying the approach taken by a given text, defining nonverbal communication and discussing its relationship to verbal communication, and contextualizing and qualifying research findings.

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Ekman, P., & Friesen, W. V. (1975). Unmasking the face: A guide to recognizing emotions from facial clues. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Ekman, P., & Friesen, W. (1969). The repertoire of non-verbal behavior: Categories, origins, usage and coding. Semiotica, 1(1), 49-98. Elia, J. P. (this volume). Queering relationships: Toward a paradigmatic shift. Journal of Homosexuality. Fast, J. (1970, 2002). Body language. New York: M. Evans. Gant & Donald Communications, Inc. Nonverbal sales seminars. Retrieved on September 14, 2002, from: . Gearhart, S. (this volume). Foreword: My trip to queer. Journal of Homosexuality. Gierenberg, G. I., & Calero, H. H. (1973). How to read a person like a book. New York: Simon & Schuster. Goffman, E. (1963a). Behavior in public places. New York: The Free Press of Glencoe. Goffman, E. (1967). Interaction ritual. New York: Pantheon. Goffman, E. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. Garden City, NY: Doubleday. Goffman, E. (1963b). Stigma. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Gould, S. J. (1996). The mismeasure of man (rev. ed.). New York: Norton. Guerrero, L. K., & Andersen, P. A. (1999). Public touch behavior in romantic relationships between men and women. In L. K. Guerrero, J. A. DeVito, & M. L. Hecht (Eds.), The nonverbal communication reader: Classic and contemporary readings (2nd ed., pp. 202-210). Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press. Guerrero, L. K., DeVito, J. A., & Hecht, M. L. (Eds.). (1999). The nonverbal communication reader: Classic and contemporary readings. (2nd ed.). Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press. Hall, E. T. (1959). The silent language. Greenwich, CT: Fawcett Publications. Hall, E. T. (1966). Hidden dimension. New York: Doubleday. Hall, E. T. (1976). Beyond culture. Garden City, NY: Anchor. Hall, E. T. (1984). The dance of life: The other dimension of time. Garden City, NY: Anchor. Hall, J. A. (1984). Nonverbal sex differences: Communication accuracy and expressive style. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Hecht, M. L., & Guerrero, L. K. (1999). Perspectives on nonverbal research methods. In L. K. Guerrero, J. A. DeVito, & M. L. Hecht (Eds.), The nonverbal communication reader: Classic and contemporary readings (2nd ed., pp. 24-41). Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press. Heinz, B. (2002). Enga(y)ging the discipline: Sexual minorities and communication studies. Communication Education, 51(1), 95-104. Hickson, M., III, & Stacks, D. W. (1993). Nonverbal communication: Studies and applications. (3rd ed.). New York: McGraw-Hill. Jagose, A. (1996). Queer theory: An introduction. New York: New York University Press. Johnson, E. P. (1995). SNAP! culture: A different kind of reading. Text and Performance Quarterly, 15(2), 122-142.

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Jones, S. E., & LeBaron, C. D. (2002). Research on the relationship between verbal and nonverbal communication: Emerging integrations. Journal of Communication, 52(3), 499-521. Knapp, M. L., & Hall, J. A. (1997). Nonverbal communication in human interaction. (4th ed.). Fort Worth, TX: Harcourt Brace. Knapp, M. L., & Hall, J. A. (2002). Nonverbal communication in human interaction. (5th ed.). Fort Worth, TX: Harcourt Brace. Laqueur, T. (1986). Orgasm, generation, and the politics of reproductive biology. Representations, 14, 1-41. Leathers, D. (1997). Successful nonverbal communication: Principles and applications (3rd ed.). Boston: Allyn and Bacon. LePoire, B. (1994). Attraction toward and nonverbal stigmatization of gay males and persons with AIDS: Evidence of symbolic over instrumental attitudinal structures. Human Communication Research, 21, 241-279. Lloyd-Elliott, M. (1996). Secrets of sexual body language. Berkeley, CA: Ulysses Press. Longhurst, R. (2001). Bodies: Exploring fluid boundaries. London and New York: Routledge. Lovaas, K. E. (1993). Waging hormones: An analysis of the premenstrual syndrome in America. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Hawaii, Honolulu, Hawaii. Martin, E. (1987). The woman in the body. A cultural analysis of reproduction. Boston: Beacon Press. Martin, J., & Nakayama, T. (2000). Intercultural communication in context. 2nd ed. Mountain View, CA: Mayfield. Martin, J., Nakayama, T., & Flores, L. (Eds.). (2002). Readings in intercultural communication: Experiences and contexts (2nd ed.). Mountain View, CA: Mayfield. Mehrabian, A. (1972). Nonverbal communication. Chicago: Aldine-Athertom. Mehrabian, A. (1971). Silent messages. Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. Nast, H. J., & Pile, S. (Eds.). (1998). Places through the body. London and New York: Routledge. National Communication Association. About NCA. Retrieved on October 5, 2002, from: . Pease, A. (1984). Signals: How to use body language for power, success, and love. London: Bantam Books. Pothier, D. (1999). Who can resist smiling at a baby? In L. K. Guerrero, J. A. DeVito, and M. L. Hecht, (Eds.), The nonverbal communication reader: Classic and contemporary readings (2nd ed., pp. 79-81). Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press. Prosser, J. (1998). Second skins: The body narratives of transsexuality. New York: Columbia University Press. Remland, M. S. (2000). Nonverbal communication in everyday life. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Rich, A. (1976). Of woman born: Motherhood as experience and institution. New York: Norton. Richmond, V. P., & McCroskey, J. C. (2000). Nonverbal behavior in interpersonal relations (4th ed.). Boston: Allyn and Bacon.

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Ruesch, J., & Kees, W. (1956). Nonverbal communication: Notes on the visual perception of human relations. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Seidman, S. (1997). Difference troubles: Queering social theory and sexual politics. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Shildrick, M., & Price, J. (Eds.). (1998). Vital signs: Feminist reconfigurations of the bio/logical body. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Stein, E. (1999). The mismeasure of desire: The science, theory, and ethics of sexual orientation. New York: Oxford University Press. Tavris, C. (1993). The mismeasure of woman. New York: Simon & Schuster. The Don Juan Center. Using Body Language to Attract Women. Retrieved on September 14, 2002, from: . Weeks, J. (1991). Against nature: Essays on history, sexuality, and identity. London: Rivers Oram Press. Williams, S. J., & Bendelow, G. (1998). The lived body: Sociological themes, embodied issues. London and New York: Routledge. Wood, J. T. (2002). Communication in our lives (3rd ed.). Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. Wood, T. (2000). Male body language that attracts women. Bloomington, IN: 1stBooks Library. Yep, G. A. (2003, this volume). The violence of heteronormativity in communication studies: Notes on injury, healing, and queer world-making. Journal of Homosexuality, 45(2/3/4), 11-59.

Racisms, Heterosexisms, and Identities: A Semiotic Phenomenology of Self-Understanding Jacqueline M. Martinez, PhD Arizona State University

SUMMARY. This article examines the contributions of lesbians of color to the developmental relationship between queer theory and qualitative research methodology. Its thesis is that the contributions of lesbians of color in this context have been overlooked despite being featured. This oversight is explained through an examination of theoretical perspectives that dominate our current understanding of the relationship between queer theory and qualitative research. Postmodernism is revealed as susceptible to liberal bias and racist exclusions common in U.S. culture. Semiotic phenomenology is offered as a non-essentialist approach to queer theory and qualitative research that reduces the liberal bias and

Correspondence may be addressed: Hugh Downs School of Human Communication, College of Public Programs, Arizona State University, PO Box 871205, Tempe, AZ 85287-1205 (E-mail: [email protected]). The author thanks Lisa Anderson, Cristina González, Ann Koblitz, Karen Leong, the members of the ASU Women’s Studies works-in-progress reading group, and two anonymous reviewers for their very helpful comments on an earlier version of this work. [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Racisms, Heterosexisms, and Identities: A Semiotic Phenomenology of Self-Understanding.” Martinez, Jacqueline M. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 109-127; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 109-127. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_05

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racist exclusions often perpetuated in postmodern theorizing that have led to the exclusion of contributions of lesbians of color in queer theory. [Article copies available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.]

KEYWORDS. Heterosexisms, identities, lesbians of color, liberalism, queer theory, semiotic phenomenology, racisms Growing up, I was taught to be white and heterosexual. Born into a typical suburban-comfortable middle-class U.S. American family in southern California, I was raised to believe that my racial and ethnic heritage was not significant to who I was or would become. I was raised to believe that male-female sexual intimacy was the only kind of adult sexual intimacy that I could aspire to. I was raised to believe that although some people were “better off” or “worse off” than others, economic success was related entirely to education, hard work and perseverance. The fact that I was raised with these attitudes toward myself and my future is certainly related to choices that my parents made and the particular priorities they set in their own lives. But, it also has to do with a lot more than just the choices my parents made. It has to do with the specifics of a cultural time and place, the history that preceded that time and place, and the ideas about a possible future that filled that time and place. It has to do with a field of cultural norms generating a certain momentum that typifies any given time and place. I have traveled a long distance from the attitudes toward myself that I was raised to have. Like many bi-racial/bi-ethnic and non-heterosexual people, my late adolescence and early adulthood threw me into a continuous swirl of confusing and often conflicting feelings. Yet much of what characterized this continuous swirl was a barely conscious, no, then unconscious, then again, yes, barely conscious awareness. As time moved on, I gained more and more access to those deep-seeded conflicts and that has characterized my coming to terms with the fact that I have never been just white or heterosexual (or, perhaps, neither at all). I have also had the benefit of a professional and educational life that has allowed me to pursue these very personal and familial questions in a formal and systematic way (Martinez, 2000). As I have studied the particulars of my life and gained access to what was at first a barely conscious awareness concerning my racial/ethnic and sexual identities, I have developed a certain critical perspective concerning the cultural momentum generating the pressures that encouraged me to think of myself as simply white and heterosexual. It is a critical perspective that is deeply indebted to the often gut-wrenching and brutally honest work produced by

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many lesbians of color over the past few decades (Anzaldúa, 1987; Lorde, 1984; Moraga & Anzaldúa,1983; Pérez, 1991, 1999; Ramos, 1987; Trujillo, 1991). It is also indebted to many phenomenologists who have so thoughtfully considered issues related to the communicative texture of our human lifeworld and lived experience (Bartky, 1990; Ihde, 1986; Lanigan, 1988; Merleau-Ponty, 1981; O’Neill, 1989; Schrag, 1986; Young, 1990). In coming to terms with my identities as a Chicana and a lesbian I have engaged in a continuous (and continuing) interrogation of the familial, social, historical and cultural terms within which I was raised to believe that I was white and heterosexual. I have sought to exorcise, if you will, the deep-seated norms of my cultural time and place. The critical perspective I have come to hold emerges from that process of ongoing interrogation. And this is a very important point. It is one kind of academic practice to critique and explain, to theorize about theory, or to take one’s critical criteria in hand, step back and let those criteria fly in a selected communicative context. It is quite another kind of academic practice, on the other hand, to take account of how those critical criteria are connected to who one is, where one comes from, and who one hopes to become–to interrogate the genesis of those critical criteria as they are connected to the particularities of our own experience and sensibilities as human beings. Thus, the critical perspective I have come to hold is a critique I know because I have been (perhaps still am, at least part of) what I critique. In coming to this perspective I have needed both the cool edge of a precise theoretical argument, and the burning edge of fleshy experience. It is not an accident that my scholarly training in semiotics and phenomenology leads me to foreground this point. The phenomenological point in particular requires that the researcher interrogate the terms and conditions of her entry into the research as part of methodological rigor. Yet many of the norms of our scholarly and research production continue to favor worldviews that keep the researcher separate from that which is researched.1 It is important to note, however, that phenomenology itself is not a single doctrine. Rather, it is a “movement” characterized by a “dynamic momentum,” that comprises “several parallel currents, which are related but by no means homogeneous” (Spiegelberg, 1982, pp. 2-3; see also Embree & Mohanty, 1997). The nature and scope of phenomenological texts vary widely. My own use of phenomenology follows the trajectory from Husserl, through Heidegger’s critique of Husserl, and to the reinterpretation and extension of both offered by Merleau-Ponty. This particular trajectory, and its relevance to the study of human communication specifically, is detailed in the work of Lanigan (1988). It is in my own work, however, where the emphasis on interrogating the genesis of one’s critical perspectives concerning racial/ethnic and sexual identities as they are connected to the particularities of one’s experience and sensibilities as a human being emerges (Martinez, 2000; see also Lyman & Embree, 1997).2 Thomas A. Schwandt, in his discussion of “three epistemological stances for qualitative inquiry,” notes that “some claim phenomenology as a founding

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epistemology for qualitative inquiry” (2000, p. 206fn). This is my own perspective. Elsewhere I have argued that phenomenological theory and methodology is particularly important for considering issues of race/ethnicity and sexuality (Martinez, 2000). Schwandt goes on to note that it is “virtually impossible to discuss the multifaceted philosophy in general terms without reducing the notion of phenomenology to a caricature” (2000, p. 206 fn). He suggests further that many accounts of phenomenology “are misleading because such definitions gloss the crucial difference for epistemologies of qualitative inquiry, namely, defining what meaning is” (2000, p. 206 fn). These are important cautions. Discussions of phenomenology require a background of sustained and advanced study in order to avoid simplistic or idealized perspectives. In the present work I heed Schwandt’s cautions and attempt to present a precise and accurate account of phenomenology that is itself an example of this account. I shall do so by detailing my own understanding of and critical perspective toward the cultural momentum that typifies the cultural time and place of my growing-up and adult life. My purpose is to demonstrate how phenomenology allows us to straddle the gap between the abstractions of theory and the concreteness of experience. I am assisted in this effort by Joshua Gamson’s (2000) discussion of the relationship between “sexualities, queer theory, and qualitative research.” Gamson’s work is a good example of the cool edge of a precise theoretical argument. Ironically, it is this cool edge of a precise theoretical argument that overlooks the contributions of lesbians of color despite featuring them. Gamson’s error is not at all a reflection of poor scholarship or inadequate analysis per se. To the contrary, the quality of scholarship and adequacy of analysis themselves reflect precisely the culturally-rooted dispositions of our time and place that often exclude the contributions of lesbians (and other people) of color. Gamson’s error is a consequence of a modality of doing theory and research that cannot engage the burning edge of fleshy experience. It is, in significant ways, ethnocentric.

THE COOL EDGE OF THEORETICAL PRECISION Gamson’s essay appears in the second edition of the Handbook of Qualitative Research (Denzin & Lincoln, 2000). This is important to note because the Handbook is a state of the art representation of our current understanding of qualitative research. It is understood to be a key reference for most anyone doing qualitative research today. Yet, as the editors point out, the development of the Handbook itself occurs within the dynamic context of a changing world. One of the most important aspects of this changing world is our increasing attention to the circumstances of postcolonialism. Our qualitative research today relies more heavily than it ever has on the work of people of color, third world people, and those who critique the norms and dispositions of liberalism and modernity. The presence of these perspectives across disciplines signals im-

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portant developments in our understanding of qualitative research, and the world in which we conduct our research (Denzin & Lincoln, pp. xiii-xvi). In this context Gamson’s (2000) essay takes on particular importance. Because it is located in the Handbook, it will undoubtedly be seen and referenced as the state-of-the-art understanding of relationship between queer theory and qualitative research. And the story it tells becomes the easily recognized and much relied on version of the relationship between qualitative research and queer theory. As a result, any exclusions or ethnocentrisms tacitly at work in this essay are likely to be perpetuated. It is important that queer theory be studied and applied in ways that can more fully appreciate the contributions by lesbians (and gay men) of color. It is important that queer theory be able to appreciate the particularities of what Anzaldúa (1987) calls the “supreme cultural cross[ing]” (p. 84) abilities often developed by queers of color. Gamson (2000) characterizes the development of sexuality studies as it evolved into queer theory as a three stage progression from an “unreflective confidence in the existence of sexual subjects” that motivated large scale efforts to find and document the lives of lesbian and gay persons as told from their own perspectives, to “a suspicion that sexual subjects do not exactly exist to be studied,” and, finally, to an effort focused primarily on the “deconstruction of sexual subjectivities” (p. 348). Gamson argues that this progression parallels the developments in our understanding of the “nature and meaning of qualitative research” (p. 348)–a point also argued generally by the editors of the Handbook (Denzin & Lincoln, 2000, pp. 18-19). Gamson features the contributions of lesbians of color in the first and second part of his account of the development of sexuality studies–a contribution that is primarily in autobiographical accounts of experiences of marginality. By placing these contributions within the first and second parts of this developmental sequence, Gamson emphasizes their tendency to share “essentialist assumptions” (p. 351). Here, ethnocentrism and exclusion limit our understanding of the many ways in which these “autobiographical” accounts of experiences of marginality function in clearly non-essentialist ways and achieve much more than an essentialist politics of identity. This point warrants a more detailed elaboration. Gamson (2000) begins the story of the development of sexuality studies as having developed, much like feminist studies, in a political context that favors qualitative over quantitative approaches to research. Part of the motivation behind this preference is the general understanding that qualitative approaches are better able to access the lived experiences of those who tend to be invisible or silenced within the mainstream of social and cultural norms–those whose histories do not follow within the commonly understood history of any given time. The general belief is that qualitative approaches allow one to foreground “subjective” accounts of experience while suspending social and cultural norms that would stigmatize lesbian and gay (and other) identities as deviant, deficient or ill. Rather than being held to a condition of “objective truth,” which will tend to reify received cultural norms,3 qualitative research has been

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seen to offer alternative ways of understanding the meaning of lesbian and gay experience as it is for lesbian and gay people themselves and not simply as judged by the social and historical norms of the culture. In this sense, then, an emphasis on qualitative research methodology is seen as working in concert with the effort to privilege autobiographical voices in the development of lesbian and gay studies. Moreover, Gamson (2000) gives credit to “feminist-inspired women’s studies and civil rights-inspired African American and ethnic studies” for leading the way for sexuality studies to develop (p. 351). On this point Gamson says, the further one went from the white, heterosexual male center, the more one found, in fact, an autobiographical work written from the personal standpoint of the marginalized, in the classic collections such as This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color. (Moraga & Anzaldúa, 1983, p. 351) According to Gamson (2000), This Bridge and works that authorize the voice of the individual lesbian or gay subject make “everyday experiences of marginality a ground for theory building” (351). Gamson argues that This Bridge operates with a “clear political unity” based in a civil-rights and liberal-oriented struggle for equality. Using arguments put forward by Epstein (1987), Gamson suggests that the ethnic self-characterization running through both the politics and the research of the 1970s and 1980s . . . “has a clear political unity, for it has permitted a form of group organizing that is particularly suited to the American experience, with its history of civil-rights struggles and ethnic-based, interest group competition.” (p. 352) This approach, however, also generates a problem. The problem, according to Gamson, is that these approaches to theory construction also “tended to share ‘essentialist’ assumptions about the self and the collection of selves gathering strength in neighborhoods and institutions . . .” (p. 351). It is this essentialist tendency–“particularly suited to the American experience”–that ultimately comes under fire and pushes forward the development of queer theory in the direction of constructivist and postmodernist approaches to theory and research. At the same time, qualitative research acquires “further significance and centrality” because of the ways in which autobiographical and movement-based works “have also set pathways for profound challenges to their own assumptions” (p. 352). Thus, although there are “essentialist tendencies” present in works that feature autobiographical accounts like This Bridge, they also problematize those tendencies–a fact that itself contributes to the development of qualitative research.

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On this point Gamson (2000) cites (among others) Trujillo’s (1991) edited volume, Chicana Lesbians: The Girls Our Mothers Warned Us About. He goes on to note that “much of the retheorizing of sexual-identities-as-multiple came through the interpretive voices of gay men and lesbians of color working in fields such as film and literary studies or from outside of the academy” (p. 353). From here, Gamson moves immediately to the influence of Foucault and argues that “queer theory and queer studies emerged out of this [Foucault inspired] methodologically critical, epistemologically skeptical mix” (p. 354). If texts like Trujillo’s constitute a retheorizing of sexual identities as multiple, then where is the discussion of exactly what these retheorizations entail? Gamson’s quick move to Foucault and his shift away from considering the substance of works like Trujillo’s make it easy to dismiss the work of lesbians and gay men of color as a mere step along the way in the development of queer studies. Moreover, Gamson’s placement of This Bridge earlier in the story of the development of the relationship between queer theory and qualitative research leaves the impression that this work is limited entirely by essentialism. It is important to be explicit and detailed about the contributions offered in works like Trujillo’s and This Bridge. It is even more important, moreover, to examine what gets left tacitly in place when works by lesbians (and gay men) of color are discussed only as markers of change rather than for the substance of the changes they help create.

THE BURNING EDGE OF FLESHY EXPERIENCE I was living in Boston. It was sometime early in the 1990s–my first tenure track position. I don’t remember when I had acquired Moraga and Anzaldúa’s (1983) edited volume, This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color, or how long I had had it before I started reading it. I know that I had known about the text for a good bit of time before I actually acquired it. I know that it had already been on my bookshelf a while before I picked it up to actually read it. I know that I knew that Moraga was a “Chicana lesbian,” and that I needed to read her work. I remember sitting at my desk, in my formal reading posture–forward leaning, forearms flat on my desk, pen in hand, and the text inside the space of my posture. I remember opening up the text and flipping through to Moraga’s (1983) essay “La Güera.” My mindset was formal. I was working, reading a text important for my professional work. But, I also recall nervousness and trepidation. I began reading and came to this language: “Born with the features of my Chicana mother, but the skin of my Anglo father, I had it made” (p. 28). The nervousness grew stronger. I kept reading: “In fact, everything about my upbringing (at least what occurred on a conscious level) attempted to bleach me of what color I did have. Although my mother was fluent in it, I was never taught much Spanish at home” (p. 28). Nervousness and a magnetic immersion

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in the words I was reading overtook any remaining sense of working formally. I kept reading: “It was through my mother’s desire to protect her children from poverty and illiteracy that we became ‘anglicized’; the more effectively we could pass in the white world, the better guaranteed our future” (p. 28). I suddenly lifted my eyes, straightened my back and pushed myself away from my desk. The sense of recognition was overwhelming. I was stopped. I was frozen. The words reverberated through my body. I had to get up and get away. I remember pacing the floor of my apartment, moving things around, moving in a seemingly aimless way. But, make no mistake about it, I was directed. I had crossed a point of no return, and a new and open field of possibility (and danger) had emerged before my eyes. That moment, and many others like it over the years to come, challenged me to rethink the entirety of my life. This Bridge, then later, Ramos’ (1987) Compañeras: Latina Lesbians, Anzaldúa’s (1990) Making Face, Making Soul/Haciendo Caras: Creative and Critical Perspectives by Women of Color, and Trujillo’s (1991) Chicana Lesbians: The Girls Our Mothers Warned Us About became touchstones against which virtually all of the taken-for-granted assumptions I had about myself and my history would be called into question. As I encountered these texts, almost always with nervousness that transformed into a magnetic immersion, I knew that the texts were demanding that I interrogate the exact life circumstances in which I had come to think, feel, see, experience and act in the ways I had. Although I identified Moraga as a “Chicana lesbian,” and pre-consciously knew myself to be one too, reading this text did not generate an essentialist orientation in me. Much to the contrary, the autobiographical details provided by Moraga made it clear to me that she and I were very different. But the existence of a few profoundly important commonalities necessitated an examination of my own life. Yet, my response to reading This Bridge Called My Back and texts like it is only one kind of response. Over the past ten years or so I have regularly used selections from these texts in my undergraduate and graduate women’s studies and intercultural communication courses. In using these texts in undergraduate classrooms I have noticed that they almost always generate a strong emotional response that tends to center around anger. For students of color who are not homophobic, the anger seems to be generated from a recognition of injustice, an identification with both the issues addressed and the direct and blunt composition style. It is a constructive anger that often generates a deeper reflection on their own life experience, and a greater desire to learn about the experiences of others. Among white students, however, the anger seems to be generated by a sense that “we haven’t done anything wrong, why are they blaming us? Things aren’t that bad anymore. Why can’t they just let it go?” These students seem to resent the fact that I have included this work in the course. For homophobic students the responses also include a focus on the authors as deficient human beings, those who aren’t well-adjusted and use writing to whine and complain about things that are the authors’ own fault.

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Although it is true that there is a general pattern whereby students of color are more likely to respond positively to these texts, and white students are more likely to respond negatively to these texts, this is not, of course, always the case. Students express a wide range of reactions to these works that can be difficult to know because they are more covert. These students (both white and of color) often sit quietly with great attention. Although they do not speak right away, it is obvious to me that this material has generated a strong reaction, perhaps something like a magnetic immersion, which piques their attention and sensitivity as we discuss the issues in class. When I see this reaction, I always hope that the student is having an experience of positive ambiguity where they see things they had never seen before, and new possibilities for understanding themselves and others emerge. But, I also worry that students may be having a negative experience whereby their sharp attention is actually more like the stillness that precedes a predator’s attack on an unaware prey. In some cases I will simply never know what their attentive silence means. In most cases, however, our ensuing class discussions open the space for a positive ambiguity concerning precisely each of our relationships to the experiences and perspectives offered by the authors. When this happens, we all feel greater freedom to ask questions concerning our relationships to, and knowledge of, those who are racially and/or sexually different from ourselves–questions concerning our own histories, our identifications, the norms we have lived with, and the taken-for-granted assumptions present in our everyday ways of living. In graduate classrooms these same tendencies emerge, although the negative reactions tend to be more subdued–a difference that is undoubtedly related to the power dynamics particular to the graduate classroom. There is another response, however, that emerges more commonly in the graduate classroom: the desire to theorize through the experiential and axiological contents of the texts. Students’ own life experience and sensibilities are deemphasized as they struggle for the “right answer.” And, in the graduate classroom, theory is, of course, the ground upon which the “right answer” must be found. The cool distance of the disengaged academic trying to make a precise theoretical argument dominates, and the most important contributions made by This Bridge Called My Back, Haciendo Caras, Compañeras, and Chicana Lesbians are left as mere markers that one has “covered that,” has proven oneself not racist, and can get to the more important (theoretical) matters at hand. The effect of this emphasis on theory as the “right ground for getting the right answers” is often that the contributions of This Bridge and other works by lesbians of color are concealed even while the works themselves are “included” in curricula. This is the critique of mainstream academic feminist theory made by Norma Alarcón (1990) and Chela Sandoval (1991). These works critique what has been an essentially hegemonic function entailed within feminist theory’s effort to include the works of women of color. Whether it is by retaining the unitary subject of feminist theory (Alarcón, 1990), or by pigeonholing the contributions of women of color as “mere description” (Sandoval, 1991, p. 5),

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feminist theory has often operated according to an “additive model” that has tried to equate all oppressions by virtue of a “common pattern of inequality” (Phelan, 1997, p. 76). By these accounts, feminist theory has failed to rise to the challenge of coming to terms with the theoretical and practical significance of the work produced by women and lesbians of color over the past two decades. It is a failure reinscribed by Gamson in his characterization of the relationship between the development of queer studies and qualitative research.

EXPLICATING ETHNOCENTRISM AND EXCLUSION U.S. American culture is an individualistic, pragmatic and future-oriented culture. As a result, we tend to think of experience as our own (individualism), and as something to learn from so as to do better in the future (pragmatic, future-oriented). U.S. American individualism–perhaps the most prized of all U.S. American values–encourages us to privilege individualism eidetically. Whatever our experience, U.S. American culture encourages us to think that we are in charge of it, we can know it, should name it, must have sovereignty over it and determine the significance of it. At least part of the reason why the contributions by lesbians of color are overlooked, despite being featured, has to do with the ways in which poststructuralist and postmodernist theorizing as a practice is itself susceptible to the liberal norms informing U.S. American culture. This susceptibility is identified by Goldberg (1993) when he argues that although “postmodernism is thought necessarily to entail postcolonialism,” this “is true only in the sense that they are historically coterminus” (p. 160). Goldberg explains that just because one asserts oneself to be postmodernist and, therefore, postcolonialist, does not make it so: proclaiming the necessity of being against colonialism, the postmodernist can safely proceed to ignore any of its manifestations, for the manifestations of colonialism are historically speaking modernist, and postmodernists by definition have “transcended” modernism. (p. 160) The irony here is that although the content of poststructuralist and postmodern theory itself clearly dismantles the Rationality of modernity and its liberal egalitarianism, the concrete effect of doing poststructuralist and postmodern theory has often been the exclusion of the same dismantling achieved by works like This Bridge, Campañeras, Haciendo Caras, and Chicana Lesbians. When Gamson (2000) identifies This Bridge as belonging to a specific era in U.S. American politics–with its “political unity” typical of the “American experience” of “civil rights and ethnic self-characterization” (p. 352)–he is implying that the significance of this text lies only in its focus on experience as a naïve collectivist politics that is not capable of meeting the challenges presented within a postmodern world. If This Bridge becomes an essentialist text

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with naïve collectivist politics, it is because readers make it so. For virtually all of its history, U.S. culture has been confronted with difficult and perplexing problems concerning race and ethnicity, particularly related to Native Americans, African Americans, Asian Americans and Mexican Americans (Takaki, 1993). This historical fact, and our culturally based liberal belief in individualism, has damaged our ability to meet the human challenge presented by racisms (and their interrelation with heterosexisms, sexisms and classisms). Yet we want to have the “right answers” to these very complex and perplexing questions. The desire to get to a “right answer” creates a pressure that may not always enable us to do what we need to do personally to work through the perplexing and complex problems of how racisms perpetuate in our culture and ourselves. We pick up texts like This Bridge–which implicates us all in the perpetuation of racisms and their violences in the concrete everyday lives we live–and are faced with a choice: confront our own place in the perpetuation of racisms and their violences, or don’t. When I take the latter choice, it is easy to essentialize the text because I am looking outside my own concrete situation to see that the “Chicana lesbians feel this,” “Black women want that,” “this is what it means to be Native American,” etc. (Phelan, 1997, p. 85 makes a similar point). Thus it makes sense to characterize This Bridge as essentialist if one understands both the authors writing in the text and the self reading the text from a perspective within modernity’s liberalism and U.S. American individualism. I am suggesting, moreover, that being a postmodern theorist, or doing postmodern theorizing, does not inoculate one against our culturally based preferences for liberalism and individualism as they are carried in the concrete practices of our habitual lives. As a result, not only are the insights and “postmodern” sensitivities present in these works by women of color dismissed as naïve or uninformed, but the tacitly racist exclusions4 already present in U.S. American culture are perpetuated. This circumstance explains how the contributions of This Bridge and works like it can be reduced to a marker of change rather than understood for the changes they have challenged us to make.

A SEMIOTIC PHENOMENOLOGY OF SELF UNDERSTANDING: BRINGING THE COOL AND BURNING EDGES TOGETHER A focus on everyday experience can be an adequate location for the development of non-essentialist theorizing about the politics of identifications and the cultural significance of the hetero/homo distinction because even our most personal and intimate everyday experience is never simply our own. As human beings, we are situated within culture, history, and the discourses produced therein. U.S. American cultural norms, however, make us susceptible to denying this fact. And, even when we do recognize this fact, the norms and condi-

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tions of formal academic theory, research and publication can seriously damage our ability to fully engage the simple fact that who we are as people, and what we come to say, think, believe and do are always, inescapably connected to the fact that we are located in history, culture, time and place. Interrogating this fact of our human connectedness to history, culture, time and place allows us to move through liberalism and individualism as they inform the sense of self that we bring to our formal research and writing efforts. If we fail to do this, then we will tend to privilege an effort to find the “right theory for the right answer” in a way that excludes an explicit consideration of all the presuppositions regarding our own presence in our work (González, 2000). The normative conditions of racist exclusions and ethnocentrism will perpetuate here. The third stage development of queer theory, according to Gamson (2000), involves a dismantling of the unitary subject and a shift in the focus of theory and research away from the lived experiences of persons and toward the “very way the homo/hetero distinction underpinned all aspects of contemporary life” (2000, p. 354). Semiotic phenomenology (Lanigan, 1988, pp. 168-183) allows one to make this same shift to the “homo/hetero distinction” as a semiotic system that is fully interconnected with the semiotic systems that characterize our current time and place, and to do so without diminishing the significance of human freedom as it exists fully integrated within those semiotic systems. Such a perspective allows us to more fully appreciate the complexity of the personal experience-cultural critique dialectic informing the production of This Bridge and similar works by lesbians of color. Semiotic phenomenology is both a theoretical perspective concerning human existence and a qualitative methodology. It is postmodern in its dismantling of modernity’s rationality and representationalism, and simultaneously has the capacity to engage the immediacy and concreteness of persons’ lived experience without essentializing it. Semiotic phenomenology achieves this because of the way in which it understands the relationship between a given moment of experience, our awareness of that experience, and the semiotic systems within which those experiences and awareness are situated. Such a semiotics is decidedly not the “structuralist project” as identified by Denzin and Lincholn (2000). Denzin and Lincoln offer the following definitions of structuralism and semiotics: “Structuralism holds that any system is made up of a set of oppositional categories embedded in language. Semiotics is the science of signs or sign-systems–a structuralist project” (p. 24 fn). The notion that sign systems consist fundamentally of “oppositional categories embedded in language” is part of the Saussurain legacy and its role in the development of “structural analysis” (“structuralism” as defined by Denzin and Lincoln; see Lanigan, 1997) that came to be favored by anthropology and linguistics especially in France during the 1960s (Descombes, 1980). When conceived as a “structuralist project” (Denzin & Lincoln, 2000, p. 24fn) semiotics is constrained within the terms of this Saussurian legacy. Understood from a phenomenological perspective, however, semiotics offers

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much more than the study of signs and sign systems as a strict structuralist project. This is particularly true when one considers the work of Charles Sanders Peirce (1958). Peirce’s work is distinguished from Saussure’s in its use of triadic relations as the irreducible elements of signification, or meaning construction. As Lyne (1980) puts it, “in contrast to the Saussurian semiological tradition, which recognizes only an arbitrary relationship between a dyad, a signifier and signified, Peirce conceived of semiotic relations as not simply arbitrary” (p. 157). The Peircian sign consists of three parts: a representamen (which Peirce also called a sign), an object, and an interpretant. The representamen relates to its object only by way of the interpretant–the interpretant is what enables the sign to exist in a meaningful relationship to the object. This triadic relation is the most basic of all the Peircian trichotomies. Working from this triadic relation allows us to recognize the “distinction made between the things represented and the respect in which they are represented to any given interpretant” (Lyne, 1980, p. 158). The triadic relations, moreover, give us a way of accessing the highly dynamic action of signs, their ongoing and “unlimited semiosis” (Eco, 1976, p. 69, cited in Merrell, 1995) in persons and culture, and by virtue of the fact of our physical existence in ecosystems (see also De Lauretis, 1984, pp. 178-179). Merrell (1995) explains the process of ongoing and unlimited semiosis as detailed by Peirce: An iron-clad rule, according to Peirce, is that the meaning of signs, and especially linguistic signs, is found in other signs. An interpretant gives purpose, direction, meaning to a sign. But this interpretant, upon becoming an interpretant, also becomes in the process another sign, which comes into relations with the first sign in its relations to its object. It can then take on its own object–which can be the same object, now slightly modified–and in its turn it engenders its own interpretant. The interpretant then becomes yet another sign, and so on. (p. 31) The circumstance of unlimited semiosis situates us all in interrelated semiotics systems in such a way that we are simultaneously constrained and enabled by the interrelation of those semiotic systems. From this perspective, we can understand Sedgwick’s (1990) project to demonstrate how the homo/hetero distinction “presented in a culture as symmetrical binary oppositions” (p. 9) “actually subsist in a more unsettled and dynamic tacit relation” (p. 10). It is a relation that is not symmetrical but whereby the second term, “homo,” is subordinated to “hetero.” Moreover, “hetero” depends on the subordination of “homo” for its meaning. Within the ongoing semiosis of culture and communication, the interpretant functions to tacitly maintain the presentation of hetero/homo as a symmetrical binary. In our own experience as persons we may generate a number of different interpretants that enable an understanding of “sexuality” that makes what was tacit now explicit, hence generating new possibilities for meaning. But we can

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never fully escape the fact of the hetero/homo binary as it typifies much of Western cultural production (Sedgwick, 1990). An example of this very predicament is revealed when a gay or lesbian person who has long been “out of the closet” and “at peace” with her or his identity recognizes in the gaze of the other the stigma and hate that is perpetuated so pervasively within the discursive world of everyday life. It is a similar case for persons of color who have struggled against negative internalizations of their racial or ethnic identity as it is encouraged by culture. For persons who are both lesbian or gay and of color, the tacitly perpetuated culturally based meanings ascribed to sexuality and race or ethnicity interrelate and complicate our effort to live straightforwardly as human beings. There are people who do successfully usurp these tacit and damaging semiotic systems (i.e., hetero/homo, black/white, etc.) as they exist dynamically in the lived world of persons. Phenomenologically, we understand such usurpations occurring not because the content of the sign, “sexuality,” per se changes, but because the respect in which “sexuality” is represented via its interpretant has changed. In other words, the modality in which “sexuality” carries meaning has changed. That change itself is, moreover, contingent and situated. It can and will change again. The only question is the degree to which the shift in the interpretant that enabled the “new” meaning itself becomes an object enabled by another interpretant that continues the movement toward or away from the culturally predominant semiotic relations that maintain the hetero/homo binary as symmetrical. From the perspective of semiotic phenomenology, this shift in interpretant that constitutes meaning is always specific, situated, contingent, and existential. Our goal in phenomenological research, then, is to interrogate the very circumstances in which a particular meaning is constituted to the exclusion of other possible meanings that could have been constituted. In pursuing this goal we cannot assume that meaning is located in the person. Rather, it is taken up and actualized by the person in a moment of experiencing. Language, and the semiotic systems of our time and place, envelop the person. Any moment of conscious awareness is never just my own, but always reflexively interconnected to the dynamic and ongoing semiosis in which I am inextricably bound. Phenomenological analysis aims to interrogate this very reflexivity through which I take up and actualize a particular meaning from the horizon of possible meanings that surround me. Such an understanding of reflexivity stands in direct contrast to the understanding articulated by Gergen and Gergen (2000): Ultimately, the act of reflexivity asks the reader to accept itself as authentic, that is, as a conscientious effort to “tell the truth” about the making of the account. We are thus poised at the threshold of an infinite regress of reflections on reflection. (p. 1028)

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Phenomenologically, we use reflection to interrogate our reflexive relation to the semiotic systems in which we are inextricably bound (Ihde, 1986). There is a difference between reflection that becomes introspective, idiosyncratic, or solipsistic (“an infinite regress of reflections on reflection”), and reflection that gives us access to reflexive functioning of the interpretant as it enables meaning construction. This latter sense of reflexivity, informed as it is by semiotic phenomenology, is what gives us access to the burning edge of fleshy experience without reducing it to an essentialist account or subsuming it with the cool edge of a precise theoretical argument. The fleshy experience thus accessed provides more than the idiosyncrasies of a single person’s lived experience. Rather it reveals the dynamic interrelation between the momentum of a cultural time and place and the person’s movements of consciousness that constitute experience. The cool edge of semiotic phenomenology’s precise theoretical argument draws our attention to this dynamic interrelation, and can thus be used to more fully engage the particularities of what Anzaldúa (1987) calls the “supreme cultural cross[ing]” (p. 84) abilities often developed by queers of color. There is a paradoxical point, however, to semiotic phenomenology as it interrogates the genesis of meaning as a dynamic interrelation of person and the ongoing semiosis of time and place. And the paradox is that this theoretical perspective itself precludes the possibility of ever finally arriving at a simply true and correct account of meaning as it was actually constituted at a given moment in time. The best we can get in this regard is an approximation, a good guess at what might have been. There is an important advantage that comes along with this paradoxical predicament, and that is that the researcher/theorist herself is more explicitly tied to the work produced. I cannot hide in the notion that a finally correct and true meaning has been found. Neither can I hide in the notion that I am not implicated in the meaning I assert in my theory about meaning, power, discourse, structure, or experience. Instead, I am directed to a fuller account of exactly how I have come to this assertion. I am directed toward a greater accountability to the terms and conditions in which this meaning manifests in me among a horizon of possible meanings that surround me. Throughout this work I have used the terms “Chicana lesbian,” “gay men,” and “people of color.” However, the perspective I have been developing here understands the features of human existence to always exceed any possible identity or character label. If my use of these terms is taken as an essentialization of identity, then I would like to ask the reader to respond affirmatively by detailing the nuance of their own lived experience in relation to the social, cultural and historical momentum of her or his time. I hope that I have made clear that the fleshiness of experience requires that we think beyond labels and question detached readings of texts, people, or experience that would allow us to make sweeping generalizations as if they could mark an ultimate truth. In the final analysis, the accuracy of my claims and the thoroughness of their articulation in relation to the dynamic interrelation of ongoing semiosis, and the semiotic systems in which I am situated, is up to the reader to judge. I

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have offered descriptions of my own experience reading and using This Bridge in my own work. The question is not whether I am right or wrong, but how it might make sense to have said what I said. Upon addressing this question, readers are in a position to ask themselves how it makes sense to have said or thought what they did in response to my own saying. A dialogue of this sort requires both the cool edge of a precise theoretical argument and the burning edge of fleshy experience. Our interrogation can thereby continue in a way that is more adequate to the challenges of a postmodern and postcolonial world without dismissing the profound fact of human experience.

NOTES 1. There is, of course, a long history of debate on this issue. This issue is dealt with at length by Merleau-Ponty (1981, pp. 3-63). See Polkinghorn (1983) for an informative discussion on the split between the worldviews of the social and human sciences. Feminist philosophers of science have also dealt with this issue of length. See, for example, Harding (1986, 1991). Feminist standpoint theory, especially as articulated by Collins (1990) makes important contributions here as well. See also Vidich and Lyman (2000) and Ladson-Billings (2000). 2. Feminists and people of color have been emphasizing this point for a long time. The first formal application of phenomenology in this effort might be De Beauvoir’s (1989, original work published 1952). Other feminists working in phenomenological ways include Allen and Young (1989), Young (1990), Bartky (1990), Butler (1990), Langellier (1994), and Fisher and Embree (2000). These works are limited, however, in their consideration of race and ethnicity. 3. On this point see Kaplan’s discussion of “logic-in-use” versus “reconstructed logic” (1998, pp. 6-12). 4. The notion of “racist exclusions” is developed by Goldberg (1993). His thesis is based on the Foucauldian (1972) focus on discovering the rules of transformation governing discourse that lead to the formation of objects and thus also subjects within discourse. Goldberg’s thesis is that our very notion of race responds to varying transformations in the social and discursive world and thus continuously and perniciously recreates itself as an exclusion.

REFERENCES Alarcón, N. (1990). The theoretical subject(s) of This Bridge Called My Back and Anglo-American Feminism. In G. Anzaldúa (Ed.), Making face, making soul/haciendo caras: Creative and critical perspectives by women of color (pp. 356-369). San Francisco: Aunt Lute Foundation. Allen, J., & Young, I. M. (Eds). (1989). The thinking muse: Feminism and modern french philosophy. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Anzaldúa, G. (1987). Borderlands/la frontera: The new mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Foundation.

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Anzaldúa, G. (Ed.). (1990). Making face, making soul/haciendo caras: Creative and critical perspectives by women of color. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Foundation. Bartky, S. L. (1990). Femininity and domination: Studies in the phenomenology of oppression. New York: Routledge. Butler, J. (1990). Performative acts and gender constitution: An essay in phenomenology and feminist theory. In S. E. Case (Ed.), Performing feminisms: Feminist critical theory and theatre (pp. 270-282). Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. De Beauvoir, S. (1989). The second sex. (H. M. Parshley, Trans. and Ed.) New York: Vintage Books (Original work published 1952.) De Lauretis, T. (1984). Alice Doesn’t: Feminism, semiotics, cinema. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Eco, U. (1976). A theory of semiotics. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Denzin, N. K., & Lincoln, Y. S. (Eds.). (2000). Handbook of qualitative research (2nd ed.) Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Embree, L., & Mohanty, J. N. (1997). Introduction. In Encyclopedia of Phenomenology, (pp. 1-10). Dordrecht, The Netherlands: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Epstein, S. (1987). Gay politics, ethnic identity: The limits of social constructionism. Socialist Review, 93/94, 9-54. Fisher, L., & Embree, L. (Eds.) (2000). Feminist phenomenology. Dordrecht, The Netherlands: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Foucault, M. (1972). The archaeology of knowledge and the discourse on language. New York: Pantheon Books. Gamson, J. (2000). Sexualities, queer theory, and qualitative research. In N. K. Denzin and Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research methods (2nd ed.) (pp. 347-365). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Gergen, M. M., & Gergen, K. J. (2000). Qualitative inquiry: Tensions and transformations. In N. K. Denzin and Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research methods (2nd ed.) (pp. 1025-1046). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Goldberg, D. T. (1993). Racist culture: Philosophy and the politics of meaning. London and New York: Basil Blackwell. González, M. C. (2000). The four seasons of ethnography: A creation-centered ontology for ethnography. International Journal of Intercultural Relations, 24, 623-650. Harding, S. (1986). The science question in feminism. Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press. Harding, S. (1991). Whose science? Whose knowledge? Thinking from women’s lives. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Collins, P. H. (1990). Black feminist thought: Knowledge, Consciousness, and the politics of empowerment. New York: Routledge. Ihde, D. (1986). Experimental phenomenology: An introduction. Albany: State University of New York Press. Kaplan, A. (1998). The conduct of inquiry: Methodology for behavioral science. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction. (Original work published 1964.) Ladson-Billings, G. (2000). Racialized discourses and ethnic epistemologies. In N. K. Denzin and Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research methods (2nd ed.) (pp. 257-277). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

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Langellier, K. M. (1994). Appreciating phenomenology and feminism: Researching quiltmaking and communication. Human Studies, 17, 65-80. Lanigan, R. L. (1988). Phenomenology of communication: Merleau-Ponty’s thematics in communicology and semiology. Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press. Lanigan, R. L. (1997). Structuralism. In Encyclopedia of Phenomenology (pp. 683-689). Dordrecht, The Netherlands: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Lorde, A. (1984). Sister outsider: Essays and speeches. Trumansburg, New York: The Crossing Press. Lyman, S. M. & Embree, L. (1997). Ethnic studies. In Encyclopedia of Phenomenology (pp. 194-198). Dordrecht, The Netherlands: Kluwer Academic Publishers. Lyne, J. R. (1980). Rhetoric and semiotic in C.S. Peirce. Quarterly Journal of Speech, 66, 155-168. Martinez, J. M. (2000). Phenomenology of Chicana experience and identity: Communication and transformation in praxis. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield Publishers, Inc. Merleau-Ponty, M. (1981). Phenomenology of perception. (C. Smith, Trans. Colin Smith [F. Williams, & D. Guerrière, Trans. revisions]) New York: Humanities Press (Original work published 1961). Moraga, C., & Anzaldúa, G. (Eds.). (1983). This bridge called my back: Writings by radical women of color. New York: Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press. Merrell, F. (1995). Peirce’s semiotics now: A primer. Toronto: Canadian Scholar’s Press, Inc. O’Neill, J. (1989). The communicative body: Studies in communicative philosophy, politics, and sociology. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press. Peirce, C. S. (1958). The collected papers of Charles Sanders Peirce. 8 vols. C. Hartshorne, P. Weiss, & A. Burks (Eds.). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Pérez, E. (1991). Gulf dreams. In C. Trujillo (Ed.), Chicana lesbians: The girls our mothers warned us about (pp. 96-108). Berkeley, CA: Third Woman Press. Pérez, E. (1999). The decolonial imaginary: Writing Chicanas into history. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Phelan, S. (1997). Lesbians and mestizas: Appropriation and equivalence. In S. Phelan (Ed.), Playing with fire: Queer politics, queer theories (pp. 75-95). New York: Routledge. Polkinghorn, D. (1983). Methodology for the human sciences: Systems of inquiry. New York: State University of New York Press. Ramos, J. (Ed.). (1987). Compañeras: Latina lesbians. New York: Latina Lesbian History Project. Sandoval, C. (1991). U.S. third world feminism: The theory and method of oppositional consciousness in the postmodern world. Genders, 10, 1-24. Schrag, C. O. (1986). Communicative praxis and the space of subjectivity. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Schwandt, T. A. (2000). Three epistemological stances for qualitative inquiry: Interpretivism, hermeneutics, and social constructionism. In N. K. Denzin and Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research methods (2nd ed.) (pp. 189-213). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

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Sedgwick, E. K. (1990). Epistemology of the closet. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Spiegelberg, H. (1982). The phenomenological movement (3rd rev. and enlarged ed.). The Hague, The Netherlands: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers. Takaki, R. (1993). A different mirror: A history of multicultural America. Boston: Back Bay Books. Trujillo, C. (Ed.). (1991). Chicana lesbians: The girls our mothers warned us about. Berkeley, CA: Third Woman Press. Vidich, A. J. & Lyman, S. M. (2000). Qualitative methods: Their history in sociology and anthropology. In N. K. Denzin and Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research methods (2nd ed.) (pp. 37-84). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Young, I. M. (1990). Throwing like a girl and other essays in feminist philosophy and social theory. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press.

Queer Criticism and Sexual Normativity: The Case of Pee-wee Herman R. Anthony Slagle, PhD University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras

SUMMARY. One of the most useful aspects of queer theory is the critical force that the perspective provides scholars. The tenets of queer theory provide scholars with a model to interrogate how sexuality and other differences play a fundamental role in rhetorical practice. Focusing on differences rather than similarities, queer critics seek to dismantle hierarchies by blurring the definitions of specific identity categories. A framework for queer rhetorical criticism is described and illustrated with a variety of examples from popular culture. The model is further illustrated through an examination of the body of work of Pee-wee Herman. [Article copies available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.] Correspondence may be addressed: UPR Station, P.O. Box 22097, San Juan, PR 00931-2097 (E-mail: [email protected]). The author wishes to thank Mary Garrett, Dale Brashers, Joseph Pilotta, R. Jeffrey Ringer, and two anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments in preparing this manuscript. A substantially different version of this essay was part of the author’s doctoral dissertation. In addition, a substantially different version of this essay was presented at the Rhetoric Society of America convention in 1998. [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Queer Criticism and Sexual Normativity: The Case of Pee-wee Herman.” Slagle, R. Anthony. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 129-146; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 129-146. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_06

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KEYWORDS. Pee-wee Herman, popular culture, queer criticism, queer theory, rhetorical criticism In recent years, a relatively new branch of social criticism and activism has emerged. Scholars from a diverse range of disciplines, concerned with the absence of sexuality in mainstream theory, have begun to address the issues surrounding sexual identities. Collectively, these theories are referred to as queer theory. Queer theorists seek to illuminate the ways in which sexuality is a fundamental influence in the ways that human beings behave and communicate. The tenets of this theory provide a foundation for criticism that is unique in terms of its focus. To understand the fundamental ideas of both queer theory and activism, it is important to recognize the conditions that have led to the emergence of this radical new approach. Queer theory is a reaction to: (1) an oppressive, heterosexist mainstream, and (2) an approach to theory that focuses on social assimilation as its goal and has emphasized an essential notion of identity in order to foster collective activity. The goals of queer theory are consistent with those of postmodernity. In particular, queer theory raises challenges to totalizing theory, entrenched values, and essential identity categories. In line with postmodern theories, queer theorists view identity as fractured and individual. Queer theorists bring issues of sexuality–issues generally considered private and personal–to the fore through critical inquiry. Morton (1996) explains that queer theory “is seen as making an advance by opening up new space for the subject of desire, a space in which sexuality becomes primary” (p. 1). In terms of the emergence of queer theory and activism, one must understand the distinction between the gay and lesbian liberation movements and the more recent queer movements. In general, people in the liberation movements have sought to allow gay men and lesbians participation within the dominant system. Whereas liberation theory has explicitly reified sexual identity and gender categories, queer theory is a progressive move toward inclusivity and the celebration of differences. In other words, the recent emergence of queer theory and activism is a reaction to the more conservative approach to framing identity of the liberationists. More broadly, in fact, queer theory is a reaction to other late 20th-century identity political movements that have generally relied on essential identity constructions in order to form cohesive groups for political action.1 Perhaps the most useful aspect of queer theory is the critical force that the perspective provides scholars. In a narrow sense, queer theory provides scholars with a model to interrogate how sexuality plays a role in rhetorical practice. Queer criticism, however, has broad implications for how differences of any kind play themselves out in communication. In other words, because queer theory raises fundamental challenges about the essential nature of identities, a

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queer perspective could be useful in understanding the fluid nature of any identity. Queer theory can be viewed as an identity politics based on the differences of the movement’s participants rather than on their similarities. While the implications of queer theory are potentially broad–at least in terms of how identity is understood as a rhetorical construction–my focus in this essay is on issues of sexuality and gender. I describe a framework for queer criticism and illustrate the concepts with examples from popular culture, and I conclude with the analysis of a body of work from the mass media. My primary goals in this essay are: (1) to provide a model for such a critical approach, and (2) to demonstrate how such a model might be useful in examining a particular rhetorical phenomenon.

QUEER APPROACHES TO CRITICISM Queer theory and criticism is broad in its scope. While it certainly involves the critique of language and discursive rhetoric, it also potentially includes any symbolic activity that focuses attention on sexual difference and identity constructions (a kiss-in, for example). At the same time, any “queer” approach necessarily acknowledges that the world is diverse, and that any framework consistent with such a conviction must recognize that difference is both desirable and unavoidable. With this in mind, the framework that I set up here is my own. It is, indeed, a framework for queer criticism, and yet it is by no means intended to be the “last word” on queer analysis. I am presenting one approach to queer criticism. I believe, nevertheless, that this framework accounts for the key issues that must be addressed in any queer model. Any queer framework must pose critical questions that help us to understand the role of difference in the construction of messages. I respect and encourage other approaches to queer analysis because I believe that no one framework can possibly account for all sexual differences. Queer critics, then, must hold firm to the belief that any one framework inherently privileges one world view over others. My ultimate goal, then, is to advance the conversation about how difference is theorized in critical studies.

Dominant vs. Oppositional Readings In this essay, I am working from the postmodern assumption that texts are read differently by different people. To put this another way, texts are open to both dominant and oppositional readings. People read (or see, or hear, etc.) texts differently because experience and identity are essential to how they understand the world. Furthermore, I assume that some texts lend themselves more easily to an oppositional reading, while for others a dominant reading may be more typical. An example of a text that has been read in multiple ways

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is the film version of The Wizard of Oz. The dominant reading of the film is that it is a charming children’s story about a young girl who wants nothing more than to return to her family. Others have read the film as a commentary on economic conditions during the early twentieth century (Littlefield, 1983). One theorist has argued that the Yellow Brick Road can serve as an analogy for the Information Superhighway (Gandy, 1994). Still others have given it a queer reading–the film is about a place where difference is celebrated (Doty, 1993). Queer criticism, then, is aimed at uncovering and emphasizing sexuality in general, and sexual difference in particular, even though the dominant or traditional reading of a particular text might differ from a queer reading. Indeed, some scholars have suggested that queerness is pervasive in texts, even those that are not intentionally queer. At the very least, a queer reading of mainstream texts is possible. Doty (1993), for example, argues: “I’ve got news for straight culture: your readings of texts are usually alternative ones for me, and they often seem like desperate attempts to deny the queerness of what is so clearly a part of mass culture” (p. xii). Queer critics are interested in pointing to the ways that discourse intended for a mainstream audience frequently includes queer suggestions and undertones. In other words, queer critics are interested in pointing out to the mainstream that they are not as “normal” as they would like to believe. Sometimes the explicit messages in mainstream discourse are heteronormative, yet a queer reading is possible. Implicit messages are sometimes queer, or, at the least, ambiguous. The 1948 western movie Red River is an example of a text intended for a mainstream audience with implicit queer messages. Red River is the story of a cattle drive across the Chisholm Trail in Texas. The film stars John Wayne, Montgomery Clift,2 and John Ireland. As Murray (1996) points out, “[s]exual repression runs rampant in this film, between both male and female characters” (p. 178). In particular, the film involves sexual tension between both Clift and Wayne as well as Clift and Ireland. In one scene with Clift and Ireland, the two compare guns. The scene can be read in different ways. On the one hand, the comparison of weapons is innocent. On the other hand, it is difficult to miss the sexual implications of the scene. In a line not unlike “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Cherry (Ireland) says to Matt (Clift): “That’s a good looking gun you were about to use back there. Can I see it?” There is a brief pause and then he adds, “Maybe you’d like to see mine.” Matt hands the gun to Cherry who fondles it and says, “Nice. . . . Awful nice.” The two then take turns shooting the other’s gun, flirtatiously complimenting each other on how well they each handle the weapon of the other. The sexual undertones in the film Red River are an example of a how mainstream text can challenge the assumption that heterosexuality is the only sexuality that people experience in their lives.3

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Queer Criticism: Assumptions and Practice With the notion of dominant and oppositional readings in mind, I turn my focus to a specific approach to queer criticism grounded in the premises of queer theory. In this section, I briefly discuss the premises of queer theory and provide some examples from the mass media to help illustrate these assumptions. Finally, I conclude with a complete analysis of an extended example from popular culture. Challenge of essentialism. One of the fundamental assumptions of queer theory is that essential notions of identity are problematic. Indeed, queer critics focus on the uniqueness of individual identities and celebrate the novelty of differences among all people (Seidman, 1993). Put another way, queer theory rejects any perspective that approaches the construction of identity from a universal perspective. Rather than arguing that queers communicate in a particular way, queer theory explodes the notion that individual identities and differences are constructed, communicated, and performed by individuals, and that individual communication varies widely from person to person. Thus, queer critics adamantly reject the idea that identity categories are a sufficient way to label the identities of groups of individuals. This is significant because queer critics reject any perspective that approaches discourse from a universal perspective. Furthermore, audiences are also composed of unique individuals; they are not the monolithic entities that mainstream theorists often assume. Queer criticism examines artifacts for essential identity categories. Because queer theorists challenge the notion of a static, essential, or natural identity, a queer critique must focus on how identities are represented in the artifact. Queer criticism acknowledges that all human beings are, by their nature, unique. That is to say that no two people experience their identities in the same way. The critic engaged in queer criticism celebrates the diversity of humanity by emphasizing diversity and difference of those who are oppressed by the mainstream. Jim Beam, the whiskey manufacturer, recently ran an advertising campaign designed to challenge traditional gender identity characteristics. In one of their advertisements, a seductive woman is shown smoking a cigar. To the side of the black-and-white picture, a caption reads: “Get in touch with your masculine side.” Under the caption is a small color photograph of a bottle of Jim Beam whiskey. This advertisement pushes the boundaries of what is generally considered feminine. The ad implies that smoking a cigar is traditionally a male characteristic. Likewise, drinking whiskey is, supposedly, a male characteristic as well. The artifact challenges the notion that supposedly masculine gender characteristics are appropriate only for biological males. Privacy. Queer theorists insist that sexuality is a critical element of individual human identity. This is consistent with the contention raised by feminist critics who argue that “gender is a critical dimension of humanness that functions as a lens that affects all human perceptions” (Foss, Foss, and Trapp,

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1991, p. 322). Like gender, sexual difference functions in much the same way: individuals understand the world based upon their individual identity characteristics. Queer critics resist the notion that sexuality is only a matter of sexual behavior, and they contend that to reduce sexuality to this is to deny that sexuality comes into play in many aspects of human life. To be sure, queer theorists and critics do not deny the relevance of sexual activity. However, these critics and theorists also contend that the imposed silence on queer sex is both hypocritical and puritanical. Nevertheless, queer critics argue that sexuality cannot be reduced to sexual activity. Thus, queer criticism raises a fundamental challenge to the idea that sexuality is a “private” matter that is not appropriate for public display (Warner, 1993). A great deal of mainstream discourse has argued, at least implicitly, that sexuality is best left to the bedroom. Queer theorists contend that sexuality is always a fundamental part of everything that we do in our lives. Put another way, our sexuality is always present, and always influential in the decisions that we make about our lives in general, and our communication in particular. Queer criticism focuses attention on sexuality whenever it is explicit or implicit in discourse. Furthermore, queer criticism insists that individual sexualities are a fundamental aspect of who we are as human beings; sexuality, then, cannot or should not be viewed as a peripheral issue of identity. In other words, sexuality is always–and, indeed, it must be–invariably public. Queer criticism, then, both draws attention to and challenges the notion that sexuality is a private matter that is best left in the bedroom. For queer critics, when people suggest that it is inappropriate to discuss issues of sexuality, they are really saying that nonnormative sexualities are inappropriate. The dogmatic insistence upon silence when it comes to queer sexualities does not, in practice, apply to those with normative sexualities. Queer critics draw attention to the fact that heterosexuality is frequently displayed publicly. Such displays include the fact that heterosexuals are able to walk down the street holding hands, or sit in the park kissing. It is not unusual to see heterosexuals have photographs of their husbands or wives and children on their desks in the workplace. Marriage is another example of the celebration of normative sexuality–engagements and marriages are typically announced in the newspaper. When queers try to celebrate their relationships in similar ways, they are, at best, accused of making something public that people don’t want to hear about or, at worst, they are accused of trying to destroy the most fundamental institution upon which society is built (the nuclear family). Queer critics draw attention to the hypocrisy of such a double standard, and they emphasize that if people were secure in their own sexual roles they would have no reason to feel threatened by sexualities that differ from their own. The challenge to privacy has led to numerous controversies over so-called “outing.” Activists who advocate outing reveal the sexual orientation of people who are in the closet. Michelangelo Signorile (1993) advocates outing in

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cases where people in positions of power could do potential harm to queer rights by remaining closeted. More recently, Andrew Sullivan, an openly gay conservative writer, was “outed” in another sense. Sullivan, who is HIV positive, and has written at length criticizing promiscuity and sexual behavior, particularly in the age of AIDS, was outed for placing personal ads on America Online, using the screen name RawMuscleGlutes, seeking sexual encounters (Goldstein, 2001). Specifically, Sullivan was seeking men interested in barebacking, a term for men who have sex without condoms. Sullivan did indicate that he preferred men who are “poz,” but he also indicated an interest in “bi scenes,” orgies, groups, and “gang bangs.” Goldstein points out that “[t]his hardly fit the gay ideal Sullivan had created in his book Virtually Normal. In fact, RawMuscleGlutes is just the sort of ‘pathological’ creature who raises Sullivan’s wrath” (Goldstein, 2001). Sullivan responded by admitting that he had placed the ad, but added that his private life is his own business and that for journalists to reveal the details of his sex life is nothing short of “sexual McCarthyism I find repugnant and evil” (Sullivan, 2001). Sullivan remains unwilling to concede the hypocrisy that exists between his moralistic rhetoric about gay men and his own irresponsible behavior. I agree that Sullivan’s sex life is not really the issue. Instead, the real scandal is that Sullivan has the power to be the self-proclaimed moral center of the queer community. Heteronormativity. Queer criticism challenges the heteronormative assumptions in the mainstream (Seidman, 1993; Warner, 1993). In other words, queer rhetoric insists that there is nothing necessarily “normal” about being heterosexual. In this world view, those who are not heterosexual are labeled as deviant. When heterosexuality is seen as “normal” or “natural,” other sexualities are seen as “abnormal,” “unnatural,” or they are ignored entirely (Butler, 1990; Fuss, 1991; Morrison, 1992; Smyth, 1992). In popular culture, this notion abounds. We are bombarded every day with messages that tell us not only that heterosexuality is the only acceptable way to live our lives, but also that a particular kind of heterosexuality is normative; that is, we are told regularly by a variety of sources that, at least in the United States, the nuclear family is the foundation of everything that we believe as a nation. Queer criticism rejects the idea that normative heterosexuality is the only acceptable sexual posture. Queer theory is critical of dominant models that view heterosexuality as the only “normal” form of sexual expression because these models leave no room for discourses that come from other perspectives. The force of queer criticism is that it illuminates normative heterosexual privilege in discourse. Put another way, queer criticism challenges the notion that traditional heterosexual relationships are the only normal sexual expression, to the exclusion of other sexual possibilities.4 Queer rhetorical criticism celebrates the range of queer sexual expression, which can, indeed, include normative heterosexual expression to the extent that heterosexual constructions of the world do not dismiss or diminish queer sexualities. For this reason, some have argued that there are “straight queers” (Powers, 1993). Straight

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queers are individuals who immerse themselves in queer cultures and ideologies, yet their objects of sexual desire are members of the opposite sex. In other words, they are queer except in terms of sexual activity.5 Straight queers provide a unique challenge to dominant ideologies; that is, they challenge the dominant notion that sexual object choices define queerness (as is the case with “gay,” “lesbian,” “bisexual,” “homosexual,” and “straight”). The debates in Congress during 1996 over the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) were filled with language that reinforced this notion (Smith, 1997). For example, these debates emphasized that “marriage is a legal bond between one man and one woman.” Even for heterosexuals, non-monogamous relationships are condemned; non-procreative relationships are not given the same emphasis in our society as relationships that produce children, to say nothing of relationships between members of the same sex, or combinations of more than two individuals regardless of the biological sex of the participants. Queer critics draw attention to texts that emphasize sexual fluidity and ambiguity (Morrison, 1992; Sedgwick, 1990). Queer criticism should, whenever possible, demonstrate the possibility for multiple sexualities. In a recent advertising campaign, for example, Catalyst, a fragrance by Halston, ran an ad that was open to multiple readings. The advertisement includes a picture of William Baldwin, a well-known actor. Baldwin’s hair is disheveled, and he is wearing an unbuttoned white dress shirt (revealing his muscular chest) tucked into his trousers, and a dark sport coat. He is looking directly at the photographer, with a smirk on his face. Floating in front of the black-and-white picture of Baldwin is a shelf of some sort supporting three different shaped containers that apparently hold the cologne. There are two captions in the advertisement. The first, “Boys like to experiment,” is set on Baldwin’s bare chest. The second caption, “CATALYST,” is set on Baldwin’s crotch. This advertisement is rich in sexual messages, and is notable for the ambiguity that is present in the presentation. One reading of the advertisement might take a scientific approach–the containers look remarkably like beakers and test tubes. On the other hand, the beakers are also remarkably phallic in nature. In addition, the containers are different shapes and sizes. Hence, the advertisement suggests that “boys like to experiment” sexually. This includes, as suggested by the presence of the phallic containers, experiments with the same sex. Even the placement of the captions in the advertisement is sexually significant. In order to read the captions, the reader is drawn to both Baldwin’s crotch and his bare chest. Furthermore, one of the phallic containers (a test tube-like container) is placed so that it extends directly from the top of Baldwin’s trousers to the middle of his chest as if Baldwin has a rather long erection. It is important to note that the advertisement is apparently directed at men; in small type at the bottom of the page is the text, “The new fragrance chemistry for men. By HALSTON.” Assimilation. Queer critics adamantly argue that queers are not interested in assimilating seamlessly into an unchanged mainstream (Seidman, 1993;

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Tierney, 1993). For example, queer critics reject the rhetoric of gay liberation that strives to make sexual identity something that should ultimately not be a factor in determining who is allowed to participate in society, and who is not. Queer critics argue that individual sexual differences are significant, that queers are unique, and that these differences still do not justify oppression. Finally, it is important to remember that queer criticism has an explicitly activist agenda; that is, queer criticism seeks to dismantle the existing social order that silences queer voices in our society. Queer critics attempt to construct a world in which sexual difference is not only acknowledged, but celebrated. Queer theorists argue that it is not sufficient to point out that oppression and domination merely exist; instead, a major goal of queer criticism is to point to the potential for progressive change in the social structure.

THE PRACTICE OF QUEER CRITICISM: PEE-WEE’S QUEER ADVENTURE The film and television work of Pee-wee Herman (the stage/screen name of actor Paul Reubens6) provides interesting fodder for queer analysis. Perhaps the most interesting thing to note about this discourse is that both the television show Pee-wee’s Playhouse as well as two full-length feature films, Big Top Pee-wee and Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, were geared to children. Indeed, Pee-wee’s Playhouse was a part of CBS’s regular Saturday morning line-up for several seasons. Nevertheless, they are all rich in potential alternative readings. In this section, I examine both the television series and the film Pee-wee’s Big Adventure. Pee-wee’s Playhouse, the Saturday morning television series, was based on The Pee-wee Herman Show, a “sexually risque work of performance art” (Penley, 1993, p. 132) that had been successfully produced in Los Angeles. In the television series, the sexual references were dealt with much more subtly than in the stage production, for obvious reasons. Penley (1993) explains that the stage production was “fully scatological (the secret word was ‘latrine’), and entirely sadistic and voyeuristic. There were jokes about wienies, doggy doo, underwear, open flies, vaginal smells, anal intercourse, masturbation, and sexually transmitted diseases, among others” (p. 132). Nevertheless, while the later work was toned down somewhat, subtle sexual references remained.

Characters In terms of challenging assimilation, Pee-wee Herman is much like Peter Pan: he is a boy who refuses to grow up. Indeed, in both the television series and the movies, Pee-wee lives alone in his “playhouse,” and he associates with other characters who are physically adults, and yet have never outgrown childhood. Pee-wee Herman rides a bicycle (indeed, the plot of Pee-wee’s Big Ad-

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venture revolves around Pee-wee’s search for his stolen bicycle), plays with toys (and his food), and revels in practical jokes (stink bombs, fake vomit, etc.). Pee-wee Herman, then, challenges the normative expectation that he should act like an adult. The character of Pee-wee Herman is a camp version of the classic portrayal of homosexuals as sissies. The stereotype has been pervasive throughout the history of film and television. Even when, for any number of reasons, explicit references to homosexuality have not been permitted, film makers have used “the sissy” to represent non-normative sexualities (Russo, 1987).7 While one might argue that Pee-wee Herman reinforces such a stereotype, the camp nature of his portrayal of the sissy might also be read as poking fun at the stereotype. The character of Pee-wee Herman is portrayed as an extreme version of the sissy: he dresses well (except for the white socks he wears with his trademark grey suit), he skips, he giggles, indeed nearly everything that he does is carried to an effeminate extreme. While the characterization is carried to an extreme, Pee-wee still remains popular with most other characters in both the television program and in the films. In Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, Pee-wee is embraced by a motorcycle gang, an escaped convict, movie executives, and a hyper-feminine waitress. In other words, Pee-wee is popular despite his sissyness–a break from the traditional representation of the sissy as something to be avoided. In this body of work, we find a myriad of characters who cross borders between normative ideas about sexuality, gender, and age. Cross dressing, for example, is a regular activity in Pee-wee’s world. In Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, Pee-wee dresses as a woman twice. The first time he dresses as the wife of Mickey, an escaped convict who picked Pee-wee up while he was hitchhiking to Texas. Pee-wee’s plan was to divert attention from the police in a roadblock who were searching for the escaped convict. Not surprisingly, Pee-wee and Mickey are successful. Interestingly, though, Pee-wee in drag is a turn-on to both the officer at the roadblock and to Mickey. The officer asks Pee-wee to step out of the car so that he can look at “her” pretty dress, to which Pee-wee responds, “Why don’t you take a picture, it’ll last longer.” After being cleared through the roadblock, Pee-wee remains in the dress (apparently content in the reversal of roles), and Mickey looks over at him with a lascivious grin, clearly titillated by seeing Pee-wee in a dress. The second instance of cross-dressing occurs later in the film when Pee-wee dresses as a nun8 in order to get onto a movie set. It is worth noting that nuns, for any number of reasons, are frequently the object of queer camp.9 Pee-wee Herman’s films and television programs are packed with camp representations of particular identities, both male and female. In Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, for example, several of the major male characters are presented as hyper-masculine. Specifically, the waitress’s boyfriend is portrayed as a stereotypical redneck complete with a hunting cap and red flannel shirt. Mickey,

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the escaped convict, is also characterized as an exaggerated version of masculinity. The female characters in the film are also camp representations of femininity. Simone, the waitress who befriends Pee-wee, is characterized as a super-feminine woman who wants nothing more than to go to Paris, which she describes as the “city of dreams.” Large Marge, the ghost of a truck driver who picks Pee-wee up while he is hitchhiking, is another camp characterization, but of a different sort than Simone. Marge is portrayed as a hyper-masculinized woman who drives a semi–an exaggeration of the stereotype that driving a truck is supposedly a man’s job. Pee-wee’s Playhouse is also loaded with campy characters. Miss Yvonne, much like Simone, is represented as a super-feminine coquette–in this case, Yvonne even has big, blonde hair. Cowboy Curtis is portrayed as a caricature of a rough and tough cowboy. Tito, the lifeguard, is portrayed as a body-building hunk with a perfect tan. It is worth noting that Tito rarely wears any clothing except for a skimpy bathing suit. Balfour (1993) explains that “the one time Tito is compelled to dress up, he wears a purple tuxedo jacket without shirt, tie or pants. It is Tito, rather than any of the women, who ranks as the most eligible and desirable libidinal attachment in the topsy-turvy world of the playhouse” (p. 145). Pee-wee’s television series and films are brimming with characters who are icons of queer desire. Bruce (cited in Penley, 1993) explains that it is beyond the fact that Pee-wee is surrounded by attractive men, it’s rather that each represents a specific gay male icon, prominent fantasy figures in homosexual pornography (although in the context of the Playhouse made human and friendly), including the sailor (Captain Carl), the black cowboy (Cowboy Curtis), and the muscular, scantily-clad lifeguard (Tito), not to mention the escaped con (Mickey) in Pee-wee’s Big Adventure. (p. 133) Finally, Jambi the genie is portrayed as a flamboyant character who grants Pee-wee one wish in each episode. Jambi is presented as having only a head, and he resides in a box with doors that Pee-wee can open and close. In the stage production, Jambi receives a pair of hands that he ordered through the mail. When they arrive, Pee-wee delivers them to Jambi, who asks Pee-wee to close the door to his box because, he explains, “there is something that I have been wanting to do for a long time.”

Sexual Innuendo In terms of challenging assimilationist assumptions of sexuality, the discourse of Pee-wee Herman is subtler for the simple reason that children are the target audience. Nevertheless, sexual innuendo runs rampant in both the films

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and television series. Early in Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, Pee-wee is asked by his “girlfriend” Dotty about going to the drive-in with her. Pee-wee is visibly disgusted by the idea that he would go on a date with Dotty, and he replies to her by saying in the most “butch” voice that he can muster: Dotty, there’s a lot of things about me you don’t know anything about, Dotty. Things you wouldn’t understand. Things you couldn’t understand. Things you shouldn’t understand. . . . You don’t wanna get mixed up with a guy like me. I’m a loner, Dotty. A rebel. So long, Dotty. Pee-wee then turns on his heels, walks out of the store, and giggles the trademark “Pee-wee-esque” giggle. This line can be understood on multiple levels. For children, it is not likely to have any meaning other than that Pee-wee is not interested in dating Dotty; young children, afterall, are seldom interested in members of the opposite sex (generally, they are perceived as having “cooties”). For a more sophisticated audience, the line potentially has much more significance; there are things about Pee-wee that are kept secret, and he rebels against mainstream norms of what it means to be a man. The line is almost prophetic in terms of what is still to come in the film. While there are certain aspects of Pee-wee’s identity that should be kept quiet (by normative standards), the audience occasionally gets a glimpse of them in the film. As I pointed out above, there is an obvious need for subtlety in both the films and television series, given that the target audience is children. Nevertheless, both the television series and films are loaded with references to sexual difference. At the end of Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, after Pee-wee has recovered his bicycle, most of the characters from the film are gathered at a drive-in watching Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, apparently the Hollywood version of what had happened to Pee-wee. We see Pee-wee apparently having just left the snack bar. As he is walking back to where he is watching the film, he walks past all of the friends that he has made during his adventure. When he reaches a grey bus, Mickey, the escaped convict, leans out of one of the windows to greet Pee-wee. Pee-wee tells Mickey that he has a “footlong” for him and winks. At this point, a guard checks the hot dog and finds a file hidden inside the bun. While it is unlikely that children would understand the sexual reference, most adults would not miss it. This reference is particularly interesting given the sexual tension between Pee-wee and Mickey while Pee-wee was in drag. In the television series, sexual references are common as well. In one episode, at a playhouse party, Tito and Miss Yvonne are dancing, and Pee-wee asks if he can cut in. Miss Yvonne nods her approval, and Pee-wee steps in and begins dancing with Tito. Only a few moments pass, and Pee-wee backs away from Tito giggling and begins dancing with Miss Yvonne. Although this is a brief moment, it is notable because it shakes the sexual order. In another, lengthier example, Cowboy Curtis asks Pee-wee to coach him before his date with Miss Yvonne. Balfour (1993) explains that “Curtis com-

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plains of having never been out on a fancy date with a woman–one wonders if he’s been on any kind of date with a woman–and the Cowntess (a cow who occasionally wears a muumuu) ropes Pee-wee into pretending to be Miss Yvonne for Curtis’s benefit” (p. 145). At first, Pee-wee objects because he “doesn’t want to be a girl.” Nevertheless, the Cowntess encourages him that he can have some fun with it. Pee-wee agrees, and dives into the role. He takes on a falsetto voice, talks about wearing lipstick (which, of course, he already does), hairspray and a dress, and flirts with Cowboy Curtis. After several minutes of this (sexual) play, Curtis attempts to kiss Pee-wee goodnight. Order is finally restored when Pee-wee protests to the kiss. This scenario is made even more significant by the fact that the moral for the show is “Be Yourself.” Balfour explains that this moral can be interpreted in more than one way: One imagines the reading the network and sponsors could offer with a sigh of relief: “Be Yourself” that is to say, boys will be boys, girls will be girls. For in the end the traditional shakedown of masculine boys and feminine girls is duly restored. But again the narrative resolution hardly obviates all that has gone before it. A principal effect of Pee-wee’s histrionics, whatever the outcome of the episode, is to unsettle culturally codified notions of masculine and feminine, indeed to twist them around. (pp. 145-146) In another example from the television series, Pee-wee has decided to remodel the playhouse and has invited all of his friends to help. Miss Yvonne shows up, as usual, wearing a formal dress (complete with frills). Pee-wee is concerned that Miss Yvonne’s dress will get dirty. Miss Yvonne tells Pee-wee not to worry about it because her motto, and the theme for this particular episode, is to “Be Prepared.” With that said, she pulls a clear plastic overcoat out of her purse to cover her dress. In addition, she puts on a clear plastic cap to cover her hair. The safe sex allusion is likely to be obvious to most adults watching the program, but it is not likely to be clear to the child viewers of the show.

(Hetero)Normativity and Pee-wee The early stage production, the television series, and the films of Pee-wee Herman are rich in examples of how queer discourse challenges normative dictates about sexual and gender identities. In particular, Herman’s characters challenge essentialist notions of what it means to be men and women, as well as essentialist notions of sexual identities (although these references are much more subtle). While on one level it could be argued that Herman’s characters reinforce essentialist stereotypes, it is important to consider the camp nature of their presentation. All of the characters in Pee-wee’s world are carried to extremes through the use of camp as a rhetorical strategy. So, rather than rein-

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forcing the stereotypes, Herman/Reubens is making fun of them; he makes them seem silly and ridiculous. Second, Herman/Reubens challenges the notion that individuals who are different should assimilate into the mainstream in terms of how they will behave, and with whom they will interact. Indeed, one message of Pee-wee’s work is that people should not be afraid to be themselves, regardless of societal norms in terms of identity and behavior. For Herman, differences must be celebrated. As Penley (1993) explains: Although multiplying and celebrating “differences” can risk leveling or vitiating crucial political categories of difference, I would argue that here, in the context of Saturday morning television, the Playhouse’s dizzying presentation of difference, accompanied by a constant plea for tolerance, show a sharp understanding of how one might go about reordering (attitudes toward) difference, even under the gaze of the masters of the television universe. (pp. 137-138) Finally, the notion that sexuality is something that should be kept quiet is dealt with in interesting ways in the work of Herman/Reubens. On the one hand, given that the television series and films are geared to children, references to sexuality are generally quite subtle, or, at the least, well above the heads of children viewers. On the other hand, as I have already pointed out, the frequently explicit message of Pee-wee is that individuals should not be afraid to be individuals, and the diverse sexual references reinforce this message. In other words, the message to a sophisticated audience is that sexual differences exist, should be celebrated, and should not be kept silent.

CONCLUSION Queer theory provides a framework for understanding how differences are constructed and communicated. In other words, unlike the liberation rhetorics, queer criticism does not seek to demonstrate how human beings are similar, but it focuses, instead, on difference as a site of power and knowledge. Put another way, queer theory rejects the notion of “grand theory.” It is not possible to make sweeping claims about the ways that queers (or anyone else for that matter) communicate with one another. Instead, queer criticism examines texts for the ways that they either challenge or maintain a status quo in which differences are denigrated. Queer criticism, like queer theory and activism, has an activist agenda. Queer critics do not stop after describing rhetorical practice. This criticism is particularly useful in the sense that it helps us to understand how power relationships have been constructed, why these relationships are problematic, and how differences can be a progressive site for social change.

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Queer critics challenge the binaries that have been used to construct a social order that silences sexual differences. Queer criticism is useful in helping people to understand that the world would be a better place if we celebrated differences, rather than forced people to fit into molds of what most consider “normal.” Queer criticism, then, highlights heteronormativity in mainstream and liberation discourse. Furthermore, queer rhetorical critics seek to dismantle hierarchy by blurring the definitions of specific identity categories. In other words, queer critics de-emphasize the specificity of all identity categories (gay, lesbian, straight, etc.). Ambiguity is frequently introduced to demonstrate that few people actually fit into the rigid limits of such categories. Queer criticism is guided by the assumption that when definitions of “normal” begin to shift, particular differences will not be privileged over others. Obviously, this is an ideal that queer theorists and queer critics are working toward. To summarize, queer critics are not interested only in demonstrating that oppression exists. Queer criticism, instead, is interested in demonstrating: (1) that queer perspectives are not valued, (2) that queer experience is frequently silenced, (3) that heteronormativity is rampant in both theory and discourse, and (4) that difference–particularly sexual difference–is an important, and largely unexplored, site for social change. Queer criticism, while taking aim at identity categories and the effects of such categories, does not abandon identity as a site of knowledge and political activity, but attempts to render identity permanently open and contestable as to its meaning and political role. Put another way, queer critics shift the terms of identity. Rather than focusing on identity and group identification from the perspective of essentialized similarities, queer critics point to the differences that exist among members of groups. Rather than dismissing any particular sexual identity, queer critics are interested in creating a changed social structure in which all sexual identities are celebrated, and no identity is perceived as better or more appealing than any other.

NOTES 1. The distinction between the liberation movements and the queer movements have been written about elsewhere. It is important to note that the early liberation movements did not focus on assimilation as a primary goal, but a distinct shift occurred at some point in the 1970s. For more explanation of the liberation movements, see Altman, 1982; Chesebro, 1994; Chesebro, Cragan, and McCullough, 1981; Darsey, 1981; Darsey, 1991; Gamson, 1996; Kennedy and Davis, 1993; Moraga, 1983; Morin and Garfinkle, 1981; Nogle, 1981; Phelan, 1993; Reid-Pharr, 1993; Sears, 1987; Seidman, 1993; Seidman, 1994; and Slagle, 1995. 2. Throughout his life, Montgomery Clift had a relatively fluid sexuality. As Murray (1996) explains:

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Clift’s sexuality was rather well known in Hollywood (on the set of The Misfits, Clark Gable referred to him as that “faggot”), though he did his best to keep his private life just that. He wasn’t always successful: In 1949, he was arrested for trying to pick up a hustler on 42nd Street; the charges were subsequently dropped. Though a bisexual who took delight in his sexual conquests of both men and women, Clift was not totally comfortable with his gayness (which was his preference), and he was often tormented by it. This anxiety, coupled with drug and alcohol abuse caused the actor to burn-out before his time. John Huston, who directed The Misfits, said, “The combination of drugs, drinking, and being homosexual was a soup that was too much for him.” Clift died of a heart attack at the age of 46. 3. The flirtatious relationship between Clift’s and Ireland’s characters is not the only example of a queer subtext in the film. In fact, the relationship between Clift’s and John Wayne’s characters, while far from explicit, also challenges heteronormativity. The sexual tension between the two characters comes to a climax at the end of the film when “Hawks’ only use for Joanne Dru is to have her tell John Wayne and Montgomery Clift what we can already see. ‘Stop fighting! . . . You two know you love each other’” (Russo, 1987, p. 78). 4. I should note that this does not reduce to a binary relationship between heterosexual and homosexual, or straight and gay. Instead, queer rhetoric focuses on the relationship between heterosexuality as “normal” and queer as deviant. It would be accurate to contend that queer theory forces a binary between normal and queer. This binary, however, is non-essentializing; that is, queer allows for a range of identity characteristics without fixing them. 5. Ann Powers (1993) explains that straight queers, like herself, “pass” as queer: “Queer straights don’t just hang around; what they do is pass. They carefully maneuver their rhetoric toward ambiguity of desire and display, leaving aside questions of the private” (p. 24). 6. Reubens generally took on the character of Pee-wee Herman outside the context of the television program and films. Rather than listing Paul Reubens in the credits of productions, Pee-wee Herman was listed as the star. In fact, Penley (1993) points out when reporters have been granted an interview with the star, they “are warned that they will be interviewing Pee-wee, not Paul Reubens” (p. 130). 7. Russo (1987) is also critical of the sexist nature of the sissy stereotype. He contends that: Homosexuality in the movies, whether overtly sexual or not, has always been seen in terms of what is or what is not masculine. . . . [I]t is supposed to be an insult to call a man effeminate, for it means he is like a woman and therefore not as valuable as a “real” man. The popular notion of gayness is rooted in sexism. (pp. 4-5) 8. This is not the only instance in Pee-wee’s work that he poses as a nun. In one episode of Pee-wee’s Playhouse, he takes out a pair of giant underpants and demonstrates how useful they can be. In the skit, “he places a pair of truly humongous Fruit of the Looms over his head to show how this simple everyday garment can be turned into a nun’s habit or Rapunzel’s flowing hair” (Penley, 1993, p. 126). 9. One activist group, trying to raise awareness of HIV/AIDS issues, dresses as nuns and refers to themselves as the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Recently the musical Nunsense, which is campy anyway, was performed Off-Broadway by a group of male actors (renamed Nunsense, A-Men!). Another well known camp portrayal of nuns is the nuns in Whoopi Goldberg’s Sister Act movies, although these are not intended as “queer” (they are certainly open to a queer reading, like any artifact).

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REFERENCES Altman, D. (1982). The homosexualization of America. The Americanization of the homosexual. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Balfour, I. (1993). The playhouse of the signifier: Reading Pee-wee Herman. In C. Penley & S. Willis (Eds.), Male trouble (pp. 143-155). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota. Butler, J. (1990). Gender trouble: Feminism and the subversion of identity. New York: Routledge. Chesebro, J. W. (1994). Reflections on gay and lesbian rhetoric. In R. J. Ringer (Ed.), Queer words, queer images: Communication and the construction of homosexuality (pp. 77-88). New York: New York University Press. Chesebro, J. W., Cragan, J. F., & McCullough, P. (1981). Consciousness-raising among gay males. In J. W. Chesebro (Ed.), Gayspeak: Gay male and lesbian communication (pp. 211-223). New York: The Pilgrim Press. Darsey, J. (1981). From “Commies” and “Queers” to “Gay is Good.” In J. W. Chesebro (Ed.), Gayspeak: Gay male and lesbian communication (pp. 224-247). New York: The Pilgrim Press. Darsey. J. (1991). From “Gay is Good” to the scourge of AIDS: The evolution of gay liberation rhetoric, 1977-1990. Communication Studies, 42, 43-66. Doty, A. (1993). Making things perfectly queer: Interpreting mass culture. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Foss, S. K., Foss, K. A., & Trapp, R. (1991). Contemporary perspectives on rhetoric (2nd ed.). Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland. Fuss, D. (1991). Inside/out. In D. Fuss (Ed.), Inside/out: Lesbian theories. Gay theories (pp. 1-12). New York: Routledge. Gamson, J. (1996). Must identity movements self-destruct?: A queer dilemma. In S. Seidman (Ed.), Queer theory/sociology (pp. 395-420). Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Gandy, O. H. (1994). The Information Superhighway as the Yellow Brick Road. National Forum: Phi Kappa Phi Journal, 72, 24-27. Goldstein, R. (2001, June 20-26). The real Andrew Sullivan scandal [Electronic version]. The Village Voice. Retrieved on April 10, 2002, from http://www.villagevoice. com/issues/0125/goldstein.php. Kennedy, E. L., & Davis, M. D. (1993). Boots of leather, slippers of gold: The history of a lesbian community. New York: Routledge. Littlefield, H. M. (1983). The Wizard of Oz: Parable on populism. In M. P. Hearn (Ed.), The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum (pp. 221-233). New York: Schocken Books. Moraga, C. (1983). Loving in the war years. Boston: South End Press. Morin, S. F., & Garfinkle, E. M. (1981). Male homophobia. In J. W. Chesebro (Ed.), Gayspeak: Gay male and lesbian communication (pp. 117-129). New York: The Pilgrim Press. Morrison, M. (1992). Laughing with queers in my eyes: Proposing “Queer Rhetoric(s)” and introducing a queer issue. Pre/Text, 13(3-4), 11-36. Morton, D. (1996). Changing the terms: (Virtual) desire and (actual) reality. In D. Morton (Ed.), The material queer: A lesbigay cultural studies reader (pp. 1-33). Boulder, CO: Westview.

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Murray, R. (1996). Images in the dark: An encyclopedia of gay and lesbian film and video. New York: Plume. Nogle, V. (1981). Lesbianfeminist rhetoric as a social movement. In J. W. Chesebro (Ed.), Gayspeak: Gay male and lesbian communication (pp. 260-27 1). New York: The Pilgrim Press. Penley, C. (1993). The cabinet of Dr. Pee-wee: Consumerism and sexual terror. In C. Penley & S. Willis (Eds.), Male trouble (pp. 121-141). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota. Phelan, S. (1993). (Be)Coming out: Lesbian identity and politics. Signs, 18, 765-790. Powers, A. (1993, June 29). Queer in the streets, straight in the sheets. The Village Voice, 38(26), 24, 30-31. Reid-Pharr, R. (1993). The spectacle of blackness. Radical America, 24, 57-66. Rudnick, P. (1994). Jeffrey. New York: Plume. Russo, V. (1987). The celluloid closet. (Rev. ed.). New York: Harper & Row. Sedgwick, E. K. (1990). Epistemology of the closet. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Seidman, S. (1993). Identity and politics in a “postmodern” gay culture: Some historical and conceptual notes. In M. Warner (Ed.), Fear of a queer planet: Queer politics and social theory (pp. 105-142). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Seidman, S. (1994). Symposium: Queer theory/sociology: A dialogue. Sociological Theory, 12, 166-177. Signorile, M. (1993). Queer in America: Sex, media, and the closets of power. New York: Anchor. Slagle, R. A. (1995). In defense of Queer Nation: From “Identity Politics” to a “Politics of Difference.” Western Journal of Communication, 59, 85-102. Smith, R. R. (1997, November). Legislative discourse on justice, morality, and power: The 1996 Defense of Marriage Act. Paper presented at the meeting of the National Communication Association, Chicago, IL. Smyth, C. (1992). Lesbians talk: Queer notions. London: Scarlett Press. Sullivan, A. (2001, May 31). Sexual McCarthyism: An article no one should have to write. Andrewsullivan.com, Article 2001053. Retrieved April 10, 2002, from http:// www.andrewsullivan.com/homosexuality.php?artnum=20010531. Tierney, W. G. (1993). Building communities of difference: Higher education in the twenty-first century. Westport, CT: Bergin and Garvey. Warner, M. (1993). Introduction. In M. Warner (Ed.), Fear of a queer planet: Queer politics and social theory (pp. vii-xxxi). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.

Kuaering Queer Theory: My Autocritography and a Race-Conscious, Womanist, Transnational Turn Wenshu Lee, PhD San Jose State University

SUMMARY. Critiquing queer theory’s omissions in race and class, E. Patrick Johnson (2001) suggests “quare” studies, a turn similar to that being made from feminism to womanism. I fully embrace Johnson’s theorizing. But to make relevant the worlds lying beyond the pale of North America, Europe, and the English language to the study of sexualities and other dimensions of systematic discrimination, I use kuaer theory to make another turn. One that is at once race-conscious, womanist and transnational. I travel through three awakenings, and look into nu nu (female-female) words in Taiwanese and Chinese lesbian existence in different historical periods. I also offer a rhetorical analysis of the title of Ai Bao, the first officially registered Taiwanese lesbian magazine, exploring its persuasiveness via wordplay and multiple entendre. In addition, from jin lan hui to nu tongzhi, from T/puo and lazi to kuer, I provide sketches of heterogeneous and complex Taiwanese and Chinese nu nu worlds. As I get deeper Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Communication Studies, San Jose State University, One Washington Square, San Jose, CA 95192-0112 (E-mail: [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Kuaering Queer Theory: My Autocritography and a Race-Conscious, Womanist, Transnational Turn.” Lee, Wenshu. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 147-170; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 147-170. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_07

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into my autocritography, these women become my women and I learn to utter my own words in a language that is little pre-packaged. My crossing marks a daring but humble beginning. If nothing else, there is at least more space for bringing up race and transnational complicity queerly. [Article copies available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.]

KEYWORDS. Autocritography, lesbianism, quare studies, queer theory, rhetorical invention, Taiwanese/Chinese, transnationalism, womanism

. . . MY NAMELESS EVERYWHERE . . . I am a bridge connecting two shores across the Pacific Ocean: Taipei, Taiwan and San Jose, California, United States. Transnational itinerary, quite obviously, is my autobiography, and writing myself, I have come to terms with an elision, a void that has been a nameless everywhere–in my youth, in my work, in my daily encounters and, most importantly, in my dreams. How was I awakened to this name and the histories of this namelessness? How did I manage to erase the memories of romance among my classmates in Bei Yi Nu (see Figure 1 for a Chinese-English word list compiled for this essay), the best girls’ high school in Taipei in the 1970s? How did I bury the overtly friendly yet timid interest in me during my graduate school days in Los Angeles in the 1980s? What persona did I assume in my scholarly writings on Chinese and Taiwanese women in the U.S. academy in the 1990s? I have portrayed myself as a liberal straight woman from Taiwan writing in the United States. I have never been “homophobic” yet I am always “straight,” so I thought. What has become obvious is that the chi1 running through me is deeply heteropatriarchal. Do I have a heteropatriarchal mirror which I constantly have to dust off? But, if there is no mirror, whence comes the dust? For me, these are big questions, and I am going after them.2 This “going after” is tearing me apart, tearing me into pieces. Trying not to feel like a thief, a language stealer, yet exploring words that reach into the different sides of me, unseen, unspoken, and untouched, I welcome you into my bilingual and mutli-styled journal–public, private, main text, endnotes, Mandarin Chinese, United Statesian English, italicized me and nonitalicized scholar3–a written world where there is no common word, no common sentence ready for me to use.4 My formative years offer a glimpse of the national-historical memories in Taiwanese society in the second half of the twentieth century. Quietly embedded in these memories are horrendous acts of discursive amnesia,5 which I have learned to “see” and “hear” and, ultimately, to “unlearn” its incompre-

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FIGURE 1. Mandarin Chinese to North American English Word List Ai Bao Love Paper (abbreviated from Ai Fu Hao Zi Zai Bao) Ai Fu Hao Zi Zai Bao Love, Luck, Good, Self-at-Ease Newspaper/Magazine (abbreviated as Ai Bao) bai xiang zhi avowed [sisters due to] mutual appreciation; women who lived like husband and wife in Canton Bao Juan Precious Volume Bei Yi Nu The First Girls’ High School in Taipei, Taiwan bu fen not differentiating [between T and puo] (see T and puo below for their respective definition) bu-fen-pien-puo not differentiating [between T and puo] but leaning toward puo bu-fen-pien-T not differentiating [between T and puo] but leaning toward T bu luo jia [married but] not settling down in the [husband’s] family chi energy running through the human body chuan ku zi de pants wearer [women who love women; a pre-tongzhi era term] gui ning returning home to wish parents peace and good health jie mei hua older sister and younger sister flower/sisterhood jin lan hui golden orchid association (see footnote 11) kuaer children who cross worlds; children who are proud; children who are transnational womanist quares kuer children who are queer/cool lazi women who love women/lez lian li zhi connected branches; husband and wife/marriage nan male nan tong xing lian male same-sex love/male homosexual or male homosexuality nan tongzhi male comrade/gay man nu female/s nu nu female-female nu nu guan xi female-female connections/relationships [see footnote 8; Adrienne Rich’s “lesbian existence” relocated in Chinese/Taiwanese contexts] Nu Shu Dien the Femme Bookstore nu tong xing lian female same-sex love /female homosexual or female homosexuality nu tongzhi female comrade/lesbian puo grandmother or wife [feminine women who love women; femme; wife of T; more or less equivalent to “lipstick lesbian” in the United States] shang shen ti damaging body; “body” in this phrase is used holistically to mean physical health shao filial piety to the parents shuang guan yu double entendre T adopted from the English expression tomboy [masculine women who love women; equivalent to “butch” in the United States] Tai Da an abbreviated term for National Taiwan University tan bao juicy dumpling; a transliteration from “tomboy” and equivalent to T explained above] tong xing lian same-sex love/homosexual or homosexuality tongzhi comrade/lesbians and gays Xien Tien Da Dao The Great Way of Former Heaven yang pai “ocean/foreign style”; this expression means “Westernized.” yo yi ci a triple entendre: (1) bearing meanings, (2) interesting/fun, and (3) showing romantic interest zhong loyalty to the emperor zi shu nu self hairdressing female; spinster

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hension. Discursive amnesty,6 theoretically and in praxis, is the backdrop of my transformed way of seeing. It involves a reorientation of my being. Inwardly, flashbacks and traces of past nu nu guan xi (female-female connections; this expression sometimes will be abbreviated as nu nu in my journal)7 dance at the edges of my consciousness. Socially, a cacophony of signs which lay dormant in my nameless everywhere come to speak to me: jin lan hui (golden orchid association), bu luo jia (unsettled into her family/home) and zi shu nu (self-brushing female) in the 19th century (Chen, 1928/1994; Topley, 1975); school girls’ romance in Ling Shuhua’s short story, “Once Upon a Time” (1928/1998) in the 1920s; T or tan bao (tomboy, butch), puo (femme), lazi (women who love women), kuer (queer) and nu tongzhi (female comrade or lesbian) in the 1990s in Taiwan (Hong et al., 1997). Do you find any of the above Chinese expressions yo yi ci? Yo yi ci, a Mandarin Chinese phrase, carries three possible interpretations. It is a triple entendre.8 Translated, yo yi ci means: “Do you find any of the above Chinese expressions meaningful?” or “Do you find any of the above Chinese expressions interesting/fun?” or “Do you find yourself romantically interested in any of the above Chinese expressions?” You have just learned yo yi ci as a triple entendre. But for me, I am experimenting with myself in two forms of creativity: (a) to feel free to play with words and (b) to learn to understand/interest/love simultaneously. It was through a journey, long but full of surprises and serendipity, that I found the above words from Taiwanese and Chinese nu nu worlds yo yi ci.

NU NU CONNECTIONS AND NU NU WORDS In the early 1990s, reading Adrienne Rich’s “lesbian existence” and “lesbian continuum” pushed me to pay attention to different forms of womanwoman relationships.9 Just looking at the list of friends who were invited for dinner at my house on a regular basis, I was dismayed by a horrendous consistency: middle-class professional white males, both gay and straight. No matter how hard I tried to overcome the separation caused by different axes of oppression in theory and in my writing, I could not escape a self-indictment–my life was an affluent, male-centered whiteness. Cherré Moraga’s words drive to the heart of my painful realization: “I felt this [separation] most acutely with Black women–Black dykes–who I felt ignored me, wrote me off because I look white. And yet, the truth was that I didn’t know Black women intimately (Barbara says, ‘it’s about who you can sit down to a meal with, who you can cry with, whose face you can touch’). I had such strong ‘colored hunches’ about our potential connection, but was basically removed from the lives of most Black women. The ignorance. The painful, painful ignorance” (1981, p. xvii). When did I or do I know nu nu intimately? Whom can I sit down to have a meal with? Now, I am more conscious of my nu nu guan xi, and these “friends” from different centuries and different races, genders, nationalities, class and

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educational backgrounds have gradually assumed different forms of “primary intensity” in my life. Their biographies accompany me, especially in waves of vocabulary that have awakened my consciousness, a special kind of consciousness, which I call “kuaer.”10

FIRST AWAKENING: JIN LAN HUI AND MARRIAGE RESISTANCE I came across the expression jin lan hui when I was doing research on Chinese feminisms and anti-footbinding discourse at the turn of the 20th century. This broke the massive silence on Chinese lesbianism for me, a silence that is loudly naturalized by the Chinese heteropatriarchal normativity (Ng, 1997). Reading Chen Dongyuan’s book on Chinese women’s history (1928/1994), I came to appreciate his progressive criticism of Chinese patriarchy. Rendering Chinese “female homosexuals” visible, Chen nonetheless advanced a troubling view, treating female homosexuality as an endemic disease: “Endemic” because it was unnaturalized and peculiar to an area, and “disease” because it infected women and damaged their health. Let me explain. In a 426-page book, Chen spent only two-thirds of a page on “Cantonese Nu Tong Xing Lian (female same-sex love)” (p. 300), a scant treatment. I was not surprised by his use of tong xing lian,11 a general concept to refer to homosexuality and homosexuals. This term is old-fashioned and mainly used by people who accept the framing of homosexuality as unorthodox and deviant, not seeing alternative reading and naming in their horizons. But the section where Chen placed his discussion struck me: Chapter Eight and Section Eleven, entitled “Peculiar Customs in Sundry Places.” Among the other nine customs lumped together with nu tong xing lian or “female homosexuality,” the only “peculiar” custom that Chen praised overtly was the Miao ethnic people’s “Dancing to the Moon.” The custom, though “barbaric,” was endorsed by Chen because Miao people based the marriage on free love (vs. arranged marriage) and monogamy (vs. polygamy). This custom, Chen argued further, emulates the West and is important for the Han Chinese to model themselves after. Chen condemned nu tong xing lian. He quoted extensively from Zhang Xingtai’s Yue Yo Xiao Zhi (Travel Journal in Canton, undated): In Canton, women vow to become sisters under the name of golden or12 chid association [jin lan hui]. Three days after the wedding ceremony, a woman returns to her natal family for a ritual visit. [Often without prior consummation], she does not go back to the husband’s house until her association sister gets married. Pressed to the extreme, association sisters would commit suicide together. . . . In the recent decade, custom has changed again from sisterhood [jie mei hua] to marriage [lian li zhi].

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When two women live together, one often resembles the husband. This custom was initiated in Shun De; it then infected the Fan Yu and Sha Jiao areas, in which people practiced this custom more severely. It was unavoidable even in the county capital. It’s also named bai xiang zhi [avowed mutual appreciation]. Engaged as “sisters,” women’s love for each other is as dense and interwoven as silk, exceeding that between husband and wife, so that they choose to remain unmarried for the life time [translation mine]. (p. 300) Bolstered by Zhang’s travel writing, Chen further asserted that remaining unmarried because of same-sex love violates nature’s rule and damages women’s health. He remarked that this practice became even more pervasive due to changing economic conditions. It deterred women from marrying and made them sink into same-sex love, causing a big problem [for the society] (p. 300). Chen’s judgment of “problem” is couched in terms of his heteropatriarchal value system, treating heterosexuality, monogamy, free love, spouses of small age difference, and getting married when one matures as “natural.” Its normative power is made visible when “peculiar” is chosen to mark its undesired other; that is, “peculiar” takes on meaning against the backdrop of Chen’s normativity: class-based, Han-centric and Western-emulating compulsory heterosexuality. Ethnic minorities (the Manchus, Tibetans, Yaos, Miaos, and Lis) and lower class Han people (peasants) were also “peculiar” (read “unnatural”). Finally, not only were Cantonese nu nu connections “peculiar/unnatural,” but worse yet, they also shang (damaged) shen ti (body; it is used holistically to mean physical health). Like a disease, nu nu connections might deter women from the fulfillment of nature’s callings to get married and bear children. They might also cause solitude, isolation, infirmity or suicide. After all, an unmarried and childless life was no life at all. In Marjorie Topley’s historical essay on marriage resistance in Canton,13 I found two more terms for marriage resisters: zi shu nu (self-brushing [the hair] women) and bu luo jia (not settling down in the [husband’s] family)14 (1975, p. 67). There was a hairdressing ritual for a bride before marriage. If a single woman chose to take the vow of spinsterhood, she would go through the same hairdressing ritual. But she would be assisted by “an elderly celibate female” rather than “an elderly woman with many sons” (p. 83). Going through the hairdressing ritual by herself, she entered a new stage of life alone, henceforth the term zi (self) shu (brushing) nu (female). In contrast, some women went through their wedding ceremony but did not consummate their relationship with their husbands. Recall Zhang’s travel writing quoted by Chen in my earlier discussion. Three days after the wedding, the bride would be accompanied by the groom to pay a ritual visit to her natal family, called gui ning. Gui means returning and ning means safe/peaceful. Together, it means the bride returns home to wish her parents a safe and healthy life. The unwilling bride during the resistance era would take advantage of this

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ritual, refusing to return to the husband’s family, henceforth acquiring the name bu (not) luo (settle down) jia (family/home). In sum, golden orchid association, jin lan hui, is a 19th century Chinese vocabulary for nu nu connections in Canton. Specificities in jin lan hui are further mapped based on (a) whether a woman resisted marriage by not marrying (zi shu nu) or by marrying but not returning to the husband’s house (bu luo jia), and (b) whether their relationship was a celibate sisterhood (jie mei hua) or female-female marriage/cohabitation (bai xiang zhi). Economic activities made it possible for unattached women, zi shu nu and bu luo jia, to be gainfully employed. They became even more economically viable in the mid-nineteenth century when steam-driven machinery (i.e., industrialization) was introduced into the silk factories (p. 72). In addition to financial factors, religion also contributed to the prevalence of marriage resistance. Bao Juan, the Precious Volume, printed by a religious sect, Xien Tien Da Dao15 (p. 74), especially influenced many of these unattached women. It preached to women that marriage resistance is not morally wrong; men cannot be trusted; childbirth is a sin; celibacy is the only way to the Happy Land (paradise); and suicide is a virtue if it is committed to preserve purity and chastity. As the silk industry hit bottom in the great depression of the 1930s, marriage resistance declined. Older unattached women retired early, and younger ones sought employment as domestic servants in Canton as well as Malaya and Singapore. The custom of golden orchid association, which had lasted for one hundred years or so, declined. Established society resumed its silence on this matter in no time. I found myself drawn to these unattached women. What did they look like? What were their dreams, torments and obsessions? Employment and religion, especially the advocacy of celibacy and suicide, were two foundations on which jin lan hui’s unorthodox practice stood. These women would have been my great grandmothers’ peers. Had I been born into their generation, would or could I have done the same thing? I am an agnostic and a college professor. I am gainfully employed. I have my “modern” beliefs–women should receive education, learn to drive, have the right to divorce, and so on and so forth. The golden orchid sisters seem ghostly. Yet, their existence, in mysterious ways, is beyond me, neither an option nor a challenge, especially for my younger self. I feel thousands of years behind these women. They were never my women, yet I become, little by little, part of these women, leaving my ghostly self behind.

SECOND AWAKENING: AI BAO AND 1990s NU NU WORDS In 1993 and 1994, I went back to Taiwan to visit my mother, other family members, and friends. I met three female professor friends at Nu Shu Dien, the

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Femme Bookstore, across the street from Tai Da (National Taiwan University), where vibrant and often dissenting intellectual movements originated. They talked about the influence of postmodern, poststructuralist and postcolonial theories in the Taiwanese academy. They also mentioned that there’s a fierce schism between [heterosexually unconscious] feminists and lesbian feminists. A breakthrough on the front of Taiwanese lesbian organizing/theorizing, according to them, was the first officially registered lesbian publication in Taiwan, Ai Fu Hao Zi Zai Bao, abbreviated as Ai Bao–the Love Newspaper/Magazine.16 I thoroughly enjoyed our conversations on that hot summer afternoon. Before returning to my mom’s house, I picked up all available issues of Ai Bao at the Femme Bookstore. Reading through them, I was struck by many new terms I had never heard of in Chinese. Moreover, what stood out beyond the literal content of their words were Ai Bao’s discursive strategies, a marvelous and sophisticated demonstration of the rhetorical art.

Ai Bao and Rhetorical Invention Rhetoric is a “Greek” term for the study of persuasion in general and the practice of argument in particular. I found this focus useful in appreciating/understanding the title of the first Taiwanese lesbian magazine, Ai Bao, a remarkably complicated text. Here, I would like to focus on rhetoric as the art of invention in words, and on style as an ultimate component of rhetorical invention. Walter Watson (2001) touches on style’s oxymoronic essence: The style of the speech is thus in its components both familiar and strange, in relation to the case at hand both common and unique, in its forms both recurrent and novel, and in its functioning both known and unknown. This joining of tradition and innovation corresponds to the nature of invention itself. (p. 398) Relevant to my analysis here are three ways to materialize style: determining word choice, ensuring suitability to the situation, and using vivid/esteemed sayings. Ai Bao offers an exemplary case study of rhetorical style, specifically in terms of the use of wordplay in the contemporary Taiwanese world. Many different kinds of wordplay exist. Relevant to my rhetorical analyses here are two types of wordplay: homophonic and homonymic. According to Plett (2001), homophonic wordplay (e.g., soul and sole) is one where two words have different spellings and different meanings but identical pronunciation. Homonymic wordplay (e.g. to lie–to prostrate; to lie–to tell an untruth) offers words that have the same phonetic components and the same spelling but different meanings. I will now explicate multiple ways in which Ai Bao artfully achieves its rhetorical invention.

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First Take. Translated literally, the title of the first Taiwanese lesbian magazine reads “Love, Luck, Good, Self at Ease Newspaper” (see Figure 2). Ai means love, affection and, discursively, it draws people away from hatred. Fu means fortune or luck, and it marks the difference from bad luck. Hao means good and positive, and it moves people discursively away from things that are bad and disagreeable. “Love,” “luck,” and “good” are feminine virtues authorized by the traditional Chinese patrilineal-heterosexual hegemony. A good woman is said to bring love, luck, and especially male offspring to the family. After this parade of feminine virtues, we encounter Zi (self) and Zai (present). Together, these two characters refer to “self-at-ease, self-content.” This contemporary term is derived from the teaching of Confucius, asserting that a man of virtue finds himself at ease (content) wherever he goes. So, “self-at-ease” marks the difference between a man who feels calm and content and desires nothing and a man who feels inadequate and tormented by unfulfilled desires. It is important to note that Confucius, a misogynous philosopher, grouped women and ignoble men into the same category. So self-at-ease is traditionally a gendered elitist virtue. It belongs to the masculine sphere. But unlike the two selfless virtues in traditional worlds–zhong (loyalty to the emperor) and shao17 (filial piety to the parents), zi zai focuses more on the delight and joy of the male self. Even though Zi Zai (self-at-ease) and Ai Fu Hao (love, luck and good) are both authorized imperial/feudal values, a discursive tension is built into the title because Zi Zai is masculine and self-oriented, while Ai Fu Hao is feminine and selfless. Together they create a perfectly traditional, innocent and positive FIGURE 2. Five Takes of Ai Fu Hao Zi Zai Bao Via Wordplay The First Take on the Title: Ai Fu Hao x Zi Zai x Bao (Love Luck Good x Self-At-Ease x Newspaper/Magazine) The Second Take on the Title: Ai Fu x Hao Zi Zai x Bao (Caress/Foreplay x So Very Great/Free x Newspaper/Magazine) The Third Take on the Title: Ai Fu Hao x Hao Zi Zai x Bao (Chinese Herbal Potency Drinks x U.S. Sanitary Napkins x Newspaper/Magazine) The Fourth Take on the Title: Ai Fu x Hao Zi Zai x Bao (Caress/Foreplay x U.S. Sanitary Napkins/So Very Great/Free x Newspaper/Magazine) The Fifth Take on the Title: Ai Fu Hao x Hao Zi Zai x Bao (Chinese Herbal Potency Drinks x So Very Great/Free x Newspaper/Magazine)

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title for the new magazine; that is, the title is not only familiar but also good. It is, therefore, persuasive: “Anything that is thought to be good can serve as a basis for a deliberative argument, and so the rhetor needs to know all the kinds of things that are thought to be good” (Watson, 2001, p. 392). Traditional good values are mobilized to break open new rhetorical spaces via subversive turns in meaning; that is, its title allows different readings through wordplay. Second Take. Ai Fu (love luck) is a homophonic wordplay for caress and foreplay. Hao, in addition to having the meaning of “good,” is a homonymic wordplay for “so, very.” Hao Zi Zai can be read as “so very great/free!” (See Figure 2 again.) The title turns “risqué” when we read it as “Caress/foreplay so very great/free!” It liberates a woman from the cage of selfless feminine virtues espoused by the patrilineal and heterosexual status quo. The Confucian “self-at-ease” at first assumes a straight face, only to find itself coupled with “sexual pleasure” replacing a scholarly, canonical image. The title takes hostage two discursive taboos that regulate female identities: (a) a woman is not supposed to mention sexual matters (e.g., caress, foreplay) in public, and (b) a woman is not encouraged to enjoy sexual pleasure in the private and public spheres, let alone in print. In Taiwanese society, this challenges the core of sexualized and gendered oppression, in Spivak’s words, the “effacement of the clitoris” in subordination to a uterine social organization (1988, p.151). Third Take. Another combination of homonymic wordplays makes possible a third take on the title. Ai Fu Hao is a commercial herbal drink manufactured to enhance male energy and, especially, to facilitate heterosexual male potency. Hao Zi Zai is the Chinese translation of Care Free, a brand name of sanitary napkins imported from the U.S.A. The title turns “indelicate” when it reads, “Chinese traditional potency drinks for men and female sanitary napkins from the U.S.” Chinese patrilineal-heterosexual tradition valorizes male potency. Precious animal parts, for example, deer antlers and penises, have been avidly pursued to aid masculine potency for centuries. One of the imperial herbal doctors’ duties was to seek out exotic medicine to aid the Emperor’s potency. Taoist treatises were written to help older Chinese men practice sex without losing their “precious fluid,” which they believed would help them prolong life. Women’s menstruation, not surprisingly, receives a polar opposite treatment. Menstruation was long held to be “unfortunate.” Seeing bloodstains from menstruation brings a man bad luck. Young women, to this day, usually euphemize their monthly flow as “good friend.” In a traditional sense, the herbal drink “Ai Fu Hao” is discursively acceptable, while sanitary napkins “Hao Zi Zai” are hushed into silence. Neither will openly make it into the title of a magazine. A third turn in meanings via wordplay has produced subversive and satirical effects. Male potency and female monthly flow are clandestinely juxtaposed and turned into printable topics.

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Fourth and Fifth Take. To make the meanings even more daring, let us consider a fourth and fifth reading of the title: “Caress/foreplay and United Statesian sanitary napkins/feel great/make people self-at-ease” and “Traditional Chinese potency drinks for men feel great/make people self-at-ease.” The multiple discursive and bodily possibilities offered by such wordplay maximize a tension between traditional values and an insurgent female sexual agency. By “agency,” I mean discursive subjectivity or subject positioning (Spivak, 1988, p. 216). A set of discursive rules allows a specific “I” to speak, and a group of people to grant this “I” a hearing. In the title of this new magazine, I hear a Taiwanese woman marching away from a submissive, silenced non-entity (a role that is always talked to, ordered around, and made ashamed of and invisible) into a speaking, emerging identity (a role that says “I” loud and visible, makes assertions, enjoys sexual pleasure and feels unashamed of menstruation). “I” have a traditional, good feminine identity coupled with “my” traditional male self-content. But “I” also love caress/foreplay. “I” am no longer the erotic object of male gaze and male fondling. What’s more, “I” enjoy potency drinks and menstruation. “I” speak in such a witty yet sophisticated way, attracting a group of people to listen to this irreverent female sexual “I.” When Ai Fu Hao Zi Zai Bao is abbreviated for the ease of writing, it is called Ai Bao, which means “Love Paper.” It is a non-threatening title for those who endorse heteropatriarchy. But subversive readings, as I have shown above, make this title oxymoronically daring for gendered and sexual outcasts in Taiwan: All forms of love between women are possible!

Wordplay as Vision, Morality as Cliché Different forms of wordplay, in my view, share two discursive acts: creativity and defiance. Wordplay is sign making, a creative association between meanings or between sounds unthought of by unimaginative people. In other words, wordplay breathes the spirit of originality, freshness and spontaneity into the quotidian. In respelling the mundane anew, wordplay also subversively enacts a defiant disassociation from the existing ideologies and moralities that have turned cliché. Going beyond the trite, the banal, and the stale, wordplay invokes experiences unconfined by the present: dream, trance, reverie, vision, the unconscious and the games of the underground (Kenard, 1997). Performing an aura of creativity, wordplay’s simmering defiance renames the Chinese heteropatriarchal morality not so much as a system of negative confinement but as cliché and, by implication, passé–it becomes the overused, excessively applied code that terminates thoughts and should be vanished! Put differently, to urge a different course in Ai Bao is less about defying morality/tradition than refusing to be trite, to be banal, and to be stale, a marvelous shift from right/wrong to cliché/creativity. Rhetorically speaking, wordplay,

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as a creative and defiant move, opens up thinking and offers visions–making the persuasive case that the love between women psychologically and/or sexually is good and, more importantly, original and creative.

Nu Nu Words in the 1990s in Taiwan Between 1949 and 1987, the Nationalist party ruled Taiwan through Martial Law. Many criminal offenses were tried in military rather than civil courts. Homosexual behavior was regarded as deviant, and, according to Y. Antonia Chao, a professor at Tunghai University in Taiwan, . . . any offenders of the given social order would be demonized in political terms (usually by being labeled as fei die [the Communist spy]), tomboys were frequently charged by the police on the count of treason. (2001, p. 188) A new rhetorical world emerged in the nu nu sphere in Taiwan after July 15, 1987, when the Martial Law of Taiwan was formally ended (Cogswell, 2000). With the loosening of political restraints,18 especially since the early 1990s, not only did insurgent publications like Ai Bao surface, but also new terms from the homosexual underground began to circulate in public. Tongzhi is an obvious example. Chou Wah-Shan, a Chinese scholar in Hong Kong and one of the pioneers in the gay rights movement and tongzhi discourse, explains, Tongzhi is the most popular contemporary Chinese word for lesbians, bisexuals, and gay people. The word is a Chinese translation from a Soviet communist term “comrade,” which refers to the revolutionaries that shared a comradeship. The term was first adopted by Chinese in Republican China, and then taken both by the Communist and Nationalist Party to refer to comrades struggling for the communist/nationalist revolution. Tong literally means “same/homo,” the same Chinese word for “homo (sexual),” and the word zhi means “goal,” “spirit,” or “orientation.” (2001, p. 27) In other words, tongzhi is a homonymic wordplay. It offers three meanings: (a) “revolutionaries” who overthrew the Qing dynasty at the turn of the 20th century, (b) “comrades,” a gender-neutral title which functions like “Mr.” and “Ms.” for men and women in Communist China, and (c) gays, lesbians and bisexuals of Chinese descent in the end of the 20th century and onward. Tongzhi is the name adopted by gay and lesbian activists/organizers in Taiwan, China and Hong Kong.19 Kuer, a Chinese transliteration of the English word “queer,”20 a lesser-known term than tongzhi in the 1990s, circulates more exclusively in metropolitan areas in Taiwan. Like “queer” in the United

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States, kuer is sensitive to the heterogeneities among sexual minorities. Yet differently nuanced, kuer carries another sense in Taiwan. It has an additional meaning of “being cool,” a partially transliterated exclamation borrowed from youth cultures in the United States. So being kuer is to be playful, fresh, and original in sexuality. It is freer and more porous than tongzhi. Discursively, kuer, a gender neutral term, is more into pleasure, defiance, heterogeneity, theory and critical discourse; tongzhi is also gender neutral, but it is equivalent to lesbians/gays, and more associated with social change projects and activist praxis.21 Given that the sexual insurgent movement is about one decade young in Taiwan, tongzhi and kuer have less deep-rooted and politically unresolved issues than those between gay/lesbian activists and queer theorists in the United States. Despite their relatively different sensibilities, tongzhi and kuer tend to work cooperatively rather than in opposition in Taiwan (Chi, 1997, pp. 15-16). In addition to gender-neutral terms, there are new expressions in the nu tongzhi (female comrades) world and female kuer (children who are cool and queer) world. Before tongzhi consciousness was named, women who love women romantically were called “chuan ku zi de,” meaning pants wearer. When the tongzhi movement picked up momentum in the 1990s, nu tongzhi words like “T or tan bao,” and “puo” became more widely known. Tomboy, abbreviated as “T” or transliterated as “tan bao,” which homophonically also means “juicy dumpling,” means a masculine woman who loves other women. Having an English concept as its origin, “T or tan bao” is roughly equivalent to “butch.” “Puo” has two meanings in a conventional sense: grandmother or wife. It means feminine women who love other women. It also means “the wife” of T (Hong et al., 1997, p. 52; Zhang, 2000, pp. 2-26), a role similar to femme in the United States.22 Like T and puo, “lazi” is another woman-centered nu nu word. However, lazi is more fluid and porous, not subscribing to T and puo’s relatively rigid role-differentiation. According to Wong (1999, p. 256), college educated lazi in Taiwan tend to call themselves “bu fen” (not differentiating), bu fen pien T (not differentiating but leaning toward T) and bu fen pien puo (not differentiating but leaning toward puo).23 In addition to its role fluidity, lazi is also less yang pai or “Westernized” than kuer. Even though lazi can be easily translated into American English as “lez” (an abbreviation of “lesbian”), lazi is more indigenous because it is originated from the main character’s name in Qiu Miaojing’s novel, Journal of a Crocodile (1994). In 1995, Qiu committed suicide in the Montmarte quarter of Paris, France, where she studied as a foreign student from Taiwan. Since then, many nu tongzhi and female kuer worship her like a cult figure. As indigenous as nu tongzhi, lazi is more playful and irreverent. Ultimately, lazi/lez becomes a popular term in Taiwan, especially on Websites and in chatroom conversations.

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From nu tongzhi to lazi, from kuer to T/puo, I feel directly and indirectly the pulse of the United States–lesbian, queer, butch and femme. Yet, Taiwanese nu nu connections emerge with different contours and vibes, vibrating inside me, opening up channels for a new kind of chi24 running through me. But the voices of womanists–radical women of color–and queers who are not white are yet to reach the shores of Taiwan, its academy and public/private discourse, and vice versa. I have a deep sense of unease, longing for a different kind of connection. Perhaps, by crossing the ocean and the Internet between Taiwan and the United States, transcending nations and states, more words and spirits will come to speak to me.

THIRD AWAKENING: KUAER, A NEW NAME FOR “TRANSNATIONAL WOMANIST QUARE” Queer theory25 and the gay liberation movement have increased the visibility of lesbians, gays, bisexuals and transgenders in the United States. However, black womanists and radical women of color have articulated and challenged a fundamental elision–sexual minorities who are not white, male, and affluent remain relatively invisible in their different localities. Barbara Smith, a long time organizer and cofounder of Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press, confronts this elision and the practical impact it has on grassroots political activity: In most cases countercampaigns against the right are led by white gays and lesbians who have little idea how to communicate with and work effectively with members of the Black community. The racism, white solipsism, and elitism that traditionally dominate the mainstream white gay male political agenda spell absolute disaster when what is at stake is changing our own communities’ attitudes about issues of sexual orientation and civil rights. (1995/2000, p. 173) This is not merely a local/national problem. It is inscribed in and produced through “theory”: I am particularly struck by the fact that for the most part queer theory and queer politics, which are currently so popular, offer neither substantial 26 antiracist analysis nor practice. (1999, p. 18) Forging coalition politics and building communities among people who exist “as women, as people of color, and as queer,” Vera Miao remarks:

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Narratives of rejection and disillusionment by many Asian American lesbians and bisexual women, whose exclusion is caused by the homophobia of racial and ethnic communities and the racism of predominantly white queer populations, are only a few painful interventions in prevailing definitions of “home” and “community.” (1998, p. 70) Addressing the same problem in Text & Performance Quarterly, one of the leading journals in Communication Studies, E. Patrick Johnson (2001) recently offered “quare studies,” an invention that dreams of the forgotten localities inhabited by shadowy figures–black, poor, male and female–multiply erased in the incubating but hegemonic queer hierarchies. Quare studies, according to Johnson, addresses what is left out27 in queer theory: While queer theory has opened up new possibilities for theorizing gender and sexuality, like a pot of gumbo cooked too quickly, it has failed to live up to its full critical potential by refusing to accommodate all the queer ingredients contained inside its theoretical pot. (2001, p. 18) Johnson, in other words, offers quare theory to redress the omissions of queer theory, featuring the specificities of gays and lesbians of color. His invention emphasizes race and class as interrelated dimensions of sexuality. It pays attention to communities, embodied performativity, and theory in the flesh, taking an interventionist stance in performing critical praxis. I fully embrace Johnson’s move from queer to quare. Here is a theory that is not merely brilliant but timely and useful. Yet to understand the discursive amnesia in nu nu connections in Taiwan and to push theorizing’s critical potential, I cannot but move further into transnational womanist quare studies. My rearticulation is “womanist” because I insist on noting gendered and racialized experiences in specific localities, honoring the black women and radical women of color who have taught me many important lessons.28 My rearticulation is “quare” because, like Johnson, I can no longer stomach the naturalized presence of homophobia in heteronormative communities or whiteness in queer communities. Finally, my rearticulation is also “transnational” because I live in an increasingly globalized world that is desperately in need of critical praxis (Hegde, 1998; Shome, 1996, 1999) beyond the reach of International Monetary Fund and World Trade Organization; and I resist the technologies of global domination on the Third World, wittingly or unwittingly exercised by progressive First World identity academicians, be they feminists, anti-racists, poststructuralists, Marxists, or queer theorists (Kaplan & Grewal, 1994). In sum, my critical rearticulation29 speaks to the importance of quare theory and quare coalition politics, making a transnational link between and beyond Taiwanese quare wo/men and radical quare wo/men in the United States. Resonating with the sensibility of quare theory without fulminating against queer studies, I extend tongzhi and kuer further into kuaer, transnational

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womanist quare/s, a starting point for subversive strategy as wordplay. Kuaer is a transliteration of two Chinese characters kua and er. Er literally means child/children. Elsewhere I defined it: “. . . the function of Er is like the y added to a person’s name in English, for example, Jimmy, Jenny, Tommy. It makes one sound childlike” (Lee, 1999, p. 297). Rather than being childish, er connotes vibrant energy, the ability to grow and to learn new things, and is consistent with the move to originality and away from the banal. Kua lends itself to multiple meanings. Depending on its tonal differentiations, Kua may mean crossing, praised or proud/boastful. Together, Kuaer has many shades and colors: Children who cross horizons. Children who are praised. Children who are proud/boastful. Children who cross worlds and understand quare and womanist politics. Transnational womanist quare children who are proud and praised and whose critical consciousness is multi-racial, multi-sexual, multi-gendered, and multi-class-based. Kuaering queer theory, my move to a transnational womanist quare theory and politics affords me a more critical assessment of the Chinese nu nu world, from zi shu nu and bu luo jia to kuer, nu tong zhi, and lazi. One of the main differences between the 19th century and the 1990s nu nu worlds lies in whether reform is explicit or not. Topley comments on marriage resistance practice as “nonorthodox but nonreformist” (1975, 68). The nu tongzhi movement, on the other hand, is consciously reformist, asking for equal rights in marriage, family, employment and personal relationships. The former embraced an ambiguous “celibacy,” while the latter champions unambiguous “sexual pleasure.” Both marriage resistance and nu tongzhi movement are made possible by women’s increased level of education/literacy and the ability to be economically independent. The former phenomenon originated among working classes aided by the silk industry in areas where international trades were prevalent and Western imperialism was dominant; and the latter movement originated with metropolitan elite classes assisted by Western human rights discourse and critical academic discourse, including feminism, postmodern and post-structuralism, lesbian/gay and queer theory (Ho, 2000). What is important to ponder are the opportunities given to the unattached women in the midst of domestic industrialization and foreign imperialism at the turn of the 20th century. What is also important to mark is that, in contemporary Taiwan, the discursive existence and histories of subaltern nu tongzhi–those who are from the non-elite classes,30 factory workers, the modern equivalent of zi shu nu and bu luo jia, those who are non-Han people, and those who live in rural areas and do not go to college–remain in the shadows. Kuaering queer theory, our struggles will remain multifaceted and both within and from outside. Standing where we are, we need to organize against what Patricia Hill Collins calls the “matrix of domination” (1990) in our local communities transnationally, heeding how multiple systems of hierarchy in race, class, gender, sexuality, nationality and education work together (not in isolation) to create domination, inequality, and opportunities. This call speaks

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to the bind articulated by Audre Lorde: “Within the lesbian community I am black, and within the black community I am a lesbian” (1999, p. 307). It resonates with Shane Phelan’s urging of critical practices: We have to stand where we are, acknowledging the links and contradictions between ourselves and other citizens of the world, resisting the temptations to cloak crucial differences with the cloak of universality and to deny generalities for fear of essentialism. Only in this way will we be able to be free from the domination that lives both within and around us. (1993, p. 786) Search your hearts and thoughts and let me ask you, “Does the name kuaer make you nervous? Does it stretch your horizons and help you see erasures that once elided you? Does it point to new directions of ‘primary intensity’ for you? Do you find kuaer yo yi ci (meaningful; interesting/intriguing; romantically engaging)?”

POSTSCRIPT I have labored in two fields of human communication–critical intercultural communication and postcolonial womanist rhetoric. I believe that my research and theorizing is inherently political and I work to dismantle hierarchical injustice created by intersectionality (i.e., disfavored combinations of race, class, gender, nationality, etc.). I have been voicing the importance of gender, race and transnational/postcolonial power differences in the understanding of human communication. Yet, the lack of dialogue between radical women of color and women who do “high theorizing” in poststructuralism and postcolonialism profoundly disturbs me. I am further troubled by my own deferral in addressing an aspect of intersectionality–sexuality. A few years ago, in an essay on antifootbinding rhetoric in China, I had to admit, “My femaleness does not address the voices of lesbians living during the footbinding eras” (1998, p. 29). Recently, in a co-authored piece on critical intercultural communication, I asked a question: “We talk about intersectionality and multiple dimensions of oppression. What will a concrete intercultural communication project look like if intersectionality is deeply integrated rather than given lip service? What are the dimensions usually left out? I personally do not see a lot of issues regarding ‘sexuality’ raised” (Collier et al., 2001, p. 273). Awakened by Audre Lorde’s remark, “I simply do not believe that one aspect of myself can possibly profit from the oppression of any other part of my identity” (1999, p. 306), I vow to work in areas that do stretch beyond my earlier consciousness. To go beyond my frequent use of “etc.” or the apologia of “future research should,” this essay is an “otherwise” project.

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Kuaering queer theory, I have made a race-conscious, womanist, and transnational turn at the metatheoretical level. Linking the genealogy from queer to quare and from kuer to kuaer, I have also made an honest effort to understand and theorize the nu nu world in Taiwan at the dawn of a new millennium. But this is not so abstract as it may sound to both those who relish and those who scoff at the merely academic. Beyond “project” and “work,” it carries with it a sensual, personal dimension or, better, commitment. I refuse to abandon the poetic in this personal/political struggle. I also strive to perform what Michael Awkward (1999), an African American literary scholar, calls “autocritography”–a self-reflexive academic act that strategically foregrounds multiple genres and provides critical accounts, both institutional and personal, for the production of a scholar and his/her professional concerns (p. 7). Stated differently, my project is a layered reflection on my own marginalities and privileges and how I negotiate them and turn them into scholarly inquiries (Yep, 1998). Ultimately, I wonder who would invite me and whom I would invite to have dinner? A peacock feather note to these kuaers: Ziao Yi and Ziao Wei (my lazi friends), Audre Lorde, S. and M. (two Mormon feminist friends), Y. S. (my kuaer friend from Europe), Moraga and Anzaldúa, Shu Yuon (my kuaer friend crossing three continents), Barbara Smith, E. Patrick Johnson, Mab Segrest, and more. I see their voices and they hear my dreams. Awakened to each other’s dreams and dreaming each other’s awakening, our crossing is, through and through, kuaer.

NOTES 1. It means energy running through the human body. 2. My quest here echoes the journey outlined in Buddy Goodall Jr.’s new ethnography (2000): “I couldn’t answer a lot of these questions. But raising them, and finding narrative methods of inquiry to explore them, opened my ethnographic self to a new rhetorical frontier of inquiry. I found a way to write about how experiences of the ineffable shape the everyday. I learned what it means to ‘read’ between the lines of lived experience a variety of alternative interpretive possibilities. I became narratively involved in how individual life quests and communal participation figure into a larger puzzle about human purpose and agency” (p. 188). What concerns me here in this “going after” project lies less in finding answers than experiencing an embodied and evocative process of co-creation with you, my readers and myself. Pursuing shared subjectivities, I experiment with a cacophony of voices as well as genre multiplicity in this essay. See also Kenneth Gergen’s works (1999, 2000) for similar advocacy of multiple writing styles and a fundamental rethinking of intellectual/research purposes. 3. The inspiration for my use of personal and scholarly voices in italicized and non-italicized print comes from Michael Awkward’s book, Scenes of Instruction (1999). As defined and explained in the postscript of this essay, I also perform his genre/method of “autocritography” throughout my writing here. 4. My inspiration comes from Trinh T. Minh-ha (1989, pp. 15-20).

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5. Discursive amnesia is defined as “much deeper levels of forgetting, levels far beyond the need of a censor, and levels created both positively through accretions and endorsed recollection (official histories) and negatively through lack of reward (under-funded histories)” (Lee & Wander, 1998, p. 154). 6. I want to make it clear that discursive amnesty is not a wholesale, one-sizefits-all deal. It has to come with a specific ideological shift upheld by a critical community, a community that learns and interrogates forms of “discursive amnesia” and is persuaded by alternative, genealogical histories. The shift such a community urges is not to turn to dualistic reversal (e.g., from “whites as superior” to “whites as racists” or “queers as deviant” to “queers as oppressed”) but to an anti-unearned-entitlement based program for social change and social justice. 7. I use this term to denote the relationships sensitized by Adrienne Rich’s “lesbian existence” in Chinese/Taiwanese contexts. Nu means “female/s” and guan xi means relationship/s or connections. Together, nu nu means female-female and nu nu guan xi means the relationships/connections between/among women. 8. One phrase that carries two meanings is called shuang guan yu in Mandarin Chinese. Its equivalent in English is double entendre, defined as “a word or expression used in a given context so that it can be understood in two ways, esp. when one meaning is indelicate or risqué” (The Random House Dictionary of the English Language, 1971, p. 428). “Yo yi ci,” here, is an example of triple entendre, which means (1) possessing meaning, (2) interesting/intriguing, and (3) romantically interested. 9. See Rich’s essay, “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence” (1980/1993). I was particularly affected by her appeal: To take the step of questioning heterosexuality as a “preference” or “choice” for women–and to do the intellectual and emotional work that follows–will call for a special quality of courage in heterosexually identified feminists, but I think the rewards will be great: a freeing-up of thinking, the exploring of new paths, the shattering of another great silence, new clarity in personal relationships. (p. 239) Nevertheless, I am aware of objections to her view. For example, Esther Newton (1993) suggests those who work on lesbian cultures and identities not “be gobbled up” by detouring into “generic women’s networks or groupings” (p. 538). Personally, I endorse Rich’s view. For me, nu nu guan xi echoes Rich’s definition of lesbian existence, which means “woman-identified experience” and “forms of primary intensity between and among women” (p. 239). But I prefer nu nu guan xi or nu nu in abbreviation rather than a transliteration of Rich’s concept in order to emphasize women-women connections in Taiwanese/Chinese contexts. 10. Kuaer is a transliteration, using the pinyin system, of two Mandarin Chinese characters kua and er. Kuaer has the same pronunciation as “quare” coined by E. Patrick Johnson in his ground breaking essay, “ ‘Quare’ Studies or (Almost) Everything I Know about Queer Studies I Learned from My Grandmother” (2001). As will be explained later in this essay, I appropriate existing words, both Mandarin Chinese and African American, to coin a richly layered term, kuaer, to name a coalitional-based positionality–“transnational womanist quare.” I urge a transnational study of sexuality with related dimensions of inequality (race, gender, class, and educational background) firmly in mind. 11. Tong means the same, xing denotes gender/sex/sexuality, and lian refers to romantic love.

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12. Topley (1975) provides two possible explanations for the meanings of jin lan hui: James Liu of Stanford University has suggested to me that it may be derived from the following passage in the I-Ching: “When two persons have the same heart its sharpness can cut gold; words from the same heart have a fragrance like the orchid.” Winston Hsieh has suggested that the term may be a metaphor referring to structure–i.e., that such associations may “bud” or divide into subgroups as they enlarge, just as orchids bud into several flowers on one stem. (p. 76) 13. Topley did her research in the early 1950s and in 1973 in Hong Kong (p. 69). She attempted to offer historical insights into “marriage resistance” among Cantonese women living in a small area for roughly one hundred years, from the early 19th to the early 20th century. 14. I use the Pinyin phonetic system to translate Chinese in this essay. It differs from Topley’s translation. 15. This sect was said to derive from the White Lotus Sect. The Qing government in the North suppressed it. This religion entered the marriage resistance areas in the mid-nineteenth century. 16. Translated literally, Bao means “newspaper.” It is important to note that Ai Bao is a quarterly newsletter/magazine not a daily newspaper. For this reason, I use “magazine” rather than “newspaper” throughout the essay. 17. There are three offenses against xiao (filial piety). The worst offense is not having male offspring. 18. After 1987, together with the sexual minorities’ movement, Taiwan also witnessed unprecedented energy in women’s movement, environmental movement and labor movement, challenging “ruling class Confucianism” and opening up political spaces for dissenting viewpoints (Lee et al., 1995, p. 280), marking a transition into a more “democratic” state (Chiang, 1998, p. 380). 19. I do not mean to imply that the use of the term tongzhi is uncontested. For an example of such a controversy, see e-mail exchanges triggered by a polemic individual, LuvBangor, after the 1998 tongzhi conference in Hong Kong (Lu, 1999, pp. 335-343). LuvBangor indicted that the 1998 conference was part of an “‘anti-American style’ gay movement” and objected to the use of tongzhi in the conference title: “Finally, stop using that fucking word ‘Tongzhi,’ no one want[s] to be a god damn communist” (LuvBangor, 1999, pp. 336-37). 20. In 1994, Ta-wei Chi, Ling Hong, and Tan-mou Dan coined this term, kuer, which is a transliteration of “queer” (Chi, 1997, p. 9 & p. 17). A revised entry on kuer in Little Kuer Encyclopedia is reprinted in Chi’s book (Hong et al., 1997, pp. 55-57). 21. While I agree with Tan’s interpretation, “It [Kuer] tends generally to denote resistance to mainstream culture and a deliberately pariah stance that aims for subversion. In contrast, tongzhi tends to denote more reformist tendency” (2001, p. 134, footnote 13), I disagree with Tan’s view that tongzhi and kuer are both translations of “queer” (see Tan’s footnotes 7 and 13). Considering historically different political and social constraints in the United States and Taiwan, I argue in this essay that tong xing lian is analogous to “homosexuality,” tongzhi analogous to “lesbian/gay/bisexual,” and kuer analogous to “queer.” 22. For an excellent essay on lesbian tomboys in Taiwan, see Chao (2001). 23. For a nuanced analysis of lazi sensibilities and their heterogeneities, challenging the simple and uncritical dichotomy of T and puo, see Zhang Juenfeng’s field research, Love’s Free Style (2001). 24. A reader of my earlier draft asked, “You might want to explain what you mean here, Wenshu. What can you imagine? What does it feel like? What kinds of transformations are possible? Tell us! It is so wonderful. You must not tease us. . . .” I drew a

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blank facing this new but ineffable energy (chi). Each time I tried to articulate it in a question-and-answer way, I failed. Then it suddenly dawned on me, recalling a passage in a powerful novel written by Alice Walker, “. . . our affair wasn’t like any affair you’re likely to read about in Playboy. It had this incredible nurturing quality; it was the kind of affectionate sex that seemed designed to reconnect me to myself, to keep me alive” (1998, p. 132). This new chi has helped to “reconnect me to myself, to keep me alive,” and an incredibly nurturing relationship, in my view, knows no boundaries marked by homosexuality, bisexuality or heterosexuality. 25. Given the limited space in this essay, I do not provide a systematic treatment of queer theory. For a good starting point to grasp the slippery semantics of queer theory and its genealogy, see William B. Turner (2000). 26. It’s hard to find articles challenging racism in the gay and lesbian movement. An example is in Brandt (1999): “One of the biggest frustrations in compiling this book was trying to find a contributor willing to discuss the phenomenon of gay racism . . . on the topic of racism in the history of the gay liberation movement, I was faced with a great deal of discomfort and silence” (p. 9). 27. My thinking benefits from the critical scholarship of Philip Wander, a rhetorical critic, who advanced the theoretical terms “third persona” (1984) and “rhetorical contextualization” (1996) to address systematically what’s left out and degraded in the discourse authorized by hegemonic ideologies. What Wander argues for is collective struggle critical of its own omissions: “Political struggle too often overlooks the claims of the poor, the immigrants, the minorities, the wives and daughters of the elites, the uneducated, the foreign, the others we are led to ignore, objectify, ridicule, or eliminate” (2001, p. 287). 28. For a systematic introduction of womanism into the communication discipline, see my earlier writing on whiteness and “gendered colorism” (Lee, 1999). 29. For a similar move to connect postcolonial women and minority women of color in literary criticism see Fawzia Afzal-Khan (1996). This coalition refuses to let globalized demagogues profit from socially constructed fissures via the logic of divide and rule. 30. Y. Antonia Chao’s work is an exception. Her research focused on “bar-oriented, working-class individuals” and her informants “were working class or had limited access to cultural capital, in contrast with lesbians who have participated in Taiwan’s gay rights movement since the early 1990s. These women are exclusively students or graduates of prestigious colleges and universities, and are familiar with North American notions of gay rights and queer theory” (p. 208).

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Immigrant Closets: Tactical-Micro-Practices-in-the-Hyphen Diana Fisher, PhD (cand.) California State University, Los Angeles

SUMMARY. The theoretical and material moves within this essay suggest that culturally hybrid agents use the “closet” as a space to negotiate the intersections of sexuality and ethnicity in everyday life. Discussing some conclusions of my ethnographic research project with the Russian Gay and Lesbian Group of West Hollywood, this essay applies Michel de Certeau’s notion of tactics to the daily micro-practices of queer identified immigrants as they move between the demands of overlapping and contradictory cultures. Examining the circumstances in the RussianAmerican-immigrant-imagined community shared by the informants in this site, I argue that, contrary to a popularized valorization of queer “outness,” there is a great deal of power in the oscillation between visibility and invisibility. [Article copies available for a fee from The Haworth Doc-

ument Delivery Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.]

Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Communication Studies, 5151 State University Drive, Los Angeles, CA 90032 (E-mail: [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Immigrant Closets: Tactical-Micro-Practices-in-the-Hyphen.” Fisher, Diana. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 171-192; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 171-192. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_08

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KEYWORDS. Closet, immigrant, invisibility, micro-practices, queer, Russian, visibility We are not in any simple sense “black” or “gay” or “upwardly mobile.” Rather we carry a bewildering range of different, and at times conflicting, identities around us in our heads at the same time. There is a continual smudging of personas and lifestyles, depending where we are (at work, on the street) and the spaces we are moving between. –Frank Mort (1989, p. 169) The moments when everyday life becomes most vivid or tangible are the moments when most people find themselves living more than one life. –Kristin Ross (1992, p. 63) Visibly defined by meaningful expressions of cultural identity and collective history, the streets of West Hollywood, California, are heavily written on by those who have crossed both national boundaries, immigrants, as well as intra-national, and even intra-local, borderlands, queers. Often referring to it as “Vest Gollyvood” and “WeHo,” respectively, this city is notably occupied by a substantial concentration of Soviet/Russian immigrants and a significant Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender (GLBT) “community.” For over three decades, Russian immigrants (mostly Jews) from various parts of the former Soviet Union have occupied the streets of this city, some as resident dwellers, others as ambitious merchants, professionals and service providers, and still others as part of a steady stream of visitors from the Los Angeles area. The specific immigrant uses of various spaces within the city have transformed a formidable part of West Hollywood into an enduring Russian-American neighborhood. A Russian immigrant presence, however, is not felt in all sections of the city. Contrary to most public city spaces engaged in the overwhelming production of heterosexual privilege, the Western end of West Hollywood is a vibrant GLBT neighborhood representing a real and symbolic “safety zone” of queer visibility, power and acceptance. Boldly marking space according to a heteroglot mix of culture, ethnicity, and sexuality, the signs and symbols of Russianness and queerness contribute to an atmosphere in West Hollywood that is distinct and telling of the contemporary global conditions of hybridity organizing urban life (Pieterse, 1995). Despite the polyphony of voices and unmistakable tracings of cultural diversity expressed “above ground,” there are those familiar with the seeming celebrations of visible identity who nevertheless opt to travel regularly “below ground,” untraceable and unidentifiable. I am referring specifically to members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group of West Hollywood, immigrants

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who recognize that their queer identification potentially lodges them inside what Anzaldúa (1987) describes as “that narrow strip along steep edges” of social, political, and/or economic life (p. 3). Unwilling to locate themselves permanently in these margins, people belonging to this group often find themselves using the liminality of the “closet,” a space in which sexuality cannot be easily fixed and identified, as a way to complicate the relationship between center and periphery. In an effort to fuse critical theory and materiality, I set out to consider their joint application in The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group of West Hollywood. As part of my ethnographic disclaimer, I must admit that the lines between my position as observer and participant are blurred. Not unlike the experiences of my informants, my own fluid location in this essay is complicated by the tactical oscillations of hybrid identification. Joining the voices of various unnamed informants in this text, I also work within a curious hyphen as I attempt to highlight the points where everyday micro-acts and hybrid spatial practices are most actively deployed to manage the relationship between ethnicity and sexuality. As the world becomes increasingly interconnected and “messy” with cultural overlap, where “Russian immigrantness” and “American queerness” collide and confront each other, it is imperative to ask that hybrid sites be examined by way of studies capable of “enlarging and exploding the hyphen” (Lavie, 1996, p. 16). The failure of traditional social science to critically engage with the embodied, shifting and dialogic practices within these hyphens, especially by active queer agents in the daily production of their cultural meaning and identity, demands that alternative methods and theories be employed in research. The intricate uses of space within the hyphens of everyday life, including the most micro-level practices of ethnicity and sexuality, cannot be neglected in favor of totalizing monologic assumptions or fixed authoritative explanations of unified and “neat” phenomena. As Marcus (1998) argues, “messy texts are messy because they insist on their own open-endedness, incompleteness, and uncertainty . . .” (p. 189). Constantly passed by and unnoticed, Rosaldo (1993) considers these types of untidy spaces “invisible” to the institutions of social science that have largely “attended more to the unity of cultural wholes than to their myriad crossroads and borderlands” (p. 30). But as this essay suggests, there is much to see where traditional social science has failed to look. Only with analysis that moves across multiple axes of space and identity does it become possible to notice how “the micro-geography of daily life provides a way of pluralizing the self that a concentration on ‘identity’ in the singular would miss” (Highmore, 2002, p. 17). I hope to contribute to the research exploring hyphenated spaces by looking “underneath” the macro-dynamics of international border crossing and queerness toward a focus on the “street level” embodied micro-practices used by “transmigrants” to maneuver through the complex and meaningful cultural intersections of everyday life. To help explore “street level” nuances, particularly those existing in the hyphen between sexuality and ethnicity, I apply de Certeau’s notion of “tactics” and “micro-practices” to The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group of West

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Hollywood. Used together, these terms provide a conceptual framework regarding uses of time and space that help consider how the “closet” functions as a material tool that destabilizes, subverts, and temporarily provides escape from the dominant ideology organizing and monitoring immigrant and queer lives. In light of the experiences I had the opportunity to document in my ethnographic research, I wish to recuperate the generative potential which closet space can offer. My argument rests on the claim that tactical uses of closet space by queer-identified-Russian-American-immigrants actively play with and disrupt the binary opposition of visibility vs. invisibility, where the visibly “out” queer identity is valorized and privileged as a liberatory move away from the dark confines of hidden queerness (Brown, 2000; Osborn, 1996). Rejecting the rigid split between the seen and the unseen, the “closeted” and the “out” sexuality, I argue that there can be a fluid and productive relationship between the two. Here, advantages gained through perpetual motion suggest that the opportunity to move is a very real currency that cannot be underestimated as a tactical form of power. Quite often preferring to operate in between the gaps and cracks of fixed identity, the queer-Russian-American-immigrant voices speaking in this essay theorize that the use of the “closet” as an active space to negotiate (re)presentations of (homo)sexual identity is underrated. Using their hyphenated identities to weave together a combination of cultural elements appropriate for the moment, while simultaneously safeguarding their desire to suitably (re)position themselves in the next moment, the agents in this ethnography move along a trajectory of locations. Absent of the limitations that saturate a sexuality always already visible as queer, and without the totalizing designation of being entirely Russian or American, the members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group operate according to a certain “in-betweenness,” traveling within the hyphenated spaces linking cultures. Designating zones of liminality, hyphenated identities are culturally hybrid linkages that can be practiced from many spaces at once without ever inhabiting any place fully (Bhabha, 1994; Joseph & Fink, 1999; Saldivar, 1997). Here, the idea of two distinct territorial and cultural entities is replaced with detailed attention to motion and dialogic “in-betweenness.” Daily practices developing from liminal spaces seem to be infused by a logic of more-than-oneness, a “doing” of life that is inflected with multiple layers of narratives rather than any singular one. It is such a “logic of layers” that shapes the experiences shared by members of the Russian Gay and Lesbian Group of West Hollywood, a small organization I unknowingly began researching in 1995.

A HYBRID SITE In 1995, I was a fresh, “just got my B.A.” ethnographer looking for a “familiar” research site that would keep me accountable, committed and interested throughout a two-year graduate program in Communication Studies.

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Although the specifics of what I was going to “look at” seemed quite uncertain at the time, I was convinced that my investigation would involve something “Russian” or something “queer,” two cultural designations heavily defining my life and identity. By digging in the trenches of my own world, so to speak, it seemed possible that I could achieve a hint of the “reflexive wisdom” discussed by Victor Turner (1980) in the foreword to Number Our Days, Barbara Myerhoff’s rich study of elderly Eastern European Jewish immigrants living in Venice, California. By working with people who were not “exotic” and in a place that was not “remote,” Myerhoff’s immersion in culturally familiar terrain had effectively challenged traditional notions of “objectivity” in ethnographic research. Reading, among others, the work of Myerhoff (1980), Clifford (1988), Jackson (1995), and Haraway (1991), I became interested in questions of subjectivity and ethnographic authority and felt both compelled and justified to work through a methodology that was dialogically informed and situated. To be situated within an ethnographic project would mean that I, like every other participating informant, would be “moving and acting within it rather than being drawn in from a transcendent, detached point” (Marcus, 1998, p. 189). This would, no doubt, involve a certain personal vulnerability and accountability, something more complicated than “looking at” others with structured observation. As the first year of graduate school passed, I was still bemoaning my inability to find an ethnographic location for my thesis. While thinking about a site that would be a nice example of either Russianness or queerness, I was actively practicing life in a site that was both and neither at the same time. I was a “card carrying” member of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group of West Hollywood, a local organization that introduced me to my significant other at the time, kept me busy as a covert promoter of monthly social events, and compelled me to interrogate my identity politics. Organized and founded by two Russian lesbians, M. and K. (their identities are protected by initials), this group began as a very small circle of 5 Russian immigrants, ranging in age and demographic background, who shared a common bond as gays and lesbians. Although the spectrum of sexualities represented in our organization ultimately became more varied, including those identifying as bisexual and “sexually curious,” the official group name retained the “gay and lesbian” title. With the dedicated efforts of M., K., and a few other early participants, including myself, the group steadily expanded into a more formal and complex organization of more than 30 members who attended regularly scheduled gatherings and paid nominal dues. This was a significant accomplishment considering that we needed to be extremely mindful that many Russian immigrants were usually discreet about their queerness and would not want to be publicly linked to a group that had “gay and lesbian” in the title. Instead of implementing an advertising campaign that would reveal our identities, group founders M. and K. invented clever ways of smuggling secret

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knowledge through little cracks and crevices in the “community” that seemed penetrable. From “anonymous” flyers posted at local shops and delicatessens throughout West Hollywood to carefully constructed newspaper ads and word of mouth, the methods used by the group advocates were creatively designed to inform other Russian immigrants quietly as to our existence. It became clear to us just how creative and comical things got when many homophobic Russian heterosexuals came across the anonymous ads and flyers in local establishments and expressed outrage over these “crazy” and “disgusting” people “who must not be our own.” Boiling over with hostility, they complained about the new Russian Gay and Lesbian Group to everyone they knew . . . including many immigrants whom they did not suspect to be (but who actually were) gays and lesbians. Perfect! These unaware promoters became our best disseminators of information. Many of our members found our group indirectly, not because of our work, but through all the publicity created by angry Russians. As de Certeau (1984) might have claimed, we subverted the dominant order from within, “diverting it without leaving it” (p. 32). Especially in the first stages of the group’s growth, we began to discover how alien and uncomfortable it was to “out” ourselves as queers to other Russian immigrants, even if they were “just as queer” as we were. At least initially, without a shared history prior to meeting in a group setting, most participants were skeptical to trust each other with valuable information. There were times when we would be in a very queer city, “WeHo,” sitting in the middle of a very queer coffee house, The Abbey, and completely avoiding a discussion about anything even remotely connected to queerness. On one particular occasion, our feisty founder M., highly impatient with our hesitation to chat about our queer lives, stood up and asked everyone at the table to raise their hands if they were a “god damned dyke or fag.” Perhaps M. scared us into submission as we immediately began speaking very openly about our sexuality that day, but with the arrival of every new group member in every new meeting, we were once again on-guard. As months passed, and members felt more comfortable with each other, queer disclosures became the norm; however, as the scene mentioned above highlights, there were varying layers of “outness,” and closetedness even within a “safe” group setting of other Russian queers. Although my participation in this group provided me with an excellent opportunity to apply some of the theoretical insights from my graduate program to the reality of everyday life, it still had not seriously occurred to me that I could conduct an ethnographic study within this group. How could I? It was a “messy” site that continually oscillated between two complex and, at times, competing cultural identities and practices. For instance, many Russian-immigrant rules for organizing an “unusual sex life,” as labeled by one informant’s uncle, often conflicted with important expressions of queer sexuality. From marching in Gay Pride parades to placing rainbow stickers on car bumpers, visible and public queer statements posed direct challenges to Russian-immigrant notions of privacy and secrecy. Not exactly a “neat” and unified site, The

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Russian Gay and Lesbian Group of West Hollywood was actually more about the perpetual movements between cultural locations and identities. Practicing everyday life in Los Angeles as a queer-identified-Russian-Jewish-immigrant, for example, assured overlap and leakage. And if I were to complicate matters even more by piling on a participant-observer hyphen to this mix, my research genres were sure to become blurred and troubles would certainly follow. It was not until December 8th, 1996, that I began understanding “leaky” research. I remember the date clearly because it was on a night when I attended informant I.’s, also my significant other at the time, birthday party at a Russian restaurant (directly adjacent to The Pleasure Chest sex shop) in the heart of West Hollywood. The guest list was rather diverse, to say the least. It was comprised of various members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group, I.’s immediate and large extended Russian family, Russian “straight” friends who were homophobic, Russian “straight” friends who were not homophobic, “American” friends who were straight and queer (mostly not homophobic), and a few Russian and “American” queer friendly bisexuals in heterosexual marriages. Although it was mostly the group members who knew “for certain” that the birthday girl was also my lover, it was a perfect occasion for curious and inquiring Russian family members and friends to observe all sexually suspicious and gender inappropriate behaviors. Results of such observations would inevitably provide excellent material for local gossip and “talk” for the following weeks. Well aware that their actions would be keenly monitored by “proper” immigrants from the moment of arrival, all “improper” group members were prepared to deploy a number of performative micro-operations throughout the evening, including silences, fibs, contrived personal details, exaggerated gestures, seemingly innocent facial expressions, cautious glances, polite nods of the head, and carefully orchestrated seating positions. As noted by Hawes (1998), these are the seemingly obvious, mundane, and routine tactical practices that “infiltrate, erode and subtly transfigure dominant strategic practices” (p. 287). In other words, something as “harmless” as a little wink of the eye during a conversation could effectively create a shift in power dynamics, even if for the moment. This is exactly what occurred at the birthday party. As I watched the guests arrive and find their way to the very long table at which I was already seated, it occurred to me that I was in the middle of a very “active” intersection of cultural performances, where each verbal and nonverbal act was full of meaning. Almost immediately, most of the Russian Gay and Lesbian Group members “read” and responded to the scene in ways that left their (homo)sexuality deliberately ambiguous. One by one, as guests poured in, each took careful stock of the table, paying special attention to the nature of the seating order and to the other guests. Without hesitating, older hetero Russian family members found their way to an end of the table populated by other Russians. The Americans, hetero and queer, quickly found their way to sections of the table where a few English words could be heard and smirked at the plates of herring confronting them as they sat down. The members of the group

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congregated in an area farthest away from the elderly Russians. My significant other and I sat toward the middle, slightly nervous and definitely anxious to start drinking. Not only was the table split down the middle, separating Russians and Americans, but it was also practically segregated along sexual orientation lines. After a few minutes, the sideways glances and whispers began . . . I reached for the vodka. The older Russians started eying the four American lesbians at the end of the table, paying extra special attention to the couple attired in butch pantsuits. A younger set of heterosexual Russians, known for their homophobic tendencies, stared at the flamboyant Russian gay male couple, both of whom wore tight leather (a sure sign of something queer!). Observing the sharp looks in their direction from the older Russians, the straight American couple clasped hands very visibly on the table (a move that got them off the hook, at least temporarily since they were still suspect by sitting in the “homo-zone”). Noticing the action, two Russian lesbian group members sitting next to each other quickly decided to ward off suspicion by changing their seating arrangement. After exchanging a few brief signals with two other Russian gay male group members, the new seating order was altered with the lesbians “inserting” the two gay guys between them; their new pattern looked more legitimate, girl-boy next to boy-girl. That’s better! The non-homophobic Russian straight couple sat somewhere in the middle of all this and continued to survey the scene; however, they moved very close to each other. The Russian and “American” queer-friendly bisexuals in heterosexual marriages had frozen grins on their faces. Slowly but surely, with careful eyes still roaming and whispers circulating, the eating began and everyone was temporarily distracted. I drank some more. The next morning, despite a vodka headache, I attempted to deconstruct the events from the previous night. As I wrote down pages of detailed notes, I realized I found a site. Later that week, I began making calls and asking various group members about their willingness to allow me to write “about us.” “Write about us?” asked group member A. “Will my Aunt Bebba ever get her hands on it?” This question accurately voiced the most sensitive aspect of this ethnography: the idea of publicly “outing” the secretive and covert “outs” group members used to manage competing cultural norms and practices. Because the vast majority of participants in the group, myself included, were quite often secretive about our sexual orientations to almost anyone who was a Russian immigrant, or who possibly could be a Russian immigrant, or might know a Russian immigrant, very important tactical rules regarding the (re)presentation of our identities to “readers” would have to be observed. Fixing queer identity by exposing it was neither comfortable nor desirable for most of us. After immersing myself in this site for over two years, it was clear that the tactical use of the closet in the lives of my informants became one of the most critical and significant aspects of this ethnography. Honoring the promises to keep the informants speaking in this site unmarked and confidential, I have not

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discussed events considered too private to reveal and have used initials rather than real names throughout this essay. Although the methods I used to collect data ranged from formal oral histories to casual conversations, I know that most of my “informants” were willing to share their experiences with me only because my story, in many ways, paralleled theirs. With this in mind, I, too, have struggled with “outing” myself in this publication and continue to wonder if I have chipped away at my own arsenal of tactical maneuvers by doing so.

USING THE CLOSET Contrary to the valorization of the visibly exposed queer identity as a direct “out and proud” response to the global conditions of homophobia impacting daily life, the use of the closet by the agents in this site raises alternative ways to imagine the power of having an “out” through movement between the seen and unseen. Popular Western ideological disseminations emphasizing the libratory power of being “out,” including cultural and political discourses such as holidays (e.g., “National ‘Coming Out’ Day”), parades (e.g., Dyke March and Pride), literature (Signorile, 1993; Osborne, 1996), and activist slogans (e.g., Silence = Death) effectively homogenize the function of the queer closet by depicting it as a place of denial and shameful secrecy (Barnhart, 1995; Brown, 2000; Hogan & Hudson, 1998). Despite the validity of such a constructed connotation for many who suffer as closeted queers, the designation of the closet is highly contextual and must be discussed beyond its limiting definition in the Gay Almanac (1996) as “the confining state of being secretive about one’s homosexuality” (p. 84). As the uses in this essay suggest, the closet cannot be totalized or universally defined as a confined, powerless and isolated place. The myopia and fixity of this description distorts an alternative view of the closet as a fluid, dialogic and powerful tactical space. As noted by Brown (2000) and Busch (1999), closets are spatial techniques that can help organize and operate complicated, culturally layered lives. Offering its occupants spontaneous opportunities to manage the micro-dimensional intersections of “Russian,” “American,” “immigrant,” “homosexual,” and “heterosexual,” the closet is understood by my informants not as place for stillness and hiding but as a technology that enables action and investigation. By using the closet to deploy the politics specific to their hyphenated identities, this essay contributes to the assertion that there can be no universalized narrative of queer resistance. As such, “coming out” models assuming sexual subjects as “purely oppositional or resistant to dominant institutions that produce heteronormativity” obscure the myriad forms of hybrid subjectivities moving through everyday life (Grewal & Kaplan, 2001, p. 670). Rarely operating according to an “obviously” identifiable category of sexuality, the participants in this ethnography claim that it is not only necessary, but also empowering to retreat into the “closet” in various situations. Understood

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as an unseen “safety zone” of sexual orientation, the specific uses of the queer closet by members of the Russian Gay and Lesbian Group suggest that it is a space where performances of “pretend” heterosexuality and ambiguous non-heterosexuality are regularly deployed. Not unlike designations of queerness that Sedgwick (1994) argues must be considered through a situated “I,” these performances reflect the situated practices of each agent who uses the closet on a daily basis. As such, the closet ought to be discussed as an embodied, open-ended and contingent space, one that is distinctively written on by each agent who defines its myriad uses and uses it to define. Highly contextual, closet space cannot be theorized apart from the material and situated micro practices determining its use and value on a daily basis. Using the closet on a regular basis, the members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group recognize that it is a dialogic space, written on not only by those who occupy and move through it, but also by those from the “outside” who seek to control it, maintain its need and observe it (Sedgwick, 1990). Like the designation of homosexuality itself, the relationship between closet space and the world that seeks to regulate its existence is intertwined. As noted by Sedgwick, “the nominative category of ‘the homosexual’ has robustly failed to disintegrate . . . not in the first place because of its meaningfulness to those whom it defines but because of its indispensableness to those who define themselves against it” (p. 69). In this way, the indispensable need of the dominant hierarchy to maintain deviant and perverse sexual others creates conditions that can effectively sustain a privileged heterosexual center while marginalizing the rest. To avoid being swept away into the periphery, many queers have found it necessary to enter the closet. Interpreted in Western discourse as primarily an “outside” regulated and restrictive “hiding place,” the need to be “closeted” continues to be seen as the focal point representing GLBT oppression (Brown, 2000). To free oneself from this oppressive hiding place, it is possible to “come out” and “be out.” This ideology of liberation reinforces the constructed binary of sexual visibility vs. invisibility, a false dichotomy that inevitably circulates a discourse valorizing the seen, marked, and visible identity. Ultimately enacted as a unidirectional pursuit of legitimacy through visibility, the disclosure of sexual orientation becomes fixed as an act of empowerment (Gross, 1993). At once compulsory and forbidden, however, the desire to be seen becomes embedded with a permanent glance over the shoulder to see who is doing the looking and why. The quest to be seen is problematic not only because visibility fixes identity, but also because the visibly marked identity “erases the power of the unmarked, unspoken, and the unseen” (Phelan, 1993, p. 108). My intent here is not to argue against queer visibility by suggesting that the hidden and the invisible are more desirable; instead, I argue that the movement in space should be examined as a form of agency that actively responds to hetero-privilege. Operating between domination and resistance, the global and the micro-local, self

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and other, seen and unseen, the informants in this project support the notion that a fluid and unfixed identity can potentially elude the strategies of the dominant hierarchy that seek to categorize, label, contain and stigmatize sexual others. Because invisibility offers an “out” that is quite different from the “out” of visibility, the informants in this essay suggest there is real power in the choice to determine which “out” is the best position of the moment. Here, the “out” of invisibility is similar to the Bakhtinian loophole, where agents creatively develop and continually look for an emergency “escape” route for every circumstance (Bakhtin, 1981a, 1981b). Thus, the closet is a site of struggle where the power of movement challenges the power to fix. The opportunity to seize power in this liminal space is possible through tactical micro-practices, small-scale daily acts that use their mastery of mobility to disrupt the mechanisms seeking to maintain rigid designations that secure identity. Depending on the occasion, these daily acts can mean darting into a bathroom with a gay lover for a stolen kiss when no one is looking or a lesbian politely nodding her head when a group of babushkas tries to play the man-woman matchmaking game with her.

TACTICS AND MICRO-PRACTICES According to de Certeau (1984), power relations can be analyzed by looking at the tensions between strategies vs. tactics and place vs. space. Strategies are used by the powerful to discipline, organize, and monitor spaces. They are technologies of control that are vast and solidly rooted in an established place, yet limited by their inability to move rapidly and see the totality of tactical micro-practices in space. The order “from above” is vast and powerful, but it is also “bound by its very visibility” (de Certeau, 1984, p. 36). Unlike strategies, tactics are an “art of the weak” that must “play on and with a terrain imposed on it” by the fixed constraints of “proper” powers (de Certeau, 1984, p. 37). Tactical operations can be theorized, then, as micro-practices that “take the predisposition of the world and make it over, that convert it to the purposes of ordinary people” (Crang, 2000, p. 137). In doing so, however, tactics do not become infused with the “proper” powers enjoyed by those who have the power to determine what is “proper”; rather, they remain sudden appropriations, creative manipulations, and a form of “trickery” within the spatial framework imposed by an official urban apparatus. The queer “tricksters” at the birthday party were not able to prevent “proper” lookers from trying to see their actions in space; however, through a broad range of verbal and nonverbal statements, they were able to alter what the “proper” lookers were able to see. Rather than focusing on the production of place, de Certeau discusses daily acts as a consumption of space. Deployed according to the “chance offerings of the moment,” the consumption of space is characterized by “its ruses, its

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fragmentation (the result of circumstances), its poaching, its clandestine nature, its tireless but quiet activity, in short by its quasi-invisibility . . .” (de Certeau, 1984, p. 31). Highly contextual and interconnected with the conditions of socio-political construction, the relationships between place and space must always be considered. As Gupta and Ferguson (1999) note, “the ability of people to confound the established spatial orders, whether through physical movement or through their own conceptual, creative and political acts of reimagination, means that space and place can never be ‘given’ . . .” (p. 47). Here, space is created, used, and customized by active “poachers” who remake it to be what they need at any given moment and according to each situation. Inhabited by those who have no “place,” space is an opportunistic site filled with tactical movements that can subvert and divert the dominant order of the city. Because of its “triumph of place over time,” strategies of the “proper” powers can be very tenuous when set against the immense mobility and spontaneity of scattered micro-practices located in everyday spaces. When members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group tactically operate according to the “chance offerings” of daily circumstances, they use the closet as a space to potentially escape the surveillance of the proprietary powers. Making unexpected use of “the cracks” that particular conjunctions open creates conditions in which it is virtually impossible for the dominant heterosexual order of immigrant West Hollywood, or beyond, to see what is “really” transpiring. In such instances, where sexuality is also about “pulling tricks,” the panoptic gaze of the powerful “transfixes objects but also becomes blind to a vast array of things that do not fit its categories” (de Certeau, 1984, p. 138). Hence, sexuality that slips between categories cannot be easily pinned down as queer or surrendered as deviant. It is in this micro-moment that power is sabotaged away from those who normally wield it. Despite the active usurping of power in such a scenario, it is important to note that what a tactic wins, it cannot keep. In other words, regardless of gains, the tactical micro-practices of those with an absence of “proper” power remain “without any base where it could stockpile its winnings, build up its own position, and plan raids” (de Certeau, 1984, p. 37). The ability of the powerless to change the organization of space is primarily achieved by their ability to master the rapidity of their movements in time. It is the protean, quick, surprising and “clever utilization of time . . . that it introduces into the foundations of power” (de Certeau, 1984, p. 39). Thus, tactics can be understood as everyday micro-practices that bank on their mobility in time as a way of “making do” in space. This is where agents continually negotiate their everyday survival by finding critical and crafty “ways of operating” within the constraining order of the law. Because survival is intimately linked with identity, there is little doubt that the relationship between identity, time and space is always already engaged in a dialogic exchange. Evident in the everyday spatial practices of people who must live according to hybrid and hyphenated identities, this dialogic exchange becomes a critical site of tactical maneuvering. As described earlier in

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the birthday dinner scene, through the simple clasping of hands or switching of seats, the situated and embodied conversations at informant I.’s party were full of tactical operations. Virtually every member of the Russian Gay and Lesbian Group engaged in a quick “read” of events and initiated protective and spontaneous micro-practices designed to maintain the fluidity of their sexual identities. The four homosexual Russians, who changed their seats into a girl-boy/boy-girl pattern at the birthday party, escaped into a performative underground. By re-arranging their bodies, the standard affirmations of the dominant norm, heterosexuality and gender conformity, were at once resisted and reinforced, but the ability to “move” was preserved. Such responses produced shifting negotiations of identity, movements that challenged the stability and “fixity” of social norms. If one is suspect of “deviance” due to chosen seating arrangements, then why not change seats if that is the loophole and “out” of the moment? The play with what is considered culturally “proper” can, at times, be that simple; yet, more importantly, it makes a case for the power of roaming about. Organizing space according to the limits and opportunities established by every situation, the group members in this ethnography often find themselves “oscillating in a nowhere between what he invents and what changes him” (de Certeau, 1984, p. 173). Such oscillations are expressed in tactical spaces of private defiance: “a secret scene, a place where one can enter and leave when one wishes . . .” (de Certeau, 1984, p. 174). This practice is what allows my informants to respond to some of the heterosexist norms organizing the Russian immigrant “culture” without actually endangering their ability to maintain a fluid location within it. The heterosexual Russians at the birthday party, suspicious of deviation from “proper” sexuality and “normal” gender representation, quickly asserted their position as the “master” text, one which mandates conformity to the “literal” and the “proper.” As de Certeau (1984) notes, social hierarchization seeks to make people conform to the “information” distributed by an elite (or semi-elite); here, heterosexuality represents that “elite.” The non-passive responses by the non-elite, however, involve a certain tactical retaliation where agents find sudden and surprising ways of reacting that provide an escape, or a re-routing of meaning that avoids prescribed practices. For instance, when attending a party filled with homophobic Russian immigrants, the idea of moving seats, laughing at appropriate times, avoiding certain gestures while enhancing others, remaining silent during specific moments within a conversation, and actively fabricating information to accommodate circumstances is considered tactical play by my informants. These are “outs” that are deployed by stepping into the closet, not out of it.

BELONGING TO AN IMAGINED COMMUNITY Regardless of how deeply migrants immerse themselves in a new culture, they continue to frame their lives according to a multilayered text of history

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and experience, especially with the time-space compression of globalization (Appadurai, 1990; Cohen, 1997; Patton & Sanchez-Eppler, 2000; Pieterse, 1995). Although the degree and nature of this connectedness certainly varies depending on circumstances specific to each person, all of the informants in this site agree that they remain linked to and influenced by specific elements of Russianness. Thus, although most members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group live separately and independently from their families and the Russian immigrant “community,” they do not have the option of ever being permanently “outside” the (re)imagination of it. As Anderson (1991) describes, communities are to be distinguished not by their falsity/genuineness or by their physical boundaries, but by the style and manner in which they are imagined. Not unlike others who identify as queer, various Russian-American group members admit that they encountered significant panic and hostility from families once their sexual orientation was discovered and/or announced. Often attributing the widespread visibility of homosexuality to be a direct result of “America’s excessive freedoms,” it is not uncommon for heterosexual Russian immigrants, especially the less sophisticated ones, to place the blame of “abnormal” sexuality on “American” culture. Without much experience in explaining their homosexuality to close family members prior to immigration, the informants in this site claim that queerness is often understood in their families as a tragic site of democratic luxury and capitalist decadence. Absent of a solid religious history, most members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group do not recall receiving severe moral condemnation because of their homosexual practices; instead, most say they experienced severe reprimand for violating “official” codes of conduct and “proper” social norms of behavior. Attempting to clarify his thoughts to his gay son, the father of informant V. repeatedly told him that “It’s not that I think you are bad person . . . the world will think you are bad. Why do you want to make your life harder? We left Russia so that you could have it easier.” Because most first generation “Soviet era” immigrants have been socialized by a political machine to act, or look as if they act, just like every other Soviet citizen, the notions of conformity and secrecy continue to play a meaningful role in the organization and imagination of Russian-immigrant lives. Especially notorious during Stalin’s bloody purges of the 1930s, “discipline and unity were high on the list of party values” throughout the communist regime (Fitzpatrick, 1999, p. 19). By instigating a vigilant attitude of “watchful suspicion,” the Soviet system had managed to enforce a mutually monitored relationship between self and community. Ultimately responding to conditions encouraging citizens to probe into each other’s private matters for the sake of the motherland, those fearing “exposure” found ways to practice “double lives.” As Fitzpatrick (1999) notes, “concealment was a normal condition of Soviet life” (p. 19). The notion of secrecy and uniformity called for an utter awareness of social behavior that in turn policed the translation of private life into public space (Clements & Engel, 1991; Smith, 1990; Stites, 1995). If something stood out or “someone wore

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white when everyone else wore black,” notes informant M., it was inevitable that word of mouth would carry the story fast. Influenced by this history of homogeneity and selective concealment, one of the most coveted rules in many immigrant families now living in the U.S., including my own, is expressed in the following mantra: “Shto nasha, astayotsa nasha!” (“What’s ours, stays ours!”). This phrase is meant to enforce a philosophy of privacy and secrecy applicable to every person/place/object/issue/concept/event that somehow deviates from established social norms of proper conduct. Because extreme emphasis is placed on constructing “proper appearances” within the imagined community, the Russian immigrants discussed in this essay have often maintained strict protocols designed to protect themselves from becoming marked by embarrassing gossip or scandal. And scandal in the Russian community is no laughing matter! Representing the ultimate site of controversy and nonconformity, the members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group know scandal well. Needless to say, “coming out” to immediate families quickly earned many group members the shameful label of “Americanized” deviant. As informant O. noted, “My sister was convinced that there were no lesbians in Russia. According to her, I became a lesbian only because America creates a good atmosphere for it.” Once immediate family members were informed of our “deviant” sexualities, it became clear to most participants in the group that we could potentially trigger a huge scandal that would spread like wildfire throughout various immigrant households and bring instant shame to those it exposed. Fearing we would go public with what informant S. jokingly referred to as our “tragic conditions,” members were often asked (and at times directed) by those who “knew” about our queerness to become agents with secret identities. Our potentially visible nonconforming behavior posed a direct assault on another common Russian immigrant saying: “Ne pakazivay nashu graz” (“Don’t show our dirt”). Often seen as agents who could raise enough “graz” (“dirt”) and “pazor” (“shame”) to destroy all hope of sustaining a respectable social image within the immigrant community, the pressure to maintain social performances that effectively masqueraded and camouflaged queer identity was strong. As recalled by informant M2., a recent lesbian immigrant who still lived at home, the perpetual fear that “unacceptable sexual practices” become generally advertised applied to even the most mundane acts of everyday life. Going to the movies with someone of the same sex, for instance, was something that could be read as a public disclosure of private affairs . . . but only if one’s sexuality was a violation of heterosexual norms. Same-sex outings are perfectly acceptable and unnoticed if one is a heterosexual. The following exchange is quite telling of this double standard as a lesbian group member, R., tells her mother she is going to out to a movie with me in West Hollywood: R: Mother:

Diana and I are going to see a movie. Oh really, where?

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Probably somewhere close by. Umm . . . why don’t you rent movie and stay here. It’s better at home, da? Actually, I really feel like getting out. Why go out? You two are hungry . . . give me just a moment to prepare food . . . Thanks Mama, but we ate. Umm . . . you two go alone . . . no boys? Maybe you invite boys? That will be safer. Why? The theaters around here are safe. Well, not really. Maybe you should go to San Fernando Valley to see movie . . . not too many Russian people there. You know . . . people here will talk.

Especially owing to the city’s overt display of sexuality and queerness (flyers, billboards, sex shops, porn theaters, clubs, bars, scantily clad pedestrians), the spatial practices of queer-Russians in West Hollywood are risky. The presence of a bustling GLBT community centered just a mile west from the heart of the immigrant enclave has heightened Russian immigrant awareness of the existence of queer life and queer signs. The sexual hybridity of West Hollywood is noticeable even to the most naïve and elderly of immigrants. In fact, it is almost inevitable that on any given afternoon one can see a transgendered pedestrian walking into a little mom-and-pop Russian deli; the Pleasure Chest (sex shop) is right next to Kashtan (a Russian family restaurant); a gay bar called Motherlode is just a few blocks away from a Russian pharmacy; and the French Quarter restaurant (one of the oldest queer establishments in West Hollywood) is located directly across the street from a Russian flower shop and a Russian doctor’s office. As informant M2.’s mother often remarked: “Those people live very close to us. Some even live in the building over there!” A public and visible confrontation with homophobia and heterosexism by declaring one’s non-heterosexual orientation would inevitably trigger an “outcast” status and damage relationships, both at home and in the larger Russian immigrant imagined community. With the high amount of “razgavor” (“talk”) across this community, it remains critical for my informants to resist becoming the stable address for rumors and accusations to reside. Knowing they have parents, relatives and friends immersed in numerous aspects of Russian immigrant life, most of my informants resist “coming out” as queer and triggering what informant O. calls “something to gossip about.” As compensation for the losses that inevitably accompany migration, many immigrants, especially the older ones, work hard to somehow rebuild their “old” life status and respectability in the “new” community. Like many immigrants before them, once eloquent and “important” people of social position (engineers, doctors, professors, economists, and managers) many find that they are incapable of transferring their status to America (Heinze, 1990). To

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balance out such losses, many immigrants channel the bulk of their energy into the sources that motivated them to emigrate from the former U.S.S.R.: their children. Every informant in The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group has heard a version of it: “We left the Soviet Union because of you!” In light of such declarations, the burden and ambition of success is transferred to a new generation to provide the worth, status, and pride that has drastically diminished for many immigrants. Being an “official” representative of one’s family image, however, is quite a heavy load. With much at stake, even the simplest daily acts can become intensely scrutinized. Thus, despite the fact that most of my informants’ families were not well aware of the term “closet,” at least in the queer context, they asked that it be employed quite regularly “for the sake of appearances.”

FLEXIBLE LOCATIONS Rather than reject conditions of secrecy, the members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group have found agency precisely through the performative tactics of ambiguity, trickery, wordplay, small non-truths, and even flat out lies. As stated by informant M1. when he was asked about the contrast between options in the former Soviet Union vs. the U.S. for a gay man: Back there (U.S.S.R.) we learned to lie and hide all the time . . . to neighbors, to co-workers, and especially to strangers. But everything here is too open! Why do I have to answer questions about marriage? I tell them (other Russian immigrants) I am very picky. Why do I have to make it hard for myself and my family here when I can play with nosy people to keep my privacy? . . . They should mind their own business in the first place. The psychology here (in the U.S.) wants everything to be talked about and open to everyone. I’m not ready for this . . . maybe I’ll never be ready to tell all America on Oprah who I sleep with and why. I have many options here . . . everybody does. It is a choice for me to tell people what I want them to know . . . and it is my choice not to tell them anything. I decide this everyday. Because Russia never had too many, I appreciate choices. Organized and reconfigured by various tactical micro-practices, the closet is a space that my informants know intimately. Most members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group practice life there as a way of being “not here or there, one or the other, but neither the one nor the other, simultaneously inside and outside, dissolving both by mixing them together . . .” (de Certeau, 1984, p. 174). They see the closet as a liminal hybrid space that gives them the needed invisibility to negotiate the struggle between expectations and violations. It is along the continuum of possible movement between “coming out” and “hiding out”

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that memories, customs, values, preferences, geographies, languages, and responsibilities are perpetually reckoned with. The hyphens that provide their lives with meaning, however, also layer their lives with rules. Understood as a daily technology for moving between the center and periphery, the closet functions as a necessary part of “making do” for gays and lesbians compelled to cope with layers of heteronormative demands and cultural circumstances particular to immigrant life. In this respect, the closet can be considered a practical and valuable form of agency, an unseen and transitory space deployed as a tool to maneuver around stable designations and categorizations of sexual orientation. Attempting to avoid the very real consequences inevitably accompanying a fixed and visible position in the margins of a social order, and to covertly work at destabilizing this order in the process, the people discussed in this essay work to remain sexually unmarked. It is through the gaps in the “official” heterosexist system that queer identified Russian-Americans discover a gateway to smuggle in micro-acts of resistance. For example, since gender norms in the Russian cultural landscape allow women to walk arm in arm, lesbians in this group take full advantage of this “gap.” Russian gender norms are also more lenient for male-to-male embraces and displays of affection, especially when vodka is involved! The gay informants take advantage of this as well. For instance, it is very common to see (supposedly) heterosexual Russian male immigrants wear extremely tight fitting designer clothing; in light of this aesthetic commonality of fashion sense, it is virtually impossible to “pick out” a gay man in a Russian immigrant crowd by using stereotypes related to clothing. Regardless of how much rule analysis is done, the members of the group find ways to play with specific circumstances, implicit or explicit, according to a time-sensitive corresponding tactic, silent or spoken. Using the closet to practice tactical operations has offered members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group a number of options concerning the circumstances of everyday life. The consistent negotiation of sexual identity is often deployed through sudden gestures and improvisatory communicative acts designed to disrupt and/or effectively resist a stable gay or lesbian classification within the homophobic segments of Russian-American immigrant imagined community. Controlling the flow of information, especially about oneself, is powerful and is enabled by living in flexible locations. Thus, “. . . describing the perfect boyfriend who lives in New York” as stated by informant S., “. . . is not a problem if it stops people from getting involved in my personal business.” Nor is it labeled “wrong” or “oppressive” by informant E. when she uses strategic silence in a conversation to avoid being fixed to a non-heterosexual category: When all these eager babushkas come up to me and talk my ear off about setting me up with the perfect man, I just smile and nod . . . and look for ways to quickly change the subject. If they keep going, I tell them that I

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am looking for a very rich man and if they really want to help, they should find a millionaire and then set me up. Of course they will never find a single millionaire . . . unless he’s gay. And wouldn’t that scene be great! As the rules governing heterosexuality and homosexuality become read against each other through a discourse of performative acts and spatial micro-practices, each is flooded with a living history of rights, risks and consequences. Influenced by the consequences of ethnic norms, the risks of queerness are played out against the right to be queer. Hesitant to reveal their non-heterosexual orientation as a form of general knowledge, information that would inevitably circulate without caution, the members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian group consider the interplay between the seen and the unseen as practices designed to resist sexual categorization and fixity. For immigrants who need to and/or want to maintain a sexual identity that is ambiguously constructed, fluid, and even deceptive, “exposed” queerness can become a highly problematic and burdensome option, not a liberatory one. Supporting this attitude, one particularly vocal gay tactician in the group, A1., commented on the need to keep one’s sex life out of the public Russian immigrant eye: Who I fuck is none of their business. I have no problems or regrets in telling people some sort of bullshit to satisfy them. I also have no problem when it comes to playing with their heads . . . but it really pisses some of them off because they hear the gossip and I don’t admit to anything. To sum up the ideas discussed in this queer essay, the chameleon-like maneuvers of homosexual identity, which range from polite ambiguity at birthday parties to blatant lies in conversations when others probe for information, are tactical micro-practices providing a certain agency for people who wish to preserve an “out” through queer mobility rather than an “out” through queer visibility. Faced with the absence of their own “legitimate” place as queers in the immigrant imagined community, the agents in this site have invented ways of operating within the “the space of the other” (de Certeau, 1984) by refusing to “out” themselves permanently as gays and lesbians. De Certeau might have said that the members of The Russian Gay and Lesbian Group found their agency as “renters” of hidden and unseen spaces, transitory occupants of dynamic closets who regularly travel across a trajectory of “official” locations. Since the category of “heterosexual” is designated as the dominant order and established norm in the Russian immigrant imagined community, the informants mentioned in this essay actively discover ways of “unofficially” subverting “official” place by manipulating the cultural circumstances framing everyday life. From introducing same-sex lovers as their “best friends” to attending weddings with queers of the opposite sex, the practices are tactical, although not always tactful, and blur the boundaries of sexual categories. In

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simple yet potent ways, covert queerness darts out of the closet only to get smuggled back in again when necessary. To carry out these “smuggling” operations safely, the informants in this site must creatively use time and space to manage their hyphenated identities. Rather than being looked at, we are on the lookout. Instead of being fixed to a visible location, we discreetly move between seen and unseen locations. As skillful tacticians, we do not stay or remain fixed in the closet. Rather, it is our perpetual unfixed and fluid movement in and out of closet doors that offers us a certain currency in the social world that is not equally available to those who are settled in a marked place. As de Certeau (1984) notes, “To be able to see (far into the distance) is also to be able to predict, to run ahead of time by reading a space” (p. 36). We use the opportunities of unmarked closet space as a way of “escaping prediction” and “making do” in a world that enforces real consequences associated with sexual deviance and the betrayal of social norms. Contrary to certain advocacy formulae such as “Silence = Death” and “Out = Proud,” many queer-identified-Russian-American-immigrants do not believe shame inevitably lines closet walls. For those of us in this text who do not identify as heterosexual, the queer closet is theorized as an actively infused space of life, not death. It provides us with opportunities and possibilities for moving across flexible locations and ambiguous categorizations. The tactical micro-practices of everyday life are thus embodied acts in which hyphenated subjects recover and write their own histories, both inside and outside of the closet.

REFERENCES Anderson, B. (1991). Imagined communities (Rev. ed.). London: Verso. Anzaldúa, G. (1987). Borderlands/la frontera. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Press. Appadurai, A. (1990). Disjuncture and difference in the global cultural economy. Public Culture, 2(2), 1-24. Bakhtin, M. (1981a). The dialogic imagination. Austin: University of Texas Press. Bakhtin, M. (1981b). The problem of Dostoevsky’s poetics. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Bhabha, H. (1994). The location of culture. London: Routledge. Barnhart, R. (1995). Dictionary of etymology: The origins of American English words. New York: Harper Collins. Brown, M. (2000). Closet space: Geographies of metaphor from the body to the globe. London: Routledge. Busch, A. (1999). Geography of home. Princeton, NJ: Princeton Architectural Press. Clements, B.E., Engel, B.A., & Worobec, C.D. (Eds.). (1991). Russia’s women: Accomodation, resistance, transformation. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Clifford, J. (1988). The predicament of culture: 20th-century ethnography, literature, and art. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

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Cohen, R. (1997). Global diasporas: An introduction. London: UCL Press. Crang, M. (2000). Relics, places and unwritten geographies in the work of Michel de Certeau (1925-1986) In M. Crang & N. Thrift, (Eds.), Thinking space (pp. 136-153). London: Routledge. De Certeau, M. (1984). The practice of everyday life. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. De Certeau, M. (1998). The practice of everyday life, vol 2: Living and cooking. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Dinnerstein, L., & Reimers, D. (1999). Ethnic Americans: A history of immigration (4th ed). New York: Columbia University Press. Fisher, D. (1997). Coming in and out of the closet. Unpublished master’s thesis, California State University at Los Angeles. Fitzpatrick, S. (1999). Ordinary life in extraordinary times: Soviet Russia in the 1930s. Oxford: Oxford University Press. The gay almanac (1996). New York: Berkeley Press. Grewal, I., & Kaplan, C. (2001). Global identities: Theorizing transnational studies of sexuality. Gay and Lesbian Quarterly, 7(4), 663-679. Gross, L. (1993). Contested closets: The politics and ethics of outing. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Gupta, A., & Ferguson, J. (Eds.). (1999). Culture, power, place: Explorations in critical anthropology. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Haraway, D. (1991). Simians, cyborgs, and women: The reinvention of nature. London: Routledge. Hawes, L. (1998). Becoming-other-wise: Conversational performance and the politics of experience. Text and Performance Quarterly, 18(4), 273-299. Hawley, J. C. (Ed.). (2001). Postcolonial, queer: Theoretical intersections. New York: State University of New York Press. Hienze, A. (1990). Adapting to abundance: Jewish immigrants, mass consumption, and the search for American identity. New York: Columbia University Press. Highmore, B. (Ed.). (2002). The everyday life reader. London: Routledge. Hogan, S. & Hudson, L. (1998). Completely queer: The gay and lesbian encyclopedia. New York: Henry Holt. Jackson, S. (1995). Perform-1 discussion. The Drama Review, 39 (4), 159-161. Joseph, M., & Fink, J. (Eds.). (1999). Performing hybridity. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Lavie, S., & Swedenburg, T. (Eds.). (1996). Displacement, diaspora, and geographies of identity. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Marcus, G.E. (1998). Ethnography through thick and thin. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Mort, F. (1989). The politics of consumption. In S. Hall & M. Jacques (Eds.), New times: The changing face of politics in the 1990s. London: Lawrence and Wishart. Myerhoff, B. (1980). Number our days. New York: Touchstone. Osborn, T. (1996). Coming home: A roadmap to gay and lesbian empowerment. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Patton, C., & Sanchez-Eppler, B. (Eds.). (2000). Queer diasporas. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

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Phelan, P. (1993). Unmarked: The politics of performance. New York: Routledge. Pieterse, J. (1995). Globalization as hybridization. In M. Featherstone, S. Lash & R. Robertson (Eds.), Global modernities (pp. 45-68). London: Sage. Pollock, D. (1998). Exceptional spaces: Essays in performance & history. Chapel Hill, NC: The University of North Carolina Press. Rosaldo, R. (1993). Culture & truth: The remaking of social analysis. Boston: Beacon Press. Ross, K. (1992). Watching the detectives. In F. Barker, P. Hulme, & M. Iverson (Eds.), Postmodernism and the re-reading of modernity. Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press. Saldívar, J. (1997). Border matters: Remapping American cultural studies. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Sedgwick, E. K. (1990). Epistemology of the closet. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Sedgwick, E. K. (1994). Tendencies. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Signorile, M. (1993). Queer in America: Sex, the media and the closets of power. New York: Random House. Smith, H. (1991). The new Russians. New York: Avon Books. Stites, R. (1995). Russian popular culture. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

Negotiating Multiple Identities in a Queer Vietnamese Support Group Gina Masequesmay, PhD California State University, Northridge

SUMMARY. My participant-observation with Ô-Môi, a support group for Vietnamese lesbians, bisexual women and female-to-male transgenders, and interviews with members, focusing on how different identity issues are negotiated, suggest that despite Ô-Môi’s claim of supporting its members’ multiple marginalized identities, group processes in everyday pragmatic interactions construct a hierarchy that centers and normalizes experiences of bilingual Vietnamese lesbians. This renders the marginalization of bisexual women, transgender men, and Vietnamese/English monolingual members. Using the concept of “identity work” to examine the intersection of race/ethnicity, class, and gender/sexuality as everyday (counter)hegemonic processes, I discuss how organizational Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Asian American Studies, California State University, Northridge, 18111 Nordhoff Street, Northridge, CA 913308251 (E-mail: [email protected]). This paper is based on the data collected by the author for her dissertation, work supported by the American Sociological Association’s Minority Fellowship Program, which was funded by the National Institute of Mental Health. None of this work would be possible without the support, encouragement and cooperation of the women and men who were in and affiliated with Ô-Môi. The author would also like to thank her editors for their support and reviewers for their comments. [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Negotiating Multiple Identities in a Queer Vietnamese Support Group.” Masequesmay, Gina. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 193-215; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 193-215. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_09

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structure, discourse resources, and personal politics orient and mold members’ talk and interactions leading to normalization and/or marginalization of certain groups’ experiences. [Article copies available for a fee from The

Haworth Document Delivery Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.]

KEYWORDS. Identity work, lesbian, multiple identities, queer, support group, Vietnamese American Recent years have witnessed a proliferation of ethnic-specific queer (short for LGBT or lesbian/gay/bisexual/transgender) support groups in the Los Angeles region, the largest and new mecca for immigrants in the United States (Waldinger & Bozorgmehr, 1996). As a result of an influx of immigrants from Latin America and Asia since 1965, the Los Angeles region has become the new capital of immigrants, surpassing New York in the percentage of foreign-born, 36.2% to 29.4% (http://www.census.org, 2000). This dramatic demographic shift creates new ethnic enclaves in addition to the traditional Chinatowns and Little Tokyos (e.g., Little Saigon for Vietnamese; Monterey Park for Chinese; Koreatown for Koreans; Little Phnom Penh for Cambodians; Thai Town for Thai). Because of the high concentration of Asian immigrants in Los Angeles and Orange Counties, a critical mass makes it possible for different Asian ethnic groups and gender groups to splinter from larger co-gender, queer, Asian panethnic groups. Whereas in the past queer Asian Americans were ecstatic to have an Asian Pacific Islander (API) queer organization in Los Angeles (i.e., from Asian/Pacific Lesbians and Gays), queers in the mid-1990s not only want an API queer women’s group, they want ethnic specific ones as well (e.g., Gay Vietnamese Alliance, LAAPIS). Ô-Môi (“oh-moy”), a support group for Vietnamese lesbians, bisexual women and female-to-male (FTM) transgenders, is one such group. To say that demographic change results in the proliferation of ethnic-specific queer support groups is an incomplete story, however. Testimonies of founding members of such groups suggest that the reason for splintering also has to do with members being unsatisfied with existing groups (i.e., single identity based organizations) that are not addressing their needs. Mainstream queer organizations, for example, are predominantly white and male. Queer women and racial minorities often feel that they are a minority within these queer organizations because of the racism and sexism that they encounter. Mainstream organizations are often ignorant about minority issues, and the concerns of these racial and gender minorities are often not addressed or are downplayed (Anzaldùa, 1990; Wat, 2002). Many racial minorities and women, therefore, splinter off to form their own organizations where they believe a focus on gender and/or race will better suit their needs. Within the

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Asian panethnic women’s organizations, ethnic differences also surface, prodding members to found more ethnic-specific, queer female organizations that better understand their unique multiply marginalized experiences and needs. Queer female Vietnamese in late 1990s Los Angeles wanted a space where they did not have to explain and justify themselves to white folks, straight people, men, and those people who do not understand the Vietnamese refugee background. Ô-Môi and similar groups that have emerged in the 1990s are responding to a common theme of alienation experienced in (post)modern life (for a related theoretical overview and summary on identity, see Masequesmay, 2001). For immigrants and refugees, the disconnections and uprootedness seem even more salient as these “strangers” (Simmel, 1988) strive to re-establish organic ties. Living in the U.S., where race, class, gender and sexuality organize society into a matrix of hierarchies (Collins, 1990), immigrants and refugees of racial minority status, from lower economic classes, who are women or transgender, and who have queer sexual identities have multiple hurdles to overcome. Because of these multiple dimensions of inequality that racialize, genderize, sexualize and ethnicize “the Other,” Vietnamese queer females organize themselves around such marginalized statuses or identities to resist these oppressive forces; that is, the structures of inequality based on race, class, gender, and sexuality exist as social processes that suppress and exploit marginalized identities. Where there is oppression, we also witness resistance. Thus, in the 1990s, as was also seen in previous decades, people have organized around marginalized identity/ies as a means of resistance. Identity-based organizations can be seen as refuge, safe space, and even virtual home (e.g., Ô-Môi listserv) for people with marginalized identities. In short, people with multiple marginalized identities often respond by forming multiple-identity-based organizations. This paper explores how one such multiple-identity-based organization struggles to support its members. I examine the following questions: Under what conditions are different identity issues negotiated among members? How does Ô-Môi support its members? Since Ô-Môi is based on multiple marginalized identities, I first turn my attention to the literature on multiple identities and resistance. Then, I provide background information about Ô-Môi and my entrée into the organization. Given the allotted space for this paper, I limit my focus to a few patterns of identity work discovered at Ô-Môi that challenge old hierarchies as well as create new ones. Finally, I conclude with a discussion of identity work at Ô-Môi as part of the process of becoming gendered and sexualized ethnic Americans in capitalist America.

IDENTITY WORK AS EVERYDAY (COUNTER)HEGEMONIC PROCESSES This study is about marginalized social identities and how people make sense of their marginalized statuses and deploy these notions of identity to

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draw boundaries between insiders and outsiders in an effort to normalize their experiences and bond with others like themselves. Specifically, my study focuses on a group of queer Vietnamese women and transgendered men who are expanding their circles of friendships and acquaintances to create a network of resources to empower and support one another. As Ô-Môi is an organization that is formed around ethnic, gender, and sexual identities, managing diversity within the group becomes a dominant theme in group interactions. Identity issues are negotiated and prioritized among members of diverse gender and sexuality to arrive at a sense of commonality and unity. My study records the processes of how these different issues of identity are negotiated in a group organized around multiple marginalized identities. I examine the uses of identity in interaction, the contexts in which they are deployed, and the degrees of supportive effects of these interactions on group members. The growing literature on identity reflects the increasing significance of its current role (Calhoun, 1994; Cheney, 1991; Dunn, 1998; Giddens, 1992). With the successes of identity-based movements since the 1960s that fortify identity politics (e.g., the African American civil rights movement, women’s movement, and gay and lesbian movement), identity-based policies have come to affect all aspects of life and institutionalized gender, ethnic, racial and sexual identities (Dunn, 1998; Gubrium & Holstein, 2001). In the mid-1980s, “identity” became a buzzword in academe, in disciplines ranging from the humanities to the social sciences. According to historian Philip Gleason (1983), references to the concept of identity were rare prior to the 1950s. Since then, the concept has become both ubiquitous and elusive in academic discussions because of variegated conceptualizations in research that attempt to address the growing significance of the politics of identity in social life. By the late 1990s, the overzealous use of this concept led to doubts about its analytical worth. Some scholars advocate using more specific terms to describe what identity does or signifies (Brubaker & Cooper, 2000). This is part of my task here–to explore how notions of “identity” are used in interaction and how its meanings are understood and negotiated among members of a group that is organized around marginalized identities; that is, I am not concerned with identity as an analytical concept per se. Rather, I am interested in exploring how people understand and use identity in interaction to establish commonality and differences between themselves and others. Rather than identity, I will be examining “identity work.” Studies on race, ethnicity, gender, and sexuality emphasize that identity issues and the everyday evoking of racial, ethnic, sexual, and gender identities are intricately intertwined with ongoing efforts to reinforce or challenge institutions of race, ethnicity, gender, and sexuality (Butler, 1990; Gagne & Tewksbury, 1998; Omi & Winant, 1994; West & Zimmerman, 1987). Because these institutions are based on patriarchy, heterosexism, and white supremacy, subordinate racial, ethnic, gender and sexual statuses are marginalized and stigmatized by the dominant white, straight male-identified structure (Collins,

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1990; hooks, 1984). Minority identities are constructed as “Others” in contrast to the centered white, straight, male image. Racial, ethnic, gender, and sexual categories then become tools to control segments of the population. They are impositions by those in power to maintain the system of hierarchy ideologically and materially (Pfohl, 1994; Wittig, 1992) and are also means by which minority groups organize and mobilize to fight against oppression and exploitation (Espiritu, 1992; Omi & Winant, 1994). In short, identity markers help people navigate through the changing landscape of sexual, ethnic, racial, and gender politics, sometimes as a means of resistance and liberation, and sometimes as a means of imposition and control (Rust, 1996; Esterberg, 1997). Using Michael Burawoy’s extended case method (1991), I apply my ethnographic work at Ô-Môi as a case study to understand how issues of racial, sexual, ethnic, and gender domination and resistance are played out at the everyday level. Ô-Môi, as a group organized around multiple marginalized identities, is an opportune site at which to see how resistance and conformity to hegemonic constructions of race, gender-sex, and sexuality are played out at the level of everyday interaction and, particularly, to note in-group tensions in resisting or reinforcing hegemony. Although most studies on race, gender, and sexuality have looked at identity groups as attempts at resistance to cultural domination (e.g., Espiritu, 1992; Taylor & Whittier, 1992), they examine resistance at the level of a single identity (e.g., Asian or lesbian), not multiple identities. My study of Ô-Môi contributes rich details on the “how so” question of resistance in a multiple-identities-based group. As a support group for lesbians, bisexual women and FTM transgenders of Vietnamese heritage, Ô-Môi is resisting hegemony by providing a space for people to normalize and celebrate their otherwise marginalized ethnic, gender, and sexual identities. Ô-Môi space allows members to redraw boundaries and contest negative connotations and meanings of their sexual, gender and racial/ethnic identities. I refer to this kind of work by members as identity work. Identity work is a process of interaction in which racial, sexual, gender, and/or ethnic identity are evoked for the purpose of creating a sense of commonality or for the purpose of drawing differences (Masequesmay, 2000). Furthermore, identity work refers to attempts to allocate ideological and/or material resources along the social boundaries of race, class, gender, and sexuality. For example, hegemonic sexuality discourse may be used in identity work to reify the binary gender system as opposed to offering a more fluid view of sexual and gender possibilities. Additionally, counterhegemonic discourse in sexual identity work, for example, can redefine marriage to include same-sex partners for inheritance rights. In an earlier study at an Asian/Pacific Islander AIDS organization called APAIT (Masequesmay, 2000), I argued that everyday identity work (e.g., sexual, gender, racial, ethnic) at APAIT was mediated primarily by the funding structure, the organization’s objective of doing API AIDS work, the pragmatic tasks at hand, and members’ politics. These contextual influences interacted

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with the level of political consciousness of the staff and volunteers in a way that led to the prevalence of “racial identity work” stressing commonality. As a result, there was a pattern of identity work by staff and volunteers that essentialized the API category rather than dismantle it, despite members’ conscious critique of the racial imposition. The data imply that everyday identity work that is pragmatic for people to bond interactionally has political consequences because its patterns of interactions are largely mediated by economic and racial structures that reify race. Often, this everyday racial identity work subsumes the deconstructive politics of queer activist staff and volunteers; that is, despite staff and volunteers’ consciousness about deconstructing racial, gender and sexual categories, their regular organizational duties require that they stress racial commonality and, in effect, reify race. Everyday identity work can thus be seen as everyday identity politics (the racial project; doing gender; queering; ethnicizing) that can challenge or reinforce the matrix of hierarchies. The next section elaborates on the concepts employed in this study: identity work, hegemonic practices of everyday life, and marginalization.

Definition of Concepts (A) The everyday construction and negotiation of identities that I have shortened to identity work includes: 1. Verbal doing of identity/ies. Evoking an identity or identities (sexual, ethnic, gender, racial) in conversation as a means to connect with others. At the same time, those not sharing the identity/ies are excluded. For example, to mention bisexuality in a monosexual context means challenging the binary understanding of sexuality. 2. Acting out an identity/ies in gesture and/or appearance. Performing identity/ies in interaction as a means to connect to others with the same identity/ies. Those not sharing the identity/ies are excluded. For example, one lesbian describes having “a certain swagger when she walks” (Esterberg 1996) as acting out her lesbianism to attract other lesbians. 3. Positive utterance of an identity/ies to include and affirm an identity/ies whereas no or negative utterance would exclude and may marginalize identity/ies. Lesbian, bisexual, transgender identities are often talked about negatively in straight settings. Positive utterances serve to affirm otherwise stigmatized and invisible identity/ies. 4. Negotiating meanings of identity/ies to reinforce or challenge dominant discourses about such identities. For example, the argument that one is born either straight or gay can be seen as belonging to the dominant binary gender-sex discourse that limits human potential to being homosexual or heterosexual. Bisexuals are left out in this discursive legitimization process. Viewing sexuality as fluid challenges this binary thinking.

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5. Extending on the fourth idea about negotiating meanings of identity/ies, a group could assert specific meanings of an identity for members and thus set strict norms and control over what members can come out as and how members can “do identity/ies.” For example, Ô-Môi has limited their support of transgenders to only FTM transsexuals who identify as straight. Those who do not conform to this trajectory are excluded from the group support. Those who are just coming out and are confused about their gender identities feel pressured to come out as straight FTM transsexuals lest they invite further marginalization as “unknown.” These are five ways in which identity work is done. By conceptualizing identity work as a process, I allow room for multiple identities to interact in discursive and non-discursive practices where one or a few identities issues may dominate others or all may weigh equally. In addition, as discussed above, identity work has political significance in challenging or reinforcing the hegemony of race, gender, and sexuality. (B) I use Steven Pfohl’s modified conceptualization of Gramsci’s term “hegemony” to discuss the “hegemonic practices of everyday life” (1994, p. 416). According to Pfohl, everyday rituals are hegemonic when they reinforce the structures of domination and make what we do appear natural and commonsensical. Hegemony limits our moral imagination and makes other ways of interpreting the world unthinkable. Hence, when we do not question and challenge the status quo but instead partake in and comply with our own domination via ritualistic practices, our consent to rule is realized and hegemony asserts itself. I discuss the patterns of identity work as hegemonic or counterhegemonic, according to whether the practices of identity constructions are reproducing the status quo or challenging it, where the status quo is the dominant ideology that marginalizes racial minorities, gender, and sexual minorities. (C) I use the term marginalization to refer to cultural disenfranchisement in which a social group identity or status is not valued or is seen as less worthy. This is the opposite of “normalization,” or making something natural. Whereas a marginalized identity is at the periphery, a normalized identity is at the center. The dual process of normalization/marginalization creates both marginalized and normalized groups. According to Gayle Rubin (1993), queers are scapegoats on whom the dominant (centered) group unleashes their moral panic and insecurity, simultaneously normalizing the dominant group’s experience. Marginalization is also used to distinguish the “culture (value) war” from other battlefields (Gamson, 1995). In the economic realm, one is alienated, and in the political realm, one is disenfranchised. I distinguish among these three to avoid obfuscating the different dimensions in which battles are fought. For example, African Americans may have gained political freedom via the Civil Rights Act of 1964 but they are still marginalized by our racist culture that propagates racial stereotyping and racial profiling.

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In sum, Ô-Môi is a case study on the everyday identity politics that support and normalize queer immigrant experiences in the face of racism, sexism, and heterosexism. By examining patterns of identity work and the factors influencing them, I offer insights into how the everyday identity politics and practices of marginalized people can resist hegemony or reinforce hegemony.

BACKGROUND ON GROUP AND ENTRÉE “Ô-môi” is a tropical fruit in Viet Nam. Because of how it is consumed (by splitting the flesh and sucking the nectar), it has also been a slang term for lesbians. It was popularly used in the late 1960s to mid-1970s in Saigon, now Ho Chi Minh City. About twenty years after the fall of Saigon and the mass exodus of Vietnamese to the U.S., “ô-môi” re-emerged in Southern California as the name for a newly found support network of Vietnamese lesbians, bisexual women, and female-to-male transgenders. In the summer of 1995, a group of Vietnamese American queer females decided to adopt the word “Ô-Môi” as its name. This group of queer females reclaimed not only a Vietnamese history that included queers, but also a queer, cultural heritage that was specifically Vietnamese, thus dispelling the myths that homosexuality was a Western phenomenon and that Vietnamese queers were nonexistent. Three Vietnamese immigrant women founded Ô-Môi in 1994. My-Linh was a college graduate who came out in college in the context of queer political organizing on campus. Thanh-Thu was a straight-identified woman until she met a group of gay Vietnamese men, who gave her the support to explore other sexual possibilities; she eventually came out as bisexual. Van was a non-identified social service provider in the Vietnamese community of Orange County. She had recently been assigned to work on an AIDS program, and part of her task was to create a steering committee of Vietnamese community members. Thanh-Thu and My-Linh were Van’s co-workers and helped Van in recruiting members for this steering committee. They quickly realized that there was a visible and accessible gay Vietnamese men’s organization called GVA (Gay Vietnamese Alliance) but there was no organization specifically for Vietnamese lesbians. Thanh-Thu, with the encouragement of GVA leaders, thought it was time to organize a women’s group similar to GVA. Her intention, though, was to create a social setting in which Vietnamese women could meet. My-Linh, whose politics were more radical, envisioned a political organization that would fight against racism, sexism, and homophobia. She saw the organization as a “safe space” for queer Vietnamese women and also a source for political consciousness raising and mobilization with other queer women of color. Van, who never identified her sexuality, supported a queer women’s group to facilitate her AIDS program. According to My-Linh, however, Van did not understand queer Vietnamese issues and appeared not to be invested in the group. Indeed, Van left the group early in its development. Apparently, the

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group’s frequent teasing and questioning of her sexuality made the environment too uncomfortable for her to continue in it. Unfortunately, Van left before I could interview her about her goals (social vs. political) for the group. The two remaining leaders and cofounders of Ô-Môi set two different currents for the direction of the group. Members were recruited through word of mouth. Their age range was 20 to 43, with the majority in their mid-20s to mid-30s. I was recruited through Thanh-Thu, who knew a straight friend of mine. At the time, I was just coming out and knew of no Vietnamese lesbians. Other recruits included women who had been in long-term lesbian relationships and had similar couple friends, and women who had newly come out and had marginal contact with GVA. At the first few meetings, when the group was made up of only six members, two members came out as non-woman-identified. We discussed that they must be female-to-male transgender. Not understanding much about transgender issues and wanting to be inclusive as well as to increase membership, we voted that the group include FTM transgenders as well as lesbians and bisexual women. At a later meeting, the group of then 20+ queer women and two FTM men voted to refer to ourselves by the Vietnamese term, “Ô-Môi.” We defined our basis of commonality as being Vietnamese, female, and attracted to women. When asked why they wanted to join Ô-Môi, most members answered that they wanted queer, female, and ethnic/racial support. A Vietnamese female-to-male transgender explained, In an Asian queer group, people understand where I come from when I talk about family problems. With the general white, queer group, I would have to spend a significant amount of time just explaining myself. So I prefer being with others like me. It’s a bonus that Ô-Môi is Vietnamese. Many members cited cultural commonality as the reason for joining. When asked how this would be more comfortable than being in a mainstream organization–i.e., predominantly white queer–one member explained, “You guys kinda know the Vietnamese background . . . so you understand and have sympathy for me if I can’t go out late or stuff my parents don’t want me to say or do.” In contrast, she had to justify herself to non-Asian queers. She elaborated, “Well, they’ll tell me ‘it’s your life, why don’t you control it rather than let your parents control it.’ And I don’t want to have to go through that.” The pressure to come out to one’s parents and fight for one’s choice instead of sacrificing it for the collective good of the family was a Western model that, according to many Ô-Môi members, negated family duties and cultural obligations. Members needed this cultural support. Related to cultural support, members explained that having a common language made it easier to communicate, especially for immigrants who had not

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mastered English. Ethnic commonality also meant a set of assumptions as a new lesbian member elucidated: I want to find out more about the organization and to make friends with other Vietnamese and to find a Vietnamese girlfriend . . . we Vietnamese are more emotionally connected (sentimental) and speaking the same language makes it easier to connect and develop a strong relationship. [Translated] Because of the pervasive force of assimilation, joining an ethnic organization was a way to maintain one’s language and cultural practices. The assumption was that such ethnic groups would celebrate ethnic values and language that would counter the assimilation pressure.

Reflexivity When I first joined Ô-Môi, it was a journey of self-exploration. I had just entered graduate school and my research project was leading towards multiple identity issues from an interactionist perspective. Learning more about critical ethnography and extended case study, I wanted to use Ô-Môi for a case study on multiple identity issues. When I became coordinator of the group, I gained a rare access to the making of a queer, ethnic, gendered organization. I decided to use the research as a needs assessment for Ô-Môi. From 32 interviews with members and three years of participant-observation, I compiled and analyzed data from interactions during social gatherings, planning meetings, and listserv discussions. This study was also a means for the voices of a marginalized group to reach a wider audience. This paper uses a portion of my dissertation data to examine everyday identity work at Ô-Môi as hegemonic and counterhegemonic processes. I discuss how the organizational structure, members’ class statuses, sexual/gender identities and politics, and members’ racial/ethnic, gender and sexual discourses interacted to create patterns of identity work that centered the experiences of lesbian, bilingual Vietnamese American women while marginalizing transgender, bisexual and monolingual members.

DECONSTRUCTING AND CONSTRUCTING HIERARCHIES Organizational Structure and Limitations Ô-Môi was originally conceived as a volunteer, self-help group. Ô-Môi’s co-founders wanted to create a “safe space” for queer Vietnamese females. The founders had resources as social service providers to supply meeting venues and clerical work for the organizing and recording of meetings. The group

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was maintained and run in accordance with members’ interests and availability. New leaders with resources emerged to replace old ones to perform similar tasks. As a support group, Ô-Môi established regular meetings to gather socially and to organize bigger events, such as camping trips, dinner banquets, and Pride March. Mostly, Ô-Môi operated as a place for members to meet and support each other. The lively presence of other Vietnamese queers helped members to feel less isolated and alone. To organize a meeting required a space that would be “safe” for members to gather. Meeting at a member’s house was considered a safer setting than an agency. Who was out and who had the resources to host at their home became limiting factors of Ô-Môi organizing. In addition, having members who were spread out in Los Angeles, Orange, Ventura, and Riverside Counties and Santa Barbara could mean an hour to three hours drive to a meeting. The geographic dispersion of members thus also limited membership participation. Time and money were required for social outings. Some members did not have the luxury of spending $20-40 to go out to a club, an event that might require them to drive one hour from Orange County to West Hollywood and another hour back. Other members had weekend work or family obligations such as caring for young children and curfews that were barriers to attending many of Ô-Môi functions. In the next section, I discuss in greater detail the issues that limited participation and resulted in a disproportionate representation of types of members and their related concerns.

Working Class versus Professional and Middle Class Participation Working class members had a difficult time attending Ô-Môi functions. Many worked at least two jobs and either six or seven days a week. Their hard earned money was carefully weighed against expenses of weekly clubbing. Even small gatherings such as a potluck required time and money. The schedules of working-class members were also less flexible than those of graduate students or white-collar workers with nine-to-five jobs. Driving to meetings all over Los Angeles and Orange Counties also required a decent car, which some members did not own. A member-run group thus became an organization for a selective group of members. Middle-class and professional members, because of their social locations, had an easier time attending Ô-Môi meetings and events, ensuring their concerns and interests were addressed at planning meetings. Graduate and undergraduate students, although not yet earning middle-class income, were also frequent participants because of their more flexible schedules. Consequently, these students and other professional members became the dominant participants and voices of Ô-Môi. In addition, having more managerial skills and greater access to clerical resources, professional members more often ended up in leadership positions. In sum, professionals and middle-class members, who were frequent participants because of their class positions,

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helped define the types of group activities and concerns, which had the impact of deterring the participation of working-class members who were unable to afford middle-class queer lifestyles.

Personal Politics and Leadership Besides organizational limitations that led to dominance of some members’ participation and interests, the politics of members, especially leaders, also played a major role in the group’s orientation and direction. There were two currents in Ô-Môi’s direction: one was to be a social group and the other was to be a political force. Co-founder Thanh-Thu started the group because she wanted, first and foremost, a space for people to meet: I just wanted a place where the women can come and be themselves, to have fun. I really didn’t have a political agenda behind it. . . . My original thought was just to provide a vehicle for people to come together. Provide a place, yeah, a place to give reasons for people to be together. To get to know one another. Thanh-Thu wanted a social support group for isolated Vietnamese lesbians to meet and expand their friendship circles. Thanh-Thu saw Ô-Môi as a training ground to help members cope with their marginalized statuses through identity affirmation. In short, she subscribed to an identity politics that Steven Seidman (1996) would call an affirmative politics. In contrast, co-founder My-Linh subscribed to a queer and deconstructive politics that challenged the status quo. My-Linh wanted to galvanize a group of queer Vietnamese females for political mobilization to confront different forms of oppression. She writes, I wanted to be part of a network of women, especially women who challenged mainstream white America [on racism] as well as Vietnamese America [on heterosexism and homophobia]. And I wanted a space just for us, where we didn’t have to worry about accommodating whites/males/straight people. I wanted to be a part of a group of queer Vietnamese women (then FTMs) who were creating a community that would validate, empower, and support each other. In addition to identity affirmation, My-Linh wanted members to become politically progressive in fighting inequality. Unfortunately for My-Linh, the group never moved far towards this goal with its growing membership and diversity of politics. Differences in expectations and visions of the group were manifested in divergent focuses on group activities. They forced members to compromise and alternate activities so that their minimal political and social expectations were

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met. The debate over a safe space illustrates this clash of visions. From one perspective, the group was organized around specific, shared identities and those who did not share these commonalities were not considered members. According to the other perspective, the group was a social network to support multiply marginalized members and their friends who might not share such identities. Consequently, the group compromised to alternate between an “open” meeting for members and friends and a “closed” meeting for members only. An incident over an e-mail discussion is another example of this clash in visions. A member had posted a joke on the group’s listserv. A handful of members found it offensive and racist, and responded by admonishing the original sender. Others didn’t understand why everyone had to be so “politically correct” because it made the group “so serious” and restrictive. “Why be a support group if you censor people?” was one dissenting comment to the listserv facilitator. As a support group, it was believed that people should feel free to express themselves here, but this type of policing made the group censorious and less supportive or understanding of members. Politically progressive members, however, felt the group should not tolerate racist, sexist behaviors and attitudes. As one politically progressive member put it, “If it weren’t for Ô-Môi, I would not be friends with some of these women.” She did not share some of these members’ politics or visions. Another member assessed the group’s diversity as both its strength and its weakness. She was grateful for the opportunity to learn more about transgenderism and the struggles of working class members. Yet, she found different perspectives kept the group from moving forward with a common agenda and vision. In the end, the extremes of neither camp won as Ô-Môi continued to grow and change in membership diversity, which continued to shape and reshape these two political currents.

The Lesbian Majority and Normalization Support comes in many different forms. For some members, the mere presence of others provides support by validating that one is not alone. For other members, support means hearing statements that confirm and affirm one’s sense of self as a sexual and ethnic minority female. The doing of ethnic and queer identity among members affirms these otherwise invisible and marginal identities. By speaking and sharing their experiences, members feel they become a part of a larger community of marginalized individuals who can understand and know where they are coming from so that they do not feel a need to have to explain themselves. Normalization and marginalization are two sides of the same coin because the process of normalization also marginalizes (Ault, 1996; Pfohl, 1993). Research on deviant communities has shown that while the marginalized members may come together to normalize their experiences as deviant “Others,”

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they do not escape marginalizing one another in the process as is evident in examples of how racial minorities and women are sometimes treated within the queer community and how some gays and lesbians treat other sexual minorities (Anzaldùa, 1990; Rubin, 1993). Marginalized and isolated by the straight world, people joined Ô-Môi to be connected and affirmed. Their commonality allowed them to establish rapport with one another. As the majority of Ô-Môi members were lesbian-identified Vietnamese, members were generally assumed to be lesbians and Vietnamese; lesbian identity work dominated interactions. This assumed common bond was played out in everyday interactions where members asserted their commonality as “lesbians” or “queer Viet womyn.” When transgender and bisexual members or their advocates raised issues of difference, a second attempt at establishing commonality led to identifying the group as a group of “females of Vietnamese heritage who were attracted to other females.” This specification still rendered the marginality of transgender and bisexual experiences by ignoring differences. This identity work stressing sameness among members helped to create a sense of “groupness” and cohesion. In a diverse group that was trying to coalesce, this practical essentialism, assuming sameness among diverse members, achieved the goal of creating unity. Members used the rhetoric of identity politics with ease to draw boundaries between members and non-members, making Ô-Môi a unique space for queer Vietnamese females. For example, doing queer identity work was a way to achieve unity among the diverse gender-identified and sexuality-identified individuals at Ô-Môi. This level of queer solidarity was a remarkable accomplishment in a society where boundaries were more narrowly defined. On the other hand, the form of queer solidarity at Ô-Môi centered lesbian experiences and only supported bisexual and transgender members marginally.

Discourse on Homosexuality/Bisexuality The majority of members identified as lesbian. This led to the dominance of lesbian identity work that privileged lesbian experiences over those of bisexual women and FTM transgenders. At the same time, the presence of assertive bi women and FTM transgenders and their allies reminded lesbian members of Ô-Môi’s diversity and its need to be inclusive of the numerical minority. Yet, the discourse the majority used to normalize their experiences was monosexually biased and constructed bisexuality in a negative light. As one lesbian put it, “I think they [bisexual women] are confused.” Using discourse that naturalized homosexuality and heterosexuality (monosexuality), lesbian members often thought in binary terms that one was either gay or straight, with no other alternatives. One lesbian member asked a bi woman, who had not been very active in the group, “So are you going straight?” In this lesbian member’s view, the bi

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woman could not be living out her bisexuality but was choosing to become straight to inherit straight privileges. In this lesbian-majority setting, issues that were raised centered on concerns of lesbians or “women-loving-women.” Bisexual women’s concerns–their interest in and relationships with men–were not topics that affected the lesbian members. Often, when discussions about bi members and their male relationships arose, they had to do with how a member had dumped her girlfriend for a man. According to bi-identified Thanh-Thu, “the whole Ô-Môi experience was . . . willing to forego my bi-ness and be a lesbian.” As a co-founder of the group, she felt that she needed to establish her credentials as a female-loving-woman since that was the fundamental commonality for all lesbian, bisexual and transgender members. Thanh-Thu confessed, “The entire time I was in Ô-Môi, . . . everything I did, everything my mannerism, everything was trying to be as lesbian as I could.” I asked her why, and she explained: [B]ecause I wanted people to maybe believe in me enough so that they would continue the group. . . . I lived the lesbian life. That entire experience, from the point that I met Ted, really, was when I started living it, even though I hadn’t even thought that I even loved women, I lived that life, because I wanted to know what it was like to be queer. So, until, I guess, until I broke off my organizing experience with Ô-Môi, then I started exploring, what does bisexuality mean to me. Now that I’m not in Ô-Môi any more, now I don’t have to pretend. Whilst in Ô-Môi, bisexually identified members had to suppress their attraction towards men and play the “good lesbian” role. No bi-identified members ever shared with the large group their relationships with men, let alone boasted of their success. When they were dating men, bi women’s loyalties were suspect, and they were questioned as to whether they had “turned straight.” A number of bi women eventually left the group to be with men. Incongruously, lesbian members felt free to boast or complain about their relationships with other women and in so doing felt supported in these group interactions, where their lesbian experience was validated. The only bi women who were more comfortable and outspoken about their bi identity were those who were in a relationship with a woman and, therefore, did not risk being questioned regarding their loyalty. Their commonality with other women was secured until they threatened that bond by expressing interest in men, a sign of their betrayal to their lesbian sisters. The group, being constructed as a female-centered group, offered little room to negotiate a more complete bi experience. The status of bi-identified women in Ô-Môi was thus tenuous, with jokes such as referring to bi women as “bye-bye girls” and pervasive assumptions about how a bi woman would leave her girlfriend for a man, because a woman partner was not enough for her. For most lesbian members, “bi” meant “both, simultaneously” and, therefore, evoked the bitter vision of a bi woman’s relationship with her

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boyfriend/husband and a side lesbian lover. This symbolized a threat to lesbians’ happiness. Subsequently, women in the group began to refer to it as a “queer women’s group” rather than a “lesbian and bi women’s group.” The word “queer” in this sense masked the difference and suspicion between lesbian and bi women and united them as “queer women.”

Discourse on (Trans)genderism How Ô-Môi changed from a women’s group to include specifically FTM transgender was a hard and long process of negotiation and a naïve attempt at inclusion. The founders wanted a women’s group. Unexpectedly, at the third meeting, a member came out as “not identifying as a woman,” which was understood to mean transgender. Needing more members, the original members decided at that moment to expand the group to include transgenders. The inclusion of transgenders in our subtitle did not translate to full support and consideration of transgender issues, however. Members slipped 80% of the time (based on e-mail discussions and my field notes of meetings) in referring to the group as a women’s group, which, ironically, was meant to unite members. For our FTM transgender members, being referred to and treated as men was a sign of validation while being assumed to be or referred to as women had the opposite effect. Ben told us that whenever people let him open doors for them or asked him to carry heavy boxes, he experienced these moments as “cheap therapy.” In contrast, a stranger could make Ben depressed all day just by referring to him as a woman. It was worse when this happened at Ô-Môi gatherings where members were expected to be more sympathetic to issues of marginalization. Being in Ô-Môi, where the majority identified as “women,” Ben felt a bit uneasy meeting members he had not yet met, because he knew they would assume that he was “a lesbian who looks and acts like a man but still identifies as a woman.” Ben did not want to be attributed with anything female. In fact, he asserted that he would only date straight women who saw him as a man and would not date lesbians who thought of him as a woman. So, Ô-Môi served as a site for lesbians to meet and date other women-loving women; it did not serve the same function for transgenders. Given the predominance of lesbians in the group, organizers often forgot to include transgender needs and concerns in organizing events and group discussions. In little ways, transgenders felt excluded. One transman stated, “I don’t think you guys really support transgenders because you always talk about Ô-Môi as a women’s group.” To rectify this situation, progressive members pushed for a workshop to teach each other about transgender issues. This helped many to understand a little more about transgenders. At the same time, it also raised issues about the commonalities among members, because we were no longer all women. We now had women and men. Questions arose about whether we should include all transgenders or just female-to-male (FTM) transgenders. Given that the group

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had only had FTM transgenders, we decided that we would only specify this group and would reopen the discussion if other trans individuals came to Ô-Môi. Ben theorized that being born and treated as a girl/woman created a different experience for all women and FTM transgenders than being socialized as a boy/man did for MTF transgenders. We decided that FTM transgenders were members until they fully transitioned (getting hormonal treatment, breast removal, and sex-change operation). Following the last stage, it was assumed that FTM transsexuals would take on the straight male lifestyle and within Ô-Môi would transition from in status from “member” to “supporter.” Deductively, Ô-Môi members were those with female genitalia who desired women. Comments about FTMs who identified as gay and desired men were dismissed as hypothetical. Since all our FTM identified as straight men who desire women, it was concluded that our commonalities were having female genitalia and desiring women. In sum, when members talked about the group, they referred to it as a “womyn’s group.” “Transgender” was often added as an afterthought, if at all. When transgenders were considered, it was with little understanding of transgenderism, as evidenced in how members continued to refer to FTM members as women and “she” or “her” or “whatever.” A significant number of lesbians saw transgenders as “lesbians who hate their bodies.” At these moments, either FTM members or the more politically progressive members would correct the erroneous language and perception of the speaker. Often, an inclusive term such as “queer Vietnamese” was used to refer to the group instead of “queer women’s group.” Because lesbian issues dominated the agenda of Ô-Môi, consciousness of transgenders as core members was rare for the majority of queer women members. In short, only politically radical members and the few transgender-identified members of Ô-Môi used the language of inclusion. Transgenders in Ô-Môi felt more support for their ethnicity than their transgenderism. They joined mainstream FTM transgender groups to learn about available resources in transitioning as they could not rely on the lesbian majority of Ô-Môi to provide them with that information. Conversely, women who were questioning their possible lesbianism had access to a wealth of resources on lesbianism from the visible lesbian members.

Discourse on Vietnamese-ness The ethnicization process was both similar to and different from the racialization process. As immigrants coming to a new country and being racialized as a racial minority, Vietnamese quickly learned that they are not seen and treated as “American” but as “Oriental” or “Asian” and were lumped with other Asian American groups. They also learned that their unique cultural heritage was not necessarily valued or congruous with the ways of the dominant U.S. culture. Furthermore, they quickly learned about the importance of social capital in their ethnic community. Like other immigrants who faced barriers, Vietnam-

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ese saw their ethnic identity become more salient in their struggle to make it in the U.S. (Portes & Rumbaut, 1990; Zhou, 2000). Becoming racial minorities and seeing the importance of maintaining ethnic ties, Vietnamese Americans further found themselves in a unique location as “refugees” with drastically different migration experiences than immigrants. This unique ethnic experience as Vietnamese refugees needed validation. The force of assimilation (loss of language, values and customs) threatened the bond among co-ethnics to their homeland and children. Vietnamese refugees, like other ethnic immigrants, created ethnic organizations (e.g., language schools, religious organizations) to maintain and affirm their cultural heritage and provide emotional and social support (Min, 2000; Zhou, 2000). These U.S.-made organizations, however, not only maintained cultural heritage but also redefined it because of contextual limitations of a new setting. Like other ethnic organizations that attempt to hold onto the culture and language that asserted and affirmed their ethnic identity, Ô-Môi also attempted to redefine Vietnamese-ness. Its version included queer Vietnamese that mainstream Vietnamese organizations tended to exclude. Because the mainstream Vietnamese American community constructed Vietnamese-ness as straight, Ô-Môi countered such heterosexist force by re-evaluating certain historic Vietnamese figures as possibly queer. The group’s name was an exemplar of this rereading of Vietnamese history and of asserting a queer Vietnamese existence and “herstory” for themselves. The next case also illustrated this imperative to synthesize ethnic and queer identities. Ethnic Authentication. When My-Le came out to her parents they told her that she had become Americanized. In Vietnam, she would not be gay. Her parents, her main source of ethnic authentication, saw a dichotomy between being Vietnamese and being queer. Hence, My-Le always felt her Vietnamese and queer worlds were in conflict. Finding Ô-Môi, however, helped to authenticate her ethnic identity and synthesize her queer and Vietnamese identities. Ô-Môi helped bridge the gap for her; she could claim both queerness and Vietnamese-ness because now there were other Vietnamese queers to validate her. Particularly because her Vietnamese language ability was limited, My-Le also felt insecure about her Vietnamese identity. But, having met a diverse group of Vietnamese queers with varied Vietnamese proficiency, My-Le could see now that her “inadequacy” was a normal part of Vietnamese American experiences. English/Vietnamese Monolingual as Marginal Members. Originally, Ô-Môi was founded to support particularly Vietnamese monolinguals. Ironically, the majority of members in Ô-Môi communicated with each other in English. Leaders of Ô-Môi were those who were comfortable with English as their primary language but could also communicate in Vietnamese, at least rudimentarily. When members gathered for an event, the primary language spoken was English. Viet-glish (Vietnamese words interspersed in English)

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was spoken now and then as a way of doing Vietnamese identity work. Only members who spoke proficient Vietnamese would speak to each other in Vietnamese. When the more acculturated members attempted to speak Vietnamese to others, it was usually because they were consciously practicing Vietnamese, not because they were more comfortable speaking Vietnamese. Given the organizers’ limited Vietnamese proficiency, when they created newsletters and flyers, they wrote in English and they needed to translate them into Vietnamese. Sometimes, when there was insufficient time for translation, Ô-Môi members received Ô-Môi newsletters and flyers in English only. There was usually a line in Viet-glish apologizing for the lack of translation and asking that Vietnamese-only readers call the organizers for more details. When Ô-Môi discussions went online, the conversations among members were strictly in English, because those who participated were comfortable with English as their language of expression. When new members who were more comfortable with Vietnamese joined the listserv, they started posting messages in Vietnamese. Nhi-Hang initiated this practice with a Vietnamese poem. Others responded in Vietnamese poetic forms. Oan and Carmen posted messages asking for a translation. Tho translated the first poem for Oan and Carmen. Then, we were showered with new poems from excited members who finally got a chance to amuse themselves in Vietnamese. It was then that Genie shared her pain of not understanding Vietnamese with us. I am very sad today. I’m sure you have no idea why but please give me a few minutes of your time to explain why. I just received a bunch of emails (ten to be exact) and I didn’t understand a single one. I guess to preface this I have to mention that I am truly honored to be a part of omoi because I honestly thought I was some kind of aberration, a freak, the only one. I love that I have been able to feel safe and welcome in a queer organization. However, I have always felt in between, like I never really fit in anywhere. I guess being a biracial and bisexual woman, my multiple identities intersect in a place that Gloria Anzaldua refers to as the borderlands, that grey area in between. She suggested that, “out of respect for our sisters who may not speak Vietnamese,” members provide English translation so that “people do not feel alienated, left out, un-Vietnamese, stupid or whatever.” A few members apologized for not including Genie and other non-Vietnamese readers in the conversations and attempted to translate future messages. I expressed sympathy for Genie, but as a moderator, I reminded her that not all members could read and write English proficiently just as some were not proficient in Vietnamese. To have equality for everyone, every message must be posted bilingually, and this was impossible for members

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with limited abilities. I concluded that this translation task was dependent on those who were capable and willing. My-Linh responded that if we were going to translate anything, it should be English to Vietnamese, because most of the postings on this listserv had been in English. It was usually the Vietnamese translation that was left out. She elaborated: Most of our days are spent talking in English, and those that don’t understand English have had to deal with it for many years. I don’t think it is right to ridicule or put down Vietnamese and Vietnamese Americans who don’t speak Vietnamese, but I don’t think that there is anything wrong with posting Vietnamese-only messages on this egroup. This is not a practice of exclusion, it is a practice of exerting pride and celebrating being queer in a language that doesn’t often acknowledge and most definitely doesn’t support our queer identity. It’s a staking out of territory in the Vietnamese community–to state that we ARE part of the Vietnamese community, that Vietnamese queers have always been a part of the community. My-Linh reminded us that one of the reasons why we started Ô-Môi was that there were not many spaces/places that cater to Vietnamese-speaking queers. Other queer API organizations were not meeting the needs of Vietnamese-speaking queers, hence, “we needed to be sensitive of that.” She further reflected: Even this conversation, it’s all in English. . . . I also do not have access to Vietnamese-only postings, and I do not lament this lack of access. I celebrate it as a success of this egroups–we are beginning to be a resource and a mode of support for vnlbt’s who do not want to “translate” their experiences. In a poem from “this bridge called my back,” I think it was Gloria Anzaldua who wrote: “I am tired of being your bridge.” Although Ô-Môi was founded with the purpose of supporting Vietnamese American queer females, especially monolingual Vietnamese-speakers, the majority of members were not fluent in Vietnamese, and English was the dominant language. The majority of leaders of Ô-Môi were more proficient in English than Vietnamese, which created the situation in which English became the language of daily operation. As Ô-Môi gained more members who spoke more Vietnamese than English, the leaders needed to change their mode of operation to include the new members. Otherwise, Ô-Môi would be more of an organization for English-speaking Vietnamese Americans. The shift in activities to online discussion had opened more ways for Vietnamese-only speakers to participate, and this helped Ô-Môi to attract more members who were not proficient in English. This openness, however, threatened the norm of speaking English as evidenced in the previous case. However, Vietnamese monolingual members had to rely on the advocacy of bilingual

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members in negotiating for a space to speak Vietnamese only. While non-Vietnamese-speaking members might have felt alienated by this event, they could resort to English to file their complaints to the main organizers. In contrast, Vietnamese-only speakers did not participate in this debate. Given the composition of Ô-Môi, bilingual members benefited the most from these debates.

CONCLUSION The paradox that Ô-Môi members have had to cope with was affirming the diversity of the group members at the same time as asserting commonality among members. In the process, certain differences were ignored. Given that the majority of members were lesbian and that the group’s vocal base was lesbian-dominant, Ô-Môi often prioritized lesbian issues and concerns. Bisexual and transgender were then marginally supported. I have shown how organizational structure, discourse resources and personal politics affected the types of identity work done at Ô-Môi. As a volunteer support group, Ô-Môi limited its membership participation to more professional and middle-class members. As a lesbian majority group, the discourses available to normalize their experiences were lesbian-focused and biased against bisexual and FTM transgender members. The concept of “identity work” has helped us to see how identity was created and recreated through everyday action. Sometimes identity work reinforced hegemonic understandings of race, gender, sexuality and ethnicity. At other times, identity work challenged hegemony by renegotiating the meanings and relationships evoked by racial, sexual, gender and ethnic discourses. While the lesbian majority at Ô-Môi had created an environment conducive to the prevalence of lesbian identity work that prioritized lesbians’ concerns over the concerns of bisexual and transgender members, we have also seen that members actively and creatively worked to establish commonality (“queer Vietnamese female group”) to bond with and support one another. In addition, politically progressive members were conscious of creating an environment that was more inclusive of the needs of transgenders, bisexuals, monolinguals, and working class members. So long as these members continued to practice their everyday deconstructive politics, they kept Ô-Môi inclusive and free from restrictive discourses of membership closure. In this sense, identity work by Ô-Môi members could be seen as hegemonic or counterhegemonic practices of everyday identity politics. The examination of identity work at Ô-Môi provided us a glimpse into how gender and sexuality interplayed in the ethnicization process of becoming Vietnamese Americans. Technically, it was a process of becoming gendered and sexualized ethnic Americans in capitalist America.

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REFERENCES Anzaldùa, G. (1990). Bridge, drawbridge, sandbar or island: Lesbians-of-color hacienda alianzas. In L. Albrecht & R. M. Brewer (Eds.), Bridges of power: Women’s multicultural alliances (pp. 216-231). Philadelphia: New Society Publishers. Ault, A. (1996). The dilemma of identity: Bi women’s negotiations. In S. Seidman (Ed.), Queer theory/sociology (pp. 311-330). Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Brubaker, R., & Cooper, F. (2000). Beyond identity. Theory and Society, 29, 1-47. Burawoy, M., Burton, A., Ferguson, A. A., & Fox, K. J. (1991). Ethnography unbound: Power and resistance in modern metropolis. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Butler, J. (1990). Gender trouble: Feminism and the subversion of identity. New York: Routledge. Calhoun, C. (Ed.). (1994). Social theory and the politics of identity. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Cheney, G. (1991). Rhetoric in an organizational society: Managing multiple identities. Columbia, SC: University of South Carolina Press. Cohen, C. J. (1996). Contested membership: Black gay identities and the politics of AIDS. In S. Seidman (Ed.), Queer theory/sociology (pp. 362-394). Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Collins, P. H. (1990). Black feminist thought: Knowledge, consciousness, and the politics of empowerment (Vol. 2). New York: Routledge. Dunn, R. G. (1998). Identity crises: A social critique of postmodernity. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Espiritu, Y. L. (1992). Asian American panethnicity: Bridging institutions and identities. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Esterberg, K. G. (1996). “A certain swagger when I walk”: Performing lesbian identity. In S. Seidman (Ed.), Queer theory/sociology (pp. 259-279). Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Esterberg, K. G. (1997). Lesbian and bisexual identities: Constructing communities, constructing selves. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Gagne, P., & Tewksbury, R. (1998). Conformity pressures and gender resistance among transgendered individuals. Social Problems, 45(1), 81-101. Gamson, J. (1995). Must identity movements self-destruct? A queer dilemma. Social Problems, 42(3), 390-407. Giddens, A. (1992). The transformation of intimacy: Sexuality, love and eroticism in modern societies. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Gleason, P. (1983). Identifying identity: A semantic history. Journal of American History, 69, 910-931. Gubrium, J. F., & Holstein, J. A. (2001). Introduction: Trying times, troubled selves. In J. F. Gubrium & J. A. Holstein (Eds.), Institutional selves: Troubled identities in a postmodern world (pp. 1-20). New York: Oxford University Press. hooks, b. (1984). Feminist theory from margin to center. Boston: South End Press. Masequesmay, G. (2000). Everyday identity work at an Asian Pacific AIDS organization. In M. F. Manalansan (Ed.), Cultural compass: Ethnographic explorations of Asian America. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

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Masequesmay, G. (2001). Becoming queer and Vietnamese American: Negotiating multiple identities in an ethnic support group of lesbians, bisexual women and female-to-male transgenders. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of California, Los Angeles. Min, P. G. (2000). The structure and social functions of Korean immigrant churches in the United States. In M. Zhou & J. V. Gatewood (Eds.), Contemporary Asian America: A multidisciplinary reader (pp. 372-391). New York: New York University Press. Omi, M., & Winant, H. (1994). Racial formation in the United States from the 1960s to the 1990s (2nd ed.). New York: Routledge. Pfohl, S. (1994). Images of deviance and social control: A sociological history (2nd ed.). New York: McGraw-Hill. Portes, A., & Rumbaut, R. G. (1990). Immigrant America: A portrait. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Rubin, G. S. (1993). Thinking sex: Notes for a radical theory of the politics of sexuality. In H. Abelove, M. A. Barale, & D. M. Halperin (Eds.), The lesbian and gay studies reader (pp. 3-44). New York: Routledge. Rust, P. (1996). Sexual identity and bisexual identities: The struggle for self-description in a changing sexual landscape. In B. Beemyn & M. Eliason (Eds.), Queer studies (pp. 64-86). New York: New York University Press. Seidman, S. (1996). Introduction. In S. Seidman (Ed.), Queer Theory/Sociology (pp. 1-29). Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Simmel, G. (1988). The metropolis and mental life. In R. L. Warren & L. Lyon (Eds.), New perspectives on the American community (pp. 17-25). Belmont, CA: Wadsworth. Taylor, V., & Whittier, N. E. (1992). Collective identity in social movement communities: Lesbian feminist mobilization. In A. D. Morris & C. M. Mueller (Eds.), Frontiers in social movement theory (pp. 104-129). New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Waldinger, R., & Bozorgmehr, M. (Eds.). (1996). Ethnic Los Angeles. New York: Russell Sage Foundation. Wat, E. C. (2002). The making of a gay Asian community: An oral history of pre-AIDS Los Angeles. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. West, C., & Zimmerman, D. (1987). Doing gender. Gender & Society, 1(2), 125-151. Wittig, M. (1992). The straight mind and other essays. Boston: Beacon Press. Zhou, M. (2000). Social capital in Chinatown: The role of community-based organizations and families in the adaptation of the younger generation. In M. Zhou & J. V. Gatewood (Eds.), Contemporary Asian America: A multidisciplinary reader (pp. 315-335). New York: New York University Press.

The Specter of the Black Fag: Parody, Blackness, and Hetero/Homosexual B(r)others E. Patrick Johnson, PhD Northwestern University

SUMMARY. This essay investigates the ways in which three African American heterosexual males–Eddie Murphy, Damon Wayans, and David Alan Grier–appropriate signifiers of gayness to parody, stereotype, and repudiate black gay men. These performances are also attempts to circumscribe the boundaries of blackness, ultimately suggesting that “authentic” blackness is lodged within hegemonic black masculinity. Contrary to this desired effect, the essay demonstrates how these performers, in the act of repudiation, ironically and unwittingly queer heteronormative black masculinity, securing further the dialectic between heterosexuality and homosexuality. Finally, the essay argues that these performances manifest the black heterosexual male’s melancholia, his refusal to grieve the loss of his sexual B(r)other. [Article copies available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Performance Studies, Northwestern University, 1905 Sheridan Road, Evanston, IL 60208 (E-mail: e-johnson10@ northwestern.edu). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “The Specter of the Black Fag: Parody, Blackness, and Hetero/Homosexual B(r)others.” Johnson, E. Patrick. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 217-234; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 217-234. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_10

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KEYWORDS. Authenticity, blackness, masculinity, melancholia, performance, parody No one wants to be called a homosexual. –Leo Bersani (1995, p. 1) I’m afraid of gay people. Petrified. I have nightmares about gay people. –Eddie Murphy (Delirious) Negro Faggotry is the rage. Black gay men are not. –Marlon Riggs (1991, p. 254) Black authenticity has increasingly become linked to masculinity in its most patriarchal significations. That this particular brand of masculinity epitomizes the imperialism of heterosexism, sexism and homophobia, therefore, is not surprising. The ironic and paradoxical manifestations of these oppressions enacted by black heterosexual men, however, might reveal the slippage between the mask of black masculinity as always already heterosexual and melancholic desire for the homosexual Other. Here, Judith Butler’s (1995) reworking of Sigmund Freud’s theories of mourning and melancholia is quite useful. In his essay “Mourning and Melancholia,” Freud outlines two ways in which grief is expressed: mourning and melancholia. The former process is a “normal” response to the loss of a love object, whereas the latter is pathological. Freud writes: Mourning is regularly the reaction of the loss of a loved person, or to the loss of some abstraction which has taken the place of one, such as fatherland, liberty, and ideal and so on. As an effect of the same influences, melancholia instead of a state of grief develops in some people, whom we consequently suspect of a morbid pathological disposition. (1997, p. 164) Freud theorizes further that melancholia, as opposed to mourning, manifests in the unconscious as an unacknowledged loss of a love-object and, therefore, a refusal to grieve this loss. This refusal to grieve becomes part of the formation of the ego through a complex process of loss, denial, and identification. In other words, the melancholic “loses” the love-object, fails to acknowledge the loss, but then “digests” or incorporates the lost love-object into his or her psyche. This process of incorporation and identification is fraught with conten-

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tion, however, because in the melancholic ego “countless single conflicts in which love and hate wrestle together are fought for the object; the one seeks to detach the libido from the object, the other to uphold this libido-position against assault” (Freud, 1997, p. 177). The ambivalence toward the love-object in the melancholic ego is the jumping off point for Butler’s deployment of Freud to theorize heterosexual gender identity formation. For Butler, the ungrieved love-object of heterosexuality is homosexuality. Thus, homosexuality becomes a site of identification and repudiation for the heterosexual. It is the very avowal and disavowal dynamic in melancholia that Butler sees as the founding scene of heterosexual gender formation. Heterosexual melancholy, then, is “the melancholy by which a masculine gender is formed from the refusal to grieve the masculine as a possibility of love” (Butler, 1993, p. 285). Performance, and specifically drag performance, is one instance in which Butler suggests heterosexual melancholy is allegorized. For drag “exposes . . . the ‘normal’ constitution of gender presentation in which the gender performed is in many ways constituted by a set of disavowed attachments or identifications that constitute a different domain of the ‘unperformable’” (Butler, 1993, p. 236). Butler’s move here is motivated by a need to make clear that she is not suggesting that all of the interworkings of gender are displayed through performance, for “the unconscious sets limits to the exteriorization of the psyche . . . [and also] what is exteriorized or performed can be understood only through reference to what is barred from the performance, what cannot or will not be performed” (Butler, 1995, p. 32). Rather, drag performance enacts an “imitation of an imitation” of gender, and in this case, feminine gender. There is a dimension of Freud’s theory of melancholia, however, that Butler does not elaborate, but will be useful for my purposes here. In Freud, the melancholic’s “erotic cathexis of his object . . . undergoes a twofold fate: part of it regresses to identification, but the other part . . . is reduced to the stage of sadism [italics added] . . .” (Freud, 1997, p. 173). Indeed, the melancholic receives gratification from such sadism directed toward the Other-within, sadism that, in part, is due to his ambivalence toward the newly introjected love-object. As Cheng (2001) suggests, “The melancholic’s relationship to the object is now no longer just love or nostalgia but also profound resentment. The melancholic is not melancholic because he or she has lost something but because he or she has introjected that which he or she now reviles” (p. 9). For reasons I will explain below, the sadistic dimension of heterosexual melancholy may explain the intensity of the homophobia inherent in black heterosexual male performances of black homosexuality. The foregoing discussion of melancholia serves as a backdrop and context for the implicit psychoanalytic frame throughout the remainder of the essay. I deploy these theories and theorists to examine the relationship between black heterosexual and homosexual men and how performance comments on racialized gender formation and black intra-cultural politics, especially no-

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tions of black authenticity.1 Insofar as “debates over and claims to ‘authentic’ African-American identity are largely animated by a profound anxiety about the status specifically of African-American masculinity” (Harper, 1996, p. ix), this essay discusses how and why this anxiety around black masculinity is symptomatic of heterosexual melancholia. Through a close reading of performances by Eddie Murphy, Damon Wayans and David Alan Grier, all of whom deploy what Marlon Riggs (1991) refers to as “negro faggotry” to demean, disparage, and ultimately exclude black gays from authentic blackness, I will demonstrate how the black heterosexual male’s repudiation of the feminine (read homosexual) “requires the very homosexuality that it condemns, not as its external object, but as its own most treasured source of sustenance” (Butler, 1996, p. 31). The implications for such theorizing are that black heterosexual men are always already “queered” because they enact (perform) the loss of the one for whom they cannot express desire. In all of their performances these men’s target of ridicule is the effete black gay man. The representation of effeminate homosexuality as disempowering is at the heart of the politics of hegemonic blackness. For to be ineffectual is the most damaging thing one can be in the fight against oppression. Insofar as ineffectiveness is problematically sutured to femininity and homosexuality within a black cultural politic that privileges race over other categories of oppression, it follows that the subjects accorded these attributes are marginalized and excluded from the boundaries of blackness. Despite the imperialism of heteronormativity in black culture, however, it cannot disavow the specter of the black fag within. Indeed, “the melancholic ego is formed and fortified by a spectral drama, whereby the subject sustains itself through the ghostly emptiness of a lost other” (Cheng, 2001, p. 10). Accordingly, my analysis will not only examine these black men’s complicated personal relationships to homosexuality, but more importantly, how their performances raise larger questions about racial, sexual, and gender identification.

MURPHY’S LAW: EDDIE MURPHY AND THE FAG WITHIN The 1960s Black Nationalist and Black Arts movements provided the cultural backdrop for the establishment of blackness as antigay. Although there was a lull in homophobic discourse in popular culture during the 1970s, primarily due to the activism of lesbians of color who were forcing the white heterosexual women’s movement to address its racism and homophobia (e.g., Hull, Scott, & Smith, 1982; Smith, 1983), the 1980s saw the resurgence of antigay sentiment. The reemergence of much of this misogyny and homophobia had much to do with the conservatism of the White House as reflected in the presidency of Ronald Reagan, as well as a general backlash against the social and economic strides made by women, witnessed in the plethora of Holly-

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wood films in the late 1980s and early 1990s (e.g., Fatal Attraction and The Hand That Rocks the Cradle) that demonized the independent, single, working woman as “deranged” (Faludi, 1991. p. xi). An uncomplicated return to heterosexual “family values” was the sentiment that automatically marginalized those outside the heteronormative sphere of family, including gays and lesbians, single working women or single parents. In addition, HIV/AIDS had begun to ravage gay communities around the country. Black gay men in particular represented 23 percent of the total number of reported AIDS cases in 1991, even though black males “accounted for less than 6 percent of the total U.S. population” (Harper, 1996, p. 3). Because of the lack of knowledge about the disease, the swiftness with which it killed, and the fact that it was disproportionately affecting gay men, the disease fueled the antigay discourse that was already emerging and became fodder for the far Right to justify their homophobia and name AIDS a “gay” disease (Crimp, 1988; for coverage of AIDS in the black press, see Cohen, 1999). Given this cultural landscape, it was only a matter of time before the hegemony of homophobia and heterosexism would become imbricated into the fabric of popular culture. Indeed, the imperialism of heteronormativity was ubiquitous. From television, billboard, and magazine ads, sitcoms and Hollywood films, to stand-up comedy routines, the representation of heterosexuality reiterated and performed the cultural logic of the American dream: the two-parent household, two children, pet, and the white picket fence (Gross & Woods, 1999). Representations of homosexuals only reinforced this myth of heterosexuality as the morally superior sexuality as well as further delineated the boundaries of blackness–that is, “authentic” blackness as heterosexual and male. Eddie Murphy’s popularity in the early 1980s was no doubt fueled by the pervasive antigay, pro-family-values sentiment of that era. Thus, his audiences were primed not only for the limp wrist sissies of his films, but also the irresponsible miseducation about how AIDS is contracted and the general homophobia of his stand-up comedy routines. Only in a society where hatred of the sexual dissident is tolerated and encouraged would such bigotry be commodified and sold as “entertainment.” Although Murphy had made negro faggotry popular through his parodies of Little Richard on Saturday Night Live, it was not until Delirious, his 1981 live performance in Constitution Hall, Washington, D.C., which debuted on Home Box Office, that his homophobia congealed into an insidious heteronormative hegemony. Murphy opens his performance with the epigraph cited at the beginning of this essay, “I’m afraid of gay people.” He then proceeds to articulate the reasons for his “fear,” one of which is the fear of catching AIDS. Murphy says, “Girls hang out with them [gay men], and one night they’re having fun and they give them a little kiss and they go home with AIDS on their lips” (Delirious). Besides being irresponsible information about how AIDS is contracted,2 Murphy’s comment obscures the agency of presumably “straight”

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men in contracting HIV/AIDS by placing the origin of the disease with gay men and heterosexual women as the transporters of contagion, which again shows homophobia and sexism. Moreover, this particular kind of discursive ploy attributes gayness with sickness and immorality, associations commonly accorded gays and lesbians prior to the AIDS/HIV epidemic. In fact, Murphy’s comments echo Eldridge Cleaver’s (1968) language about the Negro homosexual’s “death-wish” or other afrocentrists who proffer homosexuality as a “white disease” that has infiltrated the black community (e.g., Asante, 1980; Hare & Hare, 1984; Madhubuti, 1990). Despite an outcry of criticism from parts of the gay community and Murphy’s “apologies” to the gay community, Murphy went on to include another homophobic routine in his 1987 film, Raw. In Raw, Murphy goes beyond espousing homophobic commentary to actually embodying a “gay” person as a vehicle for his denigration of homosexuality. In the routine, Murphy performs the limp wrist sissy in the role of a police officer whose “radar”3 has detected Murphy in the vicinity. The gay man is seeking revenge against Murphy because of his earlier homophobic remarks. After spotting Murphy on the highway, he proceeds to pursue Murphy in a high speed chase. In the sketch, the homosexual cop Murphy portrays is so flamboyant, so effeminate, that when Murphy looks into his rear view mirror, he discovers that rather than a siren on top of the police car, there is actually a “faggot” on the roof of the squad car, making a lasso motion with one arm, while holding a megaphone in the other screaming in a high pitched voice, “pull ovah, pull ovah.” In this performance, Murphy, ironically clad in feminizing tight, purple leather pants that prominently feature the ass he so desperately wants to hide from the faggots in his audience,4 camps up the performance by embodying this gay persona, pretending to be on top of the police car as the queeny “siren.” The punch line of the joke, which, as to be expected, perpetuates the myth of the sex-crazed homosexual who wants nothing more than to be “fucked,” comes when the gay cop says to Murphy, “spread ’em,” while feeling up Murphy in his groin area. Based on these and other homophobic performances, Eddie Murphy understandably garnered a reputation as a homophobe. Despite his justifications–“I poke fun at everybody, ’cause I’m not a racist, I’m not a sexist; I’m just out there” (Ruuth, 1985, p. 41)–Murphy’s persistent homophobic performances created a tension between him and the gay male community (Banks, 2002; Peterson, 1992; Zarate, 2002), leading Murphy to officially apologize for his homophobic routines in 1996, some fifteen years after the fact (“Eddie Murphy One Sorry Comic Actor,” 1996). Because of the venomous nature of the routines and because of Murphy’s seemingly intimate knowledge of gay codes and vernacular and his performer competence as gay characters, rumors began to emerge about Murphy’s own sexuality (Banks, 2002). These rumors suggested that his homophobia was actually a projection of his own repressed homosexuality. Although Murphy’s homosexuality was never confirmed and the gossip about his homosexuality diminished when Murphy married and fa-

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thered four children with his wife, Nicole, the rumors resurfaced in May 1997 when Murphy was pulled over by sheriff’s deputies in West Hollywood (known, incidentally, as the “gay ghetto” of Los Angeles) who had observed a transsexual prostitute get inside Murphy’s car. Subsequently, the transsexual was arrested on an outstanding warrant on prostitution charges, while Murphy was released. According to a Murphy spokesperson, “Murphy had trouble sleeping . . . felt restless and decided to drive to a newsstand. After leaving the newsstand, Murphy spotted someone who appeared to be ‘having a problem.’ The star stopped his vehicle to see if the person was all right. At that time, the individual asked Murphy for a ride, and he agreed” (“Transsexual,” 1997). The irony of these events, particularly given Murphy’s “gay cop” skit, is remarkable. Murphy is hailed, interpellated in multiple ways in this scenario: as the socially constituted subject (see Althusser, 1971) bound to the law in that moment of hailing by the state–“Hey you!”–a hailing that circulates among black male experience narratives regarding police harassment and the inability to “hail” a cab based on gendered racism (e.g., West, 1993, p. ix-xi); as a potential “trick” for the transsexual prostitute; and as “rescuer” to the same transsexual prostitute whom he perceives as “having a problem.” These bizarre and intricate machinations demonstrate the complexity of identity claims as experienced, performed, and proclaimed. Whether or not, for instance, Eddie Murphy’s being “caught” with a transsexual prostitute in spite of his homophobic comedy routines, marriage to a woman, and status as a father provide “proof” of his repressed homosexuality in a “thou do’st protest too much” fashion, is not of interest to me here. I only draw attention to these events once again to demonstrate the co-extensive dialectic between black masculinity, heterosexuality, homosexuality and misogyny. Indeed, if Murphy’s performances, especially his stand-up comedy routines, are scrutinized further, we discover that these homophobic tirades reveal more about the leakage of black heterosexuality and masculinity than they do about their fixity. Insofar as Murphy’s parody of gayness is a kind of drag performance, a hyperbolic effeminacy associated with homosexuality, his attempt to solidify his own masculinity and heterosexuality merely reiterates their malleability. For, contrary to what Murphy’s parodies imply (and the purpose he no doubt believes them to serve), gender and sexuality are discursive categories that cohere to no original. Rather, gender parody, and by extension sexuality, is parody “of the very notion of an original” (Butler, 1990, p. 128); therefore, his parody of the effeminate gay man reveals not the “fact” of masculine heterosexuality or effeminate homosexuality, but rather, paradoxically, the incoherence of originary gender and sexual identity formations in general. Although Murphy’s parodies do reinstall hegemonic notions of gender and masculinity within the context of heterosexual popular discourse, outside those contexts, they signify differently and thus may work against such heteronormative logic, as is the case in gay communities in which the parody is both offensive but also manifests as fodder for speculations about Murphy’s

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queerness. In the context of discussing drag as a site of parodic gender performance, Butler (1990) suggests that parodic performances always already maintain an ambivalent site with regard to subversion or reiteration of cultural hegemony. She writes: Parody by itself is not subversive, and there must be a way to understand what makes certain kinds of parodic repetitions effectively disruptive, truly troubling, and which repetitions become domesticated and recirculated as instruments of cultural hegemony. A typology of actions would clearly not suffice, for parodic displacements, indeed parodic laughter, depends on the context and reception in which subversive confusions can be fostered. (p. 139) The contexts of Murphy’s performances are multiple and complicated because of his status as a popular cultural icon. Indeed, Murphy’s reception splinters along sexual, racial, gender, and class fault lines. Given that, his homophobic discourse reverberates and signifies in dramatically different ways. If we are to believe, as Butler argues, that volunteerism plays no role in the process of gender performativity and sexual identity, then Murphy’s intentions notwithstanding, his parodic performances of the effete gay man reveal heterosexuality for the sham that it is–a “phantasmatic identification” (Butler, 1993, pp. 94-119). In Murphy’s performances and perhaps in Murphy himself, the specter of the black queer emerges in spite of the continual attempts of murder at the hands of his heterosexual Other. In the act of repudiating the faggot, Murphy makes him manifest, for “Homosexuality is not fully repudiated, because it is entertained . . .” (Butler, 1993, p. 111).

“HATED IT”: FAGGOTRY IN LIVING COLOR When comedians are called out about their insensitivity toward a particular group, they most often justify their bigoted comedy by rationalizing that they, like Eddie Murphy, “poke fun of everyone,” as if blanket sexism, homophobia, and prejudice are somehow more justifiable. The same can be said of the cast of the now defunct but recently syndicated Fox Network comedy In Living Color. Produced and directed by Keenan Ivory Wayans, In Living Color was a successful variety comedy show of the late 1980s and early 1990s. The show’s success, according to Herman Gray (1995), stemmed “from its ability to appeal to audiences across a very broad gulf of racial, class, gender, and sexual difference” (p. 130). Although the show featured a number of parodic gender performances, including the “Wanda” skits, in which a very unattractive drag queen, played by actor Jamie Fox, constantly scared men away because of “her” looks and sex-

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ual aggressiveness, the most popular gender and sexuality parody was called “Men On. . . .” In the skit, heterosexual black comedians David Alan Grier and Damon Wayans portray Blaine Edwards and Antoine Meriwether, respectively, two effeminate men who fashion flashy chiffon blouses, tight pants, hair poufs, and feathered slippers. Because they never explicitly state that they are gay, their pseudo drag garb, along with their effete mannerisms, are meant to signify the “gayness” of the characters. Blaine and Antoine review films, books, and other texts similar to film critics Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert. Instead of giving the films a “thumbs up” or “thumbs down,” however, the two invent an appropriate SNAP!, a nonverbal communicative action once popular among black gay men that literally consists of snapping the fingers (Johnson, 1995). In fact, much of this skit’s popularity was due to the anticipation by the audience of what the SNAP! for the week would be. The two act out “gayness” in a stereotypical fashion and demonstrate random misogyny when they review works by or for women. Indeed, when they feature films in which women star or products designed for women, they reply in unison, “Hated it.” On the other hand, when they review works by men or that feature a male star, they deliver a favorable review infused with sexual innuendo. It is not surprising that the skit’s theme song is “It’s Raining Men,” a popular song in gay night clubs. The following is an excerpt from one of the skits: Blaine: Antoine: Together: Antoine: Blaine:

Together: Antoine:

Blaine: Antoine: Blaine:

Antoine: Together:

Hi. I’m Blaine Edwards. And I’m Antoine Meriwether. Welcome to “Men on Film.” The show that looks at movies from a male point of view. Tonight we’ll be wrapping up the summer films. First up is the box office smash, Total Recall. Yes. This is the movie where muscle-bound Arnold Schwarzenegger goes in search of his past. (looks at camera) Just a hint Arnold: Try the closet! (laughter) Next we have Betsy’s Wedding. (looking at each other) Hated it! Then there’s Ghost. You know, Patrick Swayze was the real standout in this film. You know, I’d breathe life into his spirit any day–even if I did have to go through Whoopi Goldberg! (rolling his eyes) Perish the thought. Yes, indeed. Now we come to Dick Tracy. You know, I like the title, but the movie just left me limp. I know what you’re saying. This is what I don’t get: all the characters fit their names–you know, Flat Head had a flat top, Prune Face looked just like a little prune, but I never did get a chance to see . . . Ooh. It’s gettin’ hot in here! Then there’s Pretty Woman. Hated it!

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Blaine: Antoine:

Blaine: Antoine: Blaine: Antoine:

Together:

This one should have been called, “A Fish Called Julia.” Next, Eddie Murphy was back in Another 48 Hours. You know, I’m sorry. This movie just got off on the wrong track. I feel that they should have spent more time where the real story is: in the prisons. I’d like to see more about them old sweaty mens [sic] all together in them tiny little cells with no one to turn to but each other. Ooh. Drop the soap–I’ll pick it up! (laughter) Hush! Finally, we have Die Harder. What a way to go: ninety minutes with Mr. Bruce Willis. Oh yes! Don’t tempt my tummy with the taste of Nuts-n-Honey. (laughter) You know the thing I didn’t understand was all the violence in the film, ’cause the title suggested a love story. I second that emotion. I think this one still deserves the new and improved two snaps up, a twist, and a kiss. (The two perform the snaps and twist, move their heads toward one another, pause, and look at the camera.) Not! Can’t touch this! (1993)

This parody stereotypes all gays as “queeny” and promiscuous in addition to perpetuating the myth that all gay men are misogynist. Within this context and within this parodic form, however, the misogyny becomes hyperbolic, further perpetuating the myth that woman-hating and homosexuality are enjoined. In stating his distaste for In Living Color, Ron Simmons (1995) reiterates how this particular skit imbricates homosexuality and misogyny: People assume that gay men don’t like women. Whenever “Men On . . .” critiques a female work, they say, “Hated it.” That’s a running joke. A country that’s known for females they hate. A book about females they hate. A movie about females they hate. They had the audacity to call a black woman a “fish” in a recent segment . . . (quoted in Hemphill, 1995, p. 392) There is more than one disavowal at work here. Beyond the disavowal of homosexuality, there is an attempt to place the responsibility of all black male misogyny onto black gay men. Given the rabid sexism and misogyny espoused by some of the most preeminent black heterosexual leaders of the black community, it is incredible that black heterosexual men would disingenuously project the responsibility of all misogyny onto black gay men, especially in light of black homophobia and its relation to the devaluation of femininity. Placed within the larger context of black cultural politics, this projection and the skit in general may reflect a general anxiety over the status of black masculinity spawned by the social and political gains of black women and homosexuals, as well as a growing body of theoretical critiques of black male dominance.

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Herman Gray suggests “the sketches may even reaffirm masculine heterosexual power (and hostility) in relationship to, if not gay men, then growing interrogations and critiques of masculinity by black feminists, lesbians, and gay men” (p. 142). To “get” the double entendres imbedded in Blaine and Antoine’s exchanges, one must have knowledge of black gay culture, both as it is constructed and lived by black gay men themselves and as it is stereotyped by heterosexuals. Indeed, this particular skit’s success depends upon and relies on what I would call an epistemology of misogynistic homophobia. That is to say, the skit caters to its audience’s homophobic stereotypes of black gay men, a homophobia grounded in misogyny. For instance, Blaine’s interest in Dick Tracy is fueled by the “dick” he hopes to see in the film, furthering homophobic beliefs that black gay men are dick obsessed. Blaine also reviles actress Julia Roberts by calling her a “fish,” a derogatory term for a woman that supposedly refers to the “fishy” smell of women’s vaginas while menstruating. Thus, the character relies on this misogynistic knowledge to draw a laugh. Blaine’s final comment of the skit also relies on the epistemology of homophobia in that it images gay men as lascivious dick suckers who enjoy the taste of and swallowing semen (“Don’t tempt my tummy with the taste of Nuts-n-Honey”). Further, Antoine’s desire that Another 48 Hours focus more on prison, where the “real story is,” followed by Blaine’s comment about bending over in the prison shower to pick up soap, perpetuates the myth that homosexuality stems from “prison breeding,” a myth often espoused by black heterosexual Afrocentrists such as Asante (1980) and contemporary black nationalist leaders such as Farrakhan (e.g., Eure & Jerome, 1989). All of these sexual innuendoes, then, rely on a homophobic, misogynist epistemology in order to get a laugh. In so doing, the skit attempts to further pathologize homosexuality and femininity as perverted, abnormal, and antiblack.5 Because femininity is always already devalued in patriarchal societies, those associated with the feminine are also viewed as inferior. Given the ways in which effeminacy in men is read as a sign of homosexuality, particularly in the United States, it follows that homosexual men are devalued. As bell hooks (1992) suggests: “Much black male homophobia is rooted in the desire to eschew connection with all things deemed ‘feminine’ and that would, of course, include black gay men” (p. 147). Drawing on this logic, then, Wayans and Grier’s performances, like Murphy’s, work to signify black masculinity and heterosexuality as authentic and black homosexuality and femininity as trivial, ineffectual and, indeed, inauthentic. While Wayans and Grier perform in drag, a potentially subversive critique of essentialist gender identity, their parodic performance must be viewed within the context of compulsory heterosexuality and hegemonic masculinity that depends on the disavowal of homosexuality for its coherence. Through the parodic, these heterosexual males assume a symbolic distance from femininity and homosexuality, but as Carole Anne Tyler (1997) suggests, “when roles are already alienated and unreal, the problem

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may not be how one holds them at a distance but how one responds to that distance” (p. 52). These performers’ response to that distance is disavowal and repudiation. The fact that the performers refuse to kiss at the end of the skit is illustrative of this point. Indeed, the characters stop short of kissing because such an act would subvert the parody, for “real” men in drag don’t kiss. Moving toward each other “as if” they were to kiss and stopping short provides a homoerotic image, titillating the audience but then reminding it that this is “play” by refusing to kiss and saying, “Not! Can’t touch this.” “This,” in this context, refers to homosexuality vis-à-vis a “homosexual” (same sex kissing) act. Engaging in such activity would be too risky for it might call into question the performers’ “real” masculinity and sexual orientation. Butler (1993) articulates this process of disavowal in drag performance in order to demonstrate why we need a theoretical framework that surveills the regulation of sexuality: Precisely because homophobia often operates through the attribution of a damaged, failed, or otherwise abject gender to homosexuals, that is, calling gay men “feminine” or calling lesbians “masculine,” and because the homophobic terror over performing homosexual acts, where it exists, is often also a terror over losing proper gender (“no longer being a real or proper man” or “no longer being a real and proper woman”), it seems crucial to retain a theoretical apparatus that will account for how sexuality is regulated through the policing and the shaming of gender. (p. 238) Clearly, Wayans and Grier exemplify this “terror over performing homosexual acts” when they refuse to “touch this,” attempting to regulate their sexuality by “policing and shaming” feminine gender. The same disavowal occurs in another skit in which Blaine is hit over the head, which causes him to lose his memory, especially the fact that he is gay. This particular sketch was a “To Be Continued . . .” episode to keep viewers on edge to see what would happen to Blaine and Antoine’s relationship and their reviews. After the blow to the head, Blaine is repulsed by his drag garb and dresses more “like a man.” Moreover, much to Antoine’s chagrin, when they review films during this episode, Blaine registers desire for women, often commenting on their breasts. In their review of Madonna’s documentary Truth or Dare, for instance, Antoine focuses his attention on one of Madonna’s dancers, Olivier, who he compels to come out of the closet. Blaine responds accordingly: “I didn’t look at Olivier very much, but I think Madonna is pretty hot. I could forget truth or dare. I’d like to play spin the bottle. Did you see the way she wrapped her lips around that bottle, man?” Horrified by Blaine’s response to Madonna (a response which, ironically, objectifies her), Antoine picks up a brick and hits Blaine over the head in hopes that it will bring back the “gay” Blaine. After the strike fails to “make him gay again,” Blaine says to Antoine in a masculine posture, “That’s it, man. I’m going to bust your ass.

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Come on, give me your best shot.” Antoine “punches” Blaine and then looks for a “sign” that he’s gay again. Blaine’s posture changes, he cups his hands to his mouth and squeals, “Tony?” The two embrace and Blaine proclaims, “I’m free, I’m free,” while Antoine calls others to come join in the celebration of the return of “gay” Blaine. The others are clad in leather, short cut-off jeans, and other stereotypical gay garb, as they dance to “It’s Raining Men.” Like the other “Men On . . .” skits, this one has the potential to subvert essentialist notions of gender and sexual identification. In fact, this particular sketch calls attention to the fact that gender and sexuality is performative in that one may “switch” back and forth between genders and sexualities with just a bump on the head. The subversive potential is thwarted, however, by the reinstallation of hegemonic heterosexuality. In other words, the representation of heterosexuality and homosexuality remains fastened to essentialist notions of masculinity and femininity. When Blaine “loses” his homosexuality, for instance, he no longer displays signs of femininity. Alternatively, when he “turns” gay again, his femininity also returns. Germane to this discussion is the fact that masculinity as performed by Blaine is not as spectacular as femininity, which implies that masculinity is the more robust of the genders. In addition, as a “straight” man, Blaine registers no interest in things remotely feminine or even homoerotic–clothes, speech, mannerisms, good-looking men–but rather eschews those signifiers in order to establish the seriousness of hegemonic masculinity. What presented itself as an occasion to imagine a broader continuum of stylized black masculinity became instead another instance of black masculine hegemony. Commenting on this vicious cycle of black machismo, Cornel West (1993) writes: Black gay men are often the brunt of talented black comics like Arsenio Hall and Damon Wayans. Yet behind the laughs lurks a black tragedy of major proportions: the refusal of white and black America to entertain seriously new stylistic options for black men caught in the deadly endeavor of rejecting black machismo identities. (p. 89) Moreover, because of Damon Wayans’ iconic status as a “macho” character actor (established in films like The Last Boy Scout), his “straight” Blaine only reconsolidates and congeals his heterosexualized masculine persona that circulates in popular culture. This template of “true” black masculine identity then becomes the vehicle through which to measure the “gay” Blaine’s inauthentic gender and sexual identity. This process is accomplished because of the cultural authority Wayans’ public persona barters. Indeed, as Gray suggests, “play and performance” of effeminacy “is very much the point, because audiences are also mindful that it is black heterosexual men who perform these roles” (p. 64).

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Thus, rather than serve as a critique of essentialist notions of gender and sexual identification, in the context of an already hostile, antigay black culture, these parodies discredit gayness as a “legitimate” signifier of blackness. Marlon Riggs (1995) argues that the skits perpetuate homophobic discourse about black gays beyond the boundaries of black culture such that Negro faggotry becomes the model through which black homosexuality is understood: [It’s] [“Men On . . .”] an image of queens who function in a way that justifies all of the very traditional beliefs about black gay sexuality and allows a larger public–beyond gay and lesbian people–to box gay people into this category that allows them to deal with them by not really dealing with them. . . . [It] plays into a notion of black gay sexuality held by the black community and now being embraced by the larger dominant community. A notion that black gay men are sissies, ineffectual, ineffective, womanish in a way that signifies inferiority rather than empowerment. (quoted in Hemphill, p. 392) [emphasis in original] Although the intent and the effect of these skits is one of perpetuating stereotypical representations of black gay men and of reifying hegemonic masculinity and heterosexuality, queering still occurs. Herman Gray suggests, for instance, that most of the skits that appear on In Living Color are informed by a politics of ambivalence because of its “preoccupation with these themes [race, class, gender, and sexuality] of difference, and the disturbances they produce within but also outside blackness . . .” (p. 140). While the “potential to politicize its disturbances . . . is at the heart of the show’s critical possibilities,” Gray argues, “the show’s disturbance is often ambivalent and, at times, even reactionary” (p. 140). As regards the “Men On . . .” skit, Gray believes that although it is “a kind of public acknowledgement, contestation, and renegotiation of blackness, especially in terms in which masculinity, sexuality, desire, and identity have been figured in commercial culture,” the skit is nonetheless “anchored by the politics of ambivalence, because the particular discursive space within which the contestation of sexuality occurs in the show is still mediated by the privileged position that black heterosexual masculinity enjoys” (p. 142). Gray’s insightful reading of “Men On . . .” predicates the skit’s ambivalent politics on the privileged positioning of the black heterosexual performers in a move that suggests that the skit’s transgressive possibilities are undermined by the heterosexual authority of the performers. I would like to suggest, however, that the “ambivalence” of the skit, as it were, stems not only from the performers’ “proclaimed” or “visible” gender and sexuality, but also from the discursive redoubling that occurs within the space of their performance. In other words, in their attempt to stabilize their own masculinity and heterosexuality through the disavowal of homosexuality and effeminacy vis-à-vis “drag” performance, their masculinity and heterosexuality is actually

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queered in the very act of disavowal. Butler (1995) elaborates on this paradox when she writes: Not only are a vast number of drag performers straight, but it would be a mistake to think that homosexuality is best explained through the performativity that is drag. What does seem useful in this analysis, however, is that drag exposes or allegorizes the mundane psychic and performative practices by which heterosexualized genders form themselves through the renunciation of the possibility of homosexuality, a foreclosure that produces a field of heterosexual objects at the same time that it produces a domain of those whom it would be impossible to love. Drag thus allegorizes heterosexual melancholy, the melancholy by which a masculine gender is formed from the refusal to grieve the masculine as a possibility of love. (p. 33) When viewed from this perspective, Wayans and Grier’s black masculine heterosexual “privilege” as a site of stability paradoxically becomes a site of instability. In sum, “Men On . . .” is an ambivalent discourse insofar as it problematically reduces homosexuality to Negro faggotry at the same time that it calls into question essentialist notions of gender and sexual identification, particularly in the episode where Blaine “loses” his gayness. But the heuristic circle through which this ambivalence is obtained is not closed. Gray himself suggests that “Whatever one thinks of In Living Color and its particular treatment of black gay men, the reading of its cultural politics must not simply stop at or remain within the closed system of the text” (p. 143). Indeed, yet another redoubling occurs beyond the text whereby the drag parody reiterates the logic of loss–a logic that ironically queers the one for whom the love of the homosexual is impossible. Other paradoxes abound. “Men On . . .” has rightfully been criticized for its “negative” stereotypical representation of black gay men as ineffectual sissies and, by extension, as existing outside the realm of “authentic” masculinity. Of course, part of the skit’s appeal is that very representation, because for some it solidifies what they already think about black gay men. For others for whom the show is their only exposure to black gay male culture (and this is what many black gay men find potentially dangerous about the skit), this representation is taken as the “truth” of black gay experience. And as Gray suggests, the fact that the authority of this representation resides with self-identified black heterosexual male performers becomes all the more problematic in terms of a privileged group having control over the representation of a marginalized group. The wonderful thing about performance, however, is the space it provides for possibilities and transgressions. Accordingly, the parody of gay men in “Men On . . .” became such a “hit” that the SNAP!, once a discursive practice that circulated exclusively in black gay subculture, emerged in black popular culture among black and white heterosexuals alike (Becquer, 1991;

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Johnson, 1995). Again, although the intent behind appropriating the SNAP! for most was to poke fun at black gay men, the actual performance of the SNAP! by black heterosexual men is another example of manifest faggotry and thus queering of African American culture.

CONCLUSION The dialectic formulated through the process of gender and sexual performativity demonstrates the incoherence of black heterosexuality. The performances by Murphy, Wayans and Grier illustrate how blackness is bound up by the hegemony and imperialism of heteronormative black masculinity. Moreover, their performances exemplify the complex process through which black male heterosexuality conceals its reliance on the black effeminate homosexual for its status. This is not to suggest yet another binary construction of black gender and sexuality; rather, it calls attention to the process through which gender and sexual identity inhere when predicated on the repudiation of its Other. Through the “acting out,” or performance of the Other as a register of that repudiation, the black heterosexual male performer conjures the specter of the black fag that suggests not only his disavowal but also, at the very least, his psychic mourning of the same. The “rules” of gender and sexual identification in hegemonic patriarchal society are much too stringent. As Butler reminds us, “Indeed, we are made all the more fragile under the pressure of such rules, and all the more mobile when ambivalence and loss are given a dramatic language in which to do their acting out” (1995, p. 35). Blackness, too, is fragile when subsumed by rules of exclusion; yet, like gender and sexual performativity, its mobility is never forestalled once it is set into motion in/through performance, no matter who’s behind the wheel.

NOTES 1. Notions of “authentic” blackness linked to hegemonic masculinity and heterosexuality abound. In either case, femininity and homosexuality are characterized as “anti-black.” For examples of homosexuality and femininity positioned as “antiblack,” see Cleaver and Baraka. 2. Granted, in 1983 there was not as much information available as there is today about how HIV/AIDS is spread and contracted; nonetheless, as a public figure, this lack of information should have made Murphy even more sensitive regarding such a fatal yet mysterious disease. 3. Murphy is signifying on the gay vernacular term “gaydar,” used by gays as to “detect” other gay people.

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4. In Murphy’s earlier stand-up routine Delirious, he comments: “Faggots aren’t allowed to look at my ass while I’m on stage. That’s why I keep moving. You don’t know where the faggot section is.” 5. I do not wish to diminish the humor of this skit. Certainly, straight as well as many gay men find “Men On . . .” extremely funny and do not take offense. My argument, however, is that humor is based on a particular kind of cultural logic that sustains heteronormative constructions of maleness and blackness–constructions that exclude black gay men in particular from the boundaries of “authentic” blackness and maleness.

REFERENCES Althusser, L. (1971). Lenin and philosophy, and other essays. New York: Monthly Review. Asante, M. (1980). Afrocentricity: The theory of social change. Buffalo, NY: Amulefi. Banks, A. (n.d.). The other niggers and Eddie, too. Retrieved May 12, 2002, from . Becquer, T. (1991). SNAP!othology and the other discursive practices in tongues untied. Wide Angle 13(2), 7-17. Bersani, L. (1995). Homos. Cambridge, MA: Harvard. Bulter, J. (1990). Gender trouble: Feminism and the subversion of identity. New York: Routledge. Butler. J. (1993). Bodies that matter: On the discursive limits of “sex.” New York: Routledge. Butler, J. (1995). Melancholy gender/refused identification. In M. Berger, B. Wallis, and S. Waston (Eds.), Constructing masculinity (pp. 21-36). New York: Routledge. Cheng, A. A. (2001). The melancholy of race: Psychoanalysis, assimilation, and hidden grief. New York: Oxford. Cleaver, E. (1968). Soul on ice. New York: Laurel. CNN Online. (1997). Transsexual prostitute arrested in Eddie Murphy’s car. (2001, July 25). Cohen, C. J. (1999). The boundaries of blackness: AIDS and the breakdown of black politics. Chicago: Chicago. Crimp, D. (Ed.). (1988). AIDS: Cultural analysis, cultural criticism. Cambridge, MA: MIT. Eddie Murphy, one sorry comic actor. (1996, May 11). The Weekly News. Retrieved May 12, 2002, from . Eure, J., & Jerome, R. (Eds.). (1989). Back where we belong: Selected speeches by Minister Louis Farrakhan. Philadelphia: PC International. Faludi, S. (1991). Backlash: The undeclared war against american women. New York: Anchor Books. Freud, S. (1997). General psychological theory. New York: Touchstone. Gowers, B. (Director). (1983). Delirious. [Video]. Gray, H. (1995). Watching race: Television and the struggle for “blackness.” Minneapolis, MN: Minnesota.

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Gross, G., & Woods, J. D. (Eds.). (1999). The Columbia reader on lesbians & gay men in media, society, & politics. New York: Columbia. Hare, N., & Hare, J. (1984). The endangered black family: Coping with the unisexualization and coming extinction of the black race. San Francisco: Black Think Tank. Harper, P. (1996). Are we not men? Masculine anxiety and the problem of African-American identity. New York: Oxford. Hemphill, E. (1995). In living color: Toms, coons, mammies, faggots, and bucks. In C. K. Creekmur and A. Doty (Eds.), Out in culture: Gay, lesbian, and queer essays on popular culture (pp. 389-401). Durham, NC: Duke University Press. hooks, b. (1992). Black looks: Race and representation. Boston: South End. Hull, G., Scott, P. B., & Smith, B. (Eds.). (1982). All the women are white, all the blacks are men, but some of us are brave: Black women’s studies. New York: The Feminist Press. Johnson, E. P. (1995). SNAP! culture: A different kind of reading. Text and Performance Quarterly, 15(2), 122-144. Madhubuti, H. (1990). Black men: Obsolete, single, dangerous?: The Afrikan American in transition: Essays in discovery, solution, and hope. Chicago: Third World. Peterson, E. (1992, September 2). What’s so funny? Retrieved May 12, 2002, from . Riggs, M. (1991). Black macho revisited: Reflections of a snap! queen. In E. Hemphill (Ed.), Brother to brother: New writings by black gay men (pp. 253-257). Boston, Alyson. Ruuth, M. (1985). Eddie: Eddie Murphy from A to Z. Los Angeles: Holloway. Simmons, R. (1991). Some thoughts on the challenges facing black gay intellectuals. In E. Hemphill (Ed.), Brother to brother: New writings by black gay men (pp. 211-228). Boston: Alyson. Smith, B. (Ed.) (1983). Home girls: A black feminist anthology. New York: Kitchen Table–Women of Color. Townsend, R. (Director). (1987). Eddie Murphy: Raw [Video]. Tyler, C. A. (1997). Boys will be girls: The politics of gay drag. In D. Fuss (Ed.), Inside out: Lesbian theories/gay theories (pp. 32-70). New York: Routledge. Grier, D. & Wayans, D. (1993). The best of men on. (T. McCoy, Director). In K. Wayans. (Producer), In living color. Baton Rouge, LA: WGMB. West, C. (1993). Race matters. Boston: Beacon. Zarate, G. (2000, November 14). Eddie Murphy. Retrieved May 12, 2002, from .

The Queering of Swan Lake: A New Male Gaze for the Performance of Sexual Desire Kent G. Drummond, PhD The University of Wyoming

SUMMARY. This essay argues that, by re-gendering the ballet classic Swan Lake, choreographer Matthew Bourne has also queered it. He thrusts center stage an unstable relationship between two male characters, and in so doing, de-centers the conventionally fixed categories of sex, gender and sexual desire. He also forces a long-simmering relationship between homosexuality and dance out of the closet and into mainstream popular culture. Applying Mulvey’s theory of spectatorship and Butler’s theory of gendered performance, the essay describes how viewers may be intrigued, rather than repulsed, by the ambiguities surrounding Bourne’s portrayal of sexual identity. [Article copies available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.]

Correspondence may be addressed: Communication and Journalism, Box 3904, The University of Wyoming, Laramie, WY 82071 (E-mail: [email protected]). The author would like to thank two anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments in the preparation of this essay. [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “The Queering of Swan Lake: A New Male Gaze for the Performance of Sexual Desire.” Drummond, Kent G. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 235-255; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 235-255. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_11

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KEYWORDS. Homoeroticism in dance, male dancer, male gaze, performance of gender Interviewer: How has the casting of a male dancer in the role of the Swan changed what is, after all, one of the great romantic ballet fables? Is this a gay Swan Lake? Matthew Bourne: I certainly would not deny that it can be read in this way . . . [the relationship] between the Swan and the Prince does have a very powerful erotic charge. –Matthew Bourne, choreographer (1996) Needless to say, [ballet] is not just a matter of men reacting to pretty girls. Most people respond to some extent to the sex appeal of both sexes, whether they consciously recognize this or not. In addition, ballet attracts many homosexuals, who will obviously be more susceptible to the attractions of their own sex. –Oleg Kerensky, ballet critic (1981) In 1996, the British choreographer Matthew Bourne presented a controversial remake of the ballet classic Swan Lake. For 120 years, the Russian-based full-length production featured a bevy of ballerina swans, clad in white tutus and toe shoes, chaining out demure arabesques under the regal supervision of Odette, the Swan Queen. Bourne retained the Tchaikovsky score, but changed the flock of swans to men: bare-chested, barefoot and hairy, with mounds of feathers around their thighs, they danced sharply and aggressively around the stage under the reign of The Swan, danced imposingly by the Royal Ballet star Adam Cooper. While he changed the sex of the swans, Bourne did not change the palpable attraction felt by the Prince for the Swan, now both males. Critics and audiences alike were shocked at Bourne’s re-conceptualization. Yet despite his radical revisions–or perhaps because of them–the ballet was a major critical and commercial success. It played to sold-out houses for months and garnered Bourne an Olivier Award (London’s version of the Tony) for Best New Dance Production. Upon its arrival on Broadway and later in Los Angeles, critical and commercial reactions were equally enthusiastic. Pictured on the January 1999 cover of Dance Magazine, commemorating the great moments in the just-completed century of dance, was the bare-chested, facepainted male Swan of Bourne’s production. And in the final scene of the recent film Billy Elliot, with his father and brother watching from the cheap seats of the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden, a grown-up Billy takes to the stage–in the form of Adam Cooper dancing The Swan in Bourne’s Swan Lake.

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At the very least, Bourne’s remake was a powerful act of communication. But precisely what was it saying, and to whom? While many reviewers of Bourne’s Swan Lake were quick to identify a homoerotic theme in his re-conceived story line (Shapiro, 1997), none were systematic or rigorous in identifying the clusters of cues, beyond plot summary, that gave them that impression. Nor was it within their purview to do so, given the journalistic constraints of the review genre. Yet until recently, this gap is emblematic of the writing about dance and its relationship to homosexuality in general. Numerous gay theorists have examined homosexual themes in literature (see, for example, Hardin’s 2000 analysis of End Zone in Journal of Homosexuality), in drama (see Carlsen’s 1981 review of the gay male in contemporary drama) and in opera (see Bronski’s 1984 essay on “Mad Queens and Other Divas”), but there is a remarkable dearth of literature on gay themes in dance. Only the works of Jackson (1978), Hanna (1988) and, especially, Burt (1995, 1999) explore this relationship in detail. This is largely because, until Bourne’s ballet, gay themes in dance were so repressed as to be unrecognizable to all but the most insightful reviewers. Dance critic Oleg Kerensky makes the general observation that “ballerinas in romantic classics were essentially remote, demure creatures, scarcely real women at all” (Kerensky, 1981). If this is so, then men who attend the ballet may not be doing so to arouse their sexual attraction for women, for the sexual attractiveness of women is rarely celebrated in classical ballet. In the case of the traditional Swan Lake, the Swan Queen is an elusive, ephemeral creature, not quite human and not of this earth, who cannot consummate her love for the Prince sexually. Nevertheless, the Prince swears his eternal love for her. Once he has done so, he becomes distracted and dispassionate at court, unwilling to reciprocate the advances of the young princesses paraded before him by a domineering mother intent on seeing him married. These same relational dynamics, which many, including Freud, would consider a classic profile of the repressed homosexual male, are present in other romantically-fabled ballets, such as Giselle and La Sylphide. And they closely resemble the popular perception of the young adulthood of Charles, Prince of Wales, and his relationship with his Mother, Queen Elizabeth. None of these references are lost on Bourne. Crucially, by re-gendering Swan Lake, Bourne has also queered it. He shows two men dancing together, and probably, according to most viewers, desiring one another. But more than create a gay ballet, he thrusts center stage an unstable relationship between chromosomal sex, gender, and sexual desire, which is itself a hallmark of queer moments (Jagose, 1996). In a broader context, he also forces a long-simmering relationship between homosexuality and dance out of the closet and into mainstream popular culture. Standing at the intersection of semiotics and mass media, Bourne’s Swan Lake combines symbols in a new way–and, for ballet, through a new channel–to exert an impact remarkable for a work of “high” culture.

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At the same time, the power of this new Swan Lake can be expressed only by a more complex relationship of theoretical accounts, one which conventional theories of the communication discipline cannot adequately capture. In order to explicate the power of this essentially symbolic, nonverbal and highly stylized text, I apply Laura Mulvey’s theory of the male gaze to show how Bourne’s Swan Lake subverts traditional expectations of male spectatorship and female objectification into an uneasy relationship between male spectatorship and male objectification. I then apply Judith Butler’s theory of gender performance to show how the ballet rejects a straightforwardly homosexual reading of itself, suggesting instead that the instability of gender and sexual desire, as signified in the performances of the ballet’s two main characters, favors a queer, not a gay, interpretation. Taken together, the application of these theories suggests that the ambiguities inherent is Bourne’s ballet allow for a multiplicity of interpretations that may not necessarily follow from the sexuality of the viewer. The semiotics of the “new” male gaze (Mulvey, 1975) combine with the performance of homosexual desire (Butler, 1990, 1995, 1998) to show that, while homosexual desire is far from celebrated in Bourne’s ballet, it thrusts the heretofore unspoken topic into the limelight, not only for the characters dancing, but for those who would watch them.

THE TRADITIONAL SWAN LAKE NARRATIVE Although the first production of Swan Lake took place in Moscow in 1877, to unanimously negative reviews, most scholars and choreographers (Grigorovich & Demidov, 1986) agree that the premiere production for all subsequent performances occurred in St. Petersburg in 1895. Set to music by Tchaikovsky–himself a homosexual (Schonberg, 1981)–with choreography by Petipa and Ivanov, the four-act ballet tells the story of the young Prince Siegfried. In Act I, his mother, the Queen, finds Siegfried at a boisterous party outside the castle with his friends, his tutor, and peasants from the surrounding countryside. She imperiously informs him that he has come of age; it is time to stop hunting and drinking with his friends. He should find instead a suitable bride, and soon. Dejected by this announcement, Siegfried dances a melancholy adagio solo, then withdraws with his friends to the forest to hunt. In Act II, set in the forest, the Prince wanders off by himself and comes upon a flock of swans near a lake. As Siegfried raises his crossbow to shoot them, Odette, the Queen of the Swans, suddenly appears. Through a complicated mime sequence, she explains that she and her flock have been transformed into swans by Rothbart, an evil magician, but resume their human form in the moonlight. Dressed entirely in white, her arms fluttering and her feet en pointe, she places herself in front of her flock, ensuring that if the Prince shoots, she will take the first arrow. Enchanted, Siegfried drops his weapon

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and dances a pas de deux (literally, step of two) with the swan, who, for the moment, “melts” into a demure–yet still ethereal–woman. The ethereal, otherworldly quality to this pairing is brought about through a very strict adherence to classical ballet movements that comprise the pas de deux, and that have been in existence for several hundred years. A relationship is being portrayed here, and a very profound one–but not an intimate one in the sense that we have come to know that word. For example, Siegfried and Odette spend most of the pas de deux in close physical contact. Yet there is no eye contact between the two of them, for the rules of classical ballet grammar forbid this. True to tradition, Siegfried does not so much desire Odette in the pas de deux as he displays her. Through a series of lifts, supports, and manipulations, he features her to an audience very much in compliance with and appreciative of the display. At the duet’s end, the Prince swears his undying love for Odette. She accepts it cautiously, explaining that only his undying, exclusive love can break the spell that imprisons her in a swan’s body. She also warns that his love for her must remain a secret, or the spell will remain in effect. As Odette is drawn away by Rothbart, Siegfried agrees to these conditions and departs. Siegfried returns to the royal court in Act III and learns that his mother has arranged a coming out celebration in his honor. Since he is now available to be married, she has invited all the beautiful young princesses from the surrounding countries to meet him. Each princess arrives, and with her retinue, proudly dances in the style native to her country–Italian, Spanish, Polish, Russian–in the requisite divertissement of a Petipa ballet. Each hopes to win the prince’s approval, as well as his proposal of marriage. But the prince, bound by his vow to Odette, ignores all of them. And because he has promised to keep his love a secret, he cannot reveal the real reason for his disinterest in these beautiful young women. They are confused, while his mother is exasperated. Suddenly, an uninvited guest arrives: Odile, the alter ego to the Swan Queen, danced by the same ballerina. Dressed provocatively in black, she exudes an overt, powerful sexuality, moving seductively around the Prince, daring him to dance with her. Dazzled, he does so. Their duet, the so-called Black Swan pas de deux, contains many of the same dance movements as the White Swan pas de deux in Act II. But here, they are accomplished with much greater flair and less restraint. To the astonishment of the surrounding court, Odile proudly displays her sexuality to the point of brazenness–with none of the shyness or modesty of Odette or the princesses–as she confidently assumes and holds the positions in which Siegfried places her. As before, Siegfried is enchanted, but this time by a raw sexual energy. The duet builds to a fever pitch, until, forgetting his vow to Odette, the prince swears his love to Odile. At the moment he does so, an image of Odette hovers in the background. Odile flaps her wings in a mockery of Odette’s persona to reveal that she has purposely deceived him into betraying Odette. A strange man who escorted Odile into the

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castle reveals himself to be Rothbart, who now gleefully congratulates his charge. Everyone else onstage is distraught, no one more than the prince. Act IV takes place by the lake once again. Elegaic in tone, it represents a denouement to the narrative momentum. Aware that she has been betrayed, Odette enters and is comforted by her flock. Siegfried enters, kneels before Odette, and begs her forgiveness. She embraces him to signify her forgiveness, and they dance briefly before Rothbart claims her. What happens next–and what it signifies–is extremely variable, but usually Siegfried follows Odette off the stage as a transparent curtain, or scrim, descends. In a final apotheosis scene, we see the two of them through the scrim riding a swan boat across the stage, their arms pointing skyward. Program synopses offer one of two interpretations to explain this final union: either Odette has died of a broken heart and Siegfried jumps in the lake in order to be with her forever; or Siegfried’s disavowal of Odile’s proposition–and Odette’s forgiveness of him–are strong enough to break Rothbart’s spell over Odette, and they leave the lake as a man and woman, alive and in love, good having triumphed over evil. What message does one take away from this traditional narrative of Swan Lake? Although the myriad versions ensure that a definitive interpretation of its meaning will prove elusive, several lessons ring true across them all. First and most important is the notion that some women are extremely good, while others are extremely evil, and that this extreme goodness and badness can reside in the same woman–or perhaps all of them. Moreover, this goodness and badness are highly polarized and signified by different codes of demeanor and deportment, such that Good = Ethereal, Ideal, Unattainable, Non- or Asexual, while Bad = Earthly, Real, Predatory, Sexual. The traditional Swan Lake, then, consigns women to the abiding madonna/whore dichotomy that many men as well as women have long complained of, and that popular artists such as Madonna cleverly–and profitably–play with and through (McClary, 1991). For a ballet created towards the end of the Victorian era, this comes as no surprise. But what sets the stage for Bourne’s remake is not the category of Woman, but the male’s reaction to it. Specifically, if any woman can embody both good and evil, then a relationship with any woman is dangerous, for it is bound to end in frustration, if not tragedy, depending on which aspect wins out. Better, instead, to desire other men.

BOURNE’S RETELLING OF SWAN LAKE Bourne’s retelling of Swan Lake is also accomplished in four acts and bears many resemblances to the original: it chronicles the adventures of a young prince, both within the palace and outside it, often invoking the relationship with his mother; it focuses on his fixation with a swan, as well as with the swan’s alter ego; and it concludes with an apotheosis in which the swan and the prince are united in eternity. However, the similarities end there. Set in mod-

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ern-day London, the ballet makes thinly veiled references to the escapades of England’s royal family, right down to Elizabeth’s corgis. More importantly, the traditional Swan Lake narrative is rife with homosexual possibilities, and in his retelling, Bourne seems to take advantage of them all. In the Prologue, the 14-year-old Prince, alone in a huge bed, wakes up from a nightmare in which a large, male-looking swan glares down menacingly at him from the headboard. As he screams, his mother the Queen rushes in and distantly offers him comfort. By Act I, he has become a young man of 21, ready for his investiture by the Queen (much as Charles was over 30 years ago when he became Prince of Wales). Amid the chaos of ribbon-cuttings, unveilings and flashbulbs, the Queen shows Prince Siegfried that his life will now be a neverending series of appearances and openings. Suddenly a statue of a large male wrestler is unveiled, and the Prince stares at it. Later in Act I, the Prince meets a “commoner girlfriend” (according to program notes). With flowing red hair and an exuberant, non-regal persona, she resembles Fergie. Her relationship with Siegfried seems friendly, but never passionate, otherworldly, or even significant. The Queen immediately disapproves of her. As the three of them attend a ballet together (a comical send-up of both Swan Lake and Giselle), a fight ensues in the Royal Box, and the girlfriend departs in tears. Behind closed doors, Siegfried tries to tell the Queen something, but she refuses to listen. Distraught, the Prince follows his girlfriend to a strip bar in Soho frequented by gangsters, sailors and prostitutes. Each group propositions the Prince, but he accepts none of them. Inebriated and belligerent, he is thrown out of the bar just in time for the paparazzi to snap his picture. Act II takes place by a lake in St. James’s Park (the actual London home of Prince Charles). Depressed to the point of suicide, Siegfried writes a note and contemplates jumping into the lake. Suddenly, a flock of swans appears. But rather than exhibiting shy, ephemeral, hyper-feminine qualities, these swans are hyper-masculine: rough, aggressive, dangerous. Hair is exposed, feathers are shaggy. Here, we see a modern movement vocabulary filled with straight lines, ponderous leaps, hunched backs and contracted torsos. These stand in sharp contrast to the curved lines, effortless leaps, straight backs and delicate pointe-work of the traditional ballerina swans. As they fill the stage, the prince gazes in wonder from the side. The leader of the flock, called simply The Swan, enters and gazes intently at the prince. Siegfried and the Swan then engage in an extended pas de deux that mirrors the White Swan pas de deux of the traditional version. Here, however, the goal is not display but mimesis. By attempting to repeat the steps of the Swan immediately after he has danced them, Siegfried appears desperately to want to be the swan. We see not so much a display of gender opposites as knowledge opposites: expert and novice, instructor and student. The Swan appears to be teaching Siegfried how to command the space around the stage.

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Most importantly, the two display a type of intimacy that violates the rules of most movement vocabularies, as well as most rules of human interaction, with the possible exception of conduct at a gay bar (Bech, 1997): an extended eye gaze between Siegfried and the Swan. Sustained, intense and unflinching, it dominates this pas de deux. And it is buttressed by other interactional gestures that signify intimacy: a caress, an embrace, and a carry in which the Swan cradles the prince in his arms at the duet’s end. Elated, Siegfried tears up his suicide note and runs out of the park. Act III takes place in the royal ballroom at the palace. As in the traditional version, the room is soon filled with young, beautiful, aristocratic ladies who desire–and whom the Queen desires–to meet the prince. Siegfried’s former girlfriend is also there, but she is ignored by all in attendance. And as before, an uninvited guest appears, the alter ego of the Swan, also danced by Adam Cooper. Dressed in black leather pants, black boots and black shirt, he looks like slick, but rough, trade. He dances lasciviously with all the young women, and they return his advances. The Prince looks on in a horrified stupor, for he recognizes this Stranger (as he is called in the program notes) to be the flip side of the Swan. Where the Swan was tender, supportive and instructive, the Stranger is rough, cruel and mocking. He gazes at Siegfried menacingly. Their pas de deux is filled with a dangerous intimacy that vacillates between the promise of sexual gratification and the infliction of pain. Indeed, the duet ends with the Stranger twisting Siegfried’s arm behind his back until it almost breaks, then leaving Siegfried in physical and emotional agony while he pursues the Queen. Following them, the prince produces a gun and aims it at the Stranger and the Queen. The Stranger wrests the gun away from him and shoots Siegfried’s former girlfriend. Guards restrain the prince and drag him away, screaming, as the Stranger gleefully comforts the Queen. Like the prologue, Act IV takes place in the prince’s bedroom. Heavily sedated, Siegfried lies sleeping when a surgeon and attendant nurses enter and perform some sort of operation on him. After they leave, the swans enter and dance non-threateningly around him. Then the Swan crawls out from under Siegfried’s bed, beckons him, dances gently with him, and embraces him. But as the two of them dance, the flock of swans becomes more agitated. Formerly obedient to the Swan and at least indifferent to the prince, they drive the two of them apart, pecking the prince to death and devouring the Swan. As the Queen rushes in to find her dead son, a vision of the Swan appears on the headboard above the bed. This time, the Swan is holding the 14-year-old Siegfried in his arms. The curtain falls. What message does one take away from Bourne’s retelling? And what accounts for its tremendous popularity? On the surface, one can answer that the movement vocabulary is highly accessible. Gestures, poses, and expressions have infiltrated this hybrid of ballet and modern dance styles, and the result may be, as one critic has suggested (Shapiro, 1997), more theatre than dance.

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My own research (Drummond, 1998) suggests that viewers–particularly those who have not seen much ballet–respond more positively to dance that incorporates recognizable, everyday gestures than to dance which does not. With Bourne’s Swan Lake, the semiotic systems, whether through costuming, sets, movements or gestures, are easily navigated by a media-savvy audience.

IS THIS A GAY SWAN LAKE? At a secondary level, it is clear that Bourne teases the audience with the promise, and perhaps the consummation, of a homoerotic relationship. At both the micro and macro levels, Bourne accumulates a series of gay touch points that prime the audience, however uncomfortably, for a homosexual culmination. The overbearing yet emotionally detached mother, the problematic girlfriend, the startled gaze at a nearly-nude male statue, the fantastic obsession with another male–all of these cues locate Siegfried within a homosexual matrix that appears probable even by Act II. Perhaps this is because, in the broader context of dance history, the audience is ready for, yet anxious about, a ballet that raises the curtain on a long-suggested relationship between male homosexuality and dance. Hanna (1988), following Jackson (1978), catalogues an extensive list of ballets with homosexual themes or characters. Among them are van Dantzig’s Monument for a Dead Boy (1965), Arpino’s The Relativity of Icarus (1974), Bejart’s Dionysus Suite (1983), and Morris’s New Love Song Waltzes (1984). Yet none of these has reconfigured a familiar evening-length ballet by switching the gender of one of the major characters to suggest a homoerotic attraction. Burt (1995) sums up the current state of homosexual-themed ballets in this way: The initial reasons for keeping quiet about gay male dancers are surely no longer valid, and silences now do more harm than good. Perhaps there are now more choreographers dealing with homosexual themes than there were . . . but only in the marginalized, underfunded, experimental fringes. (p. 30) This makes the critical and commercial success of Bourne’s retelling all the more remarkable. Prior to his production, the only mainstream choreographer to have dealt with homoerotic themes with such explicitness is Bill T. Jones (Desmond, 2001). Among his major works, Still/Here–noted, among other things, for New Yorker dance critic Anna Kisselgoff’s refusal to see it–does address gay themes, albeit on the way to other postmodern dance issues such as race, class, and living with AIDS. Another motivation for “seeing” this Swan Lake as a gay ballet is that the payoff for doing so is high. For gay members of the audience in particular, the prospect of watching muscular, barely clad men fill the stage brings immediate

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visual pleasure; to see them do so in the context of a scripted homoerotic relationship brings emotional gratification as well. As a self-identified gay male, Champagne (1997) writes about that sort of intense, affective identification while watching the films The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert; Muriel’s Wedding; and Strictly Ballroom: “I feel an intense release of affect in the form of tears, laughter, and applause. I adore these films. . . . I continue to find them almost pleasurably painful to watch” (pp. 68-69). Through their use of disco music and dance styles, the use of drag, and the consistent eroticization of the male body, these films interpellate (to use Althusser’s term) or call forth the gay male spectator because of the recognition and identification they provoke. The goal of such films is to create a space in which gay identities, expressions, relationships, and ways of being are freely created by the director and accepted by the audience. Such is the case, for example, in Derek Jarman’s Sebastiane (Pitman, 1998), in which “homosexuality is legitimated, where its expressions are tolerated, where its sex is both the subject of ribald humor and of personal self-fulfillment” (p. 77). Does this Swan Lake have a similar goal? On the surface, it would appear so, with several important differences. Bourne’s version exerts much of its power within the context of the original narrative, and within the horizon of expectations established by it. But it is also important to note that Bourne’s ballet is not a parody. An all-male company such as Les Ballets Trokadero de Monte Carlo frequently re-stages the classics, but most viewers recognize, as Hanna (1988) writes, that the point of their productions is to perform “entertaining burlesque and physical comedy that lovingly parodies the act of performance, specific ballets, and particular styles through informed in-jokes” (p. 239). Only in Act I’s “ballet within a ballet,” the send-up of Swan Lake and Giselle, could Bourne’s ballet be called parodic. Rather, Bourne’s Swan Lake features a spectrum of “ways of being masculine,” from the passive, neurotic Prince to the strong, protective Swan to the violent, cruel Stranger. Each relates differently to women, to each other, and to himself; but all depart radically from the traditionally masculine role prescribed by earlier classical ballets: the elegant, courageous and desirable nobleman who, particularly in a pas de deux, displays the female with proud restraint and humility (Dolin, 1969). When dancers vary from this traditionally masculine role–in either their personal or stage life–the reactions have been historically problematic, for critics and audiences alike. Burt (1999) and Batson (1999) have researched the Paris performances of Swedish dancer Jean Borlin. Burt (1999) interprets the 1920 performance of Borlin in Dervishes as a challenge to the stereotype that “all homosexual men were effeminate in appearance and sickly and degenerate in physique” (p. 233). Borlin, whose homosexuality was common knowledge at the time, performed as a virile and vital Dervish, whirling about the stage to create “an affirmative and, by all accounts, exhilarating theatricalization of a

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masculine psychological interiority” (Burt, 1999, p. 233), which challenged the contemporary stereotype of the homosexual as hysterical degenerate. Also writing on Borlin, this time in a dance in which he appeared naked (L’Homme et son desir), Batson (1999) notes the overwhelming critical response: attacks and jokes on Borlin’s nakedness, as opposed to intelligent remarks on his dancing. Batson links this repulsion to the fact that post-World War I France, anxious to rediscover a masculine sense of nationality, could condone the male body only “in a show of strength in battle or in sport” (1999, p. 248). Outside these contexts, the well-muscled dancer could not be seen as male, much less masculine. Even today, critical interpretation often misses the mark regarding the sexuality of the dancing male. Choreographer Mark Morris’s Hard Nut, a re-working of The Nutcracker, contains several key roles traditionally danced by women now danced by men. This has led many critics to impute homosexual passion to one pas de deux in particular. But Morris himself denies this intention (Desmond, 1999), saying he was trying to stage a “lesson” in which an older man is teaching his nephew the art of courting a woman. Similarly, in the case of Swan Lake, Bourne himself allows for the possibility of an “erotic charge” between the Prince and the Swan, but emphasizes that the Swan is, after all, not human. And if the narrative structure is any indication, Bourne’s retelling is not a gay Swan Lake: the Swan and the Prince may end up together at the end, but the Prince is a boy again, suspended–or perhaps dead–in the Swan’s embrace. And the lascivious posturing between the Prince and the Stranger in Act III is highly suggestive but fleeting; it dissolves into a brief sadomasochistic struggle before the Stranger attempts to seduce the Queen. Indeed, to read Bourne’s Swan Lake as a gay ballet is to overlook not only its narrative structure, but also the complex portrayal of masculinities that propel it. A gay interpretation simply doesn’t fit. But the question remains: why do critics and audiences “see” a homosexual relationship when it may not be there? What tendencies is Bourne tweaking within the audience to cause it to respond the way it has? A starting point lies in the general observation made by Burt (1995, 2001) that, over the last 150 years, the male body became a taboo subject of cultural representation until very recently. Gay men in ballet and straight women in modern dance have been largely responsible for the development of male dancing. Yet they have done so without challenging two significant assumptions about the audience which may no longer be true: first, that the audience is always and already looking at the dance from a traditionally masculine point of view (the male gaze), beset with the notion of compulsory heterosexuality that goes with it; and that viewers approach the category of masculinity itself as stable and unproblematic. Bourne challenges both of these assumptions, yet two theoretical frameworks are needed to explain the means by which he does so. Specifically, British film scholar Laura Mulvey addresses conditions of the male gaze in her theory of spectatorship; and rhetorical critic Judith Butler ad-

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dresses the instability of gender in her writings on the performance of sexual desire.

MULVEY AND THE NEW MALE GAZE In her landmark essay, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” (1975), British filmmaker Laura Mulvey posits a tripartite, yet unified, perspective between the camera as it records the unfolding narrative, the audience as it observes the final product, and the characters within the narrative itself. What the camera sees and what the audience sees are subverted into the third perspective–the activities of the characters themselves within the screen illusion–because “the conscious aim [is] always to eliminate intrusive camera presence and prevent a distancing awareness in the audience” (Mulvey, 1975, pp. 17-18). But the perspective of the characters themselves is not without a predictable identity and location, Mulvey observes: it is that of the protagonist, who is not only male but compulsorily heterosexual. Time and again as we watch mainstream film, there is a three-way complicity between the camera, the audience and the characters such that viewers naturally assume the perspective of the heterosexual male protagonist, and in doing so, identify with him. Drawing heavily on Freud through Lacan, Mulvey explains viewers’ deep-seated motivation for assuming this identity: A male movie star’s glamorous characteristics are thus not those of the erotic object of the gaze, but those of the more perfect, more complete, more powerful ideal ego conceived in the original moment of recognition in front of the mirror. The character in the story can make things happen and control events better than the subjects/spectator, just as the image of the mirror was more in control of motor co-ordination. (1975, p. 12) Just as the male camera-viewer-protagonist invites identification and precipitates action on the screen, so the female on the screen threatens identification and halts action. She is the object of desire who momentarily freezes the action of the narrative, and who must then be woven into the narrative for that action to resume. In the meantime, she is the object of erotic contemplation: “The determining male gaze projects its fantasy onto the female figure, which is stylized accordingly. In their traditional exhibitionist role, women are simultaneously looked at and displayed, with their appearance coded for strong visual and erotic impact” (Mulvey, 1975, p. 11). Even, or perhaps especially, in its traditional form, the ballet stage preserves these relational dynamics. For example, in the original version of Swan Lake, Prince Siegfried embodies the traditional male protagonist: young, virile, active, constrained only by his mother’s injunction to marry. Music, cos-

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tuming, lighting and choreography conspire to ensure that Siegfried remains the focus of viewers’ attention throughout Act I. The ballet is “seen” through his eyes, and the audience identification is with him. Even his initial response to his mother’s plea for domesticity–to go hunting–maintains the traditionally masculine qualities of independence and dominance. Yet, as predicted by Mulvey’s theory, his persona is frozen by the image of the White Swan by the lake, protecting her swans by forbidding him to shoot. For a moment, all action stops as the male gaze is directed at the female object. She is beautiful, mysterious, not quite available but nevertheless eroticized by a tutu, which, unlike those of the other swans, stands out rigidly from the hips so that her entire leg is exposed. As the prima ballerina Natalia Makarova notes, “the legs are exposed, all lines are revealed, and you cannot conceal the slightest slip from the audience” (Makarova, 1979, p. 122). The prince–and the audience–are captivated by this beauty, much as audiences were as they watched the Ziegfeld Follies. The challenge now, according to Mulvey, is to enfold the objectified female into the narrative so that the action can continue and the male can reassert an active control. Classical ballet accomplishes this through the pas de deux, which ballerina Cynthia Harvey suggests is “a conversation between two partners” (Laws & Harvey, 1994). In an abstract sense, it is a conversation between two genders, for, as noted earlier, tradition mandates that the male is strong, stable and supportive while the female is fragile, pliable and pleasingly displayed, worthy of an astonished male gaze. In fact, the male subsumes the power of–and the castration anxiety associated with–the objectified female through the pas de deux itself. He literally man-handles her, and in so doing, subjugates the power she momentarily held over him. As dance scholar Susan Foster writes: She, like a divining rod, trembling, erect, responsive, which he handles, also channels the energy of all the eyes focused upon her, yet even as she commands the audience’s gaze, she achieves no tangible or enduring identity . . . just as he conveys, she conveys desire. She exists as a demonstration of that which is desired but is not real. . . . She is, in a word, the phallus, and he embodies the forces that pursue, guide, and manipulate it. (1996, pp. 2-3) We know that Siegfried’s mastery is short-lived. Soon after the White Swan pas de deux of Act II, the Black Swan pas de deux of Act III takes place. Here, although many of the steps are the same, the effect is different: Odile’s looked-at-ness is too powerful to be subsumed by the prince’s active strength. Rather, her dazzling beauty and aggressive sexuality fix not only his gaze but his virility, until she seduces him into betraying his vow to Odette. She has, in effect, castrated him. From here, the only act that will free him from her suspension is his self-destruction, which occurs in the final act.

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Mulvey’s theory helps explain why Odile’s triumph becomes the climax of the traditional Swan Lake: it represents a betrayal of the audience’s identification with Siegfried. Viewers joined Siegfried in being dumbstruck by Odile’s erotic power, so now they, too, are emasculated. One could argue that the traditional Swan Lake is the balletic version of a film noir, in which a mysterious female-with-a-past (or in this case, alter-ego) ultimately destroys a disaffected yet trusting male. It is no coincidence the film noir genre provides the bulk of Mulvey’s cinematic examples. But Mulvey’s theory applies equally to Bourne’s retelling of Swan Lake in two ways: it provides great explanatory power in predicting the misinterpretation of this retelling as a gay ballet; and it also predicts (re)viewers’ confusion regarding what precisely the ballet is about. Central to Mulvey’s theory is the unity of perspective between the camera, the audience, and the protagonist. There is an implicit contract that the vital, potent, heterosexual male will prevail, or the audience may feel betrayed, alienated, and defensively uninterested–as it did while viewing the initial ending of Fatal Attraction, in which the flawed but traditional protagonist was brutally murdered by the woman scorned. Of course, that kind of betrayal sometimes makes for the most powerful theatre: the audience gets “caught looking,” identifying with culturally implicit values that the creators of the piece wish to question. Bourne’s Swan Lake takes the betrayal of Mulvey’s contract a step further. It is not that the audience gets caught looking; it’s what the audience is looking at that becomes problematic. The moment of crisis occurs at the start of the prince’s pas de deux with the Swan. There, subject and object gaze fixedly into each other’s eyes, arms draped across shoulders, legs across hips. The action has been stopped, but the object that holds the prince’s gaze–as well as the audience’s–is male, attractive by any measure. The effect is similar to watching a Ricky Martin video: are viewers supposed to be like Ricky? Or are they supposed to want him? Bart (1995) describes the discomfort of such a moment in this way: If, however, a [male dancer’s appearance] is also desirable, he is, from the point of view of a male spectator, drawing attention to the always-already crossed line between homosocial bonding and homosexual sexuality. His appearance therefore carries with it for the male spectator the threat of revealing the suppressed homosexual component within the links he has with other men and through which he maintains his power and status in patriarchal society. (p. 24) By creating and sustaining this moment, the new male gaze, Bourne disorients the viewer and subverts the taken-for-granted heterosexuality of the camera itself–that which creates the piece and guides the audience’s vision. This effect is only heightened when the ballet is seen on video, for the viewer is

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forced from a variety of viewing choices to engage in a single, potentially homoerotic perspective. And in the act of observing, viewers are, in some sense, asked to participate in the relationship between the two men. A very different kind of identification is called for here, one that many audience members may not be willing to make. Yet, as noted earlier, even as that homoerotic moment is established, it is dissipated by the sequence of steps in the pas de deux itself. The prince imitates the movements of the swan, rather than trying to subjugate the Swan’s attractiveness to augment his own power. Put in terms familiar to the communication field, the pattern of interaction is symmetrical, not complementary. The prince wants to achieve the strength, the control, the mastery of the Swan–not by obliterating him in the way a “normal” protagonist might, but by learning from him. Recall that a similar misreading took place in Morris’s Hard Nut, in which, Morris insisted, the subtext was not homoeroticism but education in the ways of courting a woman. Mulvey’s theory helps explain the audience’s misinterpretations surrounding this ballet, but it cannot account for the ballet’s popularity. If audience members are disoriented and discomfited by the new Swan Lake, why did they not stay away in droves? Mainstream dance critic Bruce Fleming (2000) captures the confusion in this way: I’m not saying that Bourne should have provided a happy agit-prop Gay Rights scenario, in which the Prince comes out of the closet and is rewarded for his boldness by a well-built lover and society’s approbation. But it certainly left me shaking my head in wonder. [With both the mainstream viewer and the gay viewer turned off], who’s left to like this titillating but ultimately deeply conservative parable? Or have I just explained . . . precisely why it’s going to be so wildly popular? (p. 30) Judith Butler offers a way out of this predicament by addressing the instability between gender and sexual desire that Bourne seems so inclined to investigate.

BUTLER AND THE PERFORMANCE OF SEXUAL DESIRE In true Derridean fashion, Butler deconstructs the forced binary opposition of male versus female, gay versus straight, original versus copy. She questions whether our entire concept of gender is not, in fact, based on imitations for which no real essences exist. Just as Derrida insisted on recognizing language as a free play of signifiers lacking a stable center, Butler suggests that there are no fixed sexual identities; rather, we are invoked by a series of deep-seeded cultural practices to reify sexual identities, play them out, and perform them in profoundly unquestioning ways. Butler calls readers to question those ways,

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and in so doing, deconstruct the notion of gender itself. From her seminal work, Gender Trouble (1990): Gender ought not to be construed as a stable identity or locus of agency from which various acts follow; rather, gender is an identity tenuously constituted in time, instituted in an exterior space through a stylized repetition of acts. The effect of gender is produced through the stylization of the body and, hence, must be understood as the mundane way in which bodily gestures, movements, and styles of various kinds constitute the illusion of an abiding gendered self. (p. 140) For Butler, the trouble with gender is that gender itself is an unstable category, a fiction or a mythology constantly reiterating itself within the culture through performance. Rather than a cause of behavior, gender is an effect of reiterated performance, “a kind of imitation for which there is no original” (1998, p. 1520). “Gender trouble” itself connotes both a sense of playfulness–as in the expressions “girl trouble” or “man trouble,” when uttered ruefully by one friend to another–as well as something pathological, something deeper, more darkly consequential to the culture at large. Both senses of the phrase apply to the new Swan Lake. And if gender is a performance, then it is, like all performances, an accomplishment. When Siegfried dances with Odette in the original version of Swan Lake, he is “doing being” male, put in the terms of the late conversation analyst Harvey Sacks (1972). Male is an accomplishment, and an interactive one at that. The extent to which Siegfried is successful in that accomplishment depends not only on his interaction with Odette–who is herself “doing being” female–but also on the pair’s interaction with the audience who, among many other considerations, is deciding, with every little movement, how well each dancer is accomplishing the performance of gender. According to Butler, if gender is indeterminate, contingent and provisional, so too must be the category of sexual desire. And it is here that Bourne’s Swan Lake achieves its status as a queer, rather than gay, artifact. For out of the same “mundane bodily gestures, movements and styles of various kinds” which Butler calls readers to observe, Bourne constructs a series of characters and relationships that may–or may not–signify sexual identity and sexual desire. By tapping into culturally-agreed-upon clusters of gendered behavior, he establishes particular expectations about characters and relationships, only to confound them by presenting another cluster of gendered behavior–often within the same character or relationship. At every turn, expectations of desire are established, then violated. For Butler, drag becomes the vehicle through which we can appreciate this instability of gendered performance. “Drag constitutes the mundane way in which genders are appropriated, theatricalized, worn, and done” (1998, p. 1520). For Tobin (1998), the contemporary tango couple “dances its way back and

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forth, over the fortified and leaky border separating the straight and the gay” (p. 84). And for Bourne, a full-length classical ballet becomes the laboratorytheatre in which his gendered experiments can be performed and observed. Like Butler’s drag, and Tobin’s tango, his Swan Lake recognizes the at-playness of both gender and sexual desire, and he proceeds to play with them, to the sustained fascination of the audience. Cultural icon Madonna has enjoyed similar success through similar means. McClary observes that “Madonna’s art . . . repeatedly deconstructs the traditional notion of the unified subject with finite ego boundaries. Her pieces explore . . . various ways of constituting identities that refuse stability, that remain fluid, that resist definition” (1991, p. 2). Madonna’s “play” with gendered performance becomes the lens through which we, as spectators, may safely gaze; if the identification becomes uncomfortable, we need only wait: the view will change. Ironically enough, in the same way that motherhood may have rescued Madonna from an unending phalanx of performances emphasizing gender indeterminacy, so childhood may save Bourne’s Swan Lake from the sort of discomfort that might repel rather than attract an audience. The ballet begins and ends with the Prince as a child, first enduring a nightmare and finally cradled in the arms of the adult swan, suggesting an exoneration of agency and even reality. Like Eyes Wide Shut, it can be read, in the end, as a sad, bad dream of sexual vagrancy: the misguided adventures of a child who, in the absence of proper parenting, never learned the proper way to ask for what it wanted. Placed within this frame, the ballet can titillate without convicting, and the audience can resume a comfortable distance at the conclusion of the encounter. Such distancing is not to diminish, however, the longer-term effects the new Swan Lake may have on an audience. Burt (1995) exhorts choreographers to explore new masculinities in dance, because New representations of masculinity assert the physicality of the masculine body in ways that have the potential to make visible repressed aspects of the construction of masculine identity. On a private level, to uncover and become aware of repressed conflicts might be therapeutic, but to do so within a performance can have the effect of subverting norms and changing attitudes. (p. 163) Seen in this light, Bourne’s Swan Lake becomes an occasion for self-awareness and empowerment concerning issues of gender and sexuality, rather than a riveting, if disturbing, evening of dance. At the same time, Butler’s work on the indeterminacy of gender and desire has an additional application to Bourne’s Swan Lake, worthy of further investigation: the overriding sense of melancholy one feels at the ballet’s conclusion, noted by critics and general viewers alike. The intense–and intensely private–glimpse into Prince Siegfried’s life reveals a succession of problematic

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encounters offering only fleeting gratification, overshadowed by misunderstandings of gender, power, and sexual identity. Siegfried’s sustained fragmentation ensures that nothing will come from nothing, for he cannot summon the whole necessary to connect with another whole. Butler (1995) addresses this sense of incompleteness with the term “gender melancholy.” Reinterpreting Freud’s use of that phrase, she refers to the straight man’s incomplete mourning for the gay man he might have been: When the prohibition against homosexuality is culturally pervasive, then the “loss” of homosexual love is precipitated through a prohibition which is repeated and ritualized through the culture. What ensues is a culture of gender melancholy in which masculinity and femininity emerge as the traces of an ungrieved and ungrievable love. (p. 28) Many of the scenes in Hedwig and the Angry Inch, for example, are impelled by this type of angst, at times ferocious. Unlike Swan Lake, however, Hedwig offers a somewhat hopeful resolution to this melancholia by stressing the integration of masculine/feminine, gay/straight at its conclusion: Hedwig transfers his androgynous persona to his pop-star protégé, conferring a richness, depth and wholeness to the former that he did not possess before. That transference is seen as a gift, a triumphant act of generosity that enhances both giver and recipient. By contrast, the sense of sadness and loss, so palpable at the end of Bourne’s ballet, can be traced to Siegfried’s inability to finally center on a performance of gender that is at once comfortable and life-affirming. The ensuing sense of melancholy–the haunting question of what might have been–becomes the spectators’ to share as they leave this exhibit of gender trouble in its darkest sense.

CONCLUSION When audiences attend a classical ballet, they often witness a fixed notion of gendered performance–fixed in the sense of both “stabilized” and “repaired.” The major female characters of traditional narrative ballet, whether Giselle, Clara, Sleeping Beauty or the Swan Queen, display traditionally feminine signifiers of ethereal beauty, shyness, lightness, passivity, and emotional expressiveness and instability. Their male counterparts, whether Albrecht, the Nutcracker, the Prince or Siegfried, display traditionally masculine signifiers of muscular, earthbound strength, assured and acrobatic command of space, emotional reserve and protectiveness. In all of these ballets–the original versions of which have existed for well over a century–the sex, gender, and sexuality of the major characters are taken-for-granted elements of the production, expressed recognizably and uncategorically for the audience. Using fixed notions of gendered performance as their starting point, the plots of these ballets

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are propelled by magic spells, long-standing feuds, quests, and transgressions from the material world to the spiritual and back again. Intricacies of plot, not gender, make these ballets; gender plays itself out in predictable patterns, the one thing to be counted on to reassert a preexisting order. In his retelling of Swan Lake, Matthew Bourne takes the starting points of sex, gender and sexuality and stops: are these categories really as fixed, out-of-play and unproblematic for a contemporary audience as the traditional narratives suggest? And if not, what would a traditional ballet look like if one destabilized the nerve center of sex, gender and desire and used that to propel the plot? It is a tribute to Bourne’s perspicacity that, in the case of Swan Lake, the audience was “ready” for an evening-length work that calls these ostensibly fixed relationships into question. Rather than boycott the ballet as sacrilege or dismiss it as inconsequential, critics and audiences welcomed it on its own terms, intrigued by new possibilities of movement, relationship, and resonance prompted by the change. To interpret this Swan Lake as a gay ballet–though understandable, given the long-standing, close-knit relationship between male homosexuality and dance–is to sell it short. Bourne is not that obsessive, and neither is the audience. Research by Sender (1999) shows that, when confronted with advertisements carefully coded to appeal to gay consumers while remaining “undetected” by straight ones, there was no necessary correspondence between the sexuality of readers and their readings. Gay readers do not always produce gay readings of a text, any more than straight readers necessarily produce straight readings. Rather, readers are quite capable of “crossing” sexuality in their readings, as well as allowing for the possibility of multiple meanings of a text simultaneously. Admittedly, this is a relatively broad, inclusive and apolitical reading of Bourne’s production. The only agenda it assumes is that lovers of theatrical dance–as well as the curious–will be drawn to any production in which dance’s finer elements are on display: the seamless melding of movement and music; the heightened drama of pas de deux in which a relationship is either developed or destroyed; the ending which is quite open-ended, provoking heated discussion as one leaves the theatre. Doubtless, the fact that several key scenes in this Swan Lake suggest unresolved sexual longing between two men puts the issue of homoeroticism front and center, to the point that hardly anyone “reads” the production as a relationship between a man and a swan. As with the original production, that may be the only reading that qualifies, according to most interpretants, as queer. Nevertheless, it is a “crossing” of readings among viewers that Bourne aimed for, and got. Audiences comprised of a spectrum of sexual persuasions were sensitive to a variety of sexual cues. And it is this “crossing”–identified by de Lauretis (1991) as the etymological root of “queer”–that marks Bourne’s ballet as a most queer act of communication. Such ambiguity is usually the realm of the art house, not the West End or Broadway. Yet the commercial suc-

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cess of the new Swan Lake suggests that mainstream audiences are more comfortable with ambiguities of gender and sexuality than producers might realize. Writing on the relationship of queer studies to the field of communication, Henderson (2001) urges that further research be conducted in such areas as “gay music scenes . . . changing modes of sexual identification and affiliation among young queer people . . . and the social class conditions of queer expression” (p. 481). It is hoped that research on contemporary cultural artifacts such as Bourne’s Swan Lake may serve to answer this call by focusing attention on the deeply embedded, highly ambiguous, yet richly appreciated communication cues surrounding the performance–both staged and mundane–of gender and sexual desire.

REFERENCES Adventures in Motion Pictures. (Producer). (1996). Swan Lake [Videotape]. New York: Atlantic Classics. Batson, C. (1999). Borlin, masculinity, and L’homme et son desir. Dance Chronicle, 22(2) 239-249. Bech, H. (1997). When men meet: Homosexuality and modernity. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Bourne, M. (1996). Interview. Swan Lake [Booklet]. Bronski, M. (1984). Culture clash: The making of a gay sensibility. Boston: South End Press. Butler, J. (1990). Gender trouble: Feminism and the subversion of identity. New York: Routledge. Butler, J. (1995). Melancholy gender/refused identification. In M. Berger, B. Wallis & S. Watson (Eds.), Constructing masculinity (pp. 21-43). New York: Routledge. Butler, J. (1998). Imitation and gender subordination. In D. Richter (Ed.), The critical tradition (pp. 1514-1525). Boston: Bedford Press. Burt, R. (1995). The male dancer: Bodies, spectacle, sexualities. London: Routledge. Burt, R. (1999). Interpreting Jean Borlin’s Dervishes: Masculine subjectivity and the queer male dancing body. Dance Chronicle, 22(2), 223-238. Burt, R. (2001). The trouble with the male dancer. In A. Dils & A. Albright (Eds.), Moving history, dancing cultures: A dance history reader (pp. 44-55). Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Carlsen, J. (1981). Images of the gay male in contemporary drama. In J. Chesebro (Ed.), Gayspeak (pp. 165-174). New York: The Pilgrim Press. Champagne, J. (1997). Dancing queen? Feminist and gay male spectatorship in three recent films from Australia. Film Criticism, 21(3), 66-88. De Lauretis, T. (1991). Queer theory: Lesbian and gay sexualities. differences: A journal of feminist cultural studies, 3(2), iii-xviii. Desmond, J. (1999). Engendering dance. In S. Fraleigh & P. Hanstein (Eds.), Researching dance: Evolving modes of inquiry (pp. 309-333). Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press.

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Desmond, J. (2001). Dancing desires: Choreographing sexualities on and off the stage. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press. Doane, M. (1987). The desire to desire: The women’s film of the 1940s. Basingstoke, UK: Macmillan. Dolin, A. (1969). Pas de deux. London: Dover. Drummond, K. (1998). Narrative dance versus abstract dance: Teaching both sides of Balanchine. Iowa Journal of Communication, 30(1), 22-36. Fleming, B. (2000). Sex, art, and audience: Dance essays. New York: Peter Lang. Foster, S. (1996). The ballerina’s phallic pointe. In S. Foster (Ed.), Corporealities: Dancing knowledge, culture and power (pp. 1-24). London: Routledge. Grigorovich, Y., & Demidov, A. (1986). Swan Lake. Neptune, NJ: T.F.H. Publications. Hanna, J. (1988). Dance, sex, and gender. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Hardin, M. (2000). What is the word at Logos College? Homosocial ritual or homosexual desire in Don Delillo’s End Zone? Journal of Homosexuality, 40(1), 31-50. Henderson, L. (2000). Queer communication studies. In W. Gudykunst (Ed.), Communication Yearbook 24 (pp. 465-484). Newbury Park, CA: Sage. Jagose, A. (1996). Queer theory: An introduction. New York: New York University Press. Jackson, G. (1978). Dance as dance. Toronto: Catalyst. Kerensky, O. (1981). Ballet. Enfield, UK: Guinness. Laws, K., & Harvey, C. (1994). Physics, dance, and the pas de deux. New York: Schirmer Books. Makarova, N. (1979). A dance autobiography. New York: Knopf. McClary, S. (1991). Feminine endings: Music, gender and society. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Mulvey, L. (1975). Visual pleasure and narrative cinema. Screen, 16(3), 6-18. Pinfold, M. (1998). The performance of queer masculinity in Derek Jarman’s Sebastiane. Film Criticism, 23(1), 74-83. Sacks, H. (1972). An initial investigation of the usability of conversational materials for doing sociology. In D. Sudnow (Ed.), Studies in social interaction (pp. 31-72). New York: Free Press. Schonberg, H. (1981). The lives of the great composers. New York: W.W. Norton. Sender, K. (1999). Selling sexual subjectivities: Audiences respond to gay window advertising. Critical Studies in Mass Communication, 16, 172-196. Shapiro, L. (1997, June 16). Classics reclassified. Newsweek, 129, 59. Tobin, J. (1998). Tango and the scandal of homosexual desire. In W. Washabaugh (Ed.), The passion of music and dance (pp. 79-102). Oxford: Berg.

Queering Marriage: An Ideographic Interrogation of Heteronormative Subjectivity Davin Grindstaff, PhD Georgia State University

SUMMARY. Recent debates on same-sex marriage mark the institution, practice, and concept of marriage as a significant site of power and resistance within American culture. Adopting Michel Foucault’s conception of “discipline,” this essay examines how marriage discourse reinforces heteronormative power relations through its rhetorical constitution of gay male identity. Supplementing “ideographic” critique with Judith Butler’s theory of performative speech acts enables us to better interrogate and resist these operations of power. This essay maps the contemporary scene of heteronormative power and resistance through two rhetorical performances of gay male identity. The marriage debates, in the first instance, demonstrate how a conventional desire for masculine Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Communication, Georgia State University, 33 Gilmer Street, Atlanta, GA 30303 (E-mail: [email protected]). This essay has been adapted from the author’s dissertation, defended at Pennsylvania State University, and an earlier draft was presented at the 2000 meeting of the National Communication Association. The author would like to thank Kevin M. DeLuca, Gust A. Yep, and the anonymous reviewers for their insightful commentaries on earlier drafts of this essay. [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Queering Marriage: An Ideographic Interrogation of Heteronormative Subjectivity.” Grindstaff, Davin. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 257-275; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 257-275. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_12

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agency influences the heteronormative production of gay male identity. In the second instance, gay male SM [sadomasochism] performs a concept of “relational agency,” which potentially resists heteronormativity. [Article copies available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.]

KEYWORDS. Critical rhetoric, gay male identity, heteronormativity, ideograph, performativity, resistance, same-sex marriage In December of 1990, three same-sex couples applied for marriage licenses in the state of Hawaii. A legal sanction of their relationships was denied. The Hawaii Supreme Court reviewed the case of Baehr v. Lewin on May 5, 1993, and held that denying same-sex couples legal marriage went against the sex-based discrimination clause of the Hawaii State Constitution (Reske, 1993). According to the “strict scrutiny test,” the state is required to provide a “compelling interest” to justify legislation that would discriminate against same-sex couples (Arkes, 1995). The Hawaii case, a clear catalyst for the legal events to come, would not reach its conclusion until 1998. Meanwhile, a national climate concerning the institution of marriage was emerging. The recent controversy surrounding same-sex marriage marks the institution, practice, and concept of marriage as a significant site of power and resistance within American culture. In the first instance, the decision to sanction same-sex marriage would extend legal and economic advantages to same-sex couples,1 which appears to carry the promise of social equality on a broader scale (Dean, 1994). In the wake of Baehr v. Lewin, however, waves of resistance against same-sex marriage were felt on both national and state levels. What came to be known as the Defense of Marriage Act [DOMA], motivated by the United States’ constitutional Full Faith and Credit Clause, bars “federal recognition of gay marriages and specif[ies] that states need not honor such marriages if they are eventually legalized in any other states” (Idelson, 1996, p. 1539). Graff (2000) observes that DOMA, signed into law by President Clinton on September 21, 1996, creates a “chilling effect” within our legal system, for it can be used “to challenge everything from domestic partnership statutes to lesbian moms’ custody rights” (p. 34). DOMA laws have become equally prevalent in state legislatures. By March of 2001, the number of states with statutes banning same-sex marriage had risen to thirty-five. The legal climate for gay and lesbian couples, however, is not entirely hostile at the turn of the century. In 2000, Vermont recognized “civil unions” for same-sex couples, providing them with many of the benefits and privileges held by opposite-sex married couples (“Landmark,” 2000).

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These recent legal events might suggest that we examine heteronormativity from a juridical conceptualization of power. This essay, following Berlant and Warner (1998), defines “heteronormativity” as “the institutions, structures of understanding, and practical orientations that make heterosexuality seem not only coherent–that is, organized as a sexuality–but also privileged” (my italics, p. 548). In other words, heteronormative power extends beyond the law into our cultural concepts of “sexuality” itself. Consequently, limiting questions of power to matters of law and repression often forecloses on an understanding of, and potential resistance to, what Foucault (1978) has called “the regime of sexuality” or the disciplinary production of sexual subjects. Although the marriage debates clearly influence the equality afforded by revisions of public policy, this essay aims instead to examine how marriage discourse reinforces heteronormative power relations through its rhetorical constitution of gay male subjects. The gendered nature of the marriage debates, their reduction of “same-sex” relations [and implicitly, queer relations] to male homosexuality, is historically consistent with the modern discourse on sexuality more generally. From its nascence at the turn of the century, the term “homosexual” has often carried a specifically male connotation (Sedgwick, 1990, pp. 1, 17). Politically speaking, conflating gay male identity with other “queer” subject positions has always proven to be a troublesome, if not dangerous endeavor (Edelman, 1994; McIntosh, 1993; Sedgwick, 1990). Despite political alliances between lesbians, transsexuals, transgender persons, bisexuals and gay men, the constitution of “sexual” identity is unique to each group, as are their experiences of heteronormative power. In order to imagine a potential path of resistance to heteronormativity, this essay: (1) specifies Foucault’s notion of disciplinary power, (2) articulates a critical practice of performative ideographs, (3) explores the ideographic relationship between sexual activity [promiscuity] and male homosexual identity within the marriage debates, and (4) stages a resistive, “queer” performance of both marriage and male sexual identity.

DISCIPLINARY POWER AND PERFORMATIVE RESISTANCES Articulating an avenue for resistance to heteronormative power relations, this essay adopts Michel Foucault’s conception of “disciplinary” operations of power. Although this perspective does not deny the existence of juridical modes of power,2 it does advocate locating resistances that “function outside, below and alongside the State apparatuses, on a much more minute and everyday level” (Foucault, 1980, p. 60). In his now familiar notion of power-as-productive, Foucault observes, “[P]ower is strong . . . because, as we are beginning to realize, it produces effects at the level of desire–and also at the level of knowledge” (p. 59). The constitution of subjects, through specific modes of classification,

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functions as a significant mechanism of disciplinary power (Foucault, 1977, pp. 177-184). Foucault (1980) argues further, “the notion of repression which mechanisms of power are generally reduced to strikes me as very inadequate and possibly dangerous” (p. 59). The reduction of power to repression, active discrimination, and overt prejudice directly influences and severely limits the types of resistances that we imagine and enact. Foucault’s (1978) analysis of the modern regime of sexuality, for instance, demands that we do not reduce power to repression and imagine resistance as simply “saying ‘yes’ to sex” (p. 157). Resistances to disciplinary, heteronormative power must be located within the production of sexual subjects rather than merely the legal inclusion of these subjects. Sedgwick (1993) contends that understanding sexual identity as an effect of performative and ideological operations enables such resistive “alternatives” (p. 14). Normative operations of power and their relative resistances, however, are often elided within the marriage debates. Warner (1999a), for example, clearly recognizes “marriage” discourse as both disciplinary (p. 154) and heteronormative (p. 127, 144), yet his analysis ironically forecloses performative resistive avenues. In the first instance, his position locates heteronormative power solely within the State apparatus and the legal institution of marriage (pp. 130, 145), which prevents the realization of his intended aim to move beyond the pro/con [juridical] discourse on same-sex marriage (p. 120). This reduction does more than merely cast doubt on the liberating efficacy of same-sex marriage; it also forms a premise whereby the simple rejection of same-sex marriage, which is vaguely referred to as “the world-making project of queer life” (p. 152) and “belong[ing] to a [queer] counterpublic” (pp. 153, 159) constitutes resistance to heteronormativity. Such vagueness most likely results from Warner’s belief that imagining performative subjectivity as a site of resistance presents a “false optimism” (pp. 156-7). Warner mistakenly claims that Judith Butler’s Psychic Life of Power characterizes the resistive efficacy of performative re-significations as “inevitable” (p. 155), “metaphysical” [a-historical] (p. 155), and “[coming] about merely by repeating the words” (p. 157). In the following analysis, we will witness the ways in which Butler conceptualizes performative efficacy as limited rather than inevitable, historical rather than metaphysical, and contingent rather than necessary. As a result, this essay aims to locate and interrogate specific disciplinary operations that produce heteronormative forms of subjectivity within the marriage debates. I contend that such operations involve the strategic, synchronic deployment of ideographic terms, and that the performative character of these rhetorics ultimately enables (but does not guarantee) historically situated resistive citations.

PERFORMATIVE IDEOGRAPHS: EXTENDING THE CRITICAL RHETORIC PROJECT Before critically engaging the disciplinary production of gay male subjectivity in the same-sex marriage debates, I wish to extend our understandings

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and practices of critical rhetoric. Judith Butler’s groundbreaking analysis of gender, sex, and sexuality as effects of performative speech acts establishes potential methodological tools for critical rhetoric’s “nominalist” orientation, and advances a resistive dimension of “ideographic” critique. Generally, the objectives of critical rhetoric parallel those found in Butler’s work: “The aim is to understand the integration of power/knowledge in society–what possibilities for change the integration invites or inhibits and what intervention strategies might be considered appropriate to effect social change” (McKerrow, 1989, p. 91). In adopting a performative rhetoric from Butler’s Bodies That Matter, this essay aims to provide the “intervention strategies” toward which McKerrow gestures. I contend that the fourth principle, in particular, is in need of methodological elaboration: “Naming is the central symbolic act of a nominalist rhetoric.” Although this principle implicates the production of subjectivity within its boundaries (p. 105), the theoretical and political details of these rhetorical processes remain unexamined. Wendt’s (1996) essay on the genealogical poaching of texts also suggests that a nominalist rhetoric might operate in resistive ways, but, like McKerrow’s inauguration of critical rhetoric, falls short of specifying how the “poaching of texts” (pp. 266-67) exerts rhetorical force or initiates rhetorical appeals. Appropriating a performative rhetoric, in order to respond to these questions, will enable us to construct a potentially resistive critical methodology. This critical toolbox employs Michael Calvin McGee’s conceptualization of the “ideograph” as a means of interrogating and resisting the disciplinary production of identities. The connection between ideographic terms and the constitution of cultural-political identities is not altogether new to rhetorical studies (Cloud, 1998; Delgado, 1995; Lucaites & Condit, 1990; Smith & Windes, 2000). I hope to extend our insight into the ideographic production of cultural identities further through Butler’s notion of performativity, which might also enable resistive tactics within such sites of power/knowledge. McGee (1980), attempting to bridge the gap between material and symbolic conceptions of social power, defines ideographs as “one-term sums of an orientation” within a society (p. 7). Additionally, any analysis of ideographic terms examines their rhetorical appeal “in their concrete history as usages, not in their alleged idea-content” (p. 10). In other words, how ideographs function to produce material effects becomes more significant than their supposed meaning. Strasser (1997), for instance, demonstrates the ways in which “marriage” is often linked rhetorically to the social construct of the heterosexual “family” (pp. 16-17). The discourse on marriage consequently restricts the definition of “family,” not as an idea, meaning, claim, or proposition, but, rather, as a social practice that prevents gay and lesbian couples from creating families and raising children. Establishing the performative dimension of ideographs and their rhetorical circulation, the following discussion clarifies and supplements McGee’s notion of the ideograph in three ways: (1) contending that when we conceptualize ideographs as performative entities, we neces-

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sarily conceptualize power as a contingent force rather than as a deterministic one, (2) recognizing the distinctive ways in which performative ideographs rely on cultural conventions for their rhetorical efficacy, and (3) advocating the repetition or citation of performative ideographs as a means of resisting their normative power relations.3 To begin, the power relations produced through the deployment or circulation of ideographs are necessarily contingent rather than deterministic. McGee (1980) writes: [Mass] consciousness, I believe, is always false, not because we are programmed automatons and not because we have a propensity to structure political perceptions in poetically false “dramas” or “scenarios,” but because “truth” in politics, no matter how firmly we believe, is always an illusion. The falsity of an ideology is specifically rhetorical, for the illusion of truth and falsity with regard to normative commitments is the product of persuasion. (italics mine, p. 4) Rejecting conventional usages of “ideology”-as-false consciousness (citizens as “programmed automatons,” and perceptions as “false dramas”), McGee conceptualizes political and cultural claims of truth and falsity as “illusions” that are “the product of persuasion.” Butler (1993) advances a similar claim in her discussion of the “sex”-ed body: “[I]f ‘sex’ is a fiction, it is one within whose necessities we live, without which life itself would be unthinkable” (p. 6). In Butler’s terms, an ideological “illusion” is not necessarily “false”; in fact, Butler challenges the obviousness of “fiction/truth” and “fantasy/reality” as symmetrical binaries (p. 6). Rather, these characterizations of social reality are the effects of rhetorical invention. Both McGee’s discussion of ideographs and Butler’s theorization of performativity cast power relations as contingent and open to contest. Butler’s (1993) discussion of performativity transforms what she terms the discursive law [ideology] from a deterministic origin of power into a rhetorical space or a site of invention.4 This transformation begins by establishing the performative utterance as a nominalist practice–a rhetoric of naming–which follows J. L. Austin’s (1962) distinction between perlocutionary [traditional persuasion] and illocutionary [performative] utterances, between doing something “by saying something” and doing something “in saying something” (pp. 94-103).5 Butler writes, “In the first instance, performativity must be understood not as a singular or deliberate ‘act,’ but, rather, as the reiterative and citational practice [in] which discourse produces the effects that it names” (my italics, p. 2). Butler’s elaboration of performative utterances or citations locates the rhetorical text (a text that “produces effects”) in an interval space, a space between. It is brought into existence by a discursive practice rather than by the speaking or “deliberate” subject; it is a particular repetition of a constitutive statement based upon a discursive law [ideology] that appears to precede the utterance.

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This textual repetition or citation acquires its rhetorical authority, or capacity to influence, from this seemingly a priori discursive law because the law appears to come before and thereby verify the citation itself. The power mobilized by discourse [ideology] not only results in the emergence of the performative citation, but also enables that utterance to have rhetorical force or influence. Thus, the citation appears to be located between the discursive law [ideology] and the citation’s rhetorical effects; it is mobilized by the former and produces the latter. For example, the rhetorical potency of heteronormativity, as a culturally produced discursive law or ideology, can be easily witnessed in its performative citation or the naming of “marriage” as an intimate and committed relationship between a man and a woman (Strasser, 1997, pp. 5-8), which inherently grants social privilege to “heterosexual” subjects. It is vital to recognize that the rhetorical relationship between the discursive law [ideology] and the performative citation is contingent, rather than deterministic, in Butler’s account. For if we follow the linear causality presented thus far (the discursive law constitutes its effects through the performative citation), the normative or disciplinary effects of an ideological discourse remain unquestionable.6 This conceptualization merely reiterates a deterministic notion of discursive power [ideology], thereby foreclosing resistive critical acts. Before examining how Butler enables these resistive citations, however, it remains necessary to understand how performative ideographs become repeated. In other words, what secures their ability to govern any particular scene of social power? How do discursive laws [ideologies] appear to precede their citations? Performative ideographs rely upon cultural conventions for their rhetorical efficacy; their usages must be “accepted” by the society in which they circulate and influence relations of power (Austin, 1962; McGee, 1980). The rhetorical character of ideographic terms, their conventionality, exists both diachronically and synchronically. A diachronic analysis indicates how the usages of an ideograph maintain their modes of influence over time (McGee, 1980, p. 10). The heteronormative usage of the ideographic term “marriage,” which privileges male/female sexual relationships, clearly relies upon its conventionality and widespread cultural acceptance for its repetition. A synchronic analysis, in contrast, indicates how different ideographs come into conflict with each other. DeLuca (1999) argues that synchronic analysis “enables us to understand how ideographs . . . function presently as rhetorical forces” (pp. 36-37). Within the same-sex marriage debates, the conventional usage of the term “marriage” is often contested by an ideological deployment of “equality,” “rights,” and “anti-discrimination” (Smith & Windes, 2000, pp. 155-179). A performative rhetoric expands McGee’s methodology to explore why conventional usages are “accepted” in the first place and explain why certain ideographs win out over others in a particular ideological contest. In short, what cultural appeals influence these ideographic consequences? Supplementing McGee’s concept of the ideograph with Butler’s discussion of performativity

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will enable critical rhetoricians to identify these rhetorical elements, and potentially transgress contemporary relations of power. This brings us directly to our third question: how might we deploy ideographic terms in order to articulate resistive modes of social identity and relation? Butler (1993) raises this question explicitly: “What would it mean to ‘cite’ the [discursive] law to produce it differently, to ‘cite’ the law in order to reiterate and co-opt its power, to expose the heterosexual matrix and to displace the effect of its necessity” (p. 15)? In terms of the sexed body, Butler explains, “the norm of sex takes hold to the extent that it is ‘cited’ as such a norm, but it also derives its power through the citations that it compels” (p. 13). The agency of the discursive law [ideology] is contingent, rather than deterministic, due to its reliance on the citation. This perspective enables a critical rhetorician to locate the discursive law and its usage of ideographs. More important, this conception of performativity allows for resistive citations to occur and potentially affect change within those power relations–it enables resistive activity. The agency required for accomplishing this resistive citation, re-signification, and re-invention of ideographic usage is specific in Butler’s discussion. Although performative citations do not rely on a willful, intentional subject to maintain their efficacy (pp. 2, 227), the agency of the subject is not eliminated (p. 7); rather, agency is qualified or “constrained” in specific ways (pp. 12, 228). For instance: “Where there is an ‘I’ who utters or speaks and thereby produces an effect in discourse, there is first a discourse which precedes and enables that ‘I’ and forms in language the constraining trajectory of its will” (p. 225). Here, the power of the discursive law both enables the subject to perform resistive citations and limits their potential outcomes. The intended effects of the rhetor are constrained by the discursive law [ideology] due to the historicity of the ideograph and its conventional usages. We must be careful not to associate these limitations of the resistive citation with a disabling of political and cultural change. The performative citation of ideographic terms has the potential to effect change via “reiteration” (Butler, 1993, p. 15) or citing the law differently. This is the resistive capacity of the social agent. The remainder of this essay examines the contemporary American scene of heteronormative power and resistance through two rhetorical performances of gay male identity. The marriage debates, in the first instance, demonstrate how a conventional ideology of masculine agency influences the heteronormative production of gay male identity. In the second instance, the gay male SM [sadomasochistic] scene performs a concept of relational agency, which challenges heteronormativity through a resistive citation of masculine agency.

HETERONORMATIVE SUBJECTS AND SEXUAL ACTIVITIES The disciplinary dimension of the same-sex marriage debates performatively cites an ideology of sexual object choice [the “regime of sexuality”], which si-

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multaneously founds itself upon and reifies a series of interrelated, binary ideographic terms: heterosexual/homosexual, procreation/sodomy, monogamy/ promiscuity, life/death. The following synchronic (and at times diachronic) analysis demonstrates how these ideographs are deployed through performative utterances–through rhetorical acts of naming. It also argues that the contemporary usage of these ideographic terms equates male (hetero and homo)-sexual identities with specific sexual activities. Although the normative association between male homosexual identity and sexual practices [specifically, sodomy]7 can be traced from the epoch in which “the nineteenth-century homosexual became a personage . . . a species” (Foucault, 1978, p. 43) to the U.S. Supreme Court’s Bowers v. Hardwick decision in 1986 (Halley, 1991; Hunter, 1995), queer theorists refuse to mark the historical emergence of the “homosexual” as an identity category fully distinct from sexual conduct or activities (Halperin, 2000; Sedgwick, 1990). Rather, Halperin (1998) argues, “We need to find ways of asking how different historical cultures fashioned different sorts of links between sexual acts, on the one hand, and sexual tastes, styles, dispositions, characters, gender presentations, and forms of subjectivity, on the other” (p. 109). This essay aims to trace these linkages as they emerge in the recent marriage debates. Two discursive conditions become foundational for the constitutive relationship between sexual activity and male sexual identities: the exclusion of women, and a totalizing split between the symbolic and the material. These conditions performatively condense key ideographic terms into heteronormative productions of male subjectivity. Characterizing such constructions as “merely stereotypes,” however, typically leads to questions of their representational accuracy rather than a critical exploration of their rhetoricity and ideological import. In contrast, understanding these representations of male sexual identity as performative and ideographic enables us to investigate their rhetorical appeal and potentially counter their heteronormativity. Contemporary marriage debates participate within a fundamentally gendered discourse. The exclusion of women, lesbians in particular, is required to associate male homosexual identities with specific sexual behaviors [promiscuity]. The performative deployment of “promiscuity” as an ideograph enables a heteronormative discourse to constitute the gay male body as an image of death, an image that ultimately functions as a foil for the heterosexual body. These rhetorical condensations take the form of an equation: male homosexuality = promiscuity = death. This essay maps how such ideologically charged equations are constructed. Prager (1997) attempts to uphold “a family-based, sexually monogamous society” (p. 66) by associating gay men with promiscuity, an equation that requires the exclusion of women: The male propensity to promiscuity would simply overwhelm most homosexual males’ marriage vows. It is women who keep most heterosex-

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ual men monogamous, or at least far less likely to cruise, but gay men have no such brake on their cruising natures. Male nature, not the inability to marry, compels gay men to wander from man to man. This is proven by the behavior of lesbians, who, though also prevented from marrying each other, are not promiscuous. (pp. 66-67) Prager’s “family-based, sexually monogamous society” is, in essence, a society of men, for it presupposes a reduction of all sexual activity to phallic penetration (Smart, 1996). Within such a discourse, heterosexual women are not granted any sexual desires or erotic practices. They remain simply a mechanism to “keep most heterosexual men monogamous.” Similarly, what lesbians “do” sexually is not significant because their function within this discourse is to “prove” the inherent link between promiscuity and gay male identity. It is the absence of sexual behavior that constitutes lesbian identity in this heteronormative discourse–they are “not promiscuous.” Rauch’s (1997) essay, which affirms same-sex marriage due to its ability to “domesticate men,” also explicitly erases the sexual activity of women: “Of course, women and older men don’t generally travel in marauding or orgiastic packs” (p. 177). When Rauch praises the disciplinary effect of marriage, we must remember that he reduces same-sex relations and activities to those of men. For instance, “Surely [keeping them off the streets and at home] is a very good thing, especially as compared to the closet-gay culture of furtive sex with innumerable partners in parks and bathhouses” (p. 178). The ideographic usage of “promiscuity,” in both Prager and Rauch, has significant rhetorical implications for the discursive production of gay male identity. Specifically, the consistent moralistic denigration of “promiscuity” within same-sex marriage debates crystallizes images of gay men that are frequently evoked in the age of AIDS–images of death. Eskridge’s (1996) argument for same-sex marriage deploys the trope of “erotic domestication” to such an effect. He warns: It should not have required the AIDS epidemic to alert us to the problems of sexual promiscuity and to the advantages of committed relationships. In part because of their greater tendency toward bonding in committed pairs, lesbians have been the group least infected by the virus that leads to AIDS and have emerged in the 1990s as an unusually vital group. (p. 9) This statement disciplines gay male eroticism by deploying “promiscuity” and “committed relationships” in binary form; one is a “problem,” the other is an “advantage.” Furthermore, lesbians become (hetero)-normalized by this discourse because their committed relationships have prevented the AIDS epidemic from significantly infecting their population.8 This exclusion of women, as we have already witnessed, is necessary for the rhetorical condensation of “male homosexual” [identity] and “promiscuity” [act]. Most important, the invocation of AIDS within the marriage debates rhetorically constitutes

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the gay male body and its promiscuous activities as harbingers of death.9 The constitution of gay male identity within the same-sex marriage debates becomes a performative citation of historically situated ideographs, such that: male homosexuality = promiscuity [HIV transmission] = death. Due to the binary form of these ideographs, gay male promiscuity easily becomes a foil for heterosexual reproduction. The constitution of “heterosexuality,” much like its binary counterpart, relies upon the performative condensation of several ideographic terms: heterosexuality, marriage, monogamy, procreation, and life. A totalizing split between the symbolic and the material is required for these ideographic terms to take the form of an equation, such that: heterosexuality = monogamy [marriage] = life [procreation]. In sum, they must deny their status as performative ideographs. Wilson’s (1997) “conservative” response to Andrew Sullivan rejects samesex marriage for purely symbolic reasons. He first locates his grounds for equating “heterosexual marriage” [identity] with “procreation” [act] in scripture: the Torah links “sex to procreation the highest standard by which to judge sexual relations” (p. 159). In other words, heterosexual marriage, in its ideal or symbolic form, serves procreative purposes. Although Sullivan argues that heterosexual couples practice adultery and sodomy in addition to monogamous procreative sex, Wilson counters that Sullivan forgets “the distinction alive in most people’s minds between marriage as an institution and marriage as a practice” (pp. 160-61). This statement is key to our understanding of how heteronormativity suffuses contemporary marriage debates, for it enables us to identify how heteronormativity privileges the symbolic or “institutional” conceptions of marriage over the social practice itself. Wilson’s (1997) position also finds its theoretical foundation in “natural law,” the presumption that the human body is inherently a heterosexual body, which links monogamy and procreation to the heterosexual subject. Wilson explains, “natural-law theorists respond much as would the [conventional] average citizen–never mind ‘utility,’ what counts is what is right. In particular, homosexual uses of the reproductive organs violate the condition that sex serve solely as the basis of heterosexual marriage” (pp. 161-2). The “natural” body assumes a fundamentally heterosexual identity via performative utterance, for its organs are named as “reproductive.” The “homosexual” body is also reduced to specific “uses” of the body or practices [sodomy?]; it becomes a body whose identity is determined by its actions. But how does Wilson accomplish these rhetorical condensations of identity and act? In the face of Sullivan’s argument that sterile (non-procreative) heterosexual individuals are permitted to enter the institution of marriage, Wilson responds, “people, I think, want the [heterosexual] form [of marriage] observed even when the practice varies; a sterile marriage, whether from choice or necessity, remains a marriage of a man and a woman” (p. 162). From this statement, we might conclude that when Wilson and other “natural law” proponents oppose same-sex

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marriage for procreative reasons, they are isolating and privileging the symbolic over the material practices of married individuals. It must remain clear that my critique does not aim to invert this hierarchy, privileging the material while ignoring the symbolic aspect of the relationship between sexual identities and sexual acts. Rather, I hope that this interrogation of the marriage debates will open a space in which we might transgress the heteronormative force and appeal of these ideographic relationships. In order to do so, we must also examine the ways in which the “pro” side of the debate forecloses such resistive opportunities by merely granting primacy to materiality. Maguire (1997), for instance, attacks what he terms “biologism,” the creation of moral principles based entirely on “basic biological facts.” He reasons, “The penis and the vagina do enjoy a congenial fit, and the species’ need for reproduction relies on that. But sex rarely, in any lifetime, has to do with reproduction, and not even heterosexual persons are limited to coitus for sexual fulfillment” (p. 58). This statement isolates the material practices of “sex” from their symbolic dimension (“congenial fit”), and thereby dismisses the rhetorical significance of the symbolic within the marriage debates (not to mention the production of heteronormativity in general). Maguire also echoes Sullivan’s position on “sterility” in order to repudiate the necessary link between heterosexual marriage [identity] and procreation [act]. “Reproductive fertility is not the essence of genuine marriage. Even in the Roman Catholic tradition, sterile persons are permitted to marry . . . even fertile heterosexual persons do not have an obligation to have children” (p. 62). In short, the dismissal of the symbolic dimension of sexuality forecloses a resistive understanding of the constitutive relationship between sexual acts and sexual identities because it denies the ideographic character of these equations. Transgressing these discursive elements of heteronormativity requires that we critically occupy the rhetorical spaces between the symbolic and the material, as well as the conceptual spaces between sexual identity and sexual activity. The exchange between Andrew Sullivan and Hadley Arkes invites such a critical intervention. In the following analysis, I want to argue that the performative condensation of ideographic terms, which both relies upon and reproduces their conventionality, requires an additional mode of persuasion–a rhetorical leap of faith. In other words, heteronormative equations, homosexuality = promiscuity [HIV transmission] = death, and its binary counterpart, heterosexuality = monogamy [marriage] = life [procreation], are not produced through traditional modes of argumentation and reasoning. Yet they function as if they were. This leap of faith, as it operates in the marriage debates, is the desire for a masculine agency. Consequently, any resistance to heteronormativity must re-think this desire, and perform a resistive re-signification of masculine agency. Let’s begin with Arkes’s (1997) position against same-sex marriage, which performatively constitutes both homosexual [male] and heterosexual [male]

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identities. The glue that holds these ideographic equations together is the desire for a conventional masculine agency. [Same-sex marriage] would draw its power from the romance of monogamy. . . . But that is not exactly the vision of gay sex . . . the permissions for this new sexual freedom have been cast to that amorphous formula of “sexual orientation”: the demand of gay rights is that we should recede from casting moral judgments on the way that people find their pleasure in engagements they regard as “sexual.” (italics mine, p. 156) This statement first engenders sexual identity or “orientation” as a shapeless entity or “amorphous formula,” and then grounds homosexual identity in sexual activity or “the way that people find their pleasure.” In other words, homosexual men are constituted solely by their conduct at the very moment they choose to engage in promiscuous sexual activity. Acknowledging how “sexual freedom” or absolute agency is a necessary condition for this rhetorical equation is most vital to our resistance to heteronormativity. Heterosexual men are equally constituted through their sexual conduct. Arkes (1997) writes, “In traditional marriage, the understanding of monogamy was originally tied to the ‘natural teleology’ of the body–to the recognition that only two people, no more and no fewer, can generate children” (p. 157). “The body,” which assumes fundamentally heterosexual identity in its procreative capacity, is therefore “tied to” the conception of “monogamy,” a sexual act. Heterosexual monogamy, however, is constituted as both cause and effect, both natural and teleological, which creates a great amount of cultural anxiety, for it renders heterosexuality = monogamy [marriage] = life [procreation] as a highly contingent ideographic equation rather than a secure, coherent formulation. Masculine agency, once again, becomes the rhetorical leap of faith; heterosexual men are monogamous because they choose to be. This choice is not natural, in Arkes’s account, because it requires heterosexual marriage or “women” to regulate it (p. 155). Masculine agency is equally significant to Sullivan’s dismissal or “leaving aside” (p. 82) of these ideographic equations, an act that ultimately “leaves” them in place and enables them to govern the contemporary scene of sexual identity. Sullivan (1997) deploys a masculine agency in order to separate sexual identity from sexual activity. [Conservatives] mean by a “homosexual life” one in which emotional commitments are fleeting, promiscuous sex is common, disease is rampant, social ostracism is common, and standards of public decency, propriety, and self-restraint are flaunted. They mean a way of life that deliberately subverts gender norms in order to unsettle the virtues that make family life possible, ridicules heterosexual life, and commits itself to an ethic of hedonism, loneliness, and deceit. (p. 148)

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Sullivan then argues that excessive sexual behavior or this type of “homosexual life” is not “necessary” or “inevitable” (pp. 148-9). In other words, homosexual identity is separated from sexual behaviors altogether, which echoes a larger movement to “redeem gay identity by repudiating sex” (Warner, 1999b, pp. 42, 60). Furthermore, cultural constructions of sexual identity become completely inconsequential within the context of marriage, for Sullivan conceptualizes “homosexuality” as “involuntary” (p. 148). As he writes later, “they have no choice but to be homosexual” (my italics, p. 153).10 I mark the concept of “choice” in this excerpt to identify the ways in which masculine agency forecloses a transgression of heteronormativity. In short, (homo)-sexual activity is partitioned off from homosexual identity through the concept of masculine agency. Although this free will or agency cannot influence a man’s “orientation” or identity, it can, in Sullivan’s estimation, impact his sexual conduct. Same-sex marriage would “construct social institutions and guidelines to modify and change that [promiscuous] behavior for the better” (p. 149). Both sides of this “domestication of men” debate crystallize heteronormative identity equations through the desire for masculine agency. Most important, the character of this agency is contingent even though it appears to be foundational and necessary. Understanding the rhetorical ways in which this performative ambivalence animates the production of heteronormative subjectivity enables potential resistive re-significations. I imagine this resistance to take the form of “relational agency” or agency contingent upon an Other.

THE HAUNTING OF MASCULINE AGENCY I contend that we have already witnessed some of the ways in which masculine agency is inherently relational, rather than absolute, in the concept of marriage as “domestication.” We might suggest that gay male SM [sadomasochistic] identities-practices-relations are equally demonstrative of this concept. I do not aim, by the use of this example, to analogize heterosexual marriage and gay male SM; nor do I intend to imply that SM is somehow “more” resistive than the pursuit of same-sex marriage. In fact, this discussion should not be understood as advocating one erotic practice, social relationship, or mode of living at the expense of another. The point, rather, is to invent a concept of relational agency, which might be deployed against the ideographic constructions of heteronormative power. The contemporary SM scene in American gay male subcultures challenges the presumed coherence of sexual identities and absolute masculine agency. A concept of relational agency, I contend, defines the very essence of gay male SM. Foucault (1994) explains: [T]he S/M game is very interesting because it is a strategic relation, but it is always fluid. Of course, there are roles, but everyone knows very well

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that those roles can be reversed. . . . Or, even when the roles are stabilized, you know very well that it is always a game. Either the rules are transgressed, or there is an agreement, either explicit or tacit, that makes [the participants] aware of certain boundaries. (Gallagher & Wilson, p. 29) Note the diverse ways in which SM practices are characterized as relational without reifying heteronormative positions of active/passive, subject/object, agent/non-agent. Formations of male subjectivity become “fluid,” “reversed,” “a game,” “transgressed,” and/or “agreed” upon. Noyes (1997), in his historical study of masochism, eloquently concludes, “Masochism as it is practiced today partakes willfully in the fragmentation of identity” (p. 211). In practice, gay male SM relies upon the symbolic dimension of eroticism, the incorporation of fantasy and illusion, in order to perform its parody of conventional masculine identity and male social power (Moser, 1996; Weinberg, 1987). Yet the resistive capacity of SM–its rhetorical dimension–is more than merely symbolic. SM erotics are fundamentally performed on and between bodies. The corporeal element of SM equally transgresses our sense of absolute masculine agency and control, for it explicitly involves the versatility of role-playing (Ernulf & Innala, 1995; Sandnabba & Santtila, 1999) and the active negotiation between partners (Simon, 1994). Masculine agency, and the heteronormative social power it represents, becomes wholly relational when a seemingly passive body becomes active and an apparently dominating body submits to the desires of another. Kleinberg (1980) vividly describes such a moment: “Authority which [the masochist] feels is denying him sexual gratification now becomes an ally, and the arm that whips him is disarmed by his consent. Punishment is now transformed into an enticement by which he seduces his aggressor” (p. 165). Although some argue that SM merely reinforces an ideology of domination through the infliction of pain and physical violence (Bersani, 1995), such accounts fail to recognize the significance of the symbolic in SM erotics. Weinberg (1987) reminds us, “It may not be pain itself, but what it symbolizes [control] that is erotic for some people” (p. 60). These accounts of gay male SM begin (and perhaps we can only ever begin) to articulate a concept of masculine agency as relational and contingent rather than independent and necessary.

CONCLUSIONS Although the legal events of the past decade might suggest analyzing the rhetorical dimension of the same-sex marriage debates from a judicial model of power, we have witnessed the ways in which a heteronormative discourse produces (rather than merely represses) gay male subjects. More important, however, we have recognized how these disciplinary operations of power are highly contingent, open to interrogation, and available for performative re-sig-

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nification. In other words, we are now able to rethink contemporary male sexual identity, specifically the concept of masculine agency, in a way that potentially resists heteronormative power. In so doing, this essay has significantly extended the critical rhetoric project. Supplementing McGee’s notion of ideographic terms with Butler’s theorization of performative speech acts has enabled the critical rhetorician to both engage nominalist rhetorics more fully and advance the resistive dimension of ideographic critique. Understanding performative ideographs and the power relations they engender as culturally conventional and historically contingent creatures, rather than deterministic episodes of ideology, has opened up these spaces of rhetorical invention. In the instance of the same-sex marriage debates, these resistive avenues are historically located within a larger discursive regime of sexuality that equates male (hetero and homo)-sexual identities with specific sexual activities. This essay has mapped how the synchronic, performative, and binary deployment of this regime’s central ideographic terms produces two conventional equations: male homosexuality = promiscuity = death, and heterosexuality = monogamy [marriage] = life [procreation]. Such performative and ideographic equations are not constituted by traditional modes of argumentation and reasoning; rather, their ubiquitous acceptance lies in the cultural conventions that motivate their citation or repetition in discourse. In short, the rhetorical circulation of these ideographic figures requires a rhetorical leap of faith, which, in the marriage debates, is the desire for an absolute masculine agency. While undermining such a historically potent ideological concept is neither easy nor guaranteed, I believe that theorizing masculine agency as always-already contingent or relational moves us toward a horizon where heteronormative forms of male subjectivity begin to dissipate.

NOTES 1. Such benefits include: [J]oint parental custody, insurance and health benefits, joint tax returns, alimony and child support, inheritance of property, hospital visitation rights, a spouse’s Social Security and retirement benefits, family leave, confidentiality of conversations and the right to decide what to do with a partner’s body after death (“National,” 1996). 2. Foucault’s concept of productive power [discipline] does not eclipse repressive forms of power [the Law], but, rather, strips them of their “theoretical primacy” (McNay, 1994, p. 91). 3. This essay parallels DeLuca’s (1999) supplementation, which offers Laclau and Mouffe’s concept of “articulation” as a means of analyzing synchronic structures (pp. 34-44). 4. “Discursive laws” are inherently ideological, for as McGee (1980) observes: “If a mass consciousness exists at all, it must be empirically ‘present’. . . . ideology in practice is a political language, preserved in rhetorical documents” (pp. 4-5). 5. For a detailed explanation of this distinction and its political consequences, see Gould (1995).

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6. For a detailed critique of Butler’s use of causality, see Kaufman-Osborn (1997). 7. For an historical analysis of the diverse legal usages of the term “sodomy,” see Halley (1993). 8. Lee Chiaramonte (1988) observes: “In order to believe that lesbians are not at risk for AIDS . . . I would have to believe we are either sexless or olympically monogamous; that we are not intravenous drug users; that we do not sleep with men; that we do not engage in sexual activities that could prove as dangerous as they are titillating” (qtd. in Crimp, 1988, pp. 251-252). 9. Although the Western depiction of the gay male body as an image of death and degeneration can be traced back to the late nineteenth century (Nunokawa, 1991), its scapegoating function has resulted in devastating consequences during the AIDS crisis, ranging from refusals of medical care and medical insurance to a lack of medical research for AIDS to anti-gay violence (Altman, 1986; Patton, 1986). 10. Defining “homosexual orientation” as an immutable personality trait is generally required by the Fourteenth Amendment in order to secure “gay rights” (Halley, 1994, pp. 145-158).

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Transgender DeKalb: Observations of an Advocacy Campaign John R. Butler, PhD Northern Illinois University

SUMMARY. In September 2000, the Community Members Against Discrimination (CMAD), a grassroots LGBT organization in DeKalb, Illinois, convinced their city council to add protection against discrimination on the basis of gender identity and expression. Written as an autoethnography, this essay considers the events of the campaign in terms of queer theory and the study of public argument by isolating a set of episodes that bring the reader closer to the experiences of transgender citizens who act in a public culture. The author also explores his own responsibilities as a scholar of communication, an activist, and a member of the LGBT community. [Article copies available for a fee from The Haworth Doc-

ument Delivery Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.]

Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Communication, Northern Illinois University, DeKalb, IL 60115 (E-mail: [email protected]). The author wishes to thank Anthony Marsowicz, Margaret Cook, Mary Shelden, Norden Gilbert and Lois Self for their willingness to review and discuss various versions of this essay. The author also deeply appreciates the activists who allowed the use of their personal statements made during the advocacy campaign. [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Transgender DeKalb: Observations of an Advocacy Campaign.” Butler, John R. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 277-296; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 277-296. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_13

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KEYWORDS. Activism, autoethnography, public argument, queer theory, transgender DeKalb, Illinois, the home of Northern Illinois University, is also known as “Barb City,” because it is the birthplace of barbed wire, the material used to contain and protect so much of the world. Perhaps this has something to do with why I have often felt both unwanted and detained by DeKalb. I first came to DeKalb as an undergraduate student, remained for my master’s degree, and returned as a member of the faculty after completing my doctorate. As in the case of most college towns, those who begin their citizenship as an undergraduate student but never seem to leave carry a stigma. There is, accordingly, a popular rumor in this town that if you ever touch the Kishwaukee River, a waterway that dribbles through the city and campus, you are destined to remain in DeKalb for the rest of your life. I was careful never to touch it, but these days, I must admit, I am beginning to think I may have, years ago, waded through it along some journey. Though I have grown to admire the city and its people, I have often felt that I was not welcome, as though a haunting line of barbed wire was symbolically present to keep people like me out. I arrived in DeKalb for the first time in 1989. I was 19 years old. I recall the endless drive from the South Side suburbs where I grew up. DeKalb is one hour west of Chicago, and I began my drive in a panic; I was late for new student orientation, and was driving very fast. Anyone who has made the drive to DeKalb from the Chicago area via the East/West toll way knows that, in and around Aurora, signs of the suburbs disappear, and the topography flattens to reveal a landscape of endless corn and soybean fields, dotted infrequently with farm houses and silos. Near Aurora, a postmodern terror overcomes you when you realize that what was once a corn field is now a sod field, needed to respond to the insatiable appetite for luscious grass to accommodate the westward expansion of the suburbs. For just a moment, you feel as though you have discovered the secret fields of the body snatchers. There are 20 more minutes left in the drive, but it will feel more like an hour. Here, drivers headed for DeKalb enter a kind of freeze, as if in a temporal anomaly, floating along in a slow-motion ride resembling something close, I suspect, to the white tunnel that greets us when we die. Before entering the truly surreal, you consider thoughtful contrasts–that only ten minutes before you were weaving through a tremendous expanse of corporate headquarters seeking relief from city taxes, and some of the wealthiest communities in America. After what seems like an hour, a kind of psychosis or cabin fever–but of the automobile variety–sets in, coupled with a fear that you may have made a terrible, terrible decision to come to DeKalb. Years later, my colleague Walter Atkinson recounted his own arrival after he had accepted a job at NIU. Driving endlessly to his new home, he recalled saying out loud, “My God, what have I done?” It’s something about the space that lies between you and

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your future that turns something like 20 minutes into an encounter with your inner demons; but, even for those who do not depend on DeKalb, there is a common recognition that this drive was more than they were ready for. “How was your drive?” I often ask visitors. “Well, God . . . I have to say it was a bit rough toward the end,” they respond, with a frenzied look in their eyes. Thus, when I finally encountered DeKalb, and many times after, there was a nagging desire to see it be more than it is. In the context of my own research in imperialism and postcolonialism, I might label this disappointment a “convention of representation” whereby the western observer faults the non-western landscape because it has “yet to achieve the status of a ‘real town,’ has yet to achieve, that is, the reality of modernity and westernization” (Spurr, 1993, p. 19). I would learn much later that DeKalb was, in part, selected as the site of NIU for these very reasons. In sharp contrast to the practice followed in most foreign countries, where universities were established in or near large cities where students could have the cultural advantages of an urban center, NIU was deliberately located in DeKalb, so as to protect students from the “wickedness and social sins that beset the prodigal son” (Hayter, 1974, p. 5). This “ruralistic philosophy” was “a basic belief that those people who lived in towns and small cities where it was quiet, safe, and free of urban social evils were also those people who were stable, hard-working, law-abiding, moral, patriotic, healthy, and religious and who naturally experience the highest fulfillment of human nature” (Hayter, 1974, p. 5). Indeed, as I reflect today on DeKalb, NIU, and the reform effort that is the subject of this essay, I recall that the University was founded at a time of unparalleled anxieties about sexuality, when young white men were told to conserve their “capitalistic energies” against those “others” who were “brimming with carnal desires they were unable to control” (Kimmel, 1994, p. 15). Men and women seeking moral purity fled to the country, and only those with the strongest composition could manage the city. For the pure, DeKalb was a wilderness retreat, like Thoreau’s Walden, one might think. But Walden was an imagined retreat from the city, close enough to ride back to have dinner or work late; DeKalb would have been a challenge for those who held this rustic philosophy (Barksdale, 1999). It was summer when I first met DeKalb, and later it would invariably be summer when we’d get reacquainted. Like most university towns, movement occurs in the summer, when people depart and arrive according to the academic calendar. “But summer’s heat is ripe with madness and with rage, certainly not a time of moderation,” writes LGBT activist and writer Victoria A. Brownworth (1996, pp. 46-47). “It’s no surprise . . . that wars of independence–from the birth of American liberty to the birth of queer liberation–have been enacted in these hot and humid months when no one is looking too closely through the scrim of bright scorching days and hot airless nights” (pp. 45-46). It wasn’t summer when the Community Members Against Discrimination (hereafter CMAD) determined we would return to the

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City Council with yet another request, to correct the mistake of two years prior. But it was summer when we had the energy to do it. This essay is an attempt to record some of the experiences of the DeKalb gender campaign. In the campaign, CMAD sought to add protection against discrimination on the basis of gender identity and expression. A year and a half earlier, CMAD had succeeded in adding “sexual orientation” to the DeKalb Human Relations Ordinance; but failed to pass legislation that covered transgender people. Writing this as an autoethnography, I write as a member of CMAD, as an active participant in the campaign. After reflecting on what I learned from the experience, I write about the intersection of my own identity, both personal and professional, with my experience working with transgender activists in DeKalb. I consider these events in terms of queer theory and the study of public argument. Thus, I write about my experience managing a mixture of priorities and commitments–academic, personal, professional, and political–as I negotiated my place within my community and among my transgender neighbors.

AUTOETHNOGRAPHY I write this essay as an autoethnography for three principal reasons: First, it was not long after the campaign that I read my first autoethnography. It was an intellectually and personally powerful experience, as the essay was written by my department colleague Martha Cooper, who had died after a year-long struggle with cancer. Martha’s influence on my development as a scholar of argument, and my drive as an activist, is considerable. She was also a dear friend. I had known for some time that Martha had written a poignant criticism of the news media that covered the July 17, 1996, explosion of TWA Flight 800 that left no survivors (Cooper, 2002). I knew that Martha’s niece was on this flight headed to France; so Martha’s personal connection to the texts and actions she was considering was inseparable. Because we had just lost Martha, I read the essay to seek connection to her, and I treasured the presence of her voice. It was, consequently, also a moment of transformation for me. I began to seek a more tactile connection to the distant texts I was examining in my own work, and began to see, for the first time, that my lived experience as an activist was related to my scholarly interest in public argument in ways worth exploring. Second, ethnographic approaches are well-suited for the study of transgender activism, due to growing concern among transgender theorists that poststructural theory and mainstream sociological study are failing to offer analyses that provide useful knowledge about the lives of transgender people. Viviane K. Namaste (2000) specifically criticizes the work of queer theorists (specifically, Judith Butler, Marjorie Garber, and Carole-Anne Tyler), for paying very little attention to the social context in which the practices of their transgender subjects are produced (p. 16). In seeking to treat “transgender” status as a so-

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cial rather than a biological construction (like being “heterosexual” or “homosexual”), queer theorists favor sites that are in the business of constructing identities. Bound by the limits of poststructuralism, queer theorists, according to Namaste, “ask us to consider the ways in which subjects are constituted in and through social institutions and the language employed by these administrative bodies” (p. 16-17). While Namaste is not opposed to postructuralist inquiry, per se, she longs to affect an expansion in the way transgender people and issues are studied. Queer theorists, like those named above, focus mainly on sites of cultural representation–such as novels, films, television drama, plays, drag performances–and, consequently, “the voices, struggles, and joys, of real transgendered people in the everyday social world are noticeably absent” (p. 16). Similarly, Paisley Currah (2001) indicts queer theorists who examine the experience of transgender people in legal spheres. These scholars, according to Currah, seek to “demonstrate the margins, boundaries, and limits of a politics of identity, and fail to attend to the immediate, material violence engendered by the situation” (p. 181). Thus, transgender people and their rights claims are “interesting only insofar as their very subjectivity works to deconstruct categories, rather than as identity-bearing subjects who might wish to enjoy freedom from state-sponsored violence and discrimination” (pp. 181-182). Simultaneously, transgender people are besieged by the U.S. mainstream lesbian and gay rights movement that relies on the identity category of sexual orientation, “a term that remains intelligible only if sex and gender remain relatively stable categories” (p. 182). Thus, studies that examine transgender advocacy, especially campaigns designed to distinguish between “sexual orientation” and “gender identity,” could be especially useful in cultivating knowledge about transgender issues and perspectives. Because this kind of study necessitates a methodological approach that avoids the constraints and consequent tendencies of “traditional” queer theory, Namaste (2000) calls for a research program called “institutional ethnography” (a term she borrows from sociologist Dorothy Smith). This research strategy uses an ethnographic approach to privilege the voices of transgender people within the context of their situations–an engagement with some institution. “It is the task of the researcher,” according to Namaste (2000), “to move from the standpoint of the subject under investigation to a conceptual problematic that accounts for how people are related to their everyday worlds, through institutions and relations of ruling” (p. 47). It is hoped that these moments, when transgender people are engaging their world–their governments, civil rights allies, and their neighbors–will reveal more about the life of transgender people than objectivist practices that study the transgender “subject” as a phenomenon to be observed. Third, more importantly, my use of autoethnography is motivated by my desire to make accessible the potential insights from my experience to those in my discipline and elsewhere who may learn from the experiences of activists

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in DeKalb. Autoethnography is attractive to me, in this regard, because the approach is inhibited only by the limitations of one’s experiences, a point acknowledged by Anne Maydan Nicotera (1999), who set out to share her perspectives on being a woman academic using autoethnography. Nicotera (1999) is clear to point out that she is only a “shore dweller” amidst an “ocean” of feminist and postmodern theory (pp. 432-433). Nevertheless, she is able to make accessible her multilayered experiences directly to her discipline. Moreover, an autoethnography can be useful in the negotiation of identity and culture for those whose experiences have not mattered. “Autoethnography,” according to Lyall Crawford (1996), “orchestrates fragments of awareness . . . into narratives and alternative text forms which (re)present events and other social actors as they are evoked from a changeable and contestable self” (p. 167). This orchestration of narratives can then be “passed on” as a record of events that have forever changed the local culture of DeKalb (Lionnet, 1991, p. 102). The autoethnography itself becomes a “text/performance” that, according to Francoise Lionnet, “transcends notions of referentiality, for the staging of the event is part of the process of ‘passing on,’ of elaborating cultural forms, which are not static and inviolable but dynamically involved in the creation of culture itself” (p. 102). Lionnet (1991) makes much of the transformative potential of autoethnography, the potential that one’s story might be woven into the stories of others, resulting in the creation of new cultural spaces and values. Autoethnographers use a variety of terms for the choices they make, terms often tied to the particular body of theory they wish to infuse with their experiences. Cooper (2002) isolates “moments within the larger story” during which she or someone close to her “articulated an ethical impulse about the situation” (pp. 319-320). Nicotera (1999) chooses “memorable experiences during which [she] was quite consciously reflective of resonance or alienation from academia as related to [her] relationship with the ocean of gender and feminist literature” (p. 438). Simon Gottschalk (1995) refers to his stories of his interaction with Las Vegas as “fragments” that “juxtapos[e] together fleeting interactions, unstructured interviews, post-modern insights, televisual interruptions, and self-reflections” (p. 224). I chose to feature moments when I was conscious of the interplay between issues of gender construction and public argumentation, and when I observed the complex negotiation of queer theory and practical political concerns that surfaced during the campaign. These are moments of tension, which typically caused CMAD members to reflect on personal, public, professional, and intellectual commitments. They are “mistakes,” “misunderstandings,” “learning moments,” and “epiphanies.”

“BENEATH CONTEMPT” In the fall of 1998, I was invited to join CMAD, a local organization of lesbian, gay, and bisexual citizens–and their heterosexual allies–who were in the

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midst of a major advocacy campaign to add “sexual orientation” as a category protected from discrimination to the DeKalb Human Relations Ordinance. I was captured immediately. I was anxious to offer advice, as a scholar of public argument. In addition to being drawn to this campaign as any local scholar interested in argumentation and advocacy would be, I was drawn to it because my partner and I lived in DeKalb, I identify as gay, and I had returned to NIU anxious to befriend some of my own kind. During my earlier residence in DeKalb, I identified as heterosexual. For me, therefore, active participation in CMAD was a “coming out” of a professional sort, the first time I had openly mixed my private life with my professional career. CMAD welcomed me easily, and I quickly became active in planning the communication strategy of the campaign. The sexual orientation campaign developed throughout the fall semester, culminating in the December 17, 1998, passage of the proposal, by a 6-1 vote. That is not to suggest the campaign was easy. The favorable vote was the result of an aggressive, information-saturated effort, involving hours of research and what seemed like endless sessions of citizen testimony, ranging from the most offensive speech one can imagine, to some of the most eloquent moments of public discourse I’ve witnessed in my life. CMAD used a stream of memoranda and countless advocacy meetings to manage the complex questions related to the immutability of sexuality, religious liberty, and libertarian philosophy. Members of the City Council, the Mayor, and the city attorneys were the target audience for our persuasion, but we were not spared the burdens of responding to absurd predictions, such as the likelihood of unleashing a wave of child molestation hitherto unseen in our parts. Nevertheless, the victory was exhilarating. It was also very personal, a moment when so many who had previously kept their queerness to themselves stood and spoke. But the victory was not complete. In the waning days of the campaign, CMAD was informed that concern among some on the City Council over cross-dressing had led the city’s Legal Division to amend the proposed definition of “sexual orientation,” to one that would limit protection to “heterosexuality, homosexuality or bisexuality, actual or perceived.” CMAD contemplated the change briefly. Some expressed concern that transgender community members might fall through the cracks if such language were applied with exclusionary rigor. Some felt that discrimination against transgender people was, for all practical purposes, motivated by perceived homosexuality, which was enough to capture the population. Others thought that the combination of “sex” and “sexual orientation” would cover transgender people. These seemed like reasonable assumptions; findings of discrimination, many of us thought, were based less on the “actual” identity of the victim, more on the profile of the victim in the imagination of the perpetrator. As long as we had “perceived” within the statutory language, the law was applicable, we thought. At the time, CMAD had no members who openly identified as transgender and there was, simply, a deficit of knowledge on this legal issue. Still, we were wrong, and

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minimal research was all that was needed to correct our flawed assumptions (see Currah, 2000, p. 36). Our victory was not celebrated for long. Shortly after, Rick Garcia, the Political Director of the Illinois Federation for Human Rights (later renamed “Equality Illinois”), contacted CMAD through one of our members, Norden Gilbert (Norden was also the Chair of DeKalb Human Relations Commission). The Illinois Federation for Human Rights, an organization devoted to defending the basic civil rights of LGBT persons in the state of Illinois, had, just a few days earlier, congratulated CMAD and announced its plans to present an award to the organization at its annual dinner. Garcia’s message would retract the award, and express what he described as “disappointment and utter disgust” that DeKalb activists would “consciously eliminate the gender variant from civil rights protections” (personal communication, R. Garcia to N. Gilbert, January 16, 1999). “Excluding these people to protect your own interests is beneath contempt,” wrote Garcia. “You should be ashamed.” The criticism stuck, and DeKalb became the quintessential example of how not to manage a campaign for LGBT rights. In Transgender Equality: A Handbook for Activists and Policymakers, authors Paisley Currah and Shannon Minter (2000) devote significant space to Garcia’s specific criticism of DeKalb’s activists. “It’s one thing to overlook a group of people,” Garcia is quoted as charging, “and quite another to consciously eliminate them” (Currah, 2000, p. 37). “It’s Time, Illinois” (1999), the statewide advocacy organization for transgender issues, published a similar condemnation in its 4th Annual Report on Discrimination and Hate Crimes Against Transgendered People in Illinois: “By not being visible, by not showing that we are part of the DeKalb queer community, the DeKalb Human Relations Commission felt it was acceptable to exclude gender variance.” CMAD members were devastated. How could these leaders be so confident that our actions were “conscious,” “to protect our own interests,” that anyone “felt it was acceptable to exclude”? How could a person devoted to ending oppression write that he felt “utter disgust” and say that our actions were “beneath contempt,” that we “should be ashamed”? It is difficult to put into words the pain these phrases engendered, especially since each of us processed the criticism differently–as we struggled to revisit what we knew when the change was made, what we thought then, tainted by the knowledge of the present. My position: Garcia forgot who he was talking to. One who grows up queer, grows up “wrong.” Wrong about this; wrong about that. Garcia’s harsh reprimand reminded me of those who assume the power to correct, to condemn. I had become callous to criticism from the outside, but still felt betrayed by criticism from the inside. Moreover, those who used such terms to describe us must have thought it was impossible to correct; why else would they use such harsh language? We had made the ultimate mistake of the oppressed–we’d made a mistake. We would become the example. Now, like Oliver Twist, we would have to ask for “more,” and we felt we were marching forward alone.

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“I HEAR SILENCE” We were not alone. By the spring of 1999, CMAD membership would include community members who identified as transgender, and CMAD had embarked on an effort to educate ourselves about transgender issues. We began to correspond with “It’s Time, Illinois,” and their political director and nationally prominent transgender activist, Miranda Stevens-Miller. StevensMiller came to DeKalb to discuss transgender issues and, in time, this relationship led to her willingness to assist our return to the City Council to amend the Human Relations Ordinance to protect transgender people. It was, nevertheless, a year later that CMAD began a major effort to amend the Ordinance. It began with a terse e-mail, the kind people write when they feel they have nothing to lose: I’m really starting to wonder if you all care. I hear silence. In 1998 you all fought for, and won, a victory in DeKalb passing the human rights ordinance. Good job. However, in winning this victory, the transgendered community was sold out. I’m sorry, I can no longer be silent. If you really are who you say you are, how about some action. I’m not going away. I have lived in this town since 1980. I’m transgendered and I still have to live in fear of losing my job. I still have to live in fear of even speaking. You got what you wanted, now I call for your help. Did you think you were done? Do you feel justice was done? Then, it’s okay to discriminate against transgendered people? Really? What do you people think. WAKE UP! I’ve got to take a stance, even if I stand alone. (personal correspondence, Kathie to CMAD, March 3, 2000) I had met Kathie a year prior to this message. CMAD decided it would screen candidates for City Council elections at “coffees,” and that during the interviews we would suggest to the candidate the possibility of amending the Human Relations Ordinance further to include transgender citizens. Their response was key to determining whether they were suitable candidates. The questioning would begin with what appeared to be a compliment of the present system: that the City Council had accepted a model of antidiscrimination declaring, in effect, that it is unacceptable to discriminate on the basis of one’s gender identity, behavior, or expression. “Absolutely,” the visiting candidate would usually say. “What you may not know,” we would then say, “is that this gesture is considered by some to be incomplete.” “Oh,” the now more cautious candidate would respond, and from there we would begin the process of educating the candidate. “Why aren’t they included in the language we have now, under sexual orientation?” was the common response. “At this point, we have to take a risk,” I warned my fellow activists in meetings we had before meeting the candidates. If the candidate believes transgender people are included in the existing statute, should we be the ones to tell them

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they are wrong? What if we have no chance of amending the legislation? Wouldn’t we want to argue that transgender people are included in the status quo? For Kathie, this question was easy, and this is how I met her. She was a new member of CMAD, and I had no idea that she was transgender. Seated across the room, during one of my renditions of the “accepted model of antidiscrimination” argument, Kathie spoke. When this particular candidate asked, “aren’t they already included,” Kathie responded, “No. They are not. I am a transgender person, and I am not included in the current antidiscrimination ordinance.” I would learn much later that this “coming out” plays an important function in transgender political activity. Kathie had transitioned many years before, but had not been politically active until she learned that the 1998 sexual orientation campaign was incomplete. It is generally accepted that “a Transgendered community that seeks political reforms did not come into existence until the 1990s” (Lombardi, 1999, p. 111). Prior to this, there were many organizations for transgender people, but these were mostly clubs designed to link one another together for social support. For transgender people, according to Lombardi (1999), the more people who know about their transgender status, the greater their participation will be in transgender political activities (p. 115). However, this disclosure can be especially difficult for large segments of the transgender population who seek to “cross-over” and “pass” as either a man or a woman. Gagne, Tewksbury, and McGaughey (1997) write of this process: Those whose gender identity and gender presentation fall outside the binary are stigmatized, ostracized, and socially delegitimized to the extent that they may fail to be socially recognized. With such social erasure, it becomes incumbent on the individual to adopt a social identity that falls within the confines of the dominant gender order. For many, “coming out” includes “crossing over,” either permanently or temporarily, from one sex/gender category to the only acceptable alternative. (p. 480) “In short,” writes Jamison Green (1999), “in order to be a good–or successful–transsexual person, one is not supposed to be a transsexual at all” (p. 120). Thus, revealing one’s transgender status for the purposes of acting politically is to reverse the process that many transgender people engage in to become socially accepted. This is a kind of double turn in identity: turn one involves living within the identity one feels is natural for them; turn two, necessitated for political activity, involves identifying as transgender. Green (1999) discusses this dynamic in relation to becoming politically active: At first I thought my transition was about not being looked at any longer, about my relief from scrutiny; now I know it is about scrutiny itself, about self-examination, and about losing my own fear of being looked at,

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not because I can disappear, but because I am able to claim my unique difference at last. (p. 130) Kathie’s personal journey to live as a transgender person was different than my journey to live as a gay person. A willingness to be public with her transgender status is, in effect, a move that transitions her gender identity from a woman operating within the norms of society, to a transgender woman challenging those norms for the sake of gaining protection from discrimination. My journey, which I was at the time consciously traveling, involved what I consider, in comparison, to be a single turn: abdication of my identity as a heterosexual man–a move that involved a simultaneous assumption of the social burdens and privileges of an openly gay identity. I began to consider more carefully the often discussed “erasure” of transgender people. “Transsexual and transgendered people are produced through erasure,” writes Namaste (2000), “and, this erasure is organized at a micrological level, in the invisible functions of discourse and rhetoric [emphasis added], the taken for granted practices of institutions, and the unforeseen consequences of social policy” (p. 53). The way to arrest the process of erasure is not only to challenge the scenario of discrimination that exists in the mind of the perpetrator, but also to attend to the “invisible functions of discourse and rhetoric” found in policies that either provide no protection against discrimination based on gender, or limit protection beyond biological sex to “sexual orientation.” Thus, “arguments for gay, lesbian, and bisexual civil rights,” writes Currah (2001), “must challenge not only discrimination based on sex and sexual orientation, but also the legal construction of the relationship among sex, gender identity, and gender expression that inheres to the definition of sexual orientation” (p. 185). The lesbian and gay community does not often interrogate these relationships. However, years of erasure, perhaps, made it possible for Kathie to “hear [this] silence.” Her phrase stuck with me, mostly for its potential double meaning. Was she telling us that she, uniquely, possesses the ability to hear, and grant meaning to, silence? “Sometimes silence of an entire community enables inappropriate behavior,” writes Lester Olson (1997), who argues that it is often necessary to recognize this “willed silence” as “a necessary condition for the behavior” (p. 55). Silence can be both a lack of discourse where it is needed and a message understood by those harmed by its implications.

STRATEGY When we began to think about strategy, I was closely reading Transgender Equality: A Handbook for Activists and Policy Makers (Currah, 2000). Activists in Minneapolis, in 1975, revised their existing protection of sexual orientation into a trans-inclusive human rights ordinance “as part of a general

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overhaul of the local human rights ordinance” (p. 19). Their trans-inclusive definition of sexual orientation, according to the authors, “sailed through in a general flurry of progressive legislation enacted just before a newly-elected, more conservative mayor started his term” (p. 19). This seemed sensible for DeKalb as well. The mayor at the time, a woman named Bessie Chronopoulos, also an elementary school teacher, was elected by a close margin in 1997 and was thought to have a tough re-election battle ahead of her in April of 2001. CMAD considered her our ally, as she was supportive of the addition of sexual orientation in 1998, and her most likely opponent was a man who was already making an appeal to a conservative voter base. She was also a shrewd politician–supportive, but frustrated by her image as a person who attended too much to “social issues,” and not enough to such issues as economic development. Nevertheless, she encouraged a protracted discussion and closely monitored the process that elevated the proposal to the City Council. The gender amendment needed to pass well before Mayor Chronopoulos began her re-election bid and needed to attract as little attention as possible for the very same reason. My suggestion was a clandestine strategy. I argued that we had to do whatever we could to submerse the issue of transgender rights within a body of changes advanced by the Human Relations Committee. If we could propose multiple amendments intended to address the long-standing demands of several other communities, we could “mask the change slightly” (personal correspondence, J. Butler to CMAD, April 3, 2000). Throughout, our strategy would be to “make the ordinance more efficient and clear, as well as clarify its relationship to other city, state, and national statutes.” What the City Council would learn, I reasoned, is that our proposal is not a major reform at all. In effect, this was the strategy at the “coffees”; CMAD was merely engaged in an exercise in clarification, making what we’ve already accepted as a community just a bit clearer. In addition to being consistent with the Minneapolis strategy, I believed this to be a strategy informed by my knowledge of public argument. I reasoned that the less the amendment appeared as a major change, the more likely we would find support in the City Council, since the smaller the change, the less the Council was actually being asked to do. Also, I have long believed that Walter Fisher’s (1984) notion of “narrative fidelity” contains important lessons for civil rights activists. It would be important to develop a set of narratives that “ring true” (Fisher, 1984, p. 8) with the experiences and knowledge of potential civil rights allies and members of the City Council. There were two live issues already in play: concern over the ability of the Human Relations Ordinance to manage complaints of racial profiling against city police, and concern over the meaning of sexual harassment in the existing Ordinance. If we could connect the stories of transgender discrimination with the stories of racial profiling and sexual harassment, we could develop what Fisher (1984) calls a “rhetorical vision” (p. 7) (a term he borrows from Bormann, 1972) that might

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guide the action of the City Council. In addition, I was thinking of Kenneth Burke’s (1969) notion of “identification,” so often discussed as a persuasive resource. Concerned communities could identify with one another’s frustration over the many loose ends of the existing Ordinance, and join together in a repair of the statute. Kathie was not pleased with my proposed strategy. “Your letter was a very difficult read with wording such as submerse, mask, indirect, clandestine, and hide,” she wrote in response. “Did this strategy work the first time around?” (personal correspondence, Kathie to CMAD, April 5, 2000). “The wording of the original ordinance was so convoluted,” she continued, “I didn’t even know it included transgendered humans, and when the wording was changed I didn’t even know that transgendered humans had been dropped from these very basic rights.” Miranda Stevens-Miller responded similarly; however, her logic shared some of my concern: “There are too many narrow-minded people who would be totally turned off by the language, and the use of the ‘t’ words. I expect the DeKalb city council would have the same reaction” (personal correspondence, M. Stevens-Miller to CMAD, April 5, 2000). Yet she noted also that “there is a big difference between hiding the issue and couching it in less inflammatory terms.” This qualification was confusing to me until I read her suggestion for how to word the amendment. The proposal would replace the existing term “sex” with “gender,” and would define gender as “a person’s actual or perceived sex, and includes a person’s identity, appearance, or behavior, whether or not that identity, appearance, or behavior is different from that traditionally associated with the person’s sex at birth.” There was no question about it; this language was a clear and forthright expression of the need to protect transgender people, and few would read it otherwise. By then it was clear that the clandestine approach was insufficient for DeKalb. More likely, it was impossible, given the precise nature of language that is required in drafting legislative remedies. The subject of transgender erasure seems similarly related to the interplay above. Namaste (2000) argues that transgender people have been erased in ways that are not often uncovered by queer theorists. One way this is accomplished is that transgender people are excluded from public policies that seek to provide rights and privileges to members of a community (Namaste, 2000, p. 52). This erasure is multiplied when one considers the operation of issues in a climate that does not recognize transgender people in any way. For example, because there is no category for transgender discrimination, transgender discrimination cannot be acknowledged. To overcome this erasure as it relates to public policy, transgender people must carve out an existence within the documents that govern human relations within communities. Otherwise the erasure is maintained through references to transgender people that are indirect and not very useful in the adjudication of discrimination complaints. Additionally, if a marginalized community is seeking acknowledgment as an existing part of

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society, it makes sense that they would not be amenable to lines of argument that characterize the addition of their identity as “not a major change to existing law.” Indeed, the definition of “gender” described above is a major change, and that’s the point of taking a public stance in the first place. It is important to consider another concern of Namaste (2000) pertaining to the erasure of the transgender subject: how a literal annulment of transgender people occurs as a result of “men” and “women” being the only linguistic option (p. 52). This dilemma is managed by Stevens-Miller’s proposal: the replacement of “sex” with “gender,” by placing “gender” in precisely the statutory position of “sex.” This traditional position is driven by Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which established the categories of race, sex, age, religion, national origin, etc. “Sex” in this context is intended to refer to one’s status as a man or a woman, with the limited potential that discrimination based on sex may involve the act of “sexual stereotyping” (see Price Waterhouse v. Hopkins, 1989). CMAD was, in essence, codifying a new framework for the consideration of discrimination based on gender that sought to go beyond the sex binary that had governed the community’s adjudication of discrimination cases. In this sense, the proposal was a major change.

THE TESTIMONY When CMAD was finally prepared to present the proposed gender amendment to the City Council, our central concern was the documentation of instances of discrimination. “It’s Time, Illinois” (2000) produced a grim report that outlined multiple cases of discrimination and hate crimes in the State of Illinois; but what of DeKalb? To establish the evidentiary record, real people would need to stand before the City Council and report their own experiences. Central to this objective was the presence of two transgender citizens who were with us from the start of the campaign: Kathie and Molly. Each attended a meeting of the Human Relations Commission and presented her own testimony. This elevated the proposal to the City Council level, where concerns over the televising of Council meetings made a second public appearance of the two activists unlikely. The answer was to provide written testimony to the City Council members, covered by an extensive rationale for the proposal. While waiting for the first and second reading of the amendment, CMAD began extensive research in anticipation of all possible arguments we could use to promote the proposal. Despite the quality of our argumentation, the testimony of Kathie and Molly seemed always to be the most powerful data we had in support of the amendment. Kathie’s testimony was brief, consisting mostly of biographical information, infused with information about her life, sex reassignment surgery, education, and employment. She reported that when she talked with one of her previous employers about the process of sex reassignment surgery, she

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“was told she would have to leave the company . . . after six years of dedicated service.” Then she came to NIU as a student: I was very androgynous my first two years at NIU because I had been taking female hormones for three years, had long hair, and dressed more toward the gender I was. Many times I met with verbal abuse on the street. During the summer between my sophomore and junior year, I came back to NIU full time in the gender I was moving toward. I did graduate from NIU, not in engineering technology but in a different major (like a lot of students who change their major). After I graduated, this employer approached me and asked if I would consider coming to work with their company. I did, and ended up staying with the company for 12 1/2 years. I had an excellent work record. I ended up in a managerial role, responsible for a staff of eight employees. I was voted employee of the year one year and helped to win many awards for this company. There is much talk in the communication discipline about the use of narrative in public argumentation. The general idea is that narratives act as arguments, in much of the same way that more “rational” styles function (see Fisher, 1984). It is difficult to miss the sophistication of Kathie’s narrative. She appealed directly to issues on the minds of the City Council: questions about discrimination (she was told she could not continue working after six years of dedicated service and was the victim of verbal abuse); questions about transsexuality, the process of transition, and so on; questions about residency and her status as a citizen of DeKalb; questions about authority and credibility (references to her graduation from NIU); and concerns over the effect the proposal could have on local employers (she was, for twelve and one-half years, a model employee). Moreover, in a charming moment, Kathie aligned herself with “a lot of students who change their major,” causing her audience to reflect on her power of choice, and the insecurity she shared with students–a population so familiar to this college town. We learned even more, as she continued to expand on her current life in DeKalb. “I own my own home in DeKalb. I am a landlord. I pay my taxes. I go to work everyday and put in 110%.” And she wrote of attending the City Council meetings in 1998, and how she was excluded from the definition of “sexual orientation”: “I sincerely regret not speaking out, and can no longer be silent.” And she wrote of the fear that comes with speaking in public: I am a community member; however, I live in fear that by speaking out I could lose very much of what I have gained. I am afraid for my life. However, I am convinced that this is the right thing to do. There are others like me, and there will continue to be others like me. This is not new. It has always been.

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Molly provided a similar chronology, careful to include mention of her own occupational successes, including impressive government activism in the area of HIV/AIDS health services. But what was most remarkable about Molly’s testimony was the graphic detail of the physical abuse she underwent in high school. This was the first time she had ever put to paper these stories, and she had only just days before shared some of these experiences with CMAD. Because gender-based derogatory terms are so widely used without reprimand, it was likely that no one was surprised to learn that Molly had often been called a “bitch” and a “faggot.” Nor perhaps was it a surprise that she felt there was no recourse, even that “teachers occasionally witnessed these assaults but chose to do nothing.” These are standard vignettes captured within many prime-time television programs and popular motion pictures; and we were, after all, operating in a culture that had yet to acknowledge the legitimacy of such wrongdoings. However, Molly went further, concentrating on her thoughts during these violent attacks, at one point recalling that she “wondered at each encounter if this would be the time I would die.” “One beating was,” stated Molly, “especially remarkable”: I was jumped from behind by at least ten and perhaps upward of fifteen young men. It’s hard to say for certain because the attack occurred at night and I lost my glasses during the initial assault. I was kicked repeatedly in the face, torso, and genitalia. Mercifully, I was knocked out by a blow that shattered my nose. As if anticipating the only available pseudo-rational response of the opposition, Molly followed this description by recounting that she reported this incident, as well as two others, to the local police: “Their response was always the same,” she claimed. “They said they couldn’t do anything because I ‘had no witnesses.’” Jamison Green, a transgender leader and activist, writes about the burdens of a transgender speaker: “By using our own bodies and experience as references for our standards, rather than the bodies and experience of non-transsexuals (and non-transgendered people), we can grant our own legitimacy” (1999, p. 123). On the night the City Council voted on the proposal, September 25, 2000, Kathie and Molly spoke, in public, in front of a crowded room full of supporters and opponents. Their testimony was televised. Their speeches followed the general flow of their written testimony. Many of our supporters came and also spoke. Much later, while preparing this essay, I began to understand the unfolding accomplishment of this public moment. The past is central to the emergence of a transgender political presence, in terms of both personal and political identities. Roz Kaveney (1999), in her discussion of transgender political activity, argues that acknowledging the past, while it “may well have been experienced in an entirely negative and painful way” (p. 150), is an essential part of the de-

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velopment of the transgender person’s identity as they emerge from a painful past riddled with rejection, violence, and fear (p. 150). Moreover, Kathie’s and Molly’s pasts are central to the development of a transgender identity within DeKalb, as the community itself must begin to reverse its own erasure of transgender issues. Kathie and Molly, through their testimony, begin to carve out that political identity, literally inventing something that did not exist before in the consciousness of these many bearing witness.

THE VOTE The opposition was there, but not in great numbers. We had, by then, managed to cover just about every possible concern of the City Council, but were still worried about a memorandum issued by the Legal Division. The last-minute memorandum claimed that what our proposal was intended to cover was already covered under the law since the ruling in Price Waterhouse, except for “transsexuality,” which, according to the memo, was the same as “gender dysphoria . . . a medically recognized psychological disorder [emphasis added] resulting from the ‘disjunction between sexual identity and sexual organs’” (M. Ely, Memo to DeKalb Mayor and City Council, Sept. 5, 2000). The memo also cautioned the City Council about the absence of specific reference to transgender communities in the legislation, as though there was anyone on the Council who was not yet aware that this amendment meant the protection of transsexuals. CMAD responded with a complete challenge to the interpretation of the Legal Division. We took special care to challenge the memo’s generous interpretation of Price Waterhouse v. Hopkins (1989). Also, we anticipated that the Legal Division would request tighter, more restrictive language, such as was adopted in Boulder, Colorado, delineating variations of transgender people, and charting arduous standards for inclusion under the new law. CMAD wanted to avoid this, and developed a set of responses to an anticipated call for further review. While we were most concerned with the Legal Division, and the effect their analysis would have on the Council, we were not surprised to find a team of die-hard anti-amendment community members. These are ad hoc protectors of community values who have studied the behavior of our kind with the rigor of a high school student writing a research paper. DeKalb has at least six people who believe their mission is to go to City Hall to thwart the efforts of the local LGBT community. Strange bedfellows (so to speak), two or three might be young white men who have somehow mixed libertarian political philosophy with an absolute confidence that they understand what God intended for society. Two or three others were older white men who arrived with valises brimming with poorly photocopied articles from local newspapers (usually from other states) containing stories about good Christian proprietors getting dragged into court because their “conviction” forced them to fire the cross-dresser that

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worked in the front office. These people made up the core of the opposition, occasionally backed up by a local minister or two hiding in the audience, sending well-timed nods and stares. Despite how prepared we were for the Legal Division’s technical argumentation, the speeches of Kathie and Molly were so powerful we thought we could prevail on these alone. Then, one member of the City Council took the bait, spoiling the almost perfect moment, and motioned to send the proposal to the Legal Division for further review and possible revision. The mayor called for a second to the motion. For a moment I felt as though I was in that last twenty minutes in the drive to DeKalb, stuck in a void of space and time, questioning my decision to come to DeKalb, questioning my confidence in humanity. Now I was hearing silence. Launched into a state of contemplation, I wondered what the City Council members were thinking. It would be so easy for them to delay; their own attorney was advising them to; one of their own had made a motion. But now they were witnesses to the experiences of Kathie and Molly, as well as the others who spoke of gender-based discrimination. Would they respond by saying they “couldn’t do anything”? This was their hour to act, and nothing would relieve them of this duty, and CMAD was prepared to come back each meeting, until our amendment passed. There was no second, and the amendment was approved unanimously. *** I’m not sure I will be able to resist the pull of the sinful city–one hour away, if there is no construction or traffic. The drive east to Chicago seems much quicker, but today is no less challenging from a psychological standpoint. I’ve begun to think of DeKalb as something akin to an authentic place, and whenever I leave I feel as though I am striving for something less real. This is in part a result of my experience with CMAD, and the two extraordinary campaigns that I was privileged to be a part of. That is not to say that I plan to bathe in the waters of the Kishwaukee River, but I may walk by its edge with less fear. Still, I write with some apprehension, because all is not well here in DeKalb. I’m not ready to let my city be still; but I appreciate its rhythm, more today than ever before. Recognizing the existence of lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgender people, and establishing laws that provide them the same protection from discrimination as everyone else is a start. But our high school’s administration is moving too slowly to recognize the questioning youth among their student body; my university does not support the domestic partners of its employees, while claiming that it forbids discrimination based on sexual orientation and marriage; some of us still must hide our relationships when attempting to rent an apartment; the word “fag” and “dyke” are used too

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frequently by my students, as “gay” remains an almost totally acceptable derogatory term; and we are far from a day when a cross-dressing man or woman would just fit in at a party. Until we can overcome these very basic obstacles, I will likely continue to long to see DeKalb be more than it is.

REFERENCES Barksdale, M. W. (1999). Thoreau’s house at walden. Art Bulletin, 81(1), 303-25. Bormann, E. G. (1972). Fantasy and rhetorical vision: The rhetorical criticism of social reality. The Quarterly Journal of Speech, 59, 143-159. Brownworth, V. A. (1996) Too queer: Essays from a radical life. Ithaca, NY: Firebrand Books. Burke, K. (1969). A rhetoric of motives. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Cooper, M. (2002). Covering tragedy: Media ethics and TWA flight 800. In R. L. Johannesen (Ed.), Ethics in human communication (5th ed., pp. 319-331). Prospect Heights, IL: Waveland Press. Crawford, L. (1996). Personal ethnography. Communication Monographs, 63, 158-170. Currah, P., & Minter, S. (2000). Transgender equality: A handbook for activists and policymakers. Washington, DC: National Gay and Lesbian Task Force. Currah, P. (2001). Queer theory, lesbian and gay rights, and transsexual marriages. In M. Blasius (Ed.), Sexual identities, queer politics (pp. 178-199). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Fisher, W. R. (1984). Narration as a human communication paradigm: The case of public moral argument. Communication Monographs, 51, 1-21. Gagne, P., Tewksbury, R., & McGaughey, D. (1997). Coming out and crossing over: Identity formation and proclamation in a transgender community. Gender and Society, 11(4), 478-508. Gottschalk, S. (1995). Ethnographic fragments in postmodern spaces. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 24, 195-228. Green, J. (1999). Look! No, don’t! The visibility dilemma from transsexual men. In K. More & S. Whittle (Eds.), Reclaiming Genders: Transsexual grammars at the fin de siecle (pp. 117-131), London: Cassell. Hayter, E. W. (1974). Education in transition: The history of Northern Illinois University. DeKalb, IL: Northern Illinois University Press. It’s Time, Illinois. (1999, August). 4th annual report on discrimination and hate crimes against transgendered people in Illinois. [On-line] Available: . It’s Time, Illinois. (2000). Discrimination 2000: Discrimination and hate crimes against gender variant people. (5th Annual Report) [On-line] Available: . Kaveney, R. (1999). Talking transgender politics. In K. More & S. Whittle (Eds.), Reclaiming Genders: Transsexual grammars at the fin de siecle (pp. 146-158), London: Cassell.

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Kimmel, M. S. (1994). Consuming manhood: The feminization of American culture and the recreation of the male body, 1832-1920. In L. Goldstein (Ed.), The male body (pp. 12-41). Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Lionnet, F. (1991). Autobiographical voices: race, gender, self-portraiture. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Lombardi, E. L. (1999). Integration within a transgender social network and its effects upon members’ social and political activity. Journal of Homosexuality, 37(1), 109-126. Namaste, V. K. (2000). Invisible lives: The erasure of transsexual and transgendered people. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Nicotera, A. M. (1999). The woman academic as subject/object/self: Dismantling the illusion of duality. Communication Theory, 9, 430-464. Olson, L. C. (1997). On the margins of rhetoric: Audre Lorde transforming silence into language and action. The Quarterly Journal of Speech, 83(1), 49-79. Price Waterhouse v. Hopkins, 490 U.S. 228 (1989). Spurr, D. (1993). The rhetoric of empire: Colonial discourse in journalism, travel writing, and imperial administration. Durham, NC: Duke University Press.

Disciplining “Sextext”: Queers, Fears, and Communication Studies A. Susan Owen, PhD University of Puget Sound

SUMMARY. This essay is a critical interrogation of disciplinary responses to Tom Nakayama and Fred Corey’s 1997 Text and Performance Quarterly essay, “Sextext.” Disciplinary responses to the essay suggest strong resistance to queer theory as a “legitimate” intellectual and critical framework. By reading the responses to “Sextext” through the lens of queer theory, and by offering a political reading of conventional studies of sexual representation, this essay suggests how disciplinary boundaries in Communication Studies are policed to protect the production of “legitimate” scholarship. By revealing these practices, this essay provides further support for the central value of queer theory to the discipline of Communication Studies. [Article copies available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.]

Correspondence may be addressed: Communication and Theatre Arts Department, University of Puget Sound, 1500 N. Warner, Tacoma, WA 98416 (E-mail: sowen@ ups.edu). The author gratefully acknowledges the helpful comments of Peter Ehrenhaus, Dana Cloud, and anonymous reviewers. Research for this essay was supported, in part, by The University of Puget Sound through a John Lantz Senior Fellowship. [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Disciplining ‘Sextext’: Queers, Fears, and Communication Studies.” Owen, A. Susan. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 297-317; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 297-317. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_14

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KEYWORDS. Body rhetorics, citizenship, feminist criticism, pornography, queer theory Few essays published under the aegis of the National Communication Association (NCA) have provoked more energized responses than has Corey and Nakayama’s “Sextext.”1 It is the dominant genre of response to that essay–panic, fear, anxiety, anger, disgust, contempt, bewilderment, silence–that draws my critical interest.2 In these expressions of disapproval, dismay, and dissent I find compelling evidence of contemporary disciplinary constraints on textualizing the body and interrogating theory. I read these expressions as constitutive rhetorics, as “the way in which sex is ‘put into discourse’” (Foucault, 1980, p. 11). “Sextext” explores the complexities of embodied existence, the destabilization of masculinity in American culture and politics, the gendered inversions of public and private spaces, and the role of theory in shaping disciplinary perspective. “Sextext” is a “fictional account of text and body as fields of pleasure” (Corey & Nakayama, 1997, p. 58). The essay is written in the narrative voice of a gay male graduate student who, in the course of ethnographic work on pornography, becomes actively involved in its production. Details are often graphic and the language used to characterize the student’s experience is transgressive for an academic publication. As the narrator tells his readers: I want to textualize the ephemeral nature of desire in the context of gay-male pornography, and I want to write from the inside as well as the outside. I want to undress performance from a critical perspective and let it stand nude as a body of performative knowledge.3 (p. 59) By implication, the essay marks the profound significance of visual rhetorics in the lives of American women, and the manner in which those rhetorics have been theorized (see Bolton, 1990, pp. 125-178). Through playful manipulation of rhetoric and aesthetic, Corey and Nakayama re-textualize the sexual body, re-visioning it as homoerotic and male. Through queer figuration, they appropriate the male gaze of mass circulation soft-core pornography. By turning the subjective gaze of queer theory on rational paradigms, they seriously destabilize the privileged, disembodied voice and vision of masculinist authority and entitlement. The extent to which they succeed is revealed in the spirited, contentious, and rancorous exchanges on CRTNET, the electronic public forum of the discipline. In this free-floating colloquy, tensions between communication and queer theory are articulated: Who shall speak (for) the discipline? Which bodies shall represent human sexual expression and pleasure? How shall we theorize and write about the study of sexual representation? How shall we read/view transgressive work? Shall we read transgressive work?

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In this essay I read “Sextext” through the traditions of academic research on mass circulation pornography, two threads of critical commentary on CRTNET, and my own embodied perspective. My purpose is to explore how and why “Sextext” provokes, and to suggest that such moments of provocation are crucial to the intellectual life of any discipline.4 I begin with subjective responsibilities in academic work. I then use the scholarly study of sexual representation as backdrop for exploring queer figuration in “Sextext.” I next turn to representative samples of the tumult in response to the essay’s publication. Finally, I speculate on the consequences of the attempts to discipline “Sextext” as they pertain to relationships among embodiment, sexuality, and citizenship.

SUBJECTIVE RESPONSIBILITY I begin by reading myself into “Sextext” in order to emphasize the point that intellectual life is bounded by embodied experiences, and that autobiography is a rarely acknowledged aspect of all intellectual work.5 Investigating her own disciplinary boundaries, for example, historian Susan Crane (1997) explains the relevance and legitimacy of the embodied and subjective voice/view: [I]t is not necessary to strictly segregate the genres of autobiography and history. I am not suggesting that the inclusion of intimate personal information is essential to the honest production of history. But neither is it inappropriate, for it serves as a marker of the author’s acceptance of subjective responsibility as well as a caution against assuming the authority to speak for others. (p. 1372) In this essay, I explore CRTNET (and other) responses to “Sextext” as a conversation about the “subjective responsibilities” of participation in an academic community. Appropriately, I begin with myself. I have lived my life embodied as a biological female, in a commodity culture where the textualized female body has represented masculine entitlement in both private and public spaces (e.g., Breazeale, 1994; Miles, 1991; Owen & Ehrenhaus, 1993; Pollock, 1990). Thus, I learned early in life to watch myself. After the Second Wave, I learned to watch myself, watching myself. After the Third Wave, I learned that I should “get over” watching myself, watching myself. I still yearn for the easy grace of disembodied rationality, as I have seen it performed in the academy, but the illusion eludes me. I speak the discourse, of course, but more and less convincingly, depending on the situation. Perhaps because of my embodiment, I have been drawn for many years to intellectual, pedagogical and political conversations on the topic of sexual representation. This conversation constitutes a thread in the vast public space of “social pornography” (Wicke, 1993, p. 74), where authorized people (scholars

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and activists) look at unauthorized people (consumers, sex workers, empirical test subjects) looking at or performing sexual simulacra. Indeed, as Gray (1998) points out, research on pornography “has . . . been mother’s milk to NCA scholarship” (p. 3). Within this social space, my institutional position as “female feminist academic” authorizes me to look at the contested visual practices of (hetero)sexual representation. Over the years, I have grown habituated to the relations of looking which govern these academic practices. Most critical and empirical essays on sex and image published during the 1970s and 1980s feature the ubiquitous sexually saturated female body and the disembodied male gaze (see Kappeler, 1986; Zillman & Bryant, 1982). Critical scholars and social scientists have invented reading positions of socio-political immunity from the perceived “prurience” of the signifiers under scrutiny. By the close of the 1980s, feminist work began to question the cultural and theoretical assumptions of earlier studies, calling for a critical rapprochement of body and knowledge (e.g., Gibson & Gibson, 1993; Segal & McIntosh, 1993). In “Sextext,” Corey and Nakayama oblige; they write an/other body, in an/other voice, and explore desire beyond the confines of heteronormative imagination (Warner, 1993). The queer figuration deployed through “Sextext” challenges my own understanding of American mass-circulation pornography, and perhaps more significantly, its academic study. My first reading of the essay was both unsettling and pleasurable. Unlike male colleagues commenting on CRTNET, I was stunned by what I did not encounter in the essay. Where were the ubiquitous/iniquitous female bodies (“bunnies,” “pets,” “beaver hunts,” pretend lesbians, characterized female victims of slasher movies) that we had looked at (with immunity) for thirty years? The shock of non-recognition (Benjamin, 1969) was illuminating for me. On the other hand, like many male colleagues commenting on CRTNET, I was uneasy about “looking” at the bodies imagined in “Sextext.” My discomfort stemmed from anxiety about the legitimacy of my gaze, rather than anxiety about the legitimacy of the essay. Am I authorized (academically, politically, socially) to look at (homo)sexualized male bodies? Moreover, I sensed that “Sextext” questioned the presumptions of and desires for immunity. The invitation to adjust my gaze, and my assumptions about gazing, the possibility of stepping offstage, at last, as an embodied female–all these proved too much to resist. I looked. Temporarily unburdened by the historically material signification of my sex (Berlant, 1991), I was able to re-think conditions of production of the sexual body (e.g., Stallybrass & White, 1986). Read against the now familiar traditions of empirical and liberal feminist critiques of twentieth century American mass circulation pornography, “Sextext” illustrated anew for me the many ways in which “[p]ornography is an uneasy border between the private and the public . . .” (Miller, 1994, p. 19). The public responses to “Sextext” on CRTNET and in other forums clarified for me the inverse relations of scholarship and discipline (e.g., Blair, Brown & Baxter, 1994), visuality and privilege

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(e.g., Berlant, 1991,1997; Miller, 1994; Weigman, 1995), and obscenity and decorum (e.g., Dyer, 1992; Miller, 1994). In order to explore these inverse relations, I will read “Sextext” through the narrative lens of conventional academic production of knowledge about sexual representation.

“SEXTEXT” AND ACADEMIC RESEARCH NARRATIVES In late 20th century American culture, surely the most ubiquitous and notorious of the body rhetorics are those known as pornography (connoting rhetorics of constraint) or sexual erotica (connoting rhetorics of discovery).6 These rhetorics cut a wide swath across American cultural productions and genres, appearing on the Internet, in film, video, television, print advertising, mass circulation magazines, and literature. They revel in the pleasures of bodily excesses, asking of the reader/viewer an “almost involuntary mimicry of the emotion or sensation of the [textualized] body” (Williams, 1999, p. 704). Whether it is the out-of-control body in Hustler (Kipnis, 1992) or the highly idealized body in Playboy (Van Zoonen, 1994), the sex/textualized body is a discourse practice through which institutional relations, consumption styles, and desire are constituted (Breazeale, 1994; Gever, Greyson, & Parmer, 1993; hooks, 1992; Mercer, 1993). First cousin to the horror genre, with its excess of violence and fear, and second cousin to melodrama, with its excess of pathos and tears, rhetorics of erotica/pornography are propelled by sexual energy, and the twin desires to abandon control and revel in the pleasures of excess (Clover, 1992; Dyer, 1992; Williams, 1999). Historically, pornography has functioned as something of an “outlaw” discourse, rooted in political satire and working to pit the interests of mass circulation production and consumption against regulation by political, social, educational, and religious institutions (see Arcand, 1993; Foucault, 1980; Kipnis, 1992). Moreover, pornography and various resistances to it constitute key cultural signifiers of the public/private tensions in Western culture (see Downs, 1989; Hixson, 1996; MacKinnon, 1993). Pornographic discourse generally resists the prevailing mores of “modesty,” deliberately violating the historically specific boundaries of “the body and its social geography” (Kipnis, 1993, p. 138). Thus any investigation of the academic and political debates on pornography is also a study of the constructed public and private realms of civic life, what is and is not “fitting” for public view or talk. The academic study of these body rhetorics challenges both the decorum of the academic enterprise, and the rational paradigm itself. There are at least three primary reasons why this has been the case. First, pornographic discourse manifests an unabashed fascination with the sexual body (e.g., Kipnis, 1993), stressing “the visible elements of sex” (Dyer, 1992, p. 127). This body rhetoric has kept pace with technological developments in mass circulation in order to (re)produce the power coded pleasures of looking, of display, of

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self-absorption, and of the sexually exaggerated body. Second, pornography revels in the proposition that sex-for-sex-sake, without the niceties of social contexts, is pleasurable and desirable. Third, and perhaps most unsettling to a rational framework, pornography is aimed specifically at the body, inviting heightened emotional responses such as fear, disgust, and sexual arousal (see Kipnis, 1992). Unlike “art,” which operates through the construction of carefully defined boundaries that distance the spectator in order to facilitate reflection upon the object of art, pornography is immediate and visceral, meant to be experienced through the body, thus collapsing those carefully defined boundaries (Nead, 1993; Williams, 1999). Moreover, pornography generally does not require access to elite or specialized cultural codes of interpretation (Kipnis, 1993; Nead, 1993). Taken together, these three features of pornographic discourse have presented formidable challenges to academic practices, collective civic wisdom, and rationalist sensibilities. Kipnis sums it up adroitly: The problem [with pornography] is that it produces a body of images that are too blatantly out of the unconscious, too unaesthetically written in the language of obsession, compulsion, perversion, infantile desires, rage, fear, pain and misogyny; [it is] too literally about sex and power . . . (pp. 137-138) It is little wonder, then, that mainstream academic studies of pornographic discourse in the past thirty years have been characterized by heightened efforts to disembody the voice/view of the academic researcher, to distance the researcher from the “object” of study (both through empirical methodology and liberal feminist critical analysis), and to ground the study in cultural assumptions which explicitly or implicitly reveal “discursive mirroring of the subject-formation of the middle classes” (Stallybrass & White, 1986, p. 192). Moreover, the multiplicity of pornographic lexicons has been reduced largely to mainstream heteronormative male desire and the concomitant sexually saturated images of (mostly) Anglo female bodies (Dyer, 1992; Watney, 1996; Wicke, 1993). Good liberal scholars (e.g., Kappeler, 1986; MacKinnon, 1993; Zillmann & Bryant, 1982) have denounced, without a trace of irony, the excesses of pornography, or they have lumped together all resistances to those excesses as potential threats to First Amendment entitlements (e.g., Brannigan & Goldenberg, 1987; Downs, 1989). The conventionally authorized study of pornography has produced a “publishing industry” for academic research (see Wicke, 1993). Yet, the object of study is limited to a very narrowly prescribed lexicon of markets, audiences and interpretive practices (Watney, 1996; Wicke, 1993). Moreover, the conventional academic “gaze” is perhaps more appropriately conceived as a “glimpse.” We prefer not to look directly at the material itself. Explaining his editorial decision to publish “Sextext,” Paul Gray (1998) notes the “safe”

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spectatorial gaze constructed by and through conventional academic theorizing of sexual representation: We’ve force-fed it to undergraduates and measured the results, we’ve attacked it as dangerous to women, and praised it as analogous to ethnography. We’ve done just about everything with it but actually quote [or look at] it. . . . [T]he porn wars rage in our journals fueled by nothing more accurate than the vaguest descriptions of its content. (p. 3) Gray is certainly not the first or only scholar to comment upon the politics of the academic gaze (see Bell, 1999; Conquergood, 1991; Watney, 1996). However, his observation is especially relevant to understanding the disciplinary (and disciplining) responses to “Sextext.” Consider the rhetorically constructed academic gaze of the empirical research narrative: Academic consumers of the published work are aligned with the empirical researcher, safely disembodied and offstage. (Some of us in the academy never quite achieve the illusion of invisibility, given the historically material constraints of the bodies we bear.) Consumers of academic research participate in the researcher’s view of (mostly white, male, middle class) test subjects who, in turn, look at iconic images of mainstream, masculinist, heterosexual desire. Research subjects are not positioned to carry on dialogue with researchers; the female fictions they look at do not look back or talk back. Moreover, the research design naturalizes heterosexual desire; one wonders how gay and lesbian research subjects “measure up” to the researcher’s instrumentation. In short, the research design unwittingly reproduces the relations of power it purports to study. Kobena Mercer (1993) explains this configuration of looking “[a]s a figment of heterosexual wish fulfillment, [that is], the female nude serves primarily to guarantee the stability of a phallocentric fantasy in which the omnipotent male gaze sees but is never itself seen” (p. 97, emphasis added). Rationalist sense-making is performed through the subjective lens of the objectivist researcher, who positions the research subjects to do the looking, and thus imagines her or his own gaze as neutral, distanced, valid (i.e., immune from potential contamination) and legitimate (i.e., producing empirically based knowledge). Gray’s comment is also useful for reflecting upon the historical development of liberal feminist critiques of mass-circulation pornography. The critique came to prominence in the 1970s when (mostly) academic (mostly white) women began mapping institutional relations between visual discourses about women’s bodies and the gendered American body politic. After Miller v. California, in 1973, the commercial market exploded for mass circulation, softcore print pornography. It is no accident that feminist activists who subverted the masculinist gaze of media coverage of the women’s movement in the 1970s also began campaigning vigorously against pornography in that decade. As Wiegman (1995) observes, “the reduction of woman to her anatomy provides the difference against which masculine disembodiment can be

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achieved: the rationality of the mind surpasses, even as it appropriates, the physical limitations of the body” (p. 88). Framing the right to circulate those images as masculine entitlement through the First Amendment further enraged many women. It is not surprising, then, given the prevailing contradictions between rules for public speech and gendered relations of power, that some of the feminisms of the 1970s would become deeply entrenched in dualisms: power over/power to; essentialized vs. non-essentialized femininity; women’s civil rights vs. First Amendment rights; the male gaze vs. the not-male gaze; narrative coherence vs. narrative fragmentation. Resonances of those discourses linger even now (e.g., Condit, 1997; Foss & Griffin, 1995). The mounting frustration with mainstream portrayal of women as icons of heteronormative visual pleasure obscured some of the class and race biases of Second Wave feminism. More recently, feminist writers have problematized a unified understanding of “woman” (e.g., hooks, 1992; Moraga & Anzaldùa, 1983; Pollock, 1990). Matters of race, sexuality, class, age and occupation have been recognized as potential constraints on who speaks the life worlds of women. Thus, much of the early academic work on women and pornography is rife with dominant cultural assumptions about class, race, sexual desire and public decorum (see hooks, 1992; Mercer, 1993; Vance, 1993). Within the context of thirty years of public discussion and disputation about sexual representation, it is easy to see how and why “Sextext” disrupts the rules of academic engagement of sex/textual materials. Most obviously, the fictionalized authorial voice positions us within the erotic narrative. We are not permitted the usual avenues of intellectual, political or psychological distance. We are granted no authorizing immunity. Looker and looked-at encounter one another in scripted drama; the traditional boundaries between body and knowledge, theory and practice, and sex and text blur and collapse. Unlike conventional academic narratives about the circulation and use of pornography, “Sextext” is not constructed in proscenium, with the reading audience safely positioned in the shadows beyond the stage. Reader/viewers are not offered the illusion of invisibility, non-corporeality, or immunity. Rather, the narrative voice is figured as the erotically reflexive camera and voice, thereby constructing an intimate relationship with the reading audience and positioning them in the production–both of body and of knowledge. “Sextext” appropriates the discourse of pornography in order to investigate the manner in which we have theorized sexual representation, and to test the limits of our understanding of an aesthetic of desire. Constructions of queer sexuality in “Sextext” challenge conventional academic studies of sexual representation. Erni (1998) explains that queer figurations are “hyperbolic poses of the body and other significatory practices drawn toward the parodic dramatizing, and the political questioning, of normalcy” (p. 163). Through queer figuration, “Sextext” maps the spaces of power constructed through the privileged nexus of academic rationality, heterosexual

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masculinity, and middle class interests. Moreover, the essay offers an unobstructed view (so to speak) of the penis and of anal eroticism, thereby shifting spectatorial gaze from “the woman question” (de Beauvoir, 1979) to “the man question” (Miller, 1994, p. 1). Commenting on the impact of feminist and queer theories in conventional academic practices, Miller explains: Instead of being the implicit center of all general research . . . and in place of women as a specific topic of inquiry, men are now . . . considered in their particular and peculiar formations by a spectatorial, political gaze. (p. 1) Queer figuration in “Sextext” constitutes complex challenges for conventional disciplinary boundaries. First, the writers embody the academic/intellectual voice, constituting it as visible and, therefore, as a potential object for investigation. Berlant (1991) comments in her study of the intellectual history of the Enlightenment that “the white, male body is the relay to legitimation, but even more than that, the power to suppress that body, to cover its tracks and its traces, is the sign of real authority” (p. 113, emphasis added). “Sextext” makes material (and visible) the academic authorial voice. Second, the writers embody that intellectual voice as a desiring gay man. Within the context of conventional academic studies of sexual representation, “Sextext” inverts the constructed gaze of academic scrutiny, thereby exposing gendered norms of spectatorial power (see Berlant, 1991, 1997; Miller, 1994). Significantly, “homosexuality problematizes the casual identification of primary power with the figure of the biological male as the masterful penetrator. It equally problematises the parallel identification of powerlessness and passivity with the figure of the biological female . . .” (Watney, 1996, p. 28). Consequently, and third, queer figuration in “Sextext” positions academic theory as both the subject and object of desire, “[f]or the gay man is truly polymorphous; he may fuck and be fucked, and is as much at home in one fantasy position as the other” (p. 28). These three features of “Sextext” constitute serious boundary violations for many of the male readers who objected to the essay in CRTNET. Through expressions of authoritative fiat and mimetic appropriation, these writers struggled for hegemonic control of the discipline.

YOU CAN’T MAKE ME LOOK: (WELL, MAYBE JUST A GLANCE) Responses to “Sextext” tell us what the readers saw, how they felt about what they saw, and why they were willing to express their sentiments in a public forum. I identify four major threads in that discourse, framed by David Sutton’s (1997a, b, c, d, e) postings: (1) Angry disapproval; (2) Mimesis, sar-

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casm, and mockery; (3) Confusion and uncertainty; (4) Support for publication of the essay. Given the constraints of essay length, I will deal only with the first two threads. Postings germane to these threads reveal some of the most dramatic ideological tensions in contemporary disciplinary practices with regard to relations of sex and power, and language and society.

The Averted Gaze: Looking Away . . . I have cast myself as a performative embodiment of the history of the gay male body . . . I offer the image of my body to the gaze of the spectator and wonder what part of my body he enjoys, remembers, replays. (Corey & Nakayama, 1997, p. 66) The first (and perhaps the clearest) interpretive community to emerge in the electronic forum is the voice of censorial disapproval. Not surprisingly, these boundary patrollers refuse the invitation to look, and urge other members of the discipline to look away, too. The logic of the averted gaze is constituted through rhetorics of rationalist rejection: “Sextext” is not scholarship but rather is an erotic object–not appropriate for relations of looking governing a scholarly journal. Hollwitz, Wendt, Parks, Burleson, Ellis and Kreps, for example, claim that “Sextext” fails to meet “standard” forms of scholarship and violates rules of academic engagement. This thread of discussion ranges from outrage (Hollwitz) and indignation (Ellis; Wendt) to concern (Burleson) and cautious support (Kreps). Hollwitz (1997b) reports that he was so incensed over “Sextext” that he urged his institution’s library to stop subscribing to Text and Performance Quarterly. He characterizes Corey and Nakayama as “self-indulgent, self-centered, patronizing in [their] political values, and narcissistic to the point of self-parody.” Moreover, Hollwitz (1997a) asserts that “Sextext” displays the “twin evils of vulgarity and intellectual preciosity [sic].” Taken together, Ellis, Burleson, and Wendt claim that “Sextext” fails as scholarship, for three reasons. First, from their perspective, it fails because it is poorly theorized (postmodern) and politically correct (valorizing difference).7 Wendt (1997a) writes, “[“Sextext”] is convoluted, irrational, poorly-written, derivative, and disorganized because it is post-modern theory. Its personae are Gay, Gay, Gay.” Ellis (1997a) asserts that the essay is little more than a “strained gay metaphor,” written by and for “the hip outsider.” Second, “Sextext” fails as scholarship, in this worldview, because it is pornography. Marking the boundary violation of authorial distance (of invisibility and noncorporeality) constituted through “Sextext,” Wendt (1997d) writes, “there is a difference between porn as an object of study and porn as a medium of ‘scholarly’ communication.” Marking the violation as evidence of fraudulent intellectual work, Burleson (1997) asserts, “[w]hat we have here is pornography masquerading as scholarship”: “I tried to recall, linguistically, the tip of the tongue riding along the edges of my balls. My memory traced an escape

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from language, followed fingers, not words” (Corey & Nakayama, 1997, p. 64). Marking his own discourse as standing in for the discipline, Ellis (1997b) concludes, “our job should be to continue to patrol the boundaries of our own territory” (emphasis added). Third, and finally, from this perspective “Sextext” fails as scholarship because it is not relevant (understandable or applicable) to mainstream scholars. “Sextext” is positioned both as unwarranted politicizing of scholarship, and an ideologically repressive work. Wendt (1997c) asserts that the harsh critique of “Sextext” (appearing in CRTNET commentary) constitutes prima facie evidence that “there are ‘standard forms’ for writing scholarship, and that these forms did not evolve out of some conspiracy to ‘obscure, silence, or dominate’ others.” Moreover, “Sextext” is the product of a particular “ideology which ‘excludes’ and ‘privileges’ (two of the ‘crimes’ apparently perpetrated by traditional scholars).” He concludes, indignantly, “Corey and Nakayama have segregated us” (Wendt, 1997d).8 Embroiled in disputation with McGee over the intellectual and disciplinary legitimacy of “Sextext,” Ellis (1997a) characterizes the work as intellectually fraudulent posturing: “I would bet that McGee told Corey and Nakayama more about what they said than they themselves understood.” Framing the work as silly and childish, Ellis quips, “[t]hey get to stand there with leather and orange hair and piss off the adults.” Kreps (1997b) applauds Wendt’s (1997a) critique of “Sextext,” but admits the possibility that mainstream scholars simply “don’t get it.” Calling for an explanation of the purpose and value of the essay, he writes, “[n]ew research areas are often misunderstood and maligned.”9 Kreps seems willing to take a look. “I wonder if my consciousness of desire and its political mise-en-scene feed or divert the desires that lead [me] to disrupt relentlessly the fiction of the heterosexual order” (Corey & Nakayama, 1997, p. 67). Together, these postings suggest the extent to which “Sextext” disrupts understanding of what it means to be a scholar and what counts as scholarship. These comments de-legitimize the essay as immature (irresponsible thinking and writing), gay (not heteronormative), and pornographic (inappropriately bounded). Almost without exception, these voices limit their engagement of “Sextext” to fiat of authority; they are indignant that such a configuration of words and logics has become visible in the public sphere of academic publishing. With the exception of Kreps, they articulate their unwillingness to consider potential value for this sort of “disruption.” Finally, these voices express frustration with what is, for them, the essay’s inaccessibility. It is not written in cultural codes with which they are familiar or comfortable; they are, therefore, de-centered. It would appear that these voices have had little experience with reading from the margins, or viewing themselves as cultural visitors in unfamiliar social terrains (e.g., Ferguson et al., 1990). Moreover, these rhetors seem inexperienced with the business end of the “panoptical” gaze. As Berlant (1997) puts it, they are not accustomed to being positioned as “target[s] of a disciplinary gaze, long experienced by others . . .” (p. 22).

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The Tourist Gaze: Looking, Longing and Loathing The conflation of heterosexuality and masculinity is disrupted, blurred, even sabotaged. I lust for straight men because heterosexuality is a fiction, and I live in fiction. . . . (Corey & Nakayama, 1997, p. 66) A second strategy for responding to “Sextext” is developed in another thread of discourse; here, rhetors engage “Sextext” through the protective prophylactic of hyper-masculinist word play. These self-nominated “playful” responses to the queer figuration of “Sextext” are remarkably similar to Watney’s (1996) observations of male heterosexual cultural “tourists” who “slum” in gay bars for entertainment. Writing about heterosexual mimicry of gay sexuality, Watney muses: “[C]onfronted by the terrifying, ordinary, recognizable world of homosexuality, [straight men are] compelled to act out a necessary ‘other’ which would return to them their prestigious identities as ‘heterosexuals’” (p. 26). In other words, “[w]ithout gays, straights are not ‘straight’” (p. 26). The responses of a second interpretive community of CRTNET engage “Sextext” through performances of exaggerated mimicry, satire, and sarcasm, what they characterize as “a clever way to poke some fun” (Kreps, 1997a). These are the heterosexual tourists who visit the cultural spaces of gay interaction in order to perform identity rituals that reassure their privilege. Two writers in particular craft satirical autoethnographies as a way to engage Corey and Nakayama’s work. Sutton’s “Goldfish Dialogues” (1997b, d, e) and Craig’s “Textual Harassment” (1997) mimic pornographic discourse as a way of interrogating the legitimacy of Corey and Nakayama’s voices. Johnson (1997), Kreps (1997a, c), and Parks (1997) play even rougher in their responses, marking “Sextext” as an appropriate target for intellectual scorn: “Poststructuralists are sadomasochists at heart. They get off on the violence they do to language and the violence language returns” (p. 65). Parks (1997), for example, articulates his disdain for “Sextext” by conflating gay male sexuality and continental theory: “[W]atch out if you start having an unexplained desire to get naked down to your stetson and spurs. If that happens, though, don’t waste the moment–write it up for TPQ, randomly inserting one line quotes from Barthes.”10 “The power games involved in s/m are played out in the resistance to the fascist system of language demanding obedience to its rules” (p. 65). Johnson and Kreps defend Sutton’s “Goldfish Dialogues” from one detractor who identified herself as “Christian.” Stacy Vatne (1997) objected to Sutton’s use of sexually graphic language in a public sphere and within the context of academic discourse. Johnson (1997) imbues Sutton’s satirical repudiation of “Sextext” with the social power to repel the intellectual taint of Corey and Nakayama’s work. He marks his discourse with metaphors of militarism and criminal justice: “[I]t seems to me that appropriate criticism must–strike the target–in the manner best suited. . . . The goldfish’s ‘graphic sexual imagery’ fit

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the crime! A lesser response would have been limp!” Kreps (1997a) advises Vatne to “lighten up.” He explains that “we’re just having some fun with language and imagery. . . . It [the goldfish dialogue] was a clever way to poke some fun [at Corey and Nakayama] and make a point about the directions we are taking with communication scholarship.”11 Wendt (1997c) sarcastically appeals to Freud to explain Corey and Nakayama, once again commenting on gay male sexuality: “The authors call it friction. Oops, sorry, ‘fiction.’ (Freudian slip on the keyboard). Fiction’s potential uses are many . . . and, occasionally pornographic. [I]f it talks like a duck, and speaks only to ducks, and turns ducks on . . .” Wendt concludes by constructing a rhetorical prophylactic for his remarks; he imagines CRTNET readers who might view his response to “Sextext” as politically or intellectually bigoted: “Those foolish enough to offer an opinion . . . will be branded as McCarthy-ites. Or–the greatest mortal sin of our age–homophobes” (Wendt, 1997a). In this parallelism, Wendt reveals his discomfort with (or disdain for) gay and lesbian political resistance. He also reveals his own anxiety about becoming “marked.” Berlant’s (1997) insights are germane: [M]any formerly iconic citizens who used to feel undefensive and unfettered feel truly exposed and vulnerable. . . . They sense that they now have identities, when it used to be just other people who had them. . . . One response is to . . . rage at the stereotyped peoples who have appeared to change the political rules of social membership . . . [and manifest] a desperate desire to return to an order of things deemed normal . . . (p. 2) Consistent with the logics of heterosexual representation, detractors of “Sextext” frame gay sexual desire as paradoxical, much like the pornographically imagined “she.” is both the stuff of “nightmares” (or dreams) and utterly ridiculous. On the one hand, is “embarrassing,” “out there,” vulgar, and a “mess.” warrants alarm and the toughest censure. must exist only within carefully prescribed “zones.” On the other hand, is merely “tedious.” is little more than “drivel.” is “narcissistic,” “self-indulgent,” “self-centered.” produces intellectual work that merits public scorn. The relations of power through which these rhetors assert their privilege are revealed in the paradoxical structures of the CRTNET thread. In the social and political spaces of American identity, heterosexualized images of women are and have been cultural signifiers of entitlement and possession; heteronormative sexual logics work to conceal the relations of power connecting hegemonic masculinity and citizenship (Gibson & Gibson, 1993; hooks, 1992; Mercer, 1993; Nead, 1993; Segal & McIntosh, 1993). Homosexualized images of men in “Sextext” work to expose and subvert heteronormative relations of power, thus inspiring the three inter-related dynamics of performed resistance in this thread: looking, longing and loathing. Persons embodied as gendered or racial

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others enjoy “no prophylactic private sphere, no space safe from performance or imitation” (Berlant, 1991, p. 130). Certainly, we may read this thread (like the first one) as performed resistance to queer influence in the discipline. But we can also read these responses as performances of identity, which enables us to ask why and how looking, longing and loathing are intertwined in these discourses.

THE SCANDAL OF EX-PRIVILEGE: 12 ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME? [W]e often resist that which we have repressed. (Corey & Nakayama, 1997, p. 62) In the constructed spaces of “Sextext,” we are asked to work without our usual scripts. Ideological formations are exposed, displaced, unceremoniously strewn about. Through queer figuration, readers are positioned simultaneously as subject and object, at once looker and looked at, the openly acknowledged authors of desire. Desire itself is rendered infinite and fluid; it can be scripted and channeled, but it is neither stable nor immutable. Academic theories constructed to produce knowledge about desire are cruised, collected and discarded like phone numbers of potential lovers; so positioned, they are politicized. So politicized, their (and our) own structures of desire are exposed. Those of us who, in one way or another, have lived “exposed” lives in the American public sphere may experience a shock of recognition upon encounters with the structure of feeling (Williams, 1961) invoked by “Sextext.” Detractors seem unfamiliar with the concept of thinking the body, especially in relation to the nation. Thus, I conclude this essay by raising issues about sex and citizenship, and the manner in which “Sextext” facilitates exploration of that complex set of relations. I find it fascinating that so many of the rhetors in the two threads conflate pornography with sexual desire. Social rules governing the relations of desire and decorum are invoked, but not interrogated.13 Moreover, detractors of “Sextext” constitute gay sexuality as “pornographic” in the historical sense of the word–unfit for public view or utterance, yet (evidently) impossible to resist. Watney (1996) offers one explanation for the constructed appeal of the pornographic imagination: “In effect we are . . . invited to choose whether we prefer to regard homosexuality as indecent and/or obscene, or intrinsically ‘pornographic’” (p. 61). We see this perspective in both the first and second threads of discourse. Stalleybrass and White (1986) offer another explanation: “[D]isgust always bears the imprint of desire. These low domains, apparently expelled as ‘Other,’ return as the object of nostalgia, longing and fascination” (p. 191). We see this perspective in the postings of the second thread. The desire to perform “camp,” to perform as queens of discursive excess, suggests a

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powerful desire for “doing” (an academic transgression) in relation to “being” (rationalist decorum). Considered from this vantage point, some of the detractors of “Sextext” unwittingly accepted the invitation for rapprochement, even as they express tremendous anxiety about the essay. Much of the criticism directed at “Sextext” seems to stem from anxiety about the genitally frank constructions of male sexuality in the essay. The anxiety is understandable, given the interests and parameters of mainstream sexual representation. Dyer (1992) puts it bluntly: The penis can never live up to the mystique implied by the phallus . . . The limp penis can never match up to the mystique that has kept it hidden from view for the last couple of centuries, and even the erect penis often looks awkward, stuck on to the man’s body as if it is not a part of him. (p. 116) Put another way, “phallic hypermasculinity works on de-emphasizing the penis, closing off access . . . in order to protect the ‘phallic mystique’” (Erni, 1998, pp. 169-70). Feminist methodologies and studies have contributed much to the mapping of masculinist power, both in American culture at large (e.g., Wiegman, 1995) and in the discipline in particular (Blair et al., 1994). But the male membership self-represented in the CRTNET posts, reviewed here, seems unprepared for a queering of the academic gaze. Male readers expressing anxiety about disciplinary loss of dignity, prestige or respect, and those expressing verbal aggression even as they perform camp–all these are articulating their felt experiences with an unfamiliar reading position. Miller (1994) explains: [T]he penis can be a legitimate object of disembodied study, where it is a fetishized sign standing for a generic object without any specific human identification. [But] when it appears outside the domain of learning, as an item of mass culture with a specific individual as its referent, the reader’s formation changes from that of the disinterested inquirer after knowledge into a gossipy subject of camp. (p. 18) “Sextext” subverts the obsession that pervades most of dominant culture’s preoccupations with pornography. The female body is offstage, and Corey and Nakayama would have us look, instead, directly at the penis in order to unmask phallic power. Thus, rather than turning heteronormative masculine desire loose upon the feminine, “Sextext” turns phallocentrism back on itself. In so doing, the authors transform the academic project from the politics of consequence (what “he” might do to “her”) to the politics of desire (what possibilities we construct for ourselves). This admittedly jarring transformation establishes conditions for recasting intellectual and political conversations about civic entitlements of the gaze, free speech, and a fully and diversely embodied pluralism. Through “Sextext,” “liberal humanist values . . . are brought

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face to face with that part of itself repressed and devalued as ‘other’” (Mercer, 1993, p. 107). Thus far, the public conversation within the discipline about “Sextext” has been dominated by heterosexual agendas and anxieties (see Parks, 1998; Wendt, 1998). We have yet to construct a space in which “Sextext” as performative queer theory might be investigated as critique. In a sense, Wendt’s concerns about being labeled “phobic” may extend to those in the discipline who cannot imagine how they might raise constructive critical inquiries about choices made by Corey and Nakayama. Dyer’s (1992) discussion of gay porno films, for example, raises important issues about problematic gender norming in the logics of those films (see pp. 128-131). Cloud (2001) raises concerns about the manner in which “feminism and queer theory often work to obscure the material interests and conditions grounding oppression, explaining oppression only as sets of discourses and identities” (p. 93). Kellett and Goodall (1999) reason that the electronic medium itself short-circuited rationality and democratic decorum in the CRTNET discussion, resulting in “the death of discourse.” To the contrary, I wonder whether the medium might have facilitated exposure of the underpinnings of privilege in democratic practices, and the relevance of iconic bodies in the public imagination. Especially in light of the recent Christian, conservative scapegoating of gays, lesbians, feminists and civil libertarians as the cause of terrorist attacks upon the United States, we are well advised to embrace the relevance and value of queer theory for critically interrogating studies of sex, embodiment, national identity, and citizenship.

NOTES 1. Corey, F.C. & Nakayama, T.K. (1997). Sextext. Text and Performance Quarterly, 17, 58-68. 2. I refer here to the Communication Research and Theory Network (National Communication Association) discussion running from January through March of 1997. 3. Throughout the essay, I designate quotations from the interior narrative of “Sextext” in italics. 4. See, for example, McKerrow (1998) and Sloop (2000). 5. I am indebted to Kobena Mercer, here. His reflexive reading of Mapplethorpe’s photographs of black male nudes persuaded me of the efficacy and value of subjective identification in critical work. 6. I am well aware of the conventional distinctions between “sexual erotica” and “pornography,” but these distinctions are themselves highly politicized constructions, which conceal class, race, gender and sexual interests. Thus, I prefer to view these categories more broadly as rhetorical strategies for deployment of constraint or discovery. I do not view “constraint” as a necessarily politically conservative rhetoric, nor do I view “discovery” as a necessarily politically progressive rhetoric. 7. The irony in this accusation reveals the “invisible immunity” of the objectivist position, on which I remarked earlier. Empirical social science scholarship has focused

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primarily on the identification of hypothesized and theorized difference in populations by measuring the causal impact of an independent variable upon a dependent variable. 8. See also Wendt (1997b), in which he characterizes postmodern theory and cultural studies as follows: “We’re Not Allowed to have an opinion about this. It’s like saying you disagree with something written by, say, Henry Louis Gates–you might as well get out a sheet and throw it over your head. As far as the French–forget it. Camille Paglia is right: no deviation from the Paris party-line. There isn’t a Southern Baptist who quotes sacred text with any more zeal–translated, of course.” 9. Similarly, Lockford (1997) acknowledges the intellectual value of “Sextext,” but she questions whether anyone other than gay men can understand the essay. She writes, “I am left wondering if desire is . . . unreportable, unrepresentable. Or, is it possible, that it is not reportable, not representable in this article to those readers who are not gay men?” 10. See also Wendt (1997b). 11. Aleman (1997) notes, appropriately, how the male detractors also “discipline” Vatne for raising issues they see as naïve and inappropriately gendered (feminine). 12. The first part of this heading is a direct quote from Berlant, 1997, p. 2. The second part of the heading invites my readers to think about (to imagine) how discursive strategies of ex-privilege intersect with relations of looking. 13. I refer here only to CRTNET discourse, which dismisses, derogates or degrades “Sextext.” A significant number of postings defend, extend or explore the ramifications of the publication of the essay. See, for example, Aleman (1997), Blair (1997), [email protected] (1997), Lockford (1997), McGee (1997a, b, c) Roever (1997), Taylor (1997).

REFERENCES Aleman, C. (1997, February 10). Matters of (for) discipline. Number 1734. Retrieved on October 20, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. Arcand, B. (1993). The jaguar and the anteater: Pornography degree zero. (W. Grady, Trans.). New York: Verso. de Beauvoir, S. (1979). The second sex. (H. M. Parshley, Ed. and Trans.). London: Franklin Library. Bell, E. (1999). Weddings and pornography: The cultural performance of sex. Text and Performance Quarterly 19(3), 173-195. Benjamin, W. (1969). Theses on the philosophy of history (H. Zohn, Trans.). In H. Arendt (Ed.), lluminations (pp. 253-264). New York: Schocken Books. Berlant, L. (1991). National brands/national body: Imitation of life. In H.J. Spillers (Ed.), Comparative American identities: Race, sex, and nationality in the modern text (pp. 110-140). New York: Routledge. Berlant, L. (1997). The queen of America goes to Washington city: Essays on sex and citizenship. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Blair, C. (1997, February 3). Alternative voices. Number 1689. Retrieved on October 15, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. Blair, C., Brown, J. R, & Baxter, L. A. (1994). Disciplining the feminine. Quarterly Journal of Speech, 80, 383-409.

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Bolton, R. (Ed.). (1990). The contest of meaning: Critical histories of photography. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press Brannigan, A., & Goldenberg, S. (1987). The study of aggressive pornography: The vicissitudes of relevance. Critical Studies in Mass Communication, 4, 262-283. Breazeale, K. (1994). In spite of women: Esquire magazine and the construction of the male consumer. Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society, 20, 1-24. Burleson, B. (1997, February 2). Advancing the discipline? Number 1699. Retrieved on October 15, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. Cloud, D. (2001). Queer theory and family values: Capitalism’s utopias of self-invention. Transformation, 2, 71-114. Clover, C. (1992). Men, women and chainsaws: Gender in the modern horror film. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Condit, C. M. (1997). In praise of eloquent diversity: Gender and rhetoric as public persuasion. Women’s Studies in Communication, 20, 91-116. Conquergood, D. (1991). Rethinking ethnography: Towards a critical cultural politics. Communication Monographs, 58, 179-194. Corey, F. C. & Nakayama, T. K. (1997). Sextext. Text and Performance Quarterly, 17, 58-68. Craig, B. (1997, January 31). Textual harassment. Number 1681. Retrieved on September 17, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. Crane, S. A. (1997). Writing the individual back into collective memory. American Historical Review, 105(5), 1372-1985. Downs, D. A. (1989). The new politics of pornography. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Dryer, R. (1992). Don’t look now: The instabilities of the male pin-up. In R. Dyer, Only entertainment (pp. 103-120). New York: Routledge. Ellis, D. (1997a, March 5). Reply to McGee. Number 1806. Retrieved on September 15, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. Ellis, Don. (1997b, February 3). Scholarship. Number 1690. Retrieved on October 15, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. Erni, J. N. (1998). Queer figurations in the media: Critical reflections on the Michael Jackson sex scandal. Critical Studies in Mass Communication, 15, 158-180. Ferguson, R., Gever, M., Minh-ha, T. T., & West, C. (Eds.). (1990). Out there: Marginalization and contemporary cultures. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Foss, S. K., & Griffin, C. L. (1995). Beyond persuasion: A proposal for an invitational rhetoric. Communication Monographs, 62(1), 2-18. Foucault, M. (1980). The history of sexuality, volume I: An introduction. (R. Hurley, Trans.). New York: Vintage Books. Gever, M., Greyson, J., & Parmar, P. (Eds). (1993). Queer looks: Perspectives on lesbian and gay film and video. London: Routledge. Gibson, P. C., & Gibson, R. (Eds.). (1993). Dirty looks: Women, pornography, power. London: BFI Publishing. Gray, P. H. (1998). Calling the cops. American Communication Journal. Retrieved on August 15, 2001, from: http://acjournal.org/holdings/vol1/Iss2/special/gray.htm. Hixson, R. F. (1996). Pornography and the justices: The Supreme Court and the intractable obscenity problem. Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press.

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Hollwitz, J. (1997a, March 14). Bashing post-whatever scholarship. Number 1827. Retrieved on September 15, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. Hollwitz, J. (1997b, February 11). TPQ is revealing. Number 1736. Retrieved on October 20, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. hooks, b. (1992). Is Paris burning? In b. hooks, Black looks: Race and representation (pp. 145-156). Boston: South End Press. Johnson, S. (1997, February 7). Strike the target. Number 1720. Retrieved on October 15, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. Kappeler, S. (1986). The pornography of representation. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Kellett, P. M. & Goodall, H. L. (1999). The death of discourse in our own (chat) room: “Sextext”, skillful discussion, and virtual communities. In D. Slayden & R. K. Whillock (Eds.), Soundbite culture: The death of discourse in a wired world (pp. 155-189). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications. Kipnis, L. (1992). (Male) desire and (female) disgust: Reading Hustler. In L. Grossberg, C. Nelson, & P. Treichler (Eds.), Cultural studies. (pp. 373-391). New York: Routledge. Kipnis, L. (1993). She-male fantasies and the aesthetics of pornography. In P. C. Gibson & R. Gibson (Eds.), Dirty looks: Women, pornography, power. (pp. 124-143). London: BFI Publishing. Kreps, G. (1997a, February 7). Lighten up. Number 1720. Retrieved October 15, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. Kreps, G. (1997b, February 8). Response to Ted Wendt: Amen brother Ted. Number 1723. Retrieved on October 15, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. Kreps, G. (1997c, February 13). Viva la difference. Number 1744. Retrieved on October 20, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. [email protected]. (1997, February 8). Feedback on CRTNET comment on “Sextext.” Number 1721. Retrieved on October 15, 1998, from listserv: CRTNET@ lists.psu.edu. Lockford, L. (1997, February 12). Not all scholarship needs to be vanilla. Number 1738. Retrieved on October 20, 1998, from listserv: [email protected]. Mercer, K. (1993). Just looking for trouble: Robert Mapplethorpe and fantasies of race. In L. Segal & M. McIntosh (Eds.), Sex exposed: Sexuality and the pornography debate (pp. 92-110). New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Miles, M. R. (1991). Carnal knowing: Female nakedness and religious meaning in the Christian west. New York: Vintage Books. Miller, T. (1994, Fall). A short history of the penis. Social Text, 43, 1-26. Moraga, C., & Anzaldùa, G. (Eds.) (1983). This bridge called my back: Writings by radical women of color. New York: Kitchen Table/Woman of Color Press. MacKinnon, C. A. (1993). Only words. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. McGee, M. C. (1997a, March 7). Fair trials and due process. Number 1818. Retrieved on September 15, 1998, from listserv: [email protected]. McGee, M. C. (1997b, March 5). Response to Wendt. Number 1803. Retrieved on September 15, 1998, from listserv: [email protected]. McGee, M. C. (1997c, March 12). What is ‘left’ scholarship? Number 1825. Retrieved September 15, 1998, from listserv: [email protected].

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McKerrow, R. E. (1998). Corporeality and cultural rhetoric: A site for rhetoric’s future. Southern Communication Journal, 63, 315-328. National Communication Association. Communication Research and Theory Network. [email protected] Nead, L. (1993). “Above the pulp-line”: The cultural significance of erotic art. In P.C. Gibson & R. Gibson (Eds.), Dirty looks: Women, pornography, power (pp. 144155). London: BFI Publishing. Owen, A. S. & Ehrenhaus, P. (1993). Animating a critical rhetoric: On the feeding habits of American empire. Western Journal of Communication, 57(2), 69-177. Parks, M. (1997, February 7). Unexplained desires. Number 1718. Retrieved on October 15, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. Parks, M. (1998). Where does scholarship begin? American Journal of Communication. Retrieved on August 15, 2001, from: http://acjournal.org/holdings/vol1/ Iss2/special/parks.htm. Pollock, G. (1990). Missing women: Rethinking early thoughts on images of women. In C. Squiers (Ed.), The critical image: Essays on contemporary photography (pp. 202-219). Seattle, WA: The Bay Press. Roever, J. (1997, March 4). Scholarship in communication. Number 1798. Retrieved on September 15, 1998, from the listserv: [email protected]. Segal, L. & McIntosh, M. (Eds.) (1993). Sex exposed: Sexuality and the pornography debate. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Sloop, J. M. (2000). Disciplining the transgendered: Brandon Teena, public representation, and normativity. Western Journal of Communication, 64(2), 165-189. Stallybrass, P., & White, A. (1986). The politics & poetics of transgression. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Sutton, D. (1997a, January 21). Inaugural critics. Number 1651. Retrieved on October 15, 1998, from listserv: [email protected]. Sutton, D. (1997b, March 17). Le plaisir c’est dans le texte: A work in progress. Number 1830. Retrieved on September 15, 1998, from listserv: CRTNET@lists. psu.edu. Sutton, D. (1997c, March 20). Need help–suffering from cognitive dissonance. Number 1845. Retrieved on September 15, 1998, from listserv: CRTNET@lists. psu.edu. Sutton, D. (1997d, February 6). Read it for yourself. Number 1714. Retrieved on October 15, 1998, from listserv: [email protected]. Sutton, D. (1997e, February 8). Rumpole and the professor’s goldfish. Number 1724. Retrieved on October 15, 1998, from listserv: [email protected]. Taylor, B. (1997, January 31). The interpretation of dreams. Number 1685. Retrieved on September 17, 1998, from listserv: [email protected]. Vance, C. S. (1993). Negotiating sex and gender in the Attorney General’s commission on pornography. In L. Segal & M. McIntosh (Eds.), Sex exposed: Sexuality and the pornography debate (pp. 24-49). New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Vatne, S. (1997, February 7). Respecting sensibilities. Number 1718. Retrieved on October 15, 1998, from listserv: [email protected]. Warner, M. (1993). Fear of a queer planet: Queer politics and social theory. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota. Watney, S. (1996). Policing desire: Pornography, AIDS, and the media. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota.

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Wendt, T. (1997a, February 7). Confessions of a long-time TPQ reader. Number 1719. Retrieved on October 15, 1998, from listserv: [email protected]. Wendt, T, (1997b, March 7). Dog eat dog. Number 1814. Retrieved on September 15, 1998, from listserv: [email protected]. Wendt, T. (1997c, February 14). Standard forms. Number 1759. Retrieved on October 20, 1998, from listserv: [email protected]. Wendt, T. (1997d, February 25). Various replies. Number 1798. Retrieved on September 15, 1998, from listserv: [email protected]. Wendt, T. (1998). The ways and means of knowing: The “problem” of scholarship in a postmodern world. American Communication Journal. Retrieved on August 15, 2001, from: http://acjournal.org/holding/vol1/Iss2/special/wendt.htm. Wicke, J. (1993). Through a gaze darkly: Pornography’s academic market. In P. C. Gibson and R. Gibson (Eds.), Dirty looks: Women, pornography, power (pp. 62-80). London: BFI Publishing. Wiegman, R. (1995). American anatomies: Theorizing race and gender. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Williams, L. (1999). Film bodies: Gender, genre, and excess. In L. Braudy and M. Cohen (Eds.), Film theory and criticism: Introductory readings (pp. 701-715). New York: Oxford University Press. Williams, R. (1961). The long revolution. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Zillmann, D. & Bryant, J. (1982). Pornography, sexual callousness, and the trivialization of rape. Journal of Communication, 32(4), 10-21. van Zoonen, L. (1994). Feminist media studies. Newbury Park, CA: Sage.

Nextext Thomas K. Nakayama, PhD Frederick C. Corey, PhD Arizona State University

SUMMARY. Gay men who are marked as “sexual outlaws” have unique and tense relationships with social regulatory forces, and for the porn star, the tensions are exacerbated. Surveillance, attraction, seduction, repulsion, authority, and discipline mark the communicative dynamics between the bodies of subject/object, performer/spectator, image-maker/imagined. This essay, which is a follow-up to “Sextext,” is a fictional account of a porn star who navigates personal and social relationships in the context of a culture that averts overt discussions of carnal desire. [Article copies available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery

Service: 1-800-HAWORTH. E-mail address: Website: © 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved.]

KEYWORDS. Performative writing, pornography, queer theory, representation

Correspondence may be addressed to either author at Hugh Downs School of Human Communication, Arizona State University, P.O. Box 871205, Tempe, AZ 85287-1205 (E-mail: [email protected], [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Nextext.” Nakayama, Thomas K., and Frederick C. Corey. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 319-334; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 319-334. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_15

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Policing sex has always meant seeing it first, from the very first reports of discovery, confiscation, and punishment in the nineteenth century. –Thomas Waugh (1969, p. 369) Apply thine heart unto instruction, and thine ears to the words of knowledge. Withhold not correction from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell. –Proverbs 23:12-14 When I realized I was being followed by the police, my initial inclination was to turn right. A turn to the right is safer than a turn to the left, less to negotiate, less to maneuver, less oncoming traffic to dodge. The traffic was thick. Drivers were irritated. A change of lanes would be a dangerous act. A turn to the right would be good. The police, reflected in the rearview mirror, were on my ass. One officer or two? A look, a glance toward the horizontal periphery, an eye off the road ahead, nothing, nothing at all, no look into the mirror would reveal the tailing truth. The mirror revealed a limited certainty: a uniform, a badge, lights prepared for the flash, sirens on the edge of a wail, authority on the prowl. At complicated intersections where many paths cross, it is easier to think one’s way out by turning right. What, then, is to be said of the dangers of turning left? I searched for signs: no left turn; turn on arrow only; do not block intersection; one way; beware of oncoming traffic; intersection under surveillance. A turn to the left is an exercise in social risk. One officer, revealed in the mirror. A blond. He turned his head to the right and his lips moved. Another blond? A brunette, perhaps. A Latino? The racial discourse enticed and distracted me. I was trapped, boxed into the regulations of turning, disciplined by traffic, distracted by the image in the mirror. Like other sexual outlaws, gays have a problematic relationship with the police. The police have often functioned at the vanguard of the violent repression of gay culture, gay life, gay sexuality (Mohr, 1991). The history of raids on gay bars, of keeping lists of known gays, of entrapment of gays, and of police surveillance in general pervades the history of western gay sexuality. In this function, la police have acted as an arm of the state. They serve an important state function, social regulation (Weeks, 1981). Being policed on the streets is unlike being investigated. On the streets, police look for those crossing the lines, but these lines are not only legal lines. Crossing unwritten lines by loitering too long, dressing in a particular way, and other queer transgressions capture the attention of the police. Acting suspicious crosses an unwritten, moving line. The policing lines are not static and fixed; they are as dynamic as the efforts to resist them.

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Yet, in spite of, or perhaps because of, this repressive state function, the police–or more accurately, les agents de la police–have become objects of fetish in the gay imagination. But what exactly is being fetishized? Is it the uniform? The phallic power of the police with its embedded hyper-masculinity? Is this a mechanism for mastering the threat of the other? Is this fetishizing a similar mechanism to those invoked in confronting the racial other–its threatening character unleashed an array of responses from colonizing and genocide to sexual fetishes. As a state function, the police cannot be subjected to genocide, for they have no fixed subject. Can they be colonized? I was aroused by the thought. An adjustment of the seat belt helped, and just in case, on the off chance, the military uniform from the morning shoot was best placed under the seat. One hand gripped the wheel, the other stashed the cloak of representation. The lights flashed, the sirens wailed. My heart sank. I turned right and stopped. “License and registration, please.” I wondered if the blond were natural. The features did not match, entirely. He had blue eyes, but the texture of his skin was smooth, softly dark, deeply luxurious. He would not show his teeth, only his firm, full lips. “Is there a problem, officer?” The man said nothing, but his uniform spoke of the discursive powers of the State, of interpellation, of subject formation. Hey, you there! utters Althusser’s policeman, and we all turn. Was this tall, well-built man aware of his faux-identités? Was I ready to accept the terms under which I was pulled to the right? I gazed into his lips, the dimple on his chin, the fleshy cheekbones, and the framed terrain between his brows and the straight plateau of his cap. Men look good in blue. All men. White, Black, Asian, Latino, Brown. This from someone who resists essentialism. The uniform disappeared into the rearview mirror. Another uniform appeared, this one hiding the body of the beautiful Latino man. Cuban? Cigars and missiles, missiles and cigars. There would be no Cuban missile crisis today. Jet-black hair, stocky, full of himself and his disciplinary powers. His approach embodied the workings of the multivocality of surveillance. After all, “disciplinary power constitutively mobilizes a tactic of tact: it is the policing power that never passes for such, but is either invisible or visible only undercover of other, nobler or simply blander intentionalities (to educate, to cure, to produce, to defend)” (Miller, 1988, p. 17). These other “intentionalities,” some not so bland, were mobilizing against me and I needed to understand them. “Step out of the car,” the uniform said, “and keep your hands where I can see them.” I wanted to be able to map out the many lines that were not to be crossed, delineating the “no trespassing” zones that did not always have signs posted. “Turn around. Palms on the hood. Feet apart. Spread ’em.” The dark officer’s hands found my torso and fell upon the tightness of my flesh. I was subject to his touch.

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The knowledge la police create through touch, like the knowledge an author creates through language, is coded, driven by desire, and textualized. I chose to read him as Cuban. The textual authority was not mine for the taking, but I was under appropriation and wanted to materialize something, preferably something desirable, for the taking. My Cuban officer frisked me, felt under my arms, grabbed my erect nipples, dropped a close and hard palm alongside my ribs, stopped at my pelvis, paused for one sensational moment, encircled the center of my pubicity, and he pulsed down my legs, first the left, then the right, with forward and backward motions that left no flesh uncovered. With bold, upward strokes, his hands kneaded up one leg and stopped within the safe confines of my crotch. His fingers lingered. The police do more than regulate public sex. They define the act, construct the discourse, and descend for the arrest. They are driven by their method. Epistemic assumptions remain unquestioned. They are admired for the quantity of their production, rather than the quality of the products themselves, justice be damned. The police machine reproduces itself. The reproduction of the State thrives on method-driven discourse. “It is at work everywhere,” observe Deleuze and Guattari (1972/1983), “functioning smoothly at times, at other times in fits and starts. It breathes, it heats, it eats. It shits and fucks. [. . .] Everywhere it is machines–real ones, not figurative ones: machines driving other machines, machines being driven by other machines, with all the necessary couplings and connections” (p. 1). Everyday knowledge is the stuff we live our lives by, but it is not the foundation of great academies. Is this the problem with the great academies? Do the police question their methods? Or does policing, like scholarly inquiry, suffer from “self-validation and methodological self-justification”? (Grosz, 1995, p. 26). My Cuban officer had his hands on my shoulders. His grip was solid, and I could feel the heat of his body against my back. His salty breath hovered over my shoulder, and he moved his lips to my neck. “I know who you are,” he whispered. “Obey. You’ll go free.” Obedience and liberty, in bed again. They know the ins and outs of each other. “Why was I stopped?” His brown eyes glistened. The blond uniform was in my car. He was rummaging through the glove box and under the seat. He held the crumpled cloth in his hands. “You a Marine?” “No,” I said, “but I think I should know why I was stopped, sir.” “Taillight’s out,” said the blond uniform. “You could get rear-ended,” my Cuban officer said. “You’ve never been a Marine?” The blond uniform fingered the patches. “These stripes are real.” The blond uniform appeared unable to move beyond the Platonist insistence that perception is faulty and that episteme lies in the solid, firm foundation of the Forms; in a sense, it is phallic. He was suffering from a crisis of reason (Grosz, 1995). “I’m an actor. The stripes are a representation.”

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The phallus is always solid, firm, but the penis is a temporary confidence. The blond uniform stroked the stripes. Were they, for him, a Platonic form? The authenticity of the stripes and what they represented were measuring sticks he could seek but never fully grasp. Policing is guided by an essentialist touch. “An actor,” he said. “In a real uniform. A uniform’s not real unless it’s on a Marine. Shouldn’t let non-Marines wear a real uniform. Something’s not right here. It’s damn dispiriting. There ought to be a law.” “Or,” I mumbled, “a panel at a national conference.” My Cuban officer had pulled a cowboy hat out of the back seat. “You a cowboy?” he asked. I searched his face for textual cues. “That hat looks familiar,” the blond uniform said. “Could’ve been in a dream,” I said. “Been known to happen.” “You think this is funny,” the blond uniform asked, “don’t you.” He lifted his hat and flattened his hair. The hat was replaced immediately. “No,” I said. I was lying, but more importantly, I was wondering about his status as a blond. Was it as real as my military uniform? Was it a performance of constructed identity? There would be but one way to claim that knowledge, and that would require a reading of the fleshtext in its entirety. I had no interest. How, I wondered, could a handsome man be so ugly? “What kind of actor?” the blond uniform asked. “Porn,” I said, “gay porn,” and I recoiled. Two words–gay porn–were spoken. Had I deployed an ironic twist of Butler’s (1997a) excitable speech? I set into motion a perlocutionary act: The words were not in themselves the act, but would instead lead to consequences and effects. The performativity of gay porn, the citations of scandal and raw sexuality, were injurious to the social order represented by the police. My speech was a perlocutionary act of violence. And yet, When I utter the words I interrogate the citation. “You,” said the blond uniform, “are a homosexual.” He spoke with a simple malice, but who was I to object? Apparently, we saw each other not as individuals but as subjects. The genealogies of la police, their power and dominance, and the genealogies of homosexuality, their perversions and decadences, became a rhetorical context within which words and gestures would be interpreted. “A homosexual pornographer,” said the blond uniform, “in a military uniform. I’m running a background check.” Indeed, the distribution of power was not equal. “C’mon man,” said my Cuban officer. “Let’s get back to our patrol.” The blond uniform appeared to be more interested in investigation than patrol, and while he was in the squad car, surveying my curriculum vitae, looking for an indiscretion, anything at all, my Cuban officer of the law stood watch over me. He made a bullying gesture and leaned into me. “Why did you have to go and tell him that?” I wanted to kiss him, gently at first, and then passionately. I wanted to disturb fully the relationship between subject and subjection. Power is not a set of conditions that precedes the subject; should I kiss the officer, I would enact a

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simultaneous recuperation-as-resistance of power and resistance-as-recuperation. The ambivalence of our kiss would form “the bind of agency” (Butler, 1997b, p. 13). “Answer me.” I wanted to talk with him about foreclosure and the liberatory powers of insurrectionary speech: “coming out and acting out are part of the cultural and political meaning of what it is to be homosexual” (Butler, 1997a, p. 107). And it crossed my mind that taking same-sex desire as the starting point for identity could be too radical, as “we” would not pass and leave the heteronormative framework undisturbed. After all, “we have learned to desire from within the heterosexual norms and gendered structures that we can no longer think of as natural, or as exhausting all the options for self-identification”; therefore, “it might be more profitable to test the resistance of the identity from within the desire” (Bersani, 1995, p. 6). But I was speechless. I had had enough insurrection for one day. Yet this possibility began to arouse me. I cruised this officer, a momentary crack in the not-so-solid wall of state power. I gave him direct eye contact and continued to look into his eyes for much longer than necessary. I slowly dropped my eyes down to his shoulders, caressing them gently, and then down to his chest. I looked up into his eyes again to make certain he was following me. I dropped down to his torso and followed an imaginary line down to his crotch and back to his eyes. His eyes met mine for far too long. The silence was erotic; it held multitudes of possibilities. There are many ways to fill silences. Unfortunately, our silence was filled by the return of the blond officer. “The visual representation of male bodies and sexualities within modern regimes of corporal and sexual knowledge cannot be separated from the erotic pleasures of the look that are usually disavowed so categorically by empirical science and heterosexual culture” (Waugh, 1996, p. 367). Concern about the epistemology of the look, le regard, is indeed disavowed by empirical science and heterosexual culture over and over. The power of and the knowledge embedded in those coup d’oeil have not always been lost on those “straight-but-not-always” men I have cruised before. This kind of knowledge, evidently, does not have a place in the police academy. I understood the Cuban officer’s precarious position. Throughout the academy, queer students idolize heteronormative theories, methods that constructed variance, deviance, discourses of abnormality, and documents of marginalization. Queer students worship the institutions of oppression. Queer academics want to join the ranks. And when the queer student revolts? “I’m letting you off this time,” the blond uniform said. “But I’ll be watching you.” ***

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I watched the police officers in the rearview mirror, the best point of view. The Cuban officer faded into the blue. I pulled back onto the road. I wanted to escape, but tearing out of there would have been ill-advised. I leaned right. Aside from simply wanting to get away from them, I also thought the deep differences the blond wanted to inscribe to the uniform. For him, uniforms held a certain referentiality, a sign of some “real” power. What a quaint modernist, I thought. Forms of discipline and power have indeed changed over the years. Whereas power was exercised in brutal, public displays during earlier eras, we have indeed, as Michel Foucault (1975/1977) has pointed out, moved to a period in which power is exercised through an intricate framework of social positions and identities. Poaching off of the institutionalized identities of the police, of the military, or others is a utilization of the body visual. This vision of the body becomes a challenge to the institution, as it rewrites the power of its identity positions. “The real significance of the 1789 revolution lay here,” Paul Virilio (1994) reminds us, “in the invention of a public gaze that aspired to a spontaneous science, to a sort of knowledge in its raw state, each person becoming for everyone else, in the manner of the sans culotte, a benevolent inquisitor” (p. 34). A reconfiguration of the visual and the power of the image and its relationship to revolution: This new game of the visual and power becomes a double-edged sword. Discipline for some becomes concern over what these others think and pervades the reactionary discourses. This kind of discipline invokes an endless self-examination, a Foucaultian panopticon. Our own disciplinary insecurities converge once again and we are fearful that others are scrutinizing our scholarship. Within revolutionary discourses, new images are sought and aligned with new ways of thinking, new possibilities. I checked the rearview mirror. La police. The image of the blond uniform, the touch of the Cuban officer, the theories of Butler, Foucault, Deleuze and Guattari, and Grosz lingered together on the horizontal plane of the rearview mirror. Warning: Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. The police retain their institutional power, but through the touch, the slip of the finger, the glance, the gaze of Cuba, the discourses of power have been reconfigured. The Cuban officer was lost in the method. The institution would foreclose the possibility of our desire. Does the institution reproduce itself by thwarting these possibilities, new epistemologies, resistant methodologies, and insisting upon the frisking and harassing of difference? What am I looking for? Discipline and desire, obedience and liberty, an escape from method? I stay within the lines, to avoid suspicion. My body resists. My desires refuse to stay within the lines–looking and surveying, loitering and lingering, marking and unmarking, ennui and the thrill–the lanes merge, and I am lost along the way. The lines fail me in their disciplinary powers. Embedded in my body and the reality of its pleasures, these desires are constrained and contained within lines that crisscross every direction. ***

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The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the hand the naked meat of the body, The circling rivers of the breath, and breathing it in and out, The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips . . . –Walt Whitman, “I Sing the Body Electric” *** How unsettling to enter the dark passage of a photographer’s gaze, to prepare to be flattened, offered onto a piece of paper. My dark passage, my master of the darkroom, Jake, my camera obscura. He creates nothing for me, yet I anticipate his art. He will not create me. I am not another man’s art. Yet, how could I not forecast his creation of an image that would become, in presentational essence, me? No, the photographer creates of me. He creates of me a subject, he creates of me an object, he creates of me an expressive sensation. My heart fluttered. I passed by the mirror over the heavy, oak bureau and caught a view of myself as a subject transforming into an object. “I cannot penetrate,” I wanted my heart to pace itself, to slow down, “cannot reach into the Photograph. I can only sweep it with my glance, like a smooth surface” (Barthes, 1980/1981, p. 106). I reached for the smooth surface of the mirror; I wanted to touch the flatness of my image. The photograph, though, is so vastly different from the reflection in the mirror. The photograph is still, motionless, apparent and reapparent in the absence of the subject. My image in the mirror, by contrast, was stilled only in the absence of locomotion. I move, the image moves. I smile, the image smiles. Yet my image in the mirror, like the image in the photographs that would develop and be developed over the next week, was “flat, platitudinous in the true sense of the word” (Barthes, 1980/1981, p. 106). I tousled my hair and grabbed a jacket. I would need to do some push-ups before the shoot to enlarge my cephalic veins. I looked at these veins as they wrapped up my arm, over my biceps, with what I thought might be the eyes of a photographer. I cast myself as the spectator of my desires; he who would scrutinize and capture the semblance of what I want. A masculine arm with bulging veins wrapped over hard muscles indexes the phallus, in its semblance of the penis. I tried new angles, variations in shadows, peculiar perspectives. Nothing worked. The image was not flat. Jake was waiting for me in his studio. I took an immediate affection to my camera obscura, his brown skin, flush lips that turned a rosy pink as they curved toward the inside of his mouth, long, firm jaw, and shaved head. I wished I had such a head. To be shaped perfectly. I lifted my eyes and glanced at the depth of Jake’s baldness. I could not but glance, though, not in the way I could glance at the image of myself in the mirror. Jake’s head was not flat, nor could I imagine it as such. The dimensions were too apparent. My partner in representational criminality emerged from behind a wall. “Hands up,” he murmured, “pants down.” Jake would capture the capture of

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revolutionary desire in its raw state. These would be photos of my arrest. I gazed into the eyes of this tall blond and smiled. Would we know each other through a conversation of words? Or would my body be our conversation? Do we talk, share through language our backgrounds, where we were born, where we live, what we think or how we feel? Or do I let my body speak, my curves, the pinkness of my flesh, my combat with the unsureness of gravity? Models are never the same. Each is his own, each with his own way of claiming the image. Some talk. Others look. A few touch. I searched for a sign from this man who would perform power. The setup for the photo shoot was simple: I prepared my self for arrest. Flashing blue lights punctuated the background. The tall, Germanic officer in a blue uniform approached and touched the rim of his hat. I tried to envision this approaching subject as the blond uniform from the morning, but without success. Police officers gain their power from their uniformity, but their sexuality from their particularity. “You’re in a heap of trouble, guy.” “What’s your name, sir?” “Dirk.” He adjusted his silvered mirror shades; I averted my gaze and admired the navy blue uniform and black boots. He leaned over me and demanded my driver’s license, but not proof of insurance. I wanted to know my crime. Speeding? Trespassing? Blending fact and fiction? Insulting his authority? I thought of the transgressions that I had made not only against “a masculinist disciplinary ideology, whose professionalized and seemingly liberal thematic motifs serve as a benign cover for a selectively hostile and exclusionary disciplinary practice” (Blair, Brown, & Baxter, 1994, pp. 383-384), but also a fiercely homophobic one. Dirk fingered his billy club. Jake started taking photographs. I swung around and threw my hands up against the wall. Click. He leaned over me and I could feel his hard torso beneath the uniform. Click. “You’ve been a very bad boy,” Dirk whispered in my ear. I could feel the stubble on his face brush against my cheek. His face felt hard, masculine, rough. “Bad boys must be punished,” he growled. I closed my eyes and imagined the sharp jawline that was pushing against my face. What kind of image is this for Reid’s (1973) “best little boy in the world”? Was there a strong identification with striving to be “good”–whatever that really means–in order to be accepted by a society that is hostile to same-sex desire? But no amount of goodness could overcome the taboo against homosexuality. So, I had lost my desire to be so “good” and reveled in being called a “bad” boy. “Should a homosexual be a good citizen” (Bersani, 1995, p. 113)? After all, if the Marines are looking for a “few good men,” I knew that society did not consider me among the “good.” I wanted to be bad to challenge the dominant cultural logics that constructed “good” in ways that defined me out. “What are you smiling about?” he barked. “Do you think this is a joke?” He glared at me and I replied instinctively, “No.” I had an urge to begin laughing,

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as playing this obedient role began to feel too much like being a “good boy.” Jake did not stop taking photos. It was often more difficult to separate my own identity from that of my characters in this kind of work. People often recognized me and did not make such distinctions, nor did my characters have names to maintain a distinction. But isn’t identity a fiction of sorts anyway? After all, my nom de caméra was Mark Stark, but who was he? And what would it mean to ask Mark to take yet another name? I remained frozen and thought about the significance of waiting as part of the disciplinary process. Anticipation, fear, adrenalin, and dread infuse the emerging moment. Foucault’s reader is propelled forward as Damiens’ fate unfolds on the page. The body awaits; the mind scatters. Repetition and repulsion linger and intermingle, the words spew forward, and the simplicity of the body-pure regains its innocence. Dirk clicked his belt buckle. I rose to the occasion. Academia is not short on disciplinarians. Academics demonstrate their mastery of the field by carefully guarding its boundaries and the proper production of knowledge. These masters define the field through their relentless labor of making and enforcing the rules of the discipline–in the classrooms, dissertation and award committees, journal editorial boards, and even the gossip that pervades conventions and everyday life in departments. But what is it that discipline does? Foucault’s (1975/1977) Discipline and Punish has circulated throughout the Anglophone world with the decisive word “discipline” in its English-language title. Yet, in its original French, Foucault chose a slightly different title, Surveillir et punir. This queer selection reveals an important difference added through the translator. Discipline is more than surveillance. The supplement is a spectacle performed for an audience. Here, performance becomes performative–the performance cites and reiterates the lessons of the disciplinarians and materializes the boundaries between good and bad, right and wrong, acceptable and unacceptable. Dirk and I dispensed with the referential texts of porn and played our way into the grain of discourse, the “body in the voice as it sings, the hand as it writes, the limb as it performs” (Barthes, 1977, p. 188). My pants fell. The fabric slid down my thighs and rested around my ankles, onto my shoes. I wore nothing more. I stood before my obscura and searched for lucidity, intuitively fingered the taut skin of my chest, and accorded the grain of the music “a theoretical value (the emergence of the text in the work)” (Barthes, 1977, p. 188). I was spread across the face of the world, buttocks exposed, waiting for the discipline, waiting for the Freudian fantasy: “a child is being beaten.” I listened for my relation to the man who would be overtaking me, the man photographing, and the man for whom I was being created. I read myself into the text and constructed the frame within the frame, as “the child being beaten is never the one producing the fantasy, but is invariably another” (Freud, 1919/1963, p. 113). A child, that best little boy in the world, would be beaten.

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The sexual fantasy would rely on the reality of another, somewhere else, at some other time, with some other person, being overpowered. “Study and sting,” wrote Barthes (1980/1981). To achieve studium, a human interest based in a notion of the body’s history, a taste of meaning, a cultural significance; and to add punctum, a sting, jolt, flash of insight, sudden punctuation; to have both studium and punctum, a study and a sting, to textualize the body with surprise, this is why we met. I, like Barthes, would believe, “A photograph’s punctum is that accident which pricks me (but also bruises me, is poignant to me)” (1980/1981, p. 27). My body–I felt the punctual desires of my abdomen–should not be inert under the gaze of he for whom I am being created. I would find the grain. I would find the textlure for Jake, toward my skin, within the flesh, out of my audience. I cast my gaze downward and felt my eyelashes moving upward, into the lens, through the lucid terrain between my eyes and the spectator, with Jake as our medium, our benevolence. An acuity punctuated the expressive space among us. I turned my head, relaxed and angled my jaw, glanced through the territories. Dirk let loose. Another cum shot. I am a material queer (Morton, 1996). I pondered the partial nudity of the police officer–with a hat, why wear anything?–and its relation to the grammar of my body. I wanted to wear that hat, share its power, adorn its permanence like a word affected unalterably by a strike of the backspace. I wanted to shift that hat, take it from Dirk and struggle with its place on the page. The spectator would have to buy into this performance, seeking desperately a new world, an imperceptible rise in the grain of his skin. I reached forward, Dirk winced. Flesh to flesh. A sound, a jerking of the head. Momentary panic. A darting of the eyes. Nothing to be alarmed about. An unexpected strike of the hand. We fell to the floor and rose with the grain of the fleshtext. The rules of photocivilization, the ludus of play, the institutionalization of the model/photographer binary escaped my touch, and I embraced a paidia, a “frolicsome and impulsive exuberance” (Caillois, 1958/1961, p. 13). Discipline melded with the liberty of my flesh and permeated the territories among us. Dirk lifted me upward and I twirled my arms around him and swung myself into vertigo. I crawled into the arms of security and lost sight of who controlled whom. The studio was swept with a warm, crisp breeze. The hat was mine. We were free from the ruling discourses of pornography, liberated from the concerns of appeal. We were having fun. Pure, naked fun. The session became a game, a capricious exercise in “embarrassing chicanery” (Caillois, 1958/1961, p. 13). This ludic turn undermined the dominant contemporary cultural script for white heterosexual masculinity, a script of masochism and victimization in the face of impressive gains by civil rights movements, gay and lesbian movements, women’s movements and more. The collapsing of all of these cultural movements into the one and the same “allows the white male subject to take up the position of victim, to feminize and/or black himself fantasmatically, and to disavow the homosexual cathexes that are crucial to the process of (patriarchal) cultural reproduction,

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all the while asserting his impeachable virility” (Savran, 1998, p. 33). Indeed, this fiction framed the performance of discipline for those who parlayed in and profited from such fantasies, for those who wanted to watch someone “take it like a man.” I preferred to have fun with Dirk. I played without regard to (but was conscious of) the sound of the camera. Jake was a player within the game. Was he as uncertain as I of the effectual image? Would he flatten not the image of our bodies but the chicanery of our game into a possibility of the truth? This game, was this paidia closer to the truth than a staged close-up of my now-bright-red ass? I tossed my head back and felt the lens upon the welts on my buttocks, narrowing the landscape between my body and specularity. I entered the discursive territory of the camera. The welts guaranteed the veracity of the image, fueling the desires of the spectators. Yet how could I, as a subject, write myself into the text of which I would, in time, become the object? I was caught within a lapse of now and then, a subject this moment, object the next. *** Cruising, surveillance, and faith mingle and get off on each other. The pastoral setting of the park is a page upon which the outlaw and the police play a game of the unspeakable. But one wrong move, one forbidden word, one careless gesture, and the blue lights flash. “You are under arrest. Solicitation.” Due process is swift and the queer can challenge only the rules, not the outcome. The police spoke once and would not speak again. There would be no “examination of ourselves as a community” to “look at patterns of writing and speaking and the ideological positions such patterns depend on, reproduce, or refuse” (Blair et al., 1994, p. 403). From his jail cell, the queer hears chanting mobs calling for justice. Crimes against humanity. Indecency. Community standards have been violated. Embodied acts beget punishment. Transgressions deserve discipline. “Hey, you there!” Police are sexy. The authority, power, and uniform generate repulsion and attraction. And what is an arrest but an elaborate “money shot” captured, presumably, for the spectacular pleasure of those who believe in the completion of the act? Love and sex. Erotica and porn. Naivety and calculation. Faith and heresy. Fact and fiction. Subject and object. Outlaw and inlaw. Textual engagement renders the binary fetish impotent. Relationships between object and subject, fiction and fact, good and evil, calculation and naivety, porn and erotica, or sex and love are indexical complexities. One points to the other and becomes enmeshed, indistinguishable. Human textuality of the sexual body defies simple duality. I will pursue a certain man as a subject of desire and an object of labor, as a sensual form who knows how to transcend the banal. I will thrust my legs into the air for the pleasure of this man . . . and thence of the hips, and thence down-

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ward toward the knees . . . and for a fleeting moment, with my legs thrown over my head and my ass open wide, I will want the world to enter me, exploit my capital, discover the deeply personal pleasures . . . the tin red jellies within you or within me . . . to enter me the way I would enter a text . . . the bones and the marrow in the bones . . . to be sure, absolutely sure, of the line, or the word, or the image, or the screw . . . the exquisite realization of health . . . to labor within the folds of my most intimate space . . . I say these are not the parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul . . . and I will collapse into the arms of security. They have stricken me, shalt thou say, and I was not sick; they have beaten me, and I felt it not: when shall I awake? I will seek it yet again. (Proverbs 23:35) *** “I cruise theories” (Corey and Nakayama, 1997, p. 58), and the controversy began. The instabilities of academic discourses emerged; panic, frenzy, and the pleasures of a patriarchy under siege occupied semantic and emotional spaces. What constitutes scholarship? Why was this manuscript published? Where do we draw the line? How gay is too gay? Why do the stalwart guardians of the patriarchy worry about risk? These were but a few of the questions generated by the publication of “Sextext” (Corey and Nakayama) in the January 1997 issue of Text and Performance Quarterly, a publication of the National Communication Association. “Sextext” played in borderlands. The essay was written in first-person singular narrative, but it was co-authored. It was identified as fiction but published in a journal not designed for fiction. The narrative conjoined the politics of pornography with the politics of academia. The ideas were derived from French psychoanalytic theory but focused on U.S. American sexual identities. The central ideas of the text included eroticism and melancholia, liberation and repression, whiteness and marginality, maleness and subjection. Borderlands are heuristic sites of identity and transition, but they are patrolled and protected. One needs proper authority to survey borderlands; the commotion following the publication of the manuscript indicated the authors of “Sextext” entered unauthorized territory. “Sextext” opened with a personification of theory: I cruise theories. A look, a glance, a turn of the head. I walk away, pause, wait for the theory to follow. I let theories pursue me, and when I am ready, I turn to say hello, to ask, “Are you ready?” (Corey and Nakayama, 1997, p. 58)

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The protagonist, under the stage name Mark Stark, is a graduate student in cultural studies who supplements his graduate student stipend as a porn star. “My aim,” he contends, “is to write aloud desire in an elaborate performance that indexes the fleeting nature of desire in the context of academic discourse that attempts (never successfully) to capture and ground that flight” (1997, p. 59). The reader is then taken through a journey of money shots, loins being shaved, sexual textuality, colonization, performed masculinity, and sloppy kisses. “Sextext” is an example of a recent trend in cultural studies, performative writing. While no single definition of performative writing exists–the elusive nature is a component of its intrigue–we can find in performative writing a collective, nuanced advancement of Austin’s (1955/1975) performativity in Speech Act Theory. In her essay “Performing Writing,” Della Pollock (1998) speaks of performative writing as evocative, metonymic, subjective, nervous, citational, and consequential. Performative writing is, at its foundation, “creative writing,” but it is more: Performative writing is the explication of a cultural phenomenon from the subject position; subject and object are a fluid composition; the reader becomes compelled to respond to the cultural text in a visceral as well as cognitive mode; the interaction with the text is transformative and, as Pollock writes, performative writing “is for writing, for writing ourselves out of our-selves, for writing our-selves into what (never) was and may (never) be” (1998, p. 98). Whether it was the style, content, performativity, or general mistrust of gay men who are not quiet about being gay, “Sextext” became, in Austin’s parlance, a perlocutionary act, initiating consequences temporally removed from the utterance of the text itself. Who would have thought mention of sex would make distinguished professors so nervous? The Internet discussion board, CRTNET, became flooded with commentary.1 At the subsequent meeting of the National Communication Association, the publications board met to discuss closing down the journal in which the article was published, and a panel was convened to interrogate the wisdom of publishing “Sextext.”2 During this panel, the editor of Text and Performance Quarterly spoke with Southern panache about his decision to publish “Sextext,” and one of his comments gave impetus to the sequel in this volume. “What kind of carnival is it,” Gray (1997/1998) asked, referencing Bakhtin, “if it doesn’t stir up the town fathers enough to call out the cops? It isn’t a carnival at all, it’s just a church fair.”

NOTES 1. The CRTNET discussion is archived on the Website for the National Communication Association: . 2. The papers presented at this panel have been published online in the American Communication Journal, Vol. 1, Issue 2, and can be located at: .

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REFERENCES Austin, J. L. (1975). How to do things with words (2nd ed.). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. (Original work published 1955.) Barthes, R. (1981). Camera Lucida (R. Howard, Trans.). New York: Hill and Wang. (Original work published 1980.) Barthes, R. (1977). Image-Music-Text (S. Heath, Ed. and Trans.). New York: Hill and Wang. Bersani, L. (1995). Homos. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Blair, C., Brown, J. R. & Baxter, L. A. (1994). Disciplining the feminine. Quarterly Journal of Speech, 80, 383-409. Butler, J. (1997a). Excitable speech: A politics of the performative. New York: Routledge. Butler, J. (1997b). The psychic life of power: Theories in subjection. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Caillois, R. (1961). Man, play, and games (M. Brash, Trans.). New York: Free Press. (Original work published 1958.) Corey, F. C., & Nakayama, T. K. (1997). Sextext. Text and Performance Quarterly, 17, 58-68. Deleuze, G. & Guattari, F. (1983). Anti-oedipus: Capitalism and schizophrenia (R. Hurley, M. Seem & H. R. Lane, Trans.). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. (Original work published 1972.) Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison (A. Sheridan, Trans.). New York: Vintage Books. (Original work published 1975.) Freud, S. (1963). “A child is being beaten” (1919). In A. Strachey & J. Strachey (Eds. and Trans.), Sexuality and the Psychology of Love (pp. 107-112). New York: Collier Books. Gray, P. H. (1997, November). Calling the cops. Paper presented at the annual meeting of the National Communication Association, Chicago. Reprinted in the American Communication Journal, 1(2) (1998). Available: . Grosz, E. (1995). Space, time, and perversion. New York: Routledge. Miller, D. A. (1988). The novel and the police. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Mohr, R. D. (1991). Why sex is private: Gays and the police. In A. Soble (Ed.), The philosophy of sex: Contemporary readings (2nd ed., pp. 193-218). Savage, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Morton, D. (Ed.). (1996). The material queer: A lesbigay cultural studies reader. Boulder, CO: Westview. Pollock, D. (1998). Performing writing. In P. Phelan and J. Lane (Eds.), The ends of performance (pp. 73-103). New York: New York University Press. Reid, J. (Tobias, A. P.) (1973). The best little boy in the world. New York: Putnam. Savran, D. (1998). Taking it like a man: White masculinity, masochism and contemporary American culture. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Virilio, P. (1994). The vision machine (J. Rose, Trans.). Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. (Original work published 1988.)

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Waugh, T. (1996). Hard to imagine: Gay male eroticism in photography and film from their beginnings to Stonewall. New York: Columbia University Press. Weeks, J. (1981). Sex, politics and society: The regulation of sexuality since 1800. New York: Longman. Whitman, W. (1930). I sing the body electric. Leaves of grass (pp. 77-84). New York: Random House. (Original work published 1855.)

II. REFLECTIONS

Reflections on Queer Theory: Disparate Points of View John P. Elia, PhD Karen E. Lovaas, PhD Gust A. Yep, PhD San Francisco State University

Scholarship of all sorts fills the pages of academic books and journals. Those reading this scholarship are usually only privy to the arguments, points of view, analyses, or theoretical positions of particular pieces of writing; scholars’ reflections on how the theoretical and/or methodological approaches used in the research affect their professional and personal lives are seldom a part of the literature. In the articles showcased thus far, we rarely see a glimpse of what queer theory means to those producing and employing it. What does Correspondence may be addressed to John P. Elia, PhD, Department of Health Education, San Francisco State University, 1600 Holloway Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94132-4161 (E-mail: [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Reflections on Queer Theory: Disparate Points of View.” Elia, John P., Karen E. Lovaas, and Gust A. Yep. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 335-337; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 335-337. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

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queer theory mean to scholars personally, theoretically, methodologically, and pedagogically? What do they view as its challenges, prospects, and limitations? What issues are disquieting and/or reassuring to these scholars? What does queer theory mean for the new millennium? These are the kinds of questions we posed to those scholars who accepted our invitation to write reflection essays. There is an ever-quickening pace of scholarly writings being published in queer theory. Scholars from a variety of disciplines are queering everything from anthropology to theology, and beyond. Virtually anything can be queered. The essays contained in this volume alone indicate the wide application of queer theory to diverse topics and contexts. This reflections section comprises the voices of both senior scholars and those newer to the academy as they reflect on their work in queer theory. As you read the following brief essays written by communication scholars and academics from other fields, you will notice a variety of perspectives, ranging from the history of queer theory as a concept to the pedagogical and political implications of this theoretical perspective. Because queer theory was born from Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender (GLBT) studies, some of the essays reveal the evolving relationship between GLBT studies and queer theory. The first essay, by David M. Halperin, a classicist and significant contributor to queer theory, provides a rich remembering of queer theory from its inception. In doing so, he contextualizes many of the “major players” in queer studies. Halperin concludes his piece with some thoughts about teaching queer theory. Next, Ralph R. Smith, a communication scholar, shares his thoughts about how the notion of “queer” ought to be interrogated. Smith’s ideas focus on concerns regarding the utility of queer theory to gay movements and political communication. From performance studies in communication comes Bryant Alexander’s piece imploring us to think more deeply about how queer theory erases boundaries and borders in terms of “racial, ethnic, cultural, and practiced interests” in the name of inclusivity and collective solidarity. Alexander also expresses concern about the “slipperiness” of queer theory. Also from performance studies, Craig Gingrich-Philbrook, a performance artist and queer theorist, discusses how he employs queer theory to produce and assess the aesthetic aspects of performance using examples from daily life. Readers gain insight into his theatre productions and a glimpse of his personal life, seeing how the notion of queer figures in both. The next essay, by William F. Pinar, a queer theorist in education, discusses his introduction to queer theory, and how queer theory has assisted him in understanding the democratic process. Pinar invokes concepts such as hegemony, compulsory heterosexuality, white male privilege, and subjectivity. He ends his essay by disclosing what he calls his “queer progressive dream.” Next, Judith Halberstam, a scholar of English literature, provides readers with her thoughts about queer theory in the academy and queer pedagogy in particu-

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lar. Kevin K. Kumashiro, a scholar who is deeply concerned with anti-oppressive education, follows Halberstam with a consideration of “queer ideals in education.” The crux of his essay is how the use of the concept of queer can potentially disrupt current hegemonic educational theories and practices and create an atmosphere conducive to social justice. Returning to the reflections of a communications scholar, Bettina Heinz covers a broad territory from queer theory in the academy to individuals coming out as queer at the local grocery store and fast food chain to queer childrearing. She is likely to cause readers to think long and hard about the distinctions between GLBT identities and issues and queerness. Continuing from the perspective of communications studies, Lisa Henderson’s essay focuses on queer theory and the future. She shares her thoughts about politics, communication theory, and her political queer agenda for the new millennium. Next, communications scholar John Nguyet Erni makes several critical remarks about transnationalism and queer theory. Specifically, he discusses issues regarding queerness in the East and West, concluding with the challenges of developing an “internationalist queer intellectual practice.” The final essay in the collection belongs to sociologist Joshua Gamson, who is upfront about his ambivalence with queer theory. His essay echoes the others’ concerns of regarding the tensions between the LGBT studies perspective and queer theory in their implications for institutions. Gamson’s essay ends on a personal note, with his declaration that, while he identifies as a “gay guy” who wants to be treated like everyone else, he does not want to be fixed in the camp of normality either. He intimates that he lives in “both camps,” never wanting to stay in either one permanently. We hope this reflections section will spark the kind of thinking about queer theory exhibited by the essayists as they have written about the professionalization of queer theory, its tensions with the GLBT studies perspective, its personal impact, its pedagogical possibilities and challenges, queering transnationalism, politics, social movements, queerness in daily life, and other considerations. There is an abundance of issues to ponder when it comes to queer theory. We hope that these essays also shed a personal light on what has often been an elusive theory accessible to only a small number of academics. Now, what are your thoughts on queer theory? What do you see as its possibilities and liabilities? What, if any, relevance does it have to your personal and/or professional life? Whatever your responses to these questions, please join the conversation.

The Normalization of Queer Theory David M. Halperin, PhD University of Michigan

“Queer” is such a simple, unassuming little word. Who ever could have guessed that we would come to saddle it with so much pretentious baggage–so many grandiose theories, political agendas, philosophical projects, apocalyptic meanings? A word that was once commonly understood to mean “strange,” “odd,” “unusual,” “abnormal,” or “sick,” and was routinely applied to lesbians and gay men as a term of abuse, now intimates possibilities so complex and rarified that entire volumes are devoted to spelling them out. Even to define queer, we now think, is to limit its potential, its magical power to usher in a new age of sexual radicalism and fluid gender possibilities. How did a word with such humble origins, a word that until quite lately many decent people were reluctant even to utter, come to acquire so many portentous–weighty yet vaporous–significations? While waiting for someone to explain that trajectory, I will review a few points along its path. Queer theory originally came into being as a joke. Teresa de Lauretis coined the phrase “queer theory” to serve as the title of a conference that she held in February of 1990 at the University of California, Santa Cruz, where she is Professor of The History of Consciousness. She had heard the word “queer” being tossed about in a gay-affirmative sense by activists, street kids, and members of the art world in New York during the late 1980s. She had the courage, and the conviction, to pair that scurrilous term with the academic holy word, “theCorrespondence may be addressed: University of Michigan, Department of English Language and Literature, 3187 Angell Hall, 435 S. State Street, Ann Arbor, MI 48109-1003 (E-mail: [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “The Normalization of Queer Theory.” Halperin, David M. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 339-343; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 339-343. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: docdelivery@ haworthpress.com].

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ory.” Her usage was scandalously offensive. Sympathetic faculty at UCSC asked, in wounded tones, “Why do they have to call it that?” But the conjunction was more than merely mischievous: it was deliberately disruptive. In her opening remarks at the conference, Professor de Lauretis acknowledged that she had intended the title as a provocation. She wanted specifically to unsettle the complacency of “lesbian and gay studies” (that “by now established and often convenient formula,” as she called it) which implied that the relation of lesbian to gay male topics in this emerging field was equitable, perfectly balanced, and completely understood–as if everyone knew exactly how lesbian studies and gay male studies connected to each other and why it was necessary or important that they should evolve together. She also wished to challenge the erstwhile domination of the field by the work of empirical social scientists, to open a wider space within it for reflections of a theoretical order, to introduce a problematic of multiple differences into what had tended to be a monolithic, homogenizing discourse of (homo)sexual difference, and to offer a possible escape from the hegemony of white, male, middle-class models of analysis. Beyond that, she hoped both to make theory queer (that is, to challenge the heterosexist underpinnings and assumptions of what conventionally passed for “theory” in academic circles) and to queer theory (to call attention to everything that is perverse about the project of theorizing sexual desire and sexual pleasure). Queer theory was thus a placeholder for a hypothetical knowledge-practice not yet in existence, but whose consummation was devoutly to be wished. The moment that the scandalous formula “queer theory” was uttered, however, it became the name of an already established school of theory, as if it constituted a set of specific doctrines, a singular, substantive perspective on the world, a particular theorization of human experience, equivalent in that respect to psychoanalytic or Marxist theory. The only problem was that no one knew what the theory was. And for the very good reason that no such theory existed. Those working in the field did their best, politely and tactfully, to point this out: Lauren Berlant and Michael Warner, for example, published a cautionary editorial in PMLA entitled “What Does Queer Theory Teach Us About X?” But it was too late. Queer theory appeared on the shelves of bookstores and in advertisements for academic jobs, where it provided a merciful exemption from the irreducibly sexual descriptors “lesbian” and “gay.” It also harmonized very nicely with the contemporary critique of feminist and gay/lesbian identity politics, promoting the assumption that “queer” was some sort of advanced, postmodern identity, and that queer theory had superseded both feminism and lesbian/gay studies. Queer theory thereby achieved what lesbian and gay studies, despite its many scholarly and critical accomplishments, had been unable to bring about: namely, the entry of queer scholarship into the academy, the creation of jobs in queer studies, and the acquisition of academic respectability for queer work. Indeed, queer theory has been so successful in its dash

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to academic institutionalization that it has left tread marks all over earlier avatars of postmodern theory (who now even remembers The New Historicism?). As such, queer theory was simply too lucrative to give up. Queer theory, therefore, had to be invented after the fact, to supply the demand it had evoked. (The two texts that, in retrospect, were taken to have founded queer theory, Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s Epistemology of the Closet and Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble, were written well before anyone had ever heard of it.) All this would be merely amusing, if the hegemony of queer theory hadn’t had the undesirable and misleading effect of portraying all previous work in lesbian and gay studies as under-theorized, as laboring under the delusion of identity politics, and if it hadn’t radically narrowed the scope of queer studies by privileging its theoretical register, restricting its range, and scaling down its interdisciplinary ambition. That does not mean all the consequences of queer theory have been bad. Queer theory has effectively re-opened the question of the relations between sexuality and gender, both as analytic categories and as lived experiences; it has created greater opportunities for transgender studies; it has pursued the task (begun long before within the sphere of lesbian/gay studies) of detaching the critique of gender and sexuality from narrowly conceived notions of lesbian and gay identity; it has supported non-normative expressions of gender and sexuality, encouraging both theoretical and political resistance to normalization; it has underwritten a number of crucial theoretical critiques of homophobia and heterosexism; it has redefined the practice of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender history; and it has dramatized the far-reaching theoretical promise of work in lesbian and gay studies. But with the institutionalization of queer theory, and its acceptance by the academy (and by straight academics), have come new problems and new challenges. There is something odd, suspiciously odd, about the rapidity with which queer theory–whose claim to radical politics derived from its anti-assimilationist posture, from its shocking embrace of the abnormal and the marginal–has been embraced by, canonized by, and absorbed into our (largely heterosexual) institutions of knowledge, as lesbian and gay studies never were. Despite its implicit (and false) portrayal of lesbian and gay studies as liberal, assimilationist, and accommodating of the status quo, queer theory has proven to be much more congenial to established institutions of the liberal academy. The first step was for the “theory” in queer theory to prevail over the “queer,” for “queer” to become a harmless qualifier of “theory”: if it’s theory, progressive academics seem to have reasoned, then it’s merely an extension of what important people have already been doing all along. It can be folded back into the standard practice of literary and cultural studies, without impeding academic business as usual. The next step was to despecify the lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, or transgressive content of queerness, thereby abstracting “queer” and turning it into a generic badge of subversiveness, a more trendy version of “liberal”: if it’s queer, it’s politically oppositional, so everyone who claims to be progressive has a vested

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interest in owning a share of it. Finally, queer theory, being a theory instead of a discipline, posed no threat to the monopoly of the established disciplines: on the contrary, queer theory could be incorporated into each of them, and it could then be applied to topics in already established fields. Those working in English, history, classics, anthropology, sociology, or religion would now have the option of using queer theory, as they had previously used Deconstruction, to advance the practice of their disciplines–by “queering” them. The outcome of those three moves was to make queer theory a game the whole family could play. This has resulted in a paradoxical situation: as queer theory becomes more widely diffused throughout the disciplines, it becomes harder to figure out what’s so very queer about it, while lesbian and gay studies, which by contrast would seem to pertain only to lesbians and gay men, looks increasingly backward, identitarian, and outdated. Last semester the Director of Graduate Studies in my department at the University of Michigan, who is herself a longtime contributor to lesbian/gay studies, asked me to teach a graduate seminar in queer theory, since that was one of the fields that our graduate students had expressed an interest in studying. I would have been more gratified by that request if I hadn’t just taught a graduate seminar in queer theory the previous semester, which only one graduate student from my department had taken. The obvious problem was that I hadn’t called my course “queer theory.” But the more far-reaching problem was that “queer theory” has become so conventional, so indistinguishable from the other prerequisites for advanced literary and cultural studies, that not only is it no longer very queer, it also no longer resembles the sort of work that continues to go on within the orbit of lesbian, gay, or queer studies, even when such work is conducted in a theoretical register. In my case, the graduate seminar I had offered was an attempt to inquire into gay male subjectivity in a non-psychoanalytic mode by examining gay men’s cultural identifications, their distinctive (which is to say queer) relation to mainstream culture, their engagement with figures like Judy Garland or Bette Davis–in short, their particular ways of reading. The purpose of the seminar was to approach questions of gay male subjectivity-formation by means of detailed, concrete analyses of gay men’s cultural practices, the vagaries of their identifications and disidentifications, and to found a queer paedagogy on that reformulated basis. Such a course is very different from a survey of queer theory, beginning with Sedgwick, Butler, Monique Wittig, Gayle Rubin, Michel Foucault, D. A. Miller, Leo Bersani, and Simon Watney, and extending through the work of de Lauretis, Diana Fuss, Douglas Crimp, Lee Edelman, Earl Jackson, Biddy Martin, Sue-Ellen Case, Michael Warner, and Judith Halberstam. For one thing, my course was concerned specifically with gay men, with their unique culture. It presumed a willingness to examine gay male cultural practices for their social and theoretical significance. Such an undertaking did not lend itself to abstraction or generalization, at least not in the first instance; it had to take off from a close examination of the social phenomena themselves, and it could not

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escape intimate engagement with the sensibilities of gay men in particular. It did not rise quickly enough to a level of theoretical generality sufficient to place it obviously and easily within the intellectual reach of everyone–meaning students not necessarily familiar with or interested in the specifics of gay male life. In other words, the topic was irreducibly queer. Queer theory proper is often abstracted from the quotidian realities of lesbian and gay male life. That doesn’t undercut its importance. A survey of canonical queer theory, such as I have outlined above, can be immensely valuable, and I have willingly taught it in the past. But I would not want to teach such a course if it were to function as a means for (straight) students who do not wish to engage with queer culture or queer studies to acquire a qualification in queer theory, merely so as to complete an up-to-date graduate education. The challenge for those of us who want to do queer theory in an academic context today is to find ways of accommodating our students’ legitimate professional demand for credentialization in queer theory while preserving the critical, or queer, dimensions of that very enterprise. Of course, the ultimate irony in all this comes from the larger disciplinary situation. The people who invented feminism and lesbian/gay studies, who later introduced queer theory into the academy, were motivated first and foremost by an impulse to transform what could count as knowledge, as well as by a determination to transform the practices by which knowledge functioned within the institution of the university. Students nowadays who enroll in graduate school intending to work in queer theory, whatever their political background or ambitions, seek less to revolutionize the university than to benefit from what the university currently has to offer them. They also seek to create a space for themselves and their work within the field of queer theory as that field is already constituted. That is not a bad a thing in itself. It is after all what many of us have struggled for–to make it possible for queer students, and others, to integrate the analysis and critique of gender and sexuality into their professional lives, into their identities, into their scholarly practices. Still, nothing in our background has prepared us for the kind of disciplinary relation to queer theory that consists not in working with students to create possibilities for critical reflection that have never previously existed but in using our authority to train students in queer theory as if it were any other established field (“B+: you made good use of Sedgwick, but you neglected to mention Michael Moon”). If queer theory is going to have the sort of future worth cherishing, we will have to find ways of renewing its radical potential–and by that I mean not devising some new and more avant-garde theoretical formulation of it but, quite concretely, reinventing its capacity to startle, to surprise, to help us think what has not yet been thought.

Queer Theory, Gay Movements, and Political Communication Ralph R. Smith, PhD Southwest Missouri State University

As a professor of communication at a Midwestern state university (whose administration adamantly resists adopting a sexual orientation nondiscrimination clause), I write and teach courses about gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgender politics. I am also active in campus and community pro-gay campaigns. From both professorial and activist perspectives, I am convinced that queer theory should be interrogated to reveal the contributions it can make to understanding political communication relating to legal and civic issues affecting sexual minorities. Such understanding is critical to public advocacy advancing protection of homosexual individuals and groups, both in private behavior and in associational relations and expression, thus helping to make possible our full citizenship. “Queer theory” raises difficult definitional problems, which I will address by saying that I am not concerned with “queer” as fashionable shorthand for the infelicitous expression “gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender.” Nor am I interested here in queer politics as a congregation of now defunct movements that briefly defended identities marginalized by mainstream gay politics. In this essay, moreover, I am not involved in “queer” as a label for the specific political stance which holds that mainstream gay politics normalizes and Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Communication, Southwest Missouri State University, Springfield, MO 65804-0095 (E-mail: [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Queer Theory, Gay Movements, and Political Communication.” Smith, Ralph R. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 345-348; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 345-348. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

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de-sexualizes a movement originally begun in defense of sexual freedom, outlaw sexualities, and erotic behavior of all kinds. I am concerned with queer theory as a set of ideas loosely labeled postmodern or post-structuralist, originally applied in particular ways to gender and, more recently, to sexuality. The core tenets of queer theory are that: (1) all categories are falsifications, especially if they are binary and descriptive of sexuality; (2) all assertions about reality are socially constructed; (3) all human behavior can be read as textual signification; (4) texts form discourses that are exercises in power/knowledge and which, properly analyzed, reveal relations of dominance within historically-situated systems of regulation; (5) deconstruction of all categories of normality and deviance can best be accomplished by queer readings of performative texts ranging from literature (fictional, professional, popular) to other cultural expressions (geographic distribution, body piercing, sit-coms, sadomasochistic paraphernalia). In general, queer theorists propose to destabilize hegemonic cultural ideals of normality. In the process of executing this project, they have brought to dominance in the humanities (and in some groves of the social sciences) a constructionist view of social thought which denaturalizes all human experience, achieves wide assent to an indeterminacy which rejects all assertions of identity, encourages emphasis on far-ranging cultural experiences at the expense of political analysis and action, and promotes an historicism which relativizes all thought and culture. Before examining current critique of queer theory and suggesting how this theory might be enhanced in order to increase its value to political thought and action, I will enumerate important benefits to gay politics that have accrued as a result of queer theory. Queer theory reminds us to attend assiduously to diversity among sexual minorities, as well as to recognize discontinuity of experience through time and across cultures. In its attempt to build and represent a unifying collective subject, gay politics tends to ignore sociocultural differences, historical change, and multiple identities. Queer theory provides a corrective to these evasions, thus reinforcing the central idea of political practice that “all politics is local” and encouraging rhetorical sensitivity to a wide variety of audiences in the gay “community.” Additionally, queer theory amplifies a central message of all rhetorical theorists which should be remembered by activists: Verbal expression is persuasive and behavior modifying. Queer theory echoes that “ideas are weapons.” Finally, queer theory reinforces the valuable concept that human beings, as “interactive kinds,” should be empowered autonomously to recreate and fully realize themselves, if for no other reason than people cannot be prevented from reacting to classification systems through self-reinvention. After all, two purposes of politics are to channel and to take credit for the inevitable. Because of its recent academic high profile, queer theory has been subjected to extensive criticism. Included in these criticisms is that queer theorists, in their radical nominalism, ignore the material world of actual persons

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and relationships, preferring instead to focus on grammatical and semantic analysis of texts and on conditions of reception-consumption, thereby drawing attention away from economic inequity and actual relations of exploitation. Critics charge, moreover, that, despite or because of its historicism, queer theory transforms changes in fashion into major shifts in epistemology, thereby obscuring continuity in human experience across time and cultures, thus denying gay men and lesbians the benefit of a history and a universality arguably well grounded in reality. Further, by ignoring politics for other aspects of culture, queer theorists may elevate cross-dressing heavy metal performances, for example, to the same importance as Supreme Court decisions. Queer theory is also criticized for avoiding the reality of core identities by transforming them into mere subjectivities, thereby departing from human experience and intuition. Presentation of queer theory, so another indictment runs, is incestuous in citation, dogmatic in thought, and impenetrable in style and vocabulary. Canonical texts of queer studies by Foucault, Lacan, Derrida, Butler, and Sedgwick are repetitively redescribed with increasing obscurity not required for works already remarkably obscure. Major lacunae in thought are papered over by repetitive assertion of formulary phrases advanced as dogma. Incredibly convoluted sentences are often studded with recondite words, neologisms, and familiar words used unfamiliarly. In the view of some critics, queer theory has produced a series of adverse effects on gay politics, redirecting attention from the materiality of actual social conditions to language, from the disruption of bodies through violence to the disruption of homophobic performance. The claim is made that interest is drawn away from perennial questions in gay politics which truly matter, e.g., assimilation vs. minority group, insider politics vs. confrontation, and contention over issue selection, to questions which have only rarely been asked. More specifically, queer theory erases gay identity, thereby weakening social justice and civil rights movements, creating a sense of futility about achieving amelioration of conditions for sexual minorities and strengthening the sense of division already endemic among gay advocates. In the view of some critics, queer theory enhances misunderstanding between the ivory tower and the street, between academics, who should be among the spokespersons for gay interests, and gay activists and their constituencies. Queer theory is also faulted for failing to recognize that politics is a part of culture, even popular culture, just as much as performance art and sit-coms. Finally, by its emphasis on individualism and on the creation of self through consumption practices, queer theory drains the pool of those who might become committed to achieving a common good. Among the ways in which queer theory could be amended and extended to make it more useful for communication of political issues and programs is greater concern with the material world and with a politics that entails real causes and risks. This would involve recognition that diversity includes un-

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even progress (by geographical location and local culture) in consciousnesses, audiences, and issues. Such a move would emphasize the necessity for adapting messages to individuals who are barely modern, let alone postmodern. More attention might be paid to close scrutiny of an historical record that, in its specifics, could reveal an empowering historical and cultural continuity in gay/lesbian communities. Modification of approach should also include attending to gay political identity as a counterpart to attacking homophobic regimes of regulation, concentrating on building project identities no less than identities of resistance. Because of the work of queer theorists, such an identity may well be more inclusive, i.e., less well patrolled in order to maintain impermeable boundaries. Queer politics, at its best, would be intersectional in the sense that it organizes around multiple identities. There is strong need to translate central ideas of queer theory into a language which can be understood by intelligent and experienced people outside the academy who have not enjoyed years of leisure to study Lacan and Foucault. Such translative efforts might well be useful substitutes for yet more obscure expositions of works already impenetrable. Underlying such efforts to reach beyond the characteristic subject matter and style of queer theory might be a reduction of the high level of dogmatism that now characterizes all sides in the debate over queer theory. We may be moving inescapably toward a post-gay, post-human, and post-post future. In the meantime, we must continue to develop queer theories which mobilize political support for people who love and/or have sexual relations with persons of the same sex, or who have “gender-discrepant” minds/bodies and behaviors, or who are, for whatever reasons, frequently minoritized and marginalized. We deserve the protection of Enlightenment ideals of justice, even if they are only constructs. We must strive to extend to sexual minorities the benefits of rational thought processes, no matter how regulative, that should be used to protect all persons who are victims of oppression, coercion, and deprivation.

Querying Queer Theory Again (or Queer Theory as Drag Performance) Bryant Alexander, PhD California State University, Los Angeles

Lately I have come to the realization that most disciplinary formations, conferences, academic papers, books and public performances are about self-disclosures and confessions. And while they organize around and seek to address important sociological conundrums, they are also more intimately engaged in asking and attempting to come to grips with personally felt and troublesome questions by those who are affected by or implicated in the issues. One hopes the intention is to engage a dialogue in which multiple voices participate in order to clarify issues of choice and effect–of theory, pedagogy and methodology. So, as someone who openly identifies as a Black/gay man/performer/teacher/ scholar, I find myself implicated in the politics of Queer Studies. And specifically, I find myself infected by the ways that queer theory rubs against the still tender and bruised aspects of my identities–inflaming unhealed wounds, and demanding the use of a salve to numb the pain and encourage healing. And at the risk of killing this metaphor, queer theory is an indelicate loofah that removes more than dead skin; it erases my difference. In many ways queer theory and the construction of “queer” is used as an inclusive signifier that dismantles sexual identities and categories. If that is the case, then what about any discussion that links perception, practice, perforCorrespondence may be addressed: Department of Communication Studies, California State University, Los Angeles, 5151 State University Drive, Los Angeles, CA 90032-8111 (E-mail: [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Querying Queer Theory Again (or Queer Theory as Drag Performance).” Alexander, Bryant. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 349-352; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 349-352. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

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mance and the politics of sexual identity to race, ethnicity, culture, time, place and the discourses produced within these disparate locations? At a time within our social and intellectual history when we are just coming to understand the significant meaningfulness of culture as a lens of understanding others and communicating across borders of difference, queer theory is an interesting page marker. I am concerned with the occlusion of talk about race, ethnicity and culture in queer theory, and how those issues mark the erasure of specific bodies and particular ways of being, especially because it has been under the regimes of so many oppressions, that our own unified difference has sustained us–in the specified communities where we claim shelter and support. I am concerned that once again, the burden of talking about these issues falls on “minority folk.” While I support the emerging construction of Black Queer Studies and all Gloria Anzaldúa’s foundational work, how does queer theory and the sanctioned wing of this academic ivory tower ghettoize people of color once again? As well as those who do not politically, pragmatically, practically, physically and psychically identify as queer? And once again we find ourselves speaking from the margins to and against the middle–which is not always necessarily the majority. We find ourselves on the outside forced to formulate our own systems of meaning making and visibility. Can queer theory be both a mode of liberatory practice and an agent of oppressive control simultaneously? How can queer theory ask us to disregard our racial, ethnic, cultural and practiced interests, for some presume collective inclusion under the umbrella of Queer Studies? And are not these constructions already inflected with issues of race and culture? What promises does queer theory make that it cannot keep? And to what degree is the promise of inclusiveness embedded in its rhetoric, merely lip service? How is queer theory the metaphorical hug that both includes and excludes at the same time? And the response to these questions cannot be relegated to the impossibility, or improbability, of hugging everyone at the same time–for intentionality, like theory, has a way of articulating the specificity of desire by marking difference. In actuality, the term “queer” itself is still a highly contested signifier. Many Black gay folk in particular are resistant to the term, as evidenced in discussions at the Black Queer Conference in the Millennium held on the campus of UNC-Chapel Hill in 2000. What happens when the term queer is used as a general reference to gays, lesbians, bisexuals, transgenders, twin-spirits (et al.), and liberal straights of varying hues? What happens when my clearly heterosexual practicing, married, female, Japanese-Polish-American friend claims a queer identity because of her politicized feminist stance and her affinity with and support of gay folk? While I appreciate this presumed solidarity, we are the same and not the same. To what degree does her sanctioned association, appreciation and affinity with queers depreciate gay-lesbian (et al.) politics? Then to what degree does the notion of queer resume its traditional denotative meaning of just being “weird or alternative,” perpetuating questions of the nor-

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mal not in terms of sex, sexuality or sexual practice, but rather in just the politicization of liberal versus conservative thought? I am all for subverting the system and appropriating language, but the use of the signifier queer appropriates histories. I am concerned with the slipperiness of queer theory–of how it resists the grasp of those who try to claim it and those who try to define it–from disbursing sexual binary divides and exploring queerness in social texts, to antiassimilationist rhetoric and resistance to regimes of the normal. Who’s normal? I am concerned with the slippage between the nomenclature of gay and queer, and who and what falls between the cracks. (Where can I find a Black lesbian in queer theory?) I am concerned with the politicized slips that show under the drag of inclusiveness in queer theory, which always signals to me that it is not what it seems. But as much as I appreciate the performative accomplishment of good drag, and the ephemeralized instance of the performative act of passing, I sometimes like bad drag better. Sometimes I like seeing the seams, not because I don’t appreciate the artistry of illusion, but in fact, it is the seams that seemingly call my attention to the constructedness of the venture. In bad drag the appearance of rehearsal signals the everydayness of gender performance. The appearance of a slip hanging below a hem line, the appearance of a mustache that is not quite centered or hair creeping up from décolletage; the appearance of an oddly placed phallus, poorly positioned hip pads or asymmetrical breasts signal the constructed performative venture. In viewing drag–good or bad–I often engage it as a pedagogical moment. It is a moment in which questions of what to teach and how to teach it are asked. It is a moment where questions of what to know and why one needs to know it are addressed, a moment when questions of utility and positionality are answered–if for no other reason than how it relates to the desire of the viewer (the reader, the student and the curious onlooker). I like those moments when the spectator has no doubt about the seeming incongruity between sexed body, socialized gender performance and political intentionality. I like those moments when drag performers, for good or bad, remove portions of their pastiched images and reveal not their true self, but the performative nature of drag and hence the performative nature of gender itself. I recall a staged “cat fight” between two drag queens at “Mr. P’s,” a gay bar in Dupont Circle, D.C., in which one drag queen removed her false breasts and threw them at the other performer in drag–as the audience watched. Signaling to the audience, the other drag queen suggested that s/he could not reciprocate because he/r breasts were “real.” While a hilarious scene meant to entertain, the scene also informs and engages the audience in a mockery of what we use as evidence of femininity, masculinity and sexed identity. To what degree does our investment in queer theory–as teachers, students, scholars, spectators and those implicated in the politics of its promotion– require us to say, “Show it all!” “It” being the performative accomplishment of illusion. “It” being the argument about sex, sexuality and gender and how “it”

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was constructed and, consequently, deconstructed. And should we wonder, “Is it real or false? In many ways I know that I am asking more questions than offering answers, but questions have a way of establishing an impulse for response, and signaling an agenda for exploration and reflection. And, like Critical Pedagogy, queer theory has to engage a language of critique and a language of possibility, a language that seeks to articulate the landscape of its desire and the scope of its speculation. That process is daunting, in that the landscape that queer theory seeks to claim has a diverse topology. Its surface is sometimes serene and inviting, and at other times exotic and treacherous. Maps are always needed, and cartographers must always be at hand to note the shifting tectonic plates of experience, the faces of the inhabitants who frequent these spaces and how their practices shape the terrain. In order for queer theory to be true to its identified mission, it must truly be inclusive without delimiting. It must re-map the terrain of gender identity without removing the fences that make good neighbors or the hills and valleys that shape desire. Maybe, like forced integration, this happens through continued acts of performative resistance, civil disobedience or what José Esteban Muñoz would characterize as acts of disidentification, in which we engage an active process of decoding the encoded messages within queer theory and force its promise of a universalizing inclusivity. This does not exclusively have to be the work of those who are e-raced in queer theory, but for all who understand what is at stake, when the specificity of experience, culture and desire are disregarded. And maybe in this process, we will also recognize that queer theory is only a collective of intellectual speculations, which we have presumed to be a unified system of thought and a methodological approach to doing and knowing; that it is only a set of principles and not particularities. And maybe in this process we will also discover that the intersections of our experiences are like invisible porous seams, and the borders that mark the theoretical speculation on identity are always marked by indifference but signal the possibility of crossing and being. So for the moment, I retain my self-articulation as a Black/gay man/performer/teacher/scholar, mindful of the tensive connects and disconnects of that construction. I am open to the possibilities of the “other ways of being” that are signaled in queer theory. But I am secure in my own identification, and my own performed engagement of sexual, racial and gender politics.

Queer Theory and Performance Craig Gingrich-Philbrook, PhD Southern Illinois University, Carbondale

Like many of the contributors, no doubt, I feel compelled to start with the observation, commonplace by now, that queer theory resists definition. Its admission (?) into universities has made the work of many scholars more acceptable, the lives of many students safer on some counts, and off-campus communities more tolerant as queer theorists testify as experts in various hearings and contribute to grass roots activism. As a queer performance artist and theorist, I use queer theory to construct and evaluate aesthetic performances, usually narrative, crafted from observations of everyday life. I watch and perform such narratives at various universities, fundraisers, and performance venues. In these settings, the narrators/performers do not seek description or formal aesthetic effects alone. Although description occupies a fundamental place in their work, they hope to provide turning points, moments of recognition and critical reflection, much like “click” moments in feminist consciousness raising groups, which alter how we live. Consider, for example, these queer performance moments on and off stage, each of which contributed to my experience of queer theory’s elusive boundaries, calls, and possibilities: 1. I tell a story in one of my shows about the boys in my fourth grade class– boys who tormented me as the class “sissy.” My mother wanted me to “blend” with these boys, so she made me go to a slumber party at one of their houses. Correspondence may be addressed: Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, Department of Speech Communication, Carbondale IL 62901 (E-mail: craiggp@ siu.edu). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Queer Theory and Performance.” Gingrich-Philbrook, Craig. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 353-356; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 353-356. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

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At the party, I woke to find them blowing each other, although I doubt they conceptualized their behavior this way. Rather, it probably was a kind of embodied, affiliational play some might feel covered by the cliche “boys will be boys.” My mother had often told me that boys were nasty, dirty, etc., so this inexplicable orgy seemed like evidence to me. I sat up on a sofa, pretending to look out a window, trying to ignore them. Later, composing and presenting the story, the event seemed ironic: I, the class sissy, was the only one in the room who was not a cocksucker. In a question and answer session after one performance, a young man said I must have been lying. Nothing like that ever happened to him at a slumber party. At the time, I assumed he was straight; you know, that so-called resistant audience member queer performers are all supposed to–what? Convince? Persuade? Cajole? Implicate? Seduce? You know the one I’m talking about: the one we’re supposed to know more than and politically convert in an epistemic triumph of our own design. God, I feel like a used-car sales person or televangelist when I think this way. I suggested he think about who and what his disbelief protected. Years later, someone told me this man lost a job because he spoke with his class, in loving detail, about his lover’s penis. His transgressive disclosure, his class being a captive audience and all, horrified me. Soon, though, I remembered that when he saw me perform years ago he came to the show at a university, for a class. Was he captive? I told myself that at least I didn’t talk about the penises in detail. I kept them hidden. I was being resistant, ironic, rather than rhapsodic about these penises. But we expect irony from gay men–don’t we? We love it because it knocks stuff off the pedestal. Irony confirms our suspicion of rhapsody, confirms our sense that the mundane doesn’t matter, that nothing deserves to be lifted up out of the muck–even the alleged transcendental signifier of Western Civilization. I can’t help asking whose performance, his or mine, was queerer, more dangerous to power? Queer theory helps me keep this question open. 2. One night, my partner Jonny and I sat watching queer performance scion Tim Miller present his show Naked Breath at PS 122 in Manhattan. Tim waxed nostalgic, but embitteredly so, about the old days when everyone had Queer Nation goatees, pink triangle wear, and “Silence = Death” buttons. Tim waxed nostalgic and embittered about how naive we all were when we thought that would make a difference. Jonny had a Queer Nation goatee and a pink triangle on his coat. Eighty per cent of the men in the room had Queer Nation goatees. I couldn’t count the buttons. I adore this show, and Miller, but I wanted to shout that shaving and not wearing the button wouldn’t guarantee a difference, well, not the difference he was talking about, either. Of course, he meant that we must do more than wear buttons and follow trends for queer facial hair. He meant we must act beyond the signification of our identity. But I wonder if standing naked on stage–his almost hairless body

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luminous, gorgeous, a kind of boyish Venus on the half shell, his pretty cock a pearl at the center of all that muscle–has any more queer efficacy than the everyday life performances of the bearded, stocky, grandfatherly bears around us whose love and affiliation Miller’s performance appeared to seek. Queer theory and performance help me listen critically to the pronouncements of such scions who do and do not speak for me, much as I do and do not speak for you. Miller’s speech is for us, a gift–but not for us–not in our place; it does not exempt our own having to speak, having to negotiate the discursive possibilities our bodies are born into and transform. 3. I had just moved back to Carbondale from New York, where my partner Jonny stayed, at least for the time being. A dear friend came to my house for dinner. As we had on so many nights, we talked for hours at my kitchen table. As she left, we embraced goodbye, and, for the first time in years, I felt the beginnings of absolutely unanticipated desire. We live in a world where a Pepsi commercial shows Viagra evangelist Bob Dole leering at Britney Spears dancing on television. Spears appears half-naked and is almost as pretty as Tim Miller. Dole sits there, in his blue TV light, patting his faithful dog’s head. Is it really his dog, I wonder? The dog, too, appears stimulated by Spears. His body grows more alert; he stands up at attention. Dole growls ambiguously, “Easy, boy,” chastising the rising animal. In such a world, I hope I can say something gentler, that standing in my doorway–growing harder in the dark, waving goodbye to my friend as she drove away, the street growing quieter and darker as her car disappeared–was easily one of the queerest performances of my life. And so I should tell you what I did with it I suppose–which was just to sit back down at the table, finish my coffee, and think about how funny life is as I felt my erection subside like the memory of a weed glimpsed once, growing unexpectedly from a crack in the edifice of a government building. See, I did the queerest thing of all with this erection: I theorized it. In his book Phallos: The Sacred Image of the Masculine, Jungian analyst Eugene A. Monick does everything he can to undo the ideological lamination of domination and power to the mere prospect of erections. He situates them instead as a question asked by the deities–by which he means something outside a man’s grasp on his own identity. No pun intended. I thought about Monick as I sat there wondering what this erection asked of me. It challenged my autonomy, the hubris of my pretension to have exhausted myself with language, to have come to “know” myself, my body. It helped me remember that thought and the body never close upon one another, commensurable at last. Queer theory and performance help me remember that experiences of desire come to us neither wholly authentically, from within, nor wholly discursively, from without. Instead, these possibilities mix, calling one another into a mutual doubt that somehow sustains their respective intelligibility as one another’s loyal opposition. Resistant audience member and resistant performer–these identities, these subject positions–also inform one another in

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such a way. They meet not only interpersonally, in the theatre or rally platform as social laboratory, but also intrapsychically, in the very mechanism of desire itself, about which I am neither nostalgic nor embittered, but before which I stand uncertain. For desire is an encounter with the unforeseen, not so much in the sense that we do not anticipate the object of our desire (though this is sometimes the case), as in the sense that, in the course of experiencing our desire, we fail to fully anticipate its effects, effects that die when we routinize desire, prefigure, mythologize, or empty it into law. Soon, perhaps with our assistance, queer theory and performance might reconsider their collective mythologizing of the divide between discourse/language and authenticity/the body. Then we might see this divide for what it is: a crack in queer theory’s bureaucratic edifice, a crack in which something unnamed is growing.

Queer Theory in Education William F. Pinar, PhD Louisiana State University

Peter Taubman introduced me to queer theory (or the possibility of it) in 1979 when, relying on Foucault, he wrote a doctoral dissertation destabilizing gender categories. Peter’s work anticipated much scholarship that followed concerning essentialism, social constructivism and identity (Jagose 1996; Taubman 1979). At this time I was becoming gay, and the convergence of intellectual and sexual practice was startling and intoxicating. Also about this time I discovered Guy Hocquenghem’s analysis of the phallus and the anus. Combined with Nancy Chodorow’s Reproduction of Mother (recommended by my ex-partner and mother of our son, Denah Joseph), I found myself straddled across contradictory but intensely stimulating traditions. The result was my first critique of hegemonic masculinity, composed in 1981 (published in 1983, reissued in 1994 and 1998). It is queer theory that has enabled me to understand that the democratization of American society cannot proceed without a radical restructuring of hegemonic white male subjectivity (Savran, 1998; Boyarin, 1997). Indeed, hegemonic male subjectivity must be brought to ruin, shattered as Kaja Silverman (1992) and Leo Bersani (1995) have suggested, its narcissistic unity dissolved, its repressed feminine composition reclaimed, homosexual desire (now collec-

Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Curriculum and Instruction, Louisiana State University, Peabody 223, Baton Rouge, LA 70803 (E-mail: [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Queer Theory in Education.” Pinar, William F. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 357-360; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 357-360. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

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tively sublimated into identification with the oedipal “father” and a fascistic fraternalism) re-experienced. “The straight mind valorizes difference,” Bersani (1995, p. 39) asserts. The association of compulsory heterosexuality with a hierarchical view of difference–an association elaborated earlier by Monique Wittig (1992)–I understand psychoanalytically. Bersani reminds us that Kenneth Lewes (1988) theorized male heterosexual desire as the complicated consequence of flight to the father following a horrified retreat from the mother. So conceptualized, hegemonic male heterosexuality is constructed upon and actively requires a traumatic privileging of difference. “The cultural consolidation of heterosexuality,” Bersani writes, “is grounded in its more fundamental, non-reflective construction as the compulsive repetition of a traumatic response to difference” (1995, p. 40). In this regard, “the straight mind might be thought of as a sublimation of this privileging of difference” (Bersani, 1995, p. 40). In addition to psychoanalytically-inspired studies, cross-cultural anthropological research (see Gilmore, 1990) also underlines the defensive and traumatic character of much male heterosexual desire. The compulsory production of an exclusively heterosexual orientation in men appears to depend upon a misogynous identification with (and suppression of desire for) the father as well as a permanent and ongoing disavowal of femininity, associating it with castration, lack, and loss. In the United States (as well as in other former slave states and colonial powers, although each differently), this gendered formation is racialized, and “race” is gendered. In the social production of hegemonic (white) masculinity, the fabrication of masculine identification requires the relocation of repudiated desire onto others who are already fictionalized (constructed as, for instance, stereotypes), that is, whose civic existence corresponds to their imagined and often sexualized existence in the white male mind. The political pedagogical project of this queer theorist in education involves the ruination of hegemonic white male subjectivity, its “regression” to positionalities and subjectivities closer to sites of maternal identification. What we need today is a nation of mama’s boys, men who have declined to repudiate their maternal identification, men who preserve within themselves their sense of difference, differentiation, relationality. Perhaps it is only through a conscious embrace of a rejected maternal identification and the re-experience of homoerotic desire, a position of sexualized tension with (not sublimated resistance to) the father, that the “son” can eschew the lure of Anglo-American patriarchy, of homosociality, of misogyny and racism, of “power.” An uncritical, untheorized homosexual positionality is insufficient here. What is necessary are men who understand and claim their fundamental allegiance and loyalty to women, male subject positions that probably require a sexualized privileging of anatomical sameness to avoid the idealization/subjugation of women, who, especially for many straight men, have become abstract, “objects,” not

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subjectivities in extricable relation to their own. Bersani (1995, p. 59) suggests as much when he asserts that the “privileging of sameness has, as its condition of possibility, an indeterminate identity. Homosexual desire is desire for the same from the perspective of a self already identified as different from itself.” Here, then, is a structure of (white, male) subjectivity that supports difference within itself, not difference denied, repudiated, relocated, projected onto those who then become “others.” Difference does not disappear, of course. But the “difference” that remains is not a projected, imagined difference (women as inferior, black men as rapists or, even, as “absolute alterity” in Levinas’ formulation [2000]). The difference that remains is concrete, volunteered not assumed, not imagined, difference which can be expressed and perceived and appreciated by self-differentiated selves (or, in Bersani’s phrase, “indeterminate identities”), negotiating, through dialogical encounters, modalities of horizontal relation to each other across democratized terrain of race, class, gender, in historical time. Queer theory makes clear that men’s desire for men does not constitute some “third sex,” a genetically based version of left-handedness, as some contemporary scientists fantasize. Nor does it have to do with the existence, as nineteenth-century scientists were so sure, of a woman’s soul inside a man’s body. But “within what might be called the available social field of desiring subjects, the incorporation of woman’s otherness may be a major source of desiring material for male homosexuals” (Bersani, 1995, p. 60). After Kaja Silverman (1992), Bersani is suggesting here that men’s conscious embrace of the feminine may prove useful in reconfiguring hegemonic male sexuality, reconfiguring a defensive, compensatory, racialized masculinity into . . . well, something else. Certainly the intent of reconceptualizing men’s sexuality is to institute forms of masculine desire that do not eroticize displaced elements of oneself, which then hegemonic men demand “others” to perform, in various positionalities of subjugation, political versions of S & M. My queer progressive dream narrates a reconfiguration of men’s sexual practices, men’s psychic structures, and men’s relations to women, children, and to the “othered” men. “If queerness means more than simply taking sexuality into account in our political analyses,” Bersani (1995, p. 73) writes, “if it means that modalities of desire are not only effects of social operations but are at the core of our very imagination of the social and the political, then something has to be said about how erotic desire for the same might revolutionize our understanding of how the human subject is, or might be, socially implicated.” What that revolution might be, what forms it might take, what its significance might be for contemporary political and economic structures–from “democracy” to “capitalism”–is labor for another day; it is at this point where some locate queer theory’s weakness (see, for instance, Kirsch, 2001). At present I am working to understand how hegemonic white subjectivity comes to form “in the shadow of the other” (Benjamin, 1998). This work has led me to “the curse of Ham,” arguably the “founding” and “imprinting” mo-

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ment of “race” in the Judaic and Christian imaginations. For many–including for many slaveholders and racial segregationists–the genesis of “race” (and, for them, its implications of racial inferiority) is to be found in one line of that canonical Christian text, the Bible: Genesis 9:24. It is a passage which locates the origin of “race” in an apparently homosexual incestuous assault, a mythic event that we might say reverberates for centuries, up through nineteenth-century lynching, twentieth-century prison rape, and in American schools today (Pinar 2001). It is a complex puzzle, but one which queer theory might help us to solve.

REFERENCES Benjamin, J. (1998). In the shadow of the other. New York: Routledge. Bersani, L. (1995). Homos. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Boyarin, D. (1997). Unheroic conduct: The rise of heterosexuality and the invention of the Jewish man. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Chodorow, N. (1978). The reproduction of mothering. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Gilmore, D. (1990). Manhood in the making. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Hocquenghem, G. (1978). Homosexual desire. London: Allison & Busby. Jagose, A. (1996). Queer theory: An introduction. New York: New York University Press. Kirsch, M. H. (2001). Queer theory and social change. New York: Routledge. Levinas, E. (2000). Alterity and transcendence. New York: Columbia University Press. Lewes, K. (1988). The psychoanalytic theory of male homosexuality. New York: New American Library. Pinar, W. F. (1983). Curriculum as gender text: Notes on reproduction, resistance, and male-male relations. JCT, 5(1), 26-52. [Reprinted in Autobiography, politics, and sexuality: Essays in curriculum theory 1972-1992, pp. 151-181, by W. F. Pinar, 1994, New York: Peter Lang. Reprinted in Queer theory in Education, pp. 221-243, by W. F. Pinar, Ed.,1998, Mahwah, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum.] Pinar, W. F. (2001). The gender of racial politics and violence in America: Lynching, prison rape and the crisis of masculinity. New York: Peter Lang. Savran, D. (1998). Taking it a like a man: White masculinity, masochism, and contemporary American culture. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Silverman, K. (1992). Male subjectivity at the margins. New York & London: Routledge. Taubman, P. M. (1979). Gender and curriculum: Discourse and the politics of sexuality. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Rochester, Rochester, New York. Wittig, M. (1992). The straight mind and other essays. Boston: Beacon Press.

Reflections on Queer Studies and Queer Pedagogy Judith Halberstam, PhD University of California, San Diego

Recently I have heard colleagues and students alike comment upon the possible decline of queer theory. Some say that queer theory is no longer in vogue; others characterize it as fatigued or exhausted of energy and lacking in keen debates; still others wax nostalgic for an earlier moment in the history of queer studies in the academy and accuse a new generation of queer theorists of having dropped the ball on the politics of the queer project. These vague rumblings of queer theory and its discontents are accompanied by rumors of certain powerful university presses no longer having faith in queer publications. Is queer studies in some kind of slump? It is my distinct impression that queer studies has recently experienced a paradigm shift and that far from being over, queer studies in the academy is flourishing in the work of a new generation of scholars who have had the benefit of a training in queer theory at the graduate level. Much of the most exciting work in this new moment of queer studies refuses to see sexuality as a singular mode of inquiry and instead makes sexuality a central category of analysis in the study of racialization, transnationalism and globalization. Some of this work can be considered to define new fields such as queer ethnic studies, queer postcolonial studies and transgender studies. Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Literature, UC San Diego, 9500 Gilman Dr., La Jolla, CA 92093-0410 (E-mail: [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Reflections on Queer Studies and Queer Pedagogy.” Halberstam, Judith. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 361-364; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 361-364. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

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It is true that there are still not many jobs in queer studies specifically and, indeed, a focus on queer thematics can often take excellent candidates out of the running for traditionally conceived jobs. But sexuality regularly makes its way onto laundry lists of areas of interest. And perhaps that is just the way we like it–queer studies does not seem to be on the verge of institutionalization, and so work on sexuality continues in a variety of disciplinary venues but belongs to none of them. While feminist studies finds its place in women and gender studies programs in the university and studies of race and racialization tend to be associated with Ethnic Studies, the study of sexuality goes on in sociology, literature, history and anthropology departments, among others, but sexuality is also part of the curriculum in gender programs and ethnic studies programs. The liability of not having a clear institutional home, of course, is that the study of sexuality is central to no single discipline or program and in fact may be taught everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. However, the advantage of the stealth approach to the study of sexuality is that it remains multidisciplinary, a promiscuous rogue in a field of focused monogamists. Queer studies, because it is without a disciplinary home, offers a potent critique of disciplinarity itself. In a chapter in Discipline & Punish (1979) titled “The Means of Correct Training,” Foucault tells us that “discipline ‘makes’ individuals” and he goes on to describe the institutional structures which train “moving, confused, useless multitudes of bodies and forces into a multiplicity of individual elements” (p. 170). The disciplines themselves obviously emerge out of the reorganization of power and knowledge that molded the modern university in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Given what we know about disciplinary power and the way it works on behalf of liberal regimes, and given the enormous shifts in both knowledge base and cultural forms in the last one hundred years, I think we are justified in asking today: why hold on to the disciplines in the forms that they now exist? Currently, the most exciting places in most universities to do work are peripheral sectors often called “programs” and distinguished in some way from “departments” and “disciplines.” Programs often invite interdisciplinary work and they offer a place from which to re-conceptualize the organization of knowledge. At present, programs tend to be home to many of our sexuality programs if only because the disciplines are constructed around canonical bodies of knowledge that almost deliberately repress the study of difference by selecting areas of study under the misleading rubric of “excellence.” Situating queer studies within programs rather than departments encourages the field to be multidisciplinary. Because of this inevitable multidisciplinary focus, then, new work in queer studies seems to have overcome what was experienced in earlier moments as a stand off between the social sciences and humanities. Social scientists often accused humanities scholars in queer studies of only reading texts and of producing impossibly abstract theories of embodiment and difference while queer cultural studies scholars accused the social scientists of being anti-theoretical and too invested in the “real” and the

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“community.” A consciously cultivated multidisciplinarity offers a much needed detour around such debates and encourages queer scholars to use the methodologies that best match their projects rather than finding projects that allow them to use the discipline-appropriate methods. The mixing of methods and the eccentric selection of objects of inquiry has also allowed queer scholars to disrupt the logic of coherence that creates a term like LGBT. As Eve K. Sedgwick predicted in Epistemology of the Closet (1990): “there can’t be an a priori decision about how far it will make sense to conceptualize lesbian and gay male identities together. Or separately” (p. 36). And we might add that it may or may not make sense to study L’s and G’s with T’s: I would argue that in many cases, for example, it does not make sense to study gay men and lesbians together and we should be very willing to break up the moniker of “gay” and “lesbian”–particularly in relation to queer history. It has also become very clear recently that transgender histories and lesbian histories may overlap but they are not identical. Indeed, the sense that transsexuality and transgenderism have been both cannibalized and overlooked by LGB studies has created some intense conversations in recent years in community forums. The debates about the relations between lesbian studies and gay studies, LGB studies and T studies and LGBT Studies and Q Studies has also triggered some interesting conversations about queer pedagogy and the need to take queer studies beyond the university and into public arenas, which often get called reductively “the community” or “the real world.” Among the many important new developments in queer studies in recent years is the emergence of a cadre of queer public intellectuals. Queer public intellectuals are people who refuse the boundaries between community and campus, activism and theory, classroom and club. And queer public intellectuals are committed to multiplying the sites within which queer studies happens and to recognizing cultural producers as theorists and theorists as contributors to the circulation of ideas beyond the university. At the same time, we need a division of labor. Not all queer scholars need to be public intellectuals, not all public intellectuals need to be professors and not all queer scholarship needs to be accessible. And so, while some people want to serve as translators between the academy and the nightclub, others might want to defamiliarize everyday language, “common sensical” knowledges, the meaning of “experience” and notions of identity. A queer pedagogy must also try to break with the oedipal deadlock that creates and sustains intergenerational conflict: To first wave queer theorists, I would say, let’s not become a generation of whiners complaining about what the youth of today don’t know, how poorly trained they are, how apolitical they have become, etc. To generation Q’ers, I would say, avoid the “kill daddy/mommy” syndrome of critical labor within which you are right because those who came before you are wrong. I know from my own work that what I do is utterly dependent upon the work of people who did queer work long before the Journal of Homosexuality even existed. I think the future of queer ped-

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agogy is fully dependent upon the recognition of queer studies’ varied and complex past and that is a history that we need to teach, pass on and learn from. Finally, while queer studies offers a potent critique of disciplinarity and pedagogy, it also offers an interesting interface with new digital technologies and the development of smart classrooms and Web-based learning. I recently taught a class in Critical Gender Studies at UCSD on “Gender, Sexuality and Subcultures.” By using Web technology, I was able to create a Web site for this class which links students to sites like Mr. Lady records and other independent dyke labels; I was also able to put music on digital reserve for the students to listen to, thereby creating an archive of subcultural materials that will remain part of the library and enable students to find out about, write about and connect with small queer bands and queer zines and all manner of ephemera which otherwise could not be studied. These databases create a new future for queer history by making place for materials that otherwise would be lost in the ebb and flow of a paper history. With flexible and innovative notions of archiving, canonicity, disciplinarity and intellectual labor in hand, we can catch a glimpse of a queer future within which the comic books featuring Hothead Paisan, the performance history of drag queen Vaginal Creme Davis and the music of riot dyke duo Bitch and Animal becomes as important to queer studies as Freud or Lacan. Queer studies can work on many fronts simultaneously: we can exploit this wave of new technologies to bring new methods and topics to the classroom; at the same time, queer public intellectuals can try to bring activism to the university and theory to the “community.” And finally, queer scholars can and have been making contributions to ongoing national debates about war, terrorism and human rights.

REFERENCES Foucault, M. (1979). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. New York: Vintage Books, 1979. Sedgwick, E. K. (1990). Epistemology of the closet. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1990.

Queer Ideals in Education Kevin K. Kumashiro, PhD Center for Anti-Oppressive Education

Troubling movements are underway in U.S. schools. At both local and national levels, conservative groups are gaining more and more influence over education, helping to develop and impose “standards” that prescribe what students are to learn and even how teachers are to teach. Perhaps not surprisingly, these standards are quite problematic: They reinforce only certain ways of making sense of ourselves and the world in which we live, especially ways that ignore or even justify an inequitable status quo. Students are not often learning things that help them to recognize and challenge the different forms of oppression that are already in play in schools and society. This needs to change. I am not suggesting that we abandon what we currently teach and replace it with “better” standards of the “correct” perspectives and knowledges and skills. Any set of standards will be partial, that is, will be defined by only certain people to include only certain things. Even perspectives that critique social inequities cannot help but be partial, offering only certain ways of thinking about oppression and social change that can themselves be critiqued. Instead, I am suggesting that troubling the standards already in place requires teaching and learning about this partial nature of standards. It requires teaching and learning that different perspectives and knowledges and skills can have different political implications–some that maintain an oppressive status quo of society, but some that challenge it, and some that suggest Correspondence may be addressed: Center for Anti-Oppressive Education, P.O. Box 627, El Cerrito, CA 94530 (E-mail: [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Queer Ideals in Education.” Kumashiro, Kevin K. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 365-367; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 365-367. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

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very different social possibilities. It requires challenging ways that the standards normalize only certain ways of teaching and define all others as pretty queer ways to teach. Standards often function in similar ways in higher education, even among academics committed to social justice. Higher education often places higher value on only certain kinds of research, such as those that use “valid” methodologies or draw on “credible” literature or appear in “reputable” journals. It places higher value on only certain kinds of teaching, such as those that conform to commonsense ideas of “good” teaching or those that have been “proven” effective by research. It places higher value on only certain ways of being a professor, such as those that involve “required” forms of service that do not “detract” from official responsibilities. In contrast, it does not often value research that explores alternative ways to know or alternative ways to write, or teaching that explores alternatives meanings of “teaching” and “learning,” or service endeavors that explore alternative ways of impacting schools and local communities. And this is the case, despite the decades of research that points to the oppressions already in play in academia, including in these common and commonsense approaches to research, teaching, and service. “Being” a college or university professor often requires repeating what others have already asserted to be the best or most important ways to research, teach, and serve, which do not often center explicitly on issues of social justice. Sometimes informally and sometimes not, standards of higher education often suggest that being a professor who focuses on challenging different forms of oppression is a pretty queer way to be. There is something significant, then, about the “queer” in education. There is something significantly disruptive about those educational practices that some in society want to silence. This is where I find much value in queer theory. I find that queer theory has much to offer those of us working to change the fields of educational research and practice in our movements toward social justice. It is not without tension that I draw on queer theory, especially as an activist committed to challenging multiple forms of oppression in schools and society. A number of activists and academics have suggested that the term “queer,” when used as a term of self-empowerment, does not apply to some people who are lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and intersexed, such as those who are also of color. They tell us that the politics surrounding queer identities and movements may be working to trouble the normalcy of certain social markers like gender and sexual orientation, but are simultaneously reinforcing the marginalization of other markers like race. The result is that groups traditionally privileged in mainstream society remain privileged even in marginalized and activist communities, as with White Americans in queer movements. Queer politics is too often colored by Eurocentrism. This should not be surprising–eurocentrism (as with other “isms”) is often the norm in countless aspects of our lives, and its everydayness or commonsense nature makes it difficult to be recognized, much less challenged, no matter what the context. Challenging

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the multiple oppressions in our lives requires challenging the many norms that privilege and marginalize different groups or simply different ways of being. Even queer movements have internal work to do, and perhaps always will. After all, queer politics are all about disrupting what has become “normal.” Queer politics do not only celebrate difference, as when asserting that, Yes, we are queer and are not what society says is normal. Queer politics also critique the standards that define certain things as “different” in the first place, as when asserting that, No, we do not even want to be “normal” because society’s definition of normal is a pretty oppressive way to be. And this does not only apply to sex and sexuality. The bases for critiquing what is normal (everyday) and normative (required) may have arisen in response to the ways that “alternative” sexual orientations and gender expressions get called “queer,” but there do exist many forms of oppression that define certain things as the norm and all other things as queer. In fact, queer politics are premised on the notion that norms of society require the existence of things queer. Some things cannot be normal if other things are not already abnormal. Queerness is not a natural state of being. Rather, queerness is produced as a contrast, as that against which normalcy is established. This production of queerness is always happening. Even our work within queer politics–from our theorizing to our street activism–cannot help but normalize only certain identities or ideas or practices while defining all others as too queer. Little effort is required to find instances of things that seem too queer even for queer politics, as when “we” do not want to address certain sexual practices or racialized bodies or other differences because they will “detract” from our goals. Queer movements can marginalize certain ways of being (too) queer even while challenging the marginalization of other ways of being (acceptably) queer. Our work, then, is quite paradoxical: it constitutes movements that both challenge and contribute to different forms of oppression. It requires constantly problematizing the ways that we may unintentionally normalize only certain ways of being queer. It prevents us from thinking that our identities or our work or our end products are ever fully “queer,” and instead insists that we see queerness as ideals that never solidify because, once grasped, they tend towards normalcy. As I bring these insights to bear on the troubling movements in U.S. schools, I am reminded of the importance of embracing the paradoxical nature of challenging oppression. As teachers and learners, we need to examine how all approaches to teaching and learning are partial, including those approaches that center on social justice. We need to examine how the things we learn can be useful for improving our lives as well as how they can contribute to oppression in often invisible ways. And we need to examine both the normalizing and the queering of what and how we teach, and why this might be the case. I feel discomforted by the notion that queer movements in education should never end, and yet, such a realization is exactly what gives me hope for a future less colored by oppression.

Sounds Queer to Me: The Politics of Disillusionment Bettina Heinz, PhD Bowling Green State University

Was läßt sich dagegen sagen, daß eine/r nur situativ, in auserwählten Zeiten und Orten queer lebt und es tunlichst vermeidet, sich in homophobe Kontexte zu begeben? (. . .) Warum werde ich skeptisch, wenn queer als Statussymbol oder als Karrierebaustein dient, vermarktet oder 1 als Medienereignis inszeniert wird? –Antke Engel (1996) The project of queering communication theory exudes intellectual appeal and offers the promise of engaged scholarship. In the past two years, I’ve been examining discourse created by gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered people in cyberspace and realspace with the aim of identifying translocal themes and examining similarities, differences, and hybrid constructions pertaining to sexual identities. I saw the theoretical goal of these projects as a continuation Correspondence may be addressed: School of Communication Studies, 302 West Hall, Bowling Green, OH 43403 (E-mail: [email protected]). The author thanks Dr. Barbara DiBernard, an out lesbian professor of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln who tirelessly works for g/l/b/t rights and who models a successful way of educating future generations. She also thanks her colleagues at Bowling Green State University, who have created a non-homophobic and supportive working environment for gay and lesbian faculty and students. [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Sounds Queer to Me: The Politics of Disillusionment.” Heinz, Bettina. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 369-373; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 369-373. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

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of efforts to bring g/l/b/t lives into the focus of communication scholarship and as a contribution to examinations that evaluate the challenges and opportunities of mediated communication from a transnational perspective. Although the people I interview, the undergraduate students I advised in a campus g/l/b/t/q/i/q/ss2 group, and the Web sites I examine sometimes, but not always, use the term “queer,” either as an adjective or a noun, to describe sexual orientations or philosophical convictions, I consistently use the descriptors “gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgendered” in my work unless I’m quoting or citing, or unless I’m delving into queer theory realms. As someone persistently intrigued by the intersections of language, culture, and communication, I set out to contribute to communication studies, sometimes to gay and lesbian studies, sometimes to queer theory, and sometimes to all of these. Everyday American English usage, especially in younger generations and popular culture, now often conflates “g/l/b/t” and “queer,” although academics continue to write treatises on the semantic differences. At the same time, the adjective “queer” continues to persist as a homophobic slur; a contemporary synonym of “radical” or “alternative,” that is, questioning the status quo or normativity per se, with heteronormativity as the point of departure; and as a narcissistic label of hipness for academics. The language of queer lacks clarity and consensus; the same is true of so-called queer politics within and outside of academe. There’s a reason for that. This publication presents a chance to link disciplines, to create an interdisciplinary body of knowledge, and to offer communication scholarship to gay and lesbian and queer studies. At the same time, the directive to queer communication studies also constitutes a hegemonic call to order. Such a directive, however well intentioned, appears to be based on the premises that there is a communication studies (which is unqueer), that there is a body of “queer” scholarship that fulfills the anti-normative invocation of the label, and that “queering communication studies” is a laudable goal as such. These premises might be essentially agreeable, but they also specify the production of knowledge into a prescribed direction. Core questions remain. Who is going to read this scholarship? Or, perhaps more important, who is not going to read this scholarship? Non-academic individuals charged, by either governmental representation or appointment or by individual vocation, with actualizing queerness, such as health care professionals, social workers, court clerks, judges, attorneys, community activists, teachers, or clergy, are not likely to spend their rare leisure time perusing the latest academic queer theory outlets. What should we make of the fetish of citation, the unceasing deference paid to the en vogue gods and goddesses of queer theory? How should we engage with the competition among academics for the designated spot as as the queerest, or quarest, or sometimes fairest, of them all? It has become much too fashionable to be queer–as long as that queerness is nicely confined to a journal article, preferably in a special issue, or to a conference presentation. While U.S. academics continue to heavily traffic queer the-

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ories, some nations can actually point to real political progress–and academics had, arguably, little to do with it. Some queer theorists in the United States appear to engage in decidedly unqueer activities such as asserting gay or bisexual male hegemonies in academic caucuses, perpetuating a culture of whiteness and/or gender divisiveness, relentlessly pursuing academic advancement at the cost of speaking their supposedly critical minds, and mindlessly engaging in commodification of hard-core political issues. How queer is that? Frankly, I see a lot more queerness at my local small-town America grocery store and fast-food chain, where local drag queens queer the workplace by working alongside straight, conservative, church-attending workers, or where gay, lesbian, and bisexual workers queer the workplace by coming out, innocuously, persistently, day after day, to customers and co-workers. These are the people who contribute to social and political change, not those academics who publish in queer theory and are still afraid to come out in the classroom. Surely, such a reproach does not do justice to those who do engage in the classroom as much as in their neighborhoods as in their scholarly productions, and, yes, the communication discipline can claim such scholars. But frankly, the climate, within communication studies as much as U.S. academe at large, is not one of community-grounded, action-oriented creation of queer scholarship, nor is it one of serious, free intellectual exchange. Most of us seem to be quite happy in complacency: we’re advancing, we’re teaching, we’re publishing, we’re being promoted–what more could we demand of ourselves, for heaven’s sake? Sometimes, performance of queer scholarship bears a faint resemblance to the emperor’s display of new clothes. We’re uncritical of the scholarship we engage in; we’re too easily satisfied with production of queer scholarship; we don’t push ourselves or our students to examine the consistency of our own everyday actions with the scholarship we pursue; we’re unlikely to link concrete political action with the scholarship we generate. One of my doctoral advisers once admonished me that if I wanted to be an activist, I shouldn’t go into academe. Years later, her words still puzzle me and resound with different meanings. I had been a student activist since high school, and I had worked two years professionally as the statewide coordinator of a peace and justice group. Yet I’ve always felt as uncomfortable with proclaiming myself to be “an activist” as I’ve been with proclaiming myself to be “queer” since both terms imply a static identity based not in a conviction, or a coherent set of principles and the drive to live a life consistent with those values, but a somewhat blinded preoccupation with resisting or “acting” for acting’s sake or “queering” for queering’s sake. I was hard-pressed to see the gulf separating activism from academe. Wasn’t I in a doctoral program because I wanted to learn more and help generate knowledge? Wasn’t that an activist impulse? Now, seven years later, I wonder if her words weren’t meant to imply that academe requires a cult of selfhood that prohibits primarily conducting a search for a collective good.

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One of the queerest things I do is not my insistence on being out or addressing g/l/b/t issues in my work but my insistence on making time for raising my son. I prioritize spending time with him over writing more articles, presenting more papers, attending more conferences, or having more lunches with colleagues. On one hand, that makes me as radical as June Cleaver. On the other hand, I have to insist to deviate from the expectations and norms established by older generations of scholars, including feminist and queer scholars. That makes my insistence on this issue today “queerer” than my immersion in gay and lesbian topics, if measured by the degrees of resistance encountered and by the amount of energy it takes to assert my stance. Other queer acts I’d like to engage in would require a radical rethinking of structures and institutions–I want to work in an office where the windows open, and where they open into halfway fresh air. I don’t want my research agenda to be driven by the latest Hollywood release, and I don’t want to be embarrassed that my “premier learning institution” doesn’t offer insurance benefits to my partner the way lowly worldly corporations do. I don’t want to contribute to what Sue-Ellen Case so aptly calls “an affluent, commodity fetishism”3 so I, too, can be marketed within my department, my university, or my discipline. I want, for once, someone to have the guts to actually question my arguments, to seriously engage with the knowledge I’m trying to co-create, to test my ability to generate scholarship by measuring sticks other than production quantity and rate, name recognition, networking ability or likelihood to attract corporate sponsorship. There’s a reason I chose not to go into sales. The harmless cuteness of contemporary queerness became clear in the aftermath of the September 11, 2001, attacks. For the most part, anti-essentialist, anti-identity, anti-establishment queer theory silently acquiesced into breaches of civil liberties, dodging a critique of flagrant nationalism and patriotism in the safe haven of abstract theoretical debate. This may be the result of a self-defeating circle of argumentation. Most current queer theory work dichotomizes, in its effort to de-dichotomize perceptions of realities, itself into existence. For queer to exist, unqueer has to preexist. The result is a queer theory as fixed as the identities, its proponents argue, do not exist. Recurrent immersions in traditional queer scholarship (Teresa de Lauretis, Judith Butler, Eve Sedgwick, David Gauntlett, and Michael Warner) led me to experience, again and again, the dialectic of being pulled toward the aesthetic appeal of unstable “identities” and an essentially anti-essentialist queerness on one hand and toward a frustrated insistence on applied theory and concrete socio-political outcomes on the other. Certainly, we need to acknowledge the contributions of queer theory: the integration of g/l/b/t topics into academic scholarship and disciplines; the potential to challenge traditional ways of thinking; the questioning of “stable” identity categories in our collective consciousnesses. But to survive, to be more than an academic fad, queer theory needs to engage in the self-reflexivity it indulges in so extensively when it comes to individual productions of scholarship. Rather than applauding its own performativity, it needs to be tested and

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measured in terms of its applicability to the dilemmas from which it arose. Its advocates need to rediscover the material realities of structural inequalities, realize the urgency to link concrete political action with outcomes of theoretical work, and recognize their accountability to the queer realities of everyday life.

NOTES 1. How to argue with someone who lives a “queer” lifestyle at carefully chosen times and places and otherwise avoids entry into homophobic environments? (. . .) Why does it awaken my skepticism when “queer” serves as status symbol or step on the career ladder, when “queer” becomes commodified or is orchestrated as a “media event”? [Free translation from Germany by the author] Source: Engel, A. (1996). Verqueeres Begehren. In S. Hark (Ed.), Grenzen lesbischer Identitäten (pp. 73-95). Berlin: Querverlag. 2. The Bowling Green State University undergraduate student group Vision self-identifies as “gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgender/queer/intersex/questioning/straight supportive. 3. Case, S. E. (2000). Toward a butch-feminist retro-future. In J. A. Boone, M. Dupuis, M. Meeker, K. Quimby, C. Sarver, D. Silverman, & R. Weatherston (Eds.), Queer frontiers: Millenial geographies, genders, and generations (pp. 23-38). Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press.

Queer Theory, New Millennium Lisa Henderson, PhD University of Massachusetts

WHAT IS TO BE DONE? In late June of last year, the Massachusetts State Legislature declined to vote on a bill banning gay marriage, and the cable network Nickelodeon aired My Family Is Different, Linda Ellerbee’s affirming documentary special on lesbian and gay families. (You will not be surprised to learn that Rosie O’Donnell was a featured guest.) By the political and symbolic standards of representation, both outcomes are good news, however bitingly provisional the first. The vote will eventually come up and the bill may indeed pass, and whether it passes or fails, untold–I mean untold–hours, dollars and kilowatts of precious energy will have been expended to challenge it.1 As for the documentary, well, Ellerbee, too, has joined those television producers ruled by threats of flak and boycott from the religious right. One gay dad, bolstered by the heroic masculinity of his occupation as a firefighter, spoke reasonably for the normalization of gay parenthood. Not a single gay young person spoke, however, though several anti-gay teens were there–for “balance.” For her part, O’Donnell nodded understandingly as a fundamentalist youth explained the Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Communication, Machmer Hall, University of Massachusetts, Amherst, MA 01002 (E-mail: [email protected]. edu). The author thanks James Allan, Larry Gross, Janice Irvine and Regina Kunzel for their readings and insights. [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Queer Theory, New Millennium.” Henderson, Lisa. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 375-379; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 375-379. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

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evils of homosexuality. The best way to beat them, evidently, is to join them, leaving me to conclude that there is no place on Nick at Nite, not even in its “gay friendly” programming, for sensible civil libertarians, queer kids, or a critical mass of unapologetic gay citizens. Amid the Massachusetts bill and My Family Is Different hovers a deeply conservative appeal to family as the basis for social legitimacy and political enfranchisement, an appeal that begs a consciously queer response and crystallizes the value of queer theorizing. In the spirit of recognizing political effort, I applaud the commitment and strategic labor of those lawyers, parents and other activists who have opposed the bill most forcefully. Abrading my appreciative impulse, however, is another, more entrepreneurial one, to produce a Pride Month (or year-round) T-shirt that declares, “Value No Families.” I love the people in my family, I want to be in their company and to support them in a variety of ways, and our shared histories mean a great deal to me. But they are not my only histories nor my only loves, and the canons of familialism that impose blood kinship and marital (or quasi-marital) coupledom as the bedrock of memory and the measure of maturity–to say nothing of the legal foundation of rights and benefits, from property and tax law to immigration–give me a rash. This reaction is intensified by the limitless chorus of policy-speak committed to reinventing “the family” as a nostalgic form that none of its promoters has, in fact, ever witnessed. At the level of government intervention, such efforts are usually punitive, withholding or withdrawing resources from those who fail. In most places, homosexuality, divorce, and single motherhood, among other social realities, still equal failure. Family dogma also underwrites the private sale of public culture and undermines the fragile conditions of alternative world-making. Better, for example, that Times Square be deloused of its sexual migrants and refitted for consumer families with the cultural chrome of Disney World, or that gay activists happily renounce (or hypocritically conceal) their membership in Club Sex in exchange for a beltway martini and a card in the Nightline rolodex. Why so surly? I am not opposed to family life nor unaware of the demands that leave even privileged parents gasping for air and underpaid ones in chronic distress. Nor am I fearful of commitment; “single” (though I often have been); habitually contemptuous; anti-romantic; detached from the worlds of families or those who inhabit them; a middle-aged malcontent resisting convention or ordinariness. I am, however, exhausted to witness the cultural mayhem that jerry rigs family at the expense of everything else. A recent example comes from the deluge of publicity for Sylvia Ann Hewlett’s book Creating a Life: Professional Women and the Question of Children. Whatever Hewlett may have actually written, media attention put young women on notice: they shouldn’t fool themselves into thinking they can develop their careers first and get pregnant at the drop of a pin anytime into their mid-40s, Geena Davis notwithstanding. That, we are told, was a liberal feminist hoax, with fertility specialists among its co-conspirators, and middle-class life might be better

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organized by the recognition that there are advantages to women delaying careers and getting through child-rearing while still in their traveling years. Unlike, say, in the 1970s, men and fatherhood did enter this commentary, but only enough to acknowledge the gendered asymmetry of familial expectation, and then return to the brutal “truth” that it is women who get pregnant and do most of the childcare, even in liberated households, and husbands who usually make more money than wives. Banal blandishments follow: “On your deathbed, you won’t be thinking about how many deals you closed or clients you retained” (or articles you wrote, courses you developed, or new thinking you sought to accomplish or inspire). In other words, real life doesn’t happen at work, and work and family exhaust the pie chart of human existence. I witnessed this commentary and wondered about those of us, parents included, who take life-making pleasure in other social modes, who produce friendship and interdependencies outside of family relations, and who resist the intensely limited range of social possibilities offered to “adult” citizens, possibilities segregated by age, class, race, taste, sexual proclivity and time of day. Some of us also resist the hegemonic and–given how lots of sexual moralists actually live–dishonest conflation of sexual monogamy, fidelity and maturity. If it’s monogamy you want and need, knock yourself out, but please try not to confuse your emotional wiring with everyone else’s, no matter how much assent to such confusion you can rely on from George W. Bush, Jay Leno, Kenneth Starr, or Diane Sawyer. Others may or may not agree, but even those who don’t in principle may not know what else to do or may doubt their own impulses. These days, public culture trades in the intimate self-doubt of sexual and political non-conformity. Resistance is unpatriotic.

WHITHER SCHOLARSHIP, POLITICS Enter queer theory. As a modest but still committed practitioner, I think it pays to keep in mind that queer theory is both queer and theoretical, and thus not to burden it with the expectation of wholesale political solution nor the corollary judgment of political inertness. It is a mode of thinking, writing and speaking that interrogates the ways sexual and gender difference are recognized and articulated, and how both figure in the production and circulation of power and the distribution of social resources. I intend sexual difference broadly, to refer to the differences, say, between gay and straight sexual identities, but also among reproductive and non-reproductive sexual acts, among the selection of persons and things as objects of desire, or between paid and unpaid sexual encounters. In her still-riveting essay “Thinking Sex,” Gayle Rubin theorized the ways people attribute value to such differences, imagining a loose territorial continuum from charmed circle to outer limits. Twenty years later, Rubin’s work remains a source of great illumination, enabling us to ask where

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battle lines have and haven’t been re-drawn and reminding us of the co-dependence of life at the center and on the fringes. Since Rubin’s essay, authors such as Scott Tucker, Lauren Berlant and Michael Warner have heightened our attention to the social force of heteronormativity, the dense clusters of sexual and non-sexual practice that encode a limited, heterosexual standard in public and intimate life, practices from (in Berlant’s and Warner’s terms) romantic love to buying economy size, or (in Tucker’s) promoting marital fidelity as the centerpiece of HIV prevention policy. Heteronormativity doesn’t quite distinguish among people or groups, except to the extent that heterosexuals are more likely than queers to practice heteronormative living, and to the extent that even the most anti-sexual, socially conforming gay Republican Christian is still sexually illegal in 20 American states. There are straight queers and non-compliant straights, but it remains true that not all differences are equal. Communication theory has a history of depth and precision in the exploration of symbolic practice in all human environments, and the interrogation of sexual difference and its significance belongs here, as elsewhere. We use symbols to make and un-make selves and worlds, war and peace, nations and scenes, love and solidarity. Symbols are not the only resources at our disposal, and I am not confused about the difference between an insult and a bullet, the first a “mere” symbol and the second a lethal object. But show me a bullet imagined, built, propelled or retrieved without language and other practices of meaning-formation, and I’ll show you wishful thinking, itself a significant symbolic gesture. Queer communication theory can continue to trouble the short-hand that distinguishes “discursive” and “material” while exploring the very material conditions and effects of symbol-production, such as the making of laws that permit teenagers bullets, but not Sex Ed textbooks, in their pursuit of happiness, or the making of television programs in which anti-gay young people are deemed the best representatives of family variance. My queer political agenda in this millennium includes nationalizing health care, decriminalizing non-coercive sexual practices, sustaining public sexual and cultural space beyond corporate-political appropriation and sale, and cultivating habits of thinking and recognition that resist the forms of domination sexual difference produces. Can we think, for example, beyond family–blood, chosen, marital, or otherwise–in forging social relations in the world as we know it? As a contingent mode of explanation, queer theory has a place in that agenda. It offers no guarantees of a better world, though it is hard for me to imagine my better world without it. Also as a mode of explanation, queer theory, like feminism, Marxism, and theories of race, specifies something critical but never accounts for the full conjuncture at work in social life, the conjuncture in operation, say, when the horrific murder of a black, transgender sex worker produces less public outrage than the horrific murder of a white, male college student. Both are outrageous, but only one is

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made for television, still the most powerful precinct of visibility and recognition, however compromised its production conditions and limited its institutional imagination. To prevail, theories, like people, need both reflexive attention to their own limits and generative connection to others.

NOTE 1. The Massachusetts initiative to ban gay marriage was defeated on January 1, 2003, though a rewritten version was introduced a few months later (opposing domestic partner benefits, among other calculated phrasings, as “sex partner subsidies”). The legislative status of this most recent version remains to be determined, and may or may not be affected by the U.S. Supreme Court’s stunning ruling against state anti-sodomy statutes in Lawrence v. Texas, June 2003.

Run Queer Asia Run John Nguyet Erni, PhD City University of Hong Kong

The “queer question” has been increasingly attended to by many human science disciplines and in many departments of the humanities in the West. But the study of queers, or of their space or potential place, their commotions, their ethics, their intellect, has only and always been a caveat; queers remain forever marked creatures. Here in Asia, the specificity of “queer markings”–as an object of study caught in the tradition/modernity axis, as a site of reworked sexuality that is never autonomous from kinship or family structures, as new pop hipdom, or as ubiquitous forms of ordinary same-sex sociality–appears to be a caveat upon caveat. The social and intellectual quandary over the “queer question” in Asia has not only to do with uneven modernities arising out of diverse historical trajectories in the region, but more importantly, also with the pervasive structure of knowledge production that is centered in the West. Many of us have dreamt of de-westernizing theoretical protocols instructed by western thinkers. The source of this yearning lies in the realization that the histories of local struggles for many queers in non-western contexts have emerged and multiplied in ways that could not be predicted by western theories and research paradigms. It has been obvious to us that the intellectual economy of the international academy entails differential knowledge production and distribution. As an available space of cross-national dialogue on genCorrespondence may be addressed: Department of English & Communication, City University of Hong Kong, Tat Chee Avenue, Kowloon, Hong Kong, China (E-mail: [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Run Queer Asia Run.” Erni, John Nguyet. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 381-384; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 381-384. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

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der and sexuality, the global academy as a whole is at the same time a series of hierarchical centers of knowledge-power. Unclear, still, about how the proliferating practices of critical studies of gender and sexuality in various regions of the world are taken up, circulated, used, valued, or taught, many of us have pressed for a “restructuring” of critical cultural studies at large, due to our realization that a certain parochialism continues to operate in the field as a whole, whose objects of and language for analysis have had the effect of closing off real contact with scholarship conducted outside its (western) radar screen. I have called this the “postcolonial predicament” of cultural studies, in which the broad hegemony of western knowledge production is encountering the moment of challenge by “cultures” and their “studies” arising from alternative socio-politics, alternative theorizing, alternative modernities. I am taking this occasion to wander off, taking “queer” into transnational Asia, reading back lines of connection with western queer theory and studies, and poking around for specific critical debates underway in the region. To begin with, the moment when such lexicons as “gay” and “queer” are Asianized– when they are absorbed and appropriated by queer Asia–is the moment, almost immediately, of vivid turmoil. Our desire for a queer cosmopolitanism conflicts powerfully with various forms of gender and sexual conformity, not to mention conflicts with the State. Political reform centers, rightly so, on the “woman question,” not yet that of the queer. Perhaps the most laborious undertaking is found in the social arena, especially among queer youth in Asia, whose private yearnings have to be variously coded through forms of “friendship.” Take queer youths’ passion for the Internet. From Singapore, Taiwan, the Philippines, Korea, and Hong Kong, they have reported on the enormous usefulness of the Internet not only to make queer friends, but also to question and debate sexual politics, such as matters of fairness and discrimination, the validity of gay marriages (including “fake marriages” apparently endemic in conservative societies), and all kinds of sexual curiosities. Short of the kind of flourishing independent sexual discourse and social movement around queer youth found in the West, gay and lesbian youth in many Asian contexts seek to develop not only an alternative space, but also an alternative logic of relationship for exploring their queer identities. In many film and literary representations, we find, again, the centrality of friendship life for offering gay and lesbian youth such an alternative space and relational logic for their tentative, circumlocutory, and often risky explorations. Queer studies in communication have profoundly neglected the salient forms of sexual and affective relatedness that find expression in the terms of intimacy that are ever-present in “friendship.” Friendship is the natural context, the instrument, and the logic all at once for having a sexual discourse among queer youth. “Queering friendship,” as it were, becomes the means for opening up the many scenarios of social possibilities available to young people who are caught in the paradox between sexual curiosity and sexual self-re-

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straint, in societies where an autonomous, auto-referencing, open, or socially affirming discourse about youth sex is largely absent. In speaking about the turmoil felt as a consequence of adopting western queer thinking, I am, of course, also aware of the possibilities, the new openings that are changing the contexts called “Asia.” Three prominent phenomena are noteworthy here. First, we have a degree of market liberalization, which has helped to open the door for queer cultural visibility. Urban queer film festivals, art houses, and specialty shops are beginning to dot the map, as it were, in major Asian urban centers. Second, queer middle-class consumerism has been able to keep state censorship at bay, wielding a new logic of decadence that renders state bio-power inconclusive. The third and perhaps the most visible phenomenon has been an accumulative sense of transnational “successes” in queer cultural representations. Important works like The Wedding Banquet (Taiwan, 1993), Happy Together (Hong Kong, 1997), and Fire (India, 1998) have posed themselves as transnational flirtations with state authority; their planned mobility evaded direct state censorship while igniting local consciousness. Flirting against the conservative sexual culture, but flirting among ourselves, popular images of queers in Asia have taken a number of specific forms. These forms index particular kinds of queer desire for visibility that we want. Three of these forms are worth mentioning. In the West, queer connotations have to be read off the text; but over here, the consistent, almost nonchalant, blurring of the line between homosociality and homoeroticism seen in, say, the works of Wong Kar Wai (Hong Kong), offers an open text for alternative imaginings. Dogma gives way to dialogue with codes of intimacy found in so many ubiquitous same-sex situations. That is the first popular form. The second form takes the performativity of drag as an open political allegory. Here, imperialistic political structures give way to codes of androgyny and camp, as seen in such powerful works as Farewell My Concubine (1993) and East Palace, West Palace (1996). Beautiful, often feminine, youth narratives offer glimpses of the third popular form of queer flirting sensibility. Japanese comic books (known as mangas), for instance, belong to a world of explicit subcultural animation of queer sex. Besoonen, which is created mainly by women comic book writers, represents the stories of beautiful male youth engaging in explicit homosexual acts. Moving out, around, and moving rapidly, these cultural productions have a way of coalescing into syncretic queer practices across Asia. The fertile historical ground of Taiwan seems to have been the space of convergence at the moment. Newly liberalized from KMT (Kuomingtang) suppression a decade and a half ago, Taiwan has undergone rapid urbanization and cultural cosmopolitanization. More remarkably, there has been an unprecedented burgeoning of “weak group” (ruoshi tuanti) politics. Queer cultural productions, and even queer academic studies, have been vibrant on the island. Student-led movements (often via the Internet) are coupled with literary postmodernism (e.g., in

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the “ku’er” literature of Hong Ling and Chen Xue), while new wave New Sharp film directors (e.g., Tsai Ming-liang) tell stories of queer angst and lust in Taipei. The “Taiwan model” has become a discursive conjuncture of sort, referencing several important points about our attempt to de-westernize queer theory. As part of our postcolonial predicament, those of us in Taiwan and in other neighbouring locales have been trying: (a) to historicize queer theory along the local trajectories (looking into things like the divisions of queer consumption patterns, formation of queer geography (real and imagined), and conditions of local queer cultural production and exhibition); (b) to translate the translation (e.g., interpreting international rights discourse, comparing indigenous and foreign sexual systems, decoding the secrecy/family couplet, etc.); and (c) to understand our own “gay marketing moment” and its relation to the vast middle-class across Asia. Within this whole legacy, it behooves us to take stock of where queer cultural studies is, and what conflicting desires exist in our effort to “decolonize” it, to use a vivid term from Taiwan-based Kuan-hsing Chen. By conflicting desires, I mean the varying degree of discontinuities many of us have in relation to queer theory on the international scene, or to put it more bluntly, our divided loyalties to the West and to our indigenous contexts at the same time. What, we may ask, is the proper place for queer theory, in view of our own intellectual trajectories, our close or distant relation to the queer-signified HIV/AIDS crisis, the complicated institutional spaces we have inhabited (in the West, in Asia, or anywhere else), our careers, our publishing life, or sometimes our conflicting loyalty to “the local” and the indigenization movements, wherever they may be? No matter what forms transnational queer theory may take, it seems clear that they are marked by intellectual and speaking positions that cannot be so easily divided into dominant or peripheral, East or West, international or local, the West or the Rest. This sums up my brief ruminations here: they have to do with the shifting lines of articulation that produce a mixed and often ambivalent set of subject positions for scholars and disciplines attempting to chart the course for an internationalist queer intellectual practice.

Reflections on Queer Theory and Communication Joshua Gamson, PhD University of San Francisco

I have to admit, I’m not a big fan of queer theory as a communication style. Like many people, at times I have found its language a bit hard to take; I like my communication relatively direct, even when the ideas at stake are complex and subtle, and queer theorists have justly earned a reputation for using words and sentences and paragraphs so convoluted, abstract, and vague that it can seem as if they are speaking some kind of high-falutin’ pig Latin. I’ve also been put off by its wheel reinvention: Many of its constructionist notions, ideas about the performance of identities and the coerciveness of norms and categories, bear unrecognized or uncredited resemblance to the work of a prior generation of sociologists and social psychologists. But, also like many people, I have refused to simply toss the whole enterprise aside just because some of its practitioners seem unaware of their intellectual ancestry or intent on not being understood. For one thing, it hardly seems fair to fault theorists for writing abstractions. For another, I have had a nagging suspicion that I just don’t get it. Most of all, it has always seemed to me that there are actually important things in queer theory to be gotten, especially for communication scholars. Correspondence may be addressed: Department of Sociology, University of San Francisco, 2130 Fulton Street, San Francisco, CA 94117 (E-mail: gamson@usfca. edu). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “Reflections on Queer Theory and Communication.” Gamson, Joshua. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 385-389; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 385-389. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

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So I have found myself taking in relation to queer theory the role of sympathetic critic, irritable but committed, a “yes, but” always on the tip of my tongue, a friendly visitor who can’t imagine immigrating. I have tried to make my own translations of queer theory, boiling things down–some might say dumbing them down–to see what was in front of me and what I thought was missing. I have tried to bring the ideas of queer theory into dialogue with the empirical work that interested me (how “collective identity” processes work within social movements, for example, or how television helps produce and process sexual meanings), in the hope that the mix of concrete and abstract would be beneficial for each. This has been a productive process, at least for my own mind. Yet I have almost always butted up against what seems to me queer theory’s relative disinterest in institutional analysis and its preference for texts–its tendency to “reduce cultural codes to textual practice” and to pluck those practices from their institutional contexts, as Steven Seidman has charged (1993, p. 135), to allow “analyses of discourse overtake the analysis of real world events” (Plummer 1998, p. 611). In its own way, that frustration has driven my work, pushing me to look more carefully at how discursive and institutional forces interact. Take, for instance, queer theory’s challenge to “the assumption of a unified homosexual identity,” its insistence that identity construction is “arbitrary, unstable, and exclusionary” (Seidman 1996, p. 11-12) and that identity categories are, as Judith Butler put it, “stumbling blocks,” “sites of necessary trouble” (Butler 1991, p. 14). This critique of identity runs throughout queer theoretical writings: Identities are multiple, contradictory, fragmented, incoherent, disciplinary, disunified, unstable, fluid. It was this, really, that encouraged me to look beyond the assumptions of much lesbian and gay activism and lesbian and gay studies: that gay identity flows almost automatically from some shared, static set of sexual desires, that gay people are, therefore, best understood as something like an ethnic minority group, and that the main task is to affirm and destigmatize that identity in the pursuit of equal rights. Instead, I adopted the queer-theory assumption that sexuality is more fluid than we like to think, that it takes quite a bit of work to make it cohere, and that in doing so we often wind up insisting that one identity among many overlapping ones be primary. In my teaching and in my research from the early 1990s onward, I followed the lead of queer theorists (and constructionist sociologists and historians), in looking at how “homosexual,” “gay,” and “lesbian” became categories, how those categories are defined, by whom and through what processes, what boundaries they set on what we can know, on how and whom we desire, and so on. Still, I could not quite figure out what to do with the claim that desires are fluids-made-solid and identities are fictions-made-facts. Students, even when they got the point and were even enamored of it, smelled something fishy–and they have good noses. There seemed to be a gap between such theoretical insights and the lived experience of most individuals I know and respect, who al-

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most always insisted that their desires and identities felt quite stable indeed, and a bigger gap still between queer theory and the everyday politics of lesbian and gay movements I know and respect, which relentlessly articulated a rhetoric of fixed, essential identities. It took me a while, but when I started to see “queer” itself as an identity communication as much as a theory of identity, things started to fall into place. In fact, it was queer politics more than queer theory that got me there. “Queer,” at that early 1990s moment, was in fact causing all sorts of eruptions within movements over what “we” should be calling ourselves, and just who was to be included in the “we”–were we people who broke the sex and gender rules, or were we people who shared a stigmatized and penalized desire to love people of the same sex? That tension began to interest me. I decided, in order to understand the queer impulse more concretely, that those eruptions might be telling, and I went about analyzing the disputes over the meaning and value of “queerness.” It seemed to me that I was witnessing a tension in how collective identities come communicated by movement activists–to each other and to outsiders. On the one hand, I thought, queer theorists and activists were doing something that made sense in a culture whose sexual categories are so limited and limiting: setting about “to challenge and confuse our understanding and uses of sexual and gender categories” (Doty 1993, p. xvii) so that they might be rendered unusable, to mess up and take apart and proliferate sexual categories so that a sexual subject would be impossible to identify, to call attention to “Heteronormativity” rather than to normalize homosexuality. They were messing with the discursive logic of hetero and homo, reworking the social text. On the other hand, other lesbian and gay activists were also acting in sensible ways, given an institutional system that rewards interest groups and minorities whose boundaries are clear and immutable: stating over and over again that the categories of homosexual and heterosexual are clear and natural and immutable, and that homosexuals are thus a discernible minority group deserving of equal treatment. They were communicating identity for institutional access. I came to see this as the “queer dilemma” that any identity-based movement faces (Gamson 1995; Gamson 1996), and I think I still agree with myself. I would not have seen it without the challenges coming from queer theory and politics, and without my own sociology-bred insistence on looking at institutional context. A few years later, I became interested in TV talk shows, which in the mid-1990s were all the rage and increasingly outrageous. They had been, I thought, an important and early site of visibility for gay men and lesbians, and, to some degree, also for transgendered and bisexual people. They had recently become more complicated sites, disdained by many for being “trashy,” despite or because they also invited a much broader range of people, often in exaggerated versions of themselves, into the spotlight.

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Here, again, I found myself turning to queer theory. Earlier students of media and sexuality were mainly concerned with calling attention to and redressing gay invisibility and stereotyping; they pointed to “negative images” of gays and lesbians, who were assumed to be a relatively stable group whose representations were either accurate or distorted. Although many of the images on talk shows were disturbing, including the hostile mobs that audiences often became, somehow this positive/negative model didn’t do much for me. The presence of fat gay men, lesbians with bad grammar, and Latino drag queens hardly seemed “negative”–no more so than the exclusive presence, on talk shows in the previous two decades, of affluent, highly educated, white, middle-class gay people seemed like a great thing. Queer theory offered more interesting thinking tools, born in part from its assumption that sexual subjects are not simply there to be represented as good or bad but always under construction, and in part from its assertion that “normal” is a coerced and coercive place to be. Queer theory encouraged me to search out how and why dichotomous sexual categories (gay/straight, male/female) were being processed in popular culture, how and when “heteronormativity” was being promoted and resisted. It suggested that the march into visibility is not a simple, straightforward progressive one (Gamson 1998). It was, in some ways, a great match. As Michael Warner says, “almost everything that could be called queer theory is about ways in which texts–either literature or mass culture or language–shape sexuality” (Warner 1992). But texts do not simply appear and shape sexuality; they are actively produced, in organizations that have their own logics and exigencies, by people with jobs to do that have little directly to do with sexuality; they are actively interpreted, as well, by people other than those generating “queer readings.” Queer theory has little to say about cultural industries, and I was unwilling to write about television “texts” without writing about industries–and audiences. So again I banged “discourse” and “institutions” against one another a bit, and started to see how paradoxes of visibility were structured, often unintentionally, by the everyday practices and routines of television producers, working within organizational and institutional constraints. Strange things started to show up: how producers in search of both novelty and familiarity wound up with the queerest kinds of shows I had seen, how for their own reasons producers regularly set up anti-gay bigots as “freaks.” The discourse of sexuality was not just out there, floating along in disembodied texts of various kinds–talk show episodes, novels, gestures, whatever–but produced through the concrete, mundane activities of cultural producers (and given new shapes by cultural audiences with their own tools). It seemed a simple insight, even if it also seemed of not much interest to queer theorists; following it through with research and analysis, I learned more about sexual meaning-making and communication than I have in a long, long time. In the end, by taking up some of the questions that queer puts so aggressively on the table, I suppose I have also played out my own ambivalence:

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about any intellectual strategy that emphasizes “discourse” to the exclusion of “institutions,” or vice versa, but also just about my own relationship to queerness and gayness. I identify with, and as, both: the guy who just happens to be gay and wants to be treated like everybody else, and the guy who has never wanted to let normality push him around. I live in both, never quite wanting to stay in one for good.

REFERENCES Butler, J. (1991). Imitation and gender insubordination. In D. Fuss (Ed.), Inside/out: Lesbian theories, gay theories (pp. 13-31). New York: Routledge. Doty, A. (1993). Making things perfectly queer: Interpreting mass culture. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Gamson, J. (1995). Must identity movements self-destruct? A queer dilemma. Social Problems, 42(3), 390-407. Gamson, J. (1996). The organizational shaping of collective identity: The case of lesbian and gay film festivals in New York. Sociological Forum, 11(2), 231-262. Gamson, J. (1998). Freaks talk back: Tabloid talk shows and sexual nonconformity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Plummer, K. (1998). Afterword: The past, present, and futures of the sociology of same-sex relations. In P. M. Nardi & B. Schneider (Eds.), Social Perspectives in Lesbian and Gay Studies (pp. 605-614). London: Routledge. Seidman, S. (1993). Identity and politics in a “postmodern” gay culture: Some historical and conceptual notes. In M. Warner (Ed.), Fear of a queer planet: Queer politics and social theory (pp. 105-142). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Seidman, S. (1996). Introduction. In S. Seidman (Ed.), Queer theory/sociology (pp. 1-29). Cambridge, MA: Blackwell. Warner, M. (1993). Introduction. In M. Warner (Ed.), Fear of a queer planet: Queer politics and social theory (pp. vii-xxxi). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press.

III. RESOURCES

More Queer: Resources on Queer Theory John P. Elia, PhD Catherine Swanson, MPH (cand.) Amanda R. Goldberg, MPH (cand.) San Francisco State University

The search for materials to include in this resource section revealed that in the decade that queer theory and queer studies have been in existence, many resources, from a variety of perspectives, have become available. Among these resources are books, scholarly articles, educational films and videos, and Internet Websites, which are the categories of materials that we have chosen to bring together in this resource section. Mirroring a central feature of queer theory, the resources available on this topic defy containment and are interdisciplinary. They also illustrate how influential queer theory has been on scholars Correspondence may be addressed to John P. Elia, PhD, Department of Health Education, San Francisco State University, 1600 Holloway Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94132-4161 (E-mail: [email protected]). [Haworth co-indexing entry note]: “More Queer: Resources on Queer Theory.” Elia, John P., Catherine Swanson, and Amanda R. Goldberg. Co-published simultaneously in Journal of Homosexuality (Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc.) Vol. 45, No. 2/3/4, 2003, pp. 391-400; and: Queer Theory and Communication: From Disciplining Queers to Queering the Discipline(s) (ed: Gust A. Yep, Karen E. Lovaas, and John P. Elia) Harrington Park Press, an imprint of The Haworth Press, Inc., 2003, pp. 391-400. Single or multiple copies of this article are available for a fee from The Haworth Document Delivery Service [1-800-HAWORTH, 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. (EST). E-mail address: [email protected]].

http://www.haworthpress.com/store/product.asp?sku=J082 ” 2003 by The Haworth Press, Inc. All rights reserved. 10.1300/J082v45n02_28

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from disparate disciplines, offering both a new theoretical lens and new tools with which to work. As indicated at the beginning of this volume, Communication Studies has been a relative latecomer in terms of integrating queer theory; this search for additional recommended resources again exposes the deficiency in the field. This volume’s intentions, in part, are to address this shortage and galvanize other communication scholars to use queer theory to push the field in new and exciting directions. By no means is this a comprehensive listing of queer resources; there is virtually no way of producing such a list. Because there are a plethora of sources already cited in the articles and reflection pieces in this volume, we did not want to be redundant by repeating those sources in this listing. We have included only works that are not cited in the essays in this collection. Besides these written works–articles and books–we have included Websites and visual media. We believe that “More Queer” can serve several functions. We assembled it to: (1) illustrate the far-reaching aspects and applications of queer theory; (2) spur additional research in a variety of areas; (3) serve as a tool for pedagogical practices; (4) provide linkages to additional materials through electronic media (e.g., Websites and links); and (5) demonstrate how queer theory can be represented in educational videos and films. In essence, this section is filled with works that demonstrate queer theory’s conceptual strengths as well as its import to praxis and the lived experience. The heterogeneity of resources confirms the richness and wide applicability of queer theory, both within and outside of the academy.

JOURNAL ARTICLES Alexander, J. (1999). Beyond identity: Queer values and community. Journal of Gay, Lesbian, & Bisexual Identity, 4, 293-314. Carroll, L. & Gilroy, P. (2001). Teaching “outside the box”: Incorporating queer theory in counselor education. Journal of Humanistic Counseling, Education and Development, 40, 49-57. Cohen, C. J. (1997). Punks, bulldaggers, and welfare queens: The radical potential of queer politics? GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies, 3, 437-465. Eldeman, L. (1995). Queer theory: Understating desire. GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies, 2, 343-346. Glick, E. (2000). Sex positive: Feminism, queer theory, and the politics of transgression. Feminist Review, 64, 19-27. Minton, H. (1997). Queer theory: Historical roots and implications for psychology. Theory & Psychology, 7, 337-353. Rudy, K. (2001). Radical feminism, lesbian separatism, and queer theory. Feminist Studies, 27, 191-222. Shugar, D. (1999). To(o) queer or not? Queer theory, lesbian community, and the functions of sexual identities. Journal of Lesbian Studies, 3, 11-20.

III. Resources

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BOOKS Abelove, H., Barale, M. A., & Halperin, D. M. (Eds.). (1993). The lesbian and gay studies reader. New York: Routledge. Alderson, D., & Anderson, L. (Eds.). (2001). Territories of desire in queer culture: Refiguring contemporary boundaries. Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press. Beemyn, B., & Eliason, M. (Eds.). (1996). Queer studies: A lesbian, gay, bisexual, & transgender anthology. New York: New York University Press. Black, A. (Ed.). (2001). Modern American queer history. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Blasius, M. (Ed.). (2001). Sexual identities, queer politics. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Boone, J. A., Dupuis, M., Meeker, M., & Quimby, K. (Eds.). (2000). Queer frontiers: Millennial geographies, genders, and generations. Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press. Bornstein, K. (1994). Gender outlaw: On men, women and the rest of us. New York: Routledge. Bornstein, K. (1998). My gender workbook. New York: Routledge. Boykin, K. (1998). One more river to cross: Black and gay in America. New York: Doubleday. Brett, P., Wood, E., & Thomas, G. (1994). Queering the pitch: The new gay and lesbian musicology. New York: Routledge. Califia, P. (1994). Public sex: The culture of radical sex. San Francisco: Cleis Press. Califia, P. (1997). Sex Changes: The politics of transgenderism. San Francisco: Cleis Press. Chavez-Silverman, S., & Hernandez, L. (Eds.). (2000). Reading and writing the ambiente: Queer sexualities in Latino, Latin American, and Spanish culture. Madison, WI: The University of Wisconsin Press. Comstock, G. D. (1996). Unrepentant, self-affirming, practicing: Lesbian/bisexual/gay people within organized religion. New York: Continuum Publishing Group. Cromwell, J. (1999). Transmen and FTMs: Identities, bodies, genders, and sexualities. Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Denny, D. (Ed.). (1998). Current concepts in transgender identity. New York: Garland Publisher. Duberman, M. (Ed.). (1997). A queer world: The center for lesbian and gay studies reader. New York: New York University Press. Duggan, L., & Hunter, N. (1995). Sex wars: Sexual dissent and political culture. New York: Routledge.

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Ellis, A. (Ed.). (2002). The Harvey Milk Institute guide to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer Internet research. New York: Harrington Park Press. Epstein, J., & Straub, K. (Eds.). (1991). Body guards: The cultural politics of gender ambiguity. New York: Routledge. Feinberg, L. (1999). Trans liberation: Beyond pink or blue. Boston: Beacon Press. Fausto-Sterling, A. (1999). Sexing the body: Gender politics and the construction of sexuality. New York: Basic Books. Garber, L. (Ed.). (1994). Tilting the tower: Lesbians, teaching, queer subjects. New York: Routledge. Garber, M. (1992). Vested interests: Cross-dressing & cultural anxiety. New York: Routledge. Garber, M. (1995). Vice versa: Bisexuality and the eroticism of everyday life. New York: Simon & Schuster. Hanson, E. (1999). Out takes: Essays on queer theory and film. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Hawthorne, M. (1998). Making it ours: Queering the canon. New Orleans, LA: University Press of the South, Inc. Jackson, P. A. & Sullivan, G. (Eds.). (1999). Multicultural queer: Australian narratives. New York: The Haworth Press. Lancaster, R. N., & di Leonardo, M. (Eds.). (1997). The gender/sexuality reader: Culture, history, and political economy. New York: Routledge. Lehr, V. (1999). Queer family values: Debunking the myth of the nuclear family. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Leong, R. (Ed.). (1996). Asian American sexualities: Dimensions of the gay & lesbian experience. New York: Routledge. Livia, A., & Hall, K. (Eds.). (1997). Queerly phrased: Language, gender, and sexuality. New York: Oxford University Press. MacKenzie, G. O. (1994). Transgender nation. Bowling Green, WI: Popular Press. Norton, R. (1998). The Myth of the modern homosexual: Queer history and the search for cultural unity. London, UK: Cassell Academic. Owens, R. E. (Ed.). (1998). Queer Kids: The challenges and promise for lesbian, gay, bisexual youth. New York: The Haworth Press, Inc. Parker, R. G., & Gagnon, J. H. (Eds.). (1995). Conceiving sexuality: Approaches to sex research in a postmodern world. New York: Routledge. Phelan, S. (Ed.) (1997). Playing with fire: Queer politics, queer theories. New York: Routledge. Raffo, S. (1997). Queerly classed: Gay men and lesbians write about class. Boston: South End Press. Ramet, S. P. (Ed.). (1996). Gender reversals and gender cultures: Anthropological and historical perspectives. London: Routledge.

III. Resources

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Ratti, R. (Ed.). (1993). A lotus of another color: An unfolding of the South Asian gay and lesbian experience. Boston: Alyson. Ristock, J. & Taylor, C. (Eds.). (1998). Inside the academy & out: Lesbian-gay-queer studies & social action. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Simon, W. (1996). Postmodern sexualities. New York: Routledge. Simpson, M. (1994). Male impersonators: Men performing masculinity. New York: Routledge. Sinfield, A. (1994). Cultural politics–Queer reading. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Somerville, S. (2000). Queering the color line: Race and the invention of homosexuality in American culture. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Spargo, T. (1999). Foucault and queer theory. Victoria, Australia: Totem Books. Stein, A. (Ed.). (1993). Sisters, sexperts, queers: Beyond the lesbian nation. New York: Penguin. Stein, E. (Ed.). (1992). Forms of desire: Sexual orientation and the social constructionist controversy. New York: Routledge. Storr, M. (Ed.). (1999). Bisexuality: A critical reader. New York: Routledge. Tucker, N. (Ed.). (1995). Bisexual politics: Theories, queries, & visions. New York: The Haworth Press, Inc. Weed, E. & Schor, N. (Eds.). (1997). Feminism meets queer theory. Bloomington, ID: Indiana University Press. Weeks, J. (1995). Invented moralities: Sexual values in an age of uncertainty. New York: Columbia University Press. Wilchins, R. (1997). Read my lips: sexual subversion and the end of gender. Ithaca, NY: Firebrand Books. Zavarzadeh, M. (1996). The “invention” of the queer: Marxism, lesbian and gay theory, capitalism. University Park, MD: Maisonneuve Press.

FILMS AND VIDEOS A.I.D.S.C.R.E.A.M. Subject: Examines the desexualization of gay men as a result of AIDS. Director: Tartaglia, Jerry. Time and Date of Release: 6 min; c.1990. Anatomy of Desire Subject: Analyzes how scientific inquiry has shaped debates around queer rights. Director: Monette, Jean-Francois. Time and Date of Release: 48 min; c.1995.

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Before Stonewall: The Making of a Gay and Lesbian Community Subject: Examines queer history before 1969. Director: Greta Schiller, Robert Rosenberg. Time and Date of Release: 89 minutes; c.1984. Black Hair and Black-eyed Subject: An examination of the influences on Korean-American lesbian identity. Director: Whang, Julie. Time and Date of Release: 9 min.; c.1994. Black Is–Black Ain’t: A Personal Journey Through Black Identity Subject: Looks at African-American queer identity. Director: Riggs, Marlon, and Badgley, Christiane. Time and Date of Release: 98 min.; c.1995. Bright Eyes Subject: Looks at homosexuality from three perspectives. Director: Marshall, Stuart. Time and Date of Release: 85 minutes.; c.1986. The Celluloid Closet Subject: Looks at the changing presentation of queer life in film. Director: Friedman, Jeffrey, Epstein, Robert, Tomlin, Lily, and Russo, Vito. Time and Date of Release: 102 min.; c.1996. Cut Sleeve: Lesbians & Gays of Asian/Pacific Ancestry Subject: An examination of the lives of queers of Asian Pacific Islander descent. Director: Diaman, N.A. Time and Date of Release: 24 minute.; c.1993. Fated to Be Queer Subject: Documentary regarding the lives of Filipino gay men. Director: Bautista, Pablo. Time and Date of Release: 25 min.; c.1992. Gay and Lesbian Images on Television: An Overview Subject: Analyzes images of queers on television. Director: Museum of Television and Radio, Los Angeles, California Time and Date of Release: 89 min.; c.1998. History Lessons Subject: Examines images of lesbians in popular media from the 19th century to the present. Director: Hammer, Barbara. Time and Date of Release: 70 min.; c. 2000. Homophobia in the Media and Society: One Life to Live and Beyond Subject: Discussion of homophobia in the media at Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Producer: Belson, Mark. Time and Date of Release: 90 min.; c.1993. Honored by the Moon Subject: A portrait of queer life and identity in Native American traditional and modern culture.

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Director: Smith, Mona. Time and Date of Release: 15 min.; c.1990. I Got This Way from Eating Rice Subject: Seven short documentaries in one examining queer Asian/Pacific Islander lives. Director: Hoang, Nguyen Tan. Time and Date of Release: 45 min.; c.1999. It’s Elementary: Talking About Gay Issues in School Subject: Looks at the presentation of homosexuality in elementary education. Director: Chasnoff, Debra, and Cohen, Helen S. Time and Date of Release: 78 min.; c.1996. Khush Subject: Examines the lives of queer South Asians and those of South Asian decent. Director: Parmar, Pratibha. Time and Date of Release: 24 min.; c.1991 March on Washington Subject: Documentary of the March 1993, National March on Washington for LGBT/queer rights Director: Scagliotti, John. Time and Date of Release: 30 minutes.; c.1993. Off the Straight & Narrow: Lesbians, Gays, Bisexuals & Television Subject: An examination of queer images on television. Director: Sender, Katherine. Time and Date of Release: 63 min.; c.1998. On Common Ground Subject: Examines the joys and heartbreaks of the queer rights movement. Director: Deitch, Donna. Time and Date of Release: 104 min.; c.2000 Out of the Past: The Struggle for Gay and Lesbian Rights in America Subject: Profiles of individuals who shaped the queer rights movement. Director: Dupre, Jeff. Time and Date of Release: 70 min.; c.1997. Paradise Bent: Boys will be Girls in Samoa Subject: Examination of transgender women in Samoa. Director: Croall, Heather. Time and Date of Release: 51 min.; c.1999. Paris is Burning Subject: Examination of the African-American/Latino transgender pageant culture. Director: Livingston, Jennie. Time and Date of Release: 76 min.; c.1992. Plates Subject: Early look at discrimination against queers. Director: Goldberg, Gary. Time and Date of Release: 35 min.; c.1982.

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Pride, Prejudice and Gay Politics Subject: An examination of queer politics in San Francisco. Director: Michels, Spencer. Time and Date of Release: 30 min.; c.1982. Queer Geography: Mapping Our Identities: Detailing the Experiences of Four Queer Youth Subject: Portrait of queer youth identity by two high-school students. Director: Bolden-Kramer, Rachel, and Hernandez, Theresa. Time and Date of Release: 12 min.; c.2001. Straight for the Money: Interviews with Queer Sex Workers Subject: An examination of lesbians working in the sex industry. Director: Hima, B. Time and Date of Release: 59 min.; c.1994.

WORLD WIDE WEB: ACADEMIC INTEREST theory.org.uk offers social theory for fans of popular culture including LGBT/queer and gender theory. http://www.theory.org.uk/ The Gay and Lesbian Review offers discussion and analysis of contemporary gay, lesbian and bisexual ideas and literature. http://glreview.com/ People with a History is a World Wide Web site presenting history relevant to Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgendered people. http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/pwh/ The Institute for Gay and Lesbian Strategic Studies is an independent think tank answering questions of interest to the LGBT community. http://www.iglss.org/iglss/ Gay Lesbian Quarterly a journal of LGBT/queer studies. http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/glq/ National Consortium of Directors of LGBT Resources in Higher Education provides a portal to academic information of interest to those interested in LGBT/queer studies. http://www.lgbtcampus.org/ ONE Institute & Archives houses a research library on LGBT/queer heritage and concerns. http://www.oneinstitute.org/

WORLD WIDE WEB: GENERAL RESEARCH AND INFORMATION Bisexual Resource Center: a central resource of interest to anyone interested in the bisexual community. http://www.biresource.org/

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Rainbow Query: Website that devotes itself to all things related to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered, queer culture. Non-commercial. http://www.rainbowquery.com/ OutProud: the Website of the National Coalition for Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual & Transgender Youth. http://www.outproud.org/ Queer Theory.org: a portal to information relevant to those interested in LGBT/queer theory. http://www.queertheory.com/ The Renaissance Transgender Association: resources for transgender people and those interested in transgender issues. http://www.ren.org/page2.html Parents, Families & Friends of Lesbians & Gays: offers resources and action for the loved ones of queers. http://www.pflag.org/ The Queer Resources Directory: offers all sorts of links to LGBT/queer organizations. http://www.qrd.org/qrd/ The National Gay and Lesbian Task Force: a national progressive organization working for the civil rights of LGBT/queer people. http://www.ngltf.org/index.cfm The Gay and Lesbian National Hotline: offers free, anonymous information, referrals and peer counseling to LGBT/queer and questioning people. http://www.glnh.org/home.htm The Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation: offers resources and activism around issues of interest to the LGBT/queer community. http://www.glaad.org/org/index.html

HOTLINES The Gay and Lesbian National Hotline–support for LGBT/queer and questioning people. Hours: Monday-Friday 4pm-midnight and Saturday noon-5pm EST. 888-THE-GLNH (888-843-4564) San Francisco Sex Information–information/support and referrals for aspects of sexuality. Hours: Monday-Friday 3 p.m.-9 p.m. and Saturday 6 p.m.-9 p.m. 877-472-SFSI (877-472-7374) National Gay and Lesbian Youth Hotline–support for LGBT/queer and questioning youth. 24 hours a day. 800-347-TEEN (800-347-8336) National GLBT Hate Crimes Hotline–assistance and support for victims of anti-queer hate crimes.

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24 hours a day. 800-616-HATE (800-616-4283) The Trevor Project–suicide hotline for LGBT/queer and questioning youth. 24 hours a day. 800-850-8078 The National AIDS Hotline–information and referrals for HIV. 24 hours a day. 800-342-AIDS (800-342-2437)