I’ve been working on this theory lately about my own media consumption that I’ll call representational contrarianism because I’m tickled at giving it a fancy sounding name. And it’s like this: given the choice between media with canonical queer characters and media that has characters you could argue are queer, I’ll default to the latter nine times out of ten.
And it’s like. Why?
(And yeah, this is a post about Supernatural, but it’s not ABOUT Supernatural, you know? Also everything is about Supernatural except Supernatural which is about umm truly who fucking knows.)
So, for me (and consider that the big disclaimer for this post) queer characters created by queer people either cut too close to the truth, or they’re disappointing. If they’re truthful, then the truth, through the warped lens of my own insecurities and uncertainties, becomes “yes Sarah this is who you are” or “no Sarah you ain’t this.” If they’re disappointing, if I don’t like them or I don’t like the romance or I like some other character better, I feel like I’m letting someone down–not always sure who, just someone, maybe it’s myself, maybe it’s the Community, maybe it’s this fictional person–and further, this becomes another tick in a column labeled “you’re straight and you’ve always been straight, you hurt gay people by thinking otherwise, and also everyone’s laughing at you.” Which is a lot of pressure to put on kindle lesbian romance novels I picked up for $1.99, but that’s what I feel.
The important thing is, these characters and stories are tests I’m very capable of failing.
And queer people created by straight people–look, it’s not universally true, but look at the shitty way explicit homosexuality is treated on Supernatural (a joke! flat! background! nothing!) versus the absolutely inadvertent queer-coding they did with Dean, Sam, and Cas. They wrote three distinct queer masculine allegories by complete fucking accident. They couldn’t have done that on purpose. They don’t think gay people are people in the same way that straight people are people. They think that they’re Gay and then a little later that they are people. (And does my hyperfixation on this issue mean that I approach gay characters the same way as shitty straight writers? Hahahahaha shut the fuck up I’m almost in therapy again, this is all on the docket.)
Queer characters created by queer people are a litmus test, and queer characters created by straight people are pandering. And you don’t really know about the creators that often, and they shouldn’t have to list their identities on the back of the book (although catch me scanning acknowledgements for the words wife, partner, people thanked with love but identified only as an initial, like deciphering how this book might make me feel is a test I can cheat on, but what do you do with a writers room? Memorize the gay ones if you can, cross-reference who wrote what eps?). So I’m comparing myself against these characters (bad choice) in the hopes of learning about myself while also hyperanalyzing these characters in a way that would be insanely unfair to do to a real person (are they Truly Gay? are they Truly Good Representation? if I don’t like them, is it their fault or my fault or their story’s fault or God’s fault or or or or or or or). So I end up evaluating this central question about myself–literally the question Who Am I–against characters (again, a bad choice) that I swivel wildly between believing they are better at being gay than me (because they might have been written by queer people) or are worse at being gay than me (because they might have been written by straight people).
(I know this is horribly reductive in regards to representation and own voices and good writing. You don’t want to see how long this post was with nuance.)
And let’s do the ultimate thought experiment: let’s say they did Supernatural good. And now Dean is bisexual! Yay! Canonically! They decide this in season four and he comes out and maybe he always knew or maybe this is all new to him, whatever, it’s all handled fantastically. GLAAD awards for everyone.
If Dean was gay, canonically gay, if he had what I do not–a cast of writers, a voice of God saying definitely, yes, yes, he is sexually and romantically attracted to multiple genders, he is Canon now, there was an interview in Entertainment Weekly about it and everything–then he is gayer by default than me–no writers, no God, no all hands meeting when everyone nods solemnly and concludes, let’s give the people what they want: this one’s a dyke. And he slips somewhere I can’t follow, into that tantalizing paradise called Certainty, and he learns the gay lingo, and he learns the hidden stereotypes only gay people get to know about other gay people, and he unlocks the Shared History and the Inside Jokes, and he speaks to the other people in the club with the knowledge that all of them deserve to be there because they know that they deserve to be there.
(Meanwhile, I am not in the club, I am instead down at the courthouse where I get called forward before the Gender Judges who reviewed the emergency application I made in the middle of the night, and they ask, “It says here you want to change your name?” and I say, “Actually no, I thought about it but the idea of being called anything other than Sarah genuinely horrifies me,” and they ask, “But you did say you were considering experimenting with your pronouns?” and I say, “Again, no, I’ve toyed with the thought but the idea of me being referred to as anything other than she/her viscerally disgusts me,” and they ask, “Okay but what is it that horrifies and disgusts you: the thought of being identified as someone you aren’t, or making a fuss about your identity in a way that draws attention to it?” and being unable to come up with an answer, I throw myself out the nearest window and start running, also causing me to miss my scheduled meeting with the Sexuality forum where we were going to litigate whether I was allowed to use dyke like that a paragraph back.)
(We don’t have time to get into gender. Just assume this all applies to gender stuff as well, and we’ll move on.)
But. If he’s not canonically anything, then he is as gay as I make him. In this daydream or that fanfic, we make the subtext text and here is a queer story, a gay story, a story about me as I would like to be seen and would like to be, and when I am done, I spray him off with some windex and wipe him down to factory settings. And then tomorrow there’s a different fantasy where he’s gay in a different way, a nuance, a tweak, a thousand variations on the same basic premise (what if this guy liked guys), and if I don’t like one, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t stick. It’s a novel written in sand. The appeal is that it’ll wash away. Why should he be any more sure than me?
Anyway, that’s why queerbaiting is good actually (joke).
