Author: eurotrash

Confession
Lin Dinh

Perhaps I’m a cruel artist. I always depict
In great details, lovingly, all the defects
On the faces and bodies of my models.
I use my eyes and brushes to thread
The jagged gaps of their stiff smiles. I pamper
Each pimple, hump, massage each incrustation.

I cajole my models into poses that are awkward,
Dangerous, unhygienic, sometimes mortifying.
I don’t care to paint smooth, poreless skin but collect
All manners of rashes and eruptions. Inspired,
I’ve forced a hundred bodies—impossibly old,
Extremely young—onto appalling heaps,

Democratically naked, viscous with sweat, spit and etc.,
Just so I could render the human condition
Most accurately and movingly.

Lin Dinh’s poem “Confession” can be understood as a celebration of the inherent queerness as well as shame of humanity. Theorist Michael Warner suggests that a central struggle of society is the attempt to ‘dignify’ sex; I expand this tenet by suggesting that Dinh praises the inherent shame of the entire human experience. By “depict[ing]…lovingly, all the defects” of his models, Dinh rejects the common practice of pinning shame on the marginalized (Warner, p.32) and instead embraces it in an effort to empower his ‘subjects’. In “test[ing] the limits of shame” (Warner, p.34), Dinh’s exposure of the “jagged gaps” and “stiff smiles” (5) of humanity challenges the obligation to be “tidy, normal, [or] uniform” and create what one could characterize as a queer space, that does not need to be “authorized by the government” (Warner, p.35). Indeed this very rejection of the repression of shame can be regarded as a force that “cuts against every form of hierarchy you could bring into the room” (Warner, p.35). In this sense, Dinh’s appreciation of the extreme (“impossibly old/Extremely young” (11-12), is in fact a creation of a queer space that lives outside the realm of heteronormative institutions and hierarchies. Acceptance of shame then, can be said to reverse the entire of meaning of shame in the first place – if it is no longer silenced, then it is no longer ‘shameful’.
In addition, I suggest that this piece represents an example of the Foucault-coined ‘confession’. Like the theory behind the notion of ‘confession’ suggests, Dinh’s poem expresses a particular queerness in a liberating form, although it is the very oppressors and institutions themselves that perpetuate the confession in the first place (Foucault, p.60). In other words, the queerness of the piece, the attention to “incrustation” (6) and “sweat” and “spit” (13) is only a confession because of the foundational silencing of these seemingly ‘disgusting’ human aspects. To consolidate the idea that this poem is a production of power and of institutional pressure to confess deviance, with the concept of the piece as a creation of queer space, it can be claimed that it is confession itself that opens up the possibility of queer space. Indeed, a queer space in which shame cannot exist (because there is no silencing) and paradoxically, neither does confession.

In celebrating what has been framed as the ‘abject’ by heteronormative oppressors, Dinh transcends disgust and shame entirely. Without a shame with which to silence, confession becomes irrelevant – it is no longer necessary to struggle endlessly to capture ambiguity in identity in the limited language we have. Indeed, the queer space that I have begun conceptualizing is one in which “my girlfriend” does not need to be preempted with “by the way, I’m gay”. If ‘passing’ as straight results in an erasure of identity – assumption, then, ensues the minimalization of multiplicity, and of possibility. Refusing to confess a facet of identity challenges the integral, historical silencing of abnormality and deviance. In terms of solutions, I suggest that as Dinh does, we encourage artistic expressions whether visual or literal of queer. These representations and narratives not only provide life through the creation of voice, but in fact produce alcoves of queer space, where safety is

The well-known myth of Scheherazade reflects the ultimate use of storytelling as a mechanism of survival. Trapped in the King’s castle, the young Scheherazade tells stories throughout the night, ending each narrative at the break of dawn. The King, in an eagerness to hear the stories continued the next night, spares the life of Scheherazade, enabling her to continue to live through storytelling. Among the queer community, survival is a constant challenge (Sedgwick, p.3). To tell the stories of those who have survived queerness, is ultimately to give them life. Furthermore, it gives life to all those who are exposed to the story by providing a concrete alternative, a pathway, (Halberstam, p.2) a potentiality for a future (Munoz, p.1) a story through which all those queer (and not queer) can vicariously live through. In fact, queer space has been defined as the development of such “alternative temporalities”; a space that has the “potential to open up new life narratives” (Halberstam, p.2). In this sense, queer space may be conceptualized as the very stories, novels, accounts and archives of the queer among us.
Through the theoretical lens of queer space as a potential for new narratives and a reflection of life itself, it becomes possible to understand Shani Mootoo’s novel, Cereus Blooms at Night as a powerful example of storytelling for survival. The protagonist, Tyler, insists that recounting Mala Ramchandin’s story (and the story of those of her time and space) fulfills a particular duty: his “intention to relate Mala Ramchandin’s story” (Mootoo, p.15). In fact, Tyler’s “shared queerness” (Mootoo, p. 48) with Mala enables him to find life in her narrative, to explore the possibility and the layers of queerness through the consistent unconventionalism. If queer space can be expressed as the “potentiality of life unscripted by the conventions of family, inheritance, and child rearing” (Halberstam, p.2), then the Ramchandin chronicles provide a stark opposition to heteronormativity. Moreover, Halberstam’s language, namely the word “unscripted” serves to highlight the value of narrative and the written word in creating this queer space. To some extent, the very care Tyler provides for Mala is characterized by the retelling of her life – the narrative itself is what keeps Mala living. Novels of queer identity then, or more broadly, queer stories provide an essential source of life. In the context of words and the romanticization of survival stories, even queer loves become eternal: as Tyler’s fascination for the gardener Mr.Hector grows, be begins to characterize him as “ageless” (p.70), emphasizing the sheer endlessness of queer that only narratives provide.
While Cereus Blooms at Night, among many other written and not-written stories, serves as a queer space, heteronormative institutions that have silenced and suppressed queerness (Sedgwick, p.2) are what ultimately ‘kills’ queers. In combination with the “systematic separation of children from queer adults” (Sedgwick, p.2), the erasing of queer voices and thus queer lives remains a critical threat. What is really needed then, are the stories of the queer: LGBT archives provide a wealth of narratives that serves to give life to individuals who have been violently quieted throughout history. Storytelling as survival, coined by the legend of Sheherazade is easily found among many distant disciplines. In the field of clinical psychology for example, it is well-known among eating disorder researchers that one of the most beneficial interventions is for recovered individuals to tell their story to those who are ill. Why? Because to hear about the possibility of a future, when your diagnosis inherently rejects living, is to provide motivation, to provide a model – narratives then, are a path amidst thick woods: a way.

While “say you like sporty spice…say it!” is likely the most memorable line of one episode of a new, alternative porn outlet produced by Indie Porn Revolution, described as “sex positive with a trans female focus”, the radical and in fact humorous nature of the series can be understood through a lens of queer theory. By beginning the pornographic narrative with a handful of female friends, who gather other seemingly random participants from streets in their neighborhood, the film immediately challenges the “organizations of community…and activity in space” of heteronormative ideologies (Halberstam, p.). More specifically, the continuation of the scene and the imaginative sexual activities that transpire create a physical as well as cyber “queer space” (Halberstam), that provides endless and unpredictable alternatives both in terms of narrative as well as sexual identity.

Amongst the playful and often humorous group sex, one act consists of one of the women removing a tampon from another, with the goal of providing sexual pleasure. Strange as it may seem, this use of an otherwise stigmatized ‘feminine hygiene’ product as a means for women to be sexual with one another is a profound statement against firm heteronormative institutions. The reformulation of the tampon from a means to inhibit a natural female process, to a sex toy transcends traditional notions of privacy, of menstruation and reproduction, and thus of gender norms in their entirety. The tampon’s interaction with the somatic self becomes redefined – thus defying its institutional meaning and re-appropriating it within a free, queer space. As Freeman argues, such “institutional forces” have in many ways become “somatic facts” (p.3), a process known as chrononormativity. By challenging the ‘established’ use of the tampon, this porn and its participants take ownership and agency over products designed for their gender, but also over their sexuality and personhood as a whole.
Freeman, however, argues that to exist outside the imposed time line is to barely exist at all; in other words, abiding by a “sequence of socioeconomically “productive” moments” has been unfortunately equated to living. The existence, or rather the avid and animate living of female characters, engaging in evidently queer sexual practices is, in the context of this society, a paradox. Said simply, the silencing of queer space is what ultimately ‘kills’ its participants, depriving them of any opportunity or right to ‘live’. To take this thought even further, I considered the theatrical nature of this porn – the costume-life outfits, the exaggerated expressions, and the comedic twist on sex. So in fact, the existence of this queer space and the queer women within it, remains limited to a theatrical, almost cartooned representation of anything non-heteronormative. To further understand this, we can assess how the narrator in Winterson’s Written on the Body, is constantly struggling with perceptions of ‘survival’ and ‘living’. If living is in fact simply a product of obedience to a timeline of birth, marriage, reproduction, and death, then those that defy it (Winterson’s narrator and our friendly feminist porn stars) are left floating in a space that can only be defined as the opposite of life – death. Queer space then, provides not a flexible option for weirdos, dykes, freaks, tampon-fiends, cross-dressers, or Spice Girl kinks, but rather, it provides life.

 

Link to Indie Porn Revolution:

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“The dead you is constantly being rubbed away by the dead me. Your cells fall and flake away, fodder to dust mites and bed bugs. Your droppings support colonies of life that graze on skin and hair no longer wanted. You don’t feel a thing. How could you? All your sensation comes from deeper down, the live places where the dermis is renewing itself, making another armadillo layer. You are a knight in shining armor” (p.123).

In this paragraph at the beginning of “The Skin” section, the narrator presents contrasting images of reproduction and life with death and decay. The idea of a “dead you…[and a] dead me” creates separate entities for the dead versions of both the narrator and Louise (123). As this quote suggests a distinction between the dead and ‘living’ versions of the lovers, the imagery presented seemingly contrasts life with death. This is in part expressed through the idea of “droppings” that “support colonies of life” (123). In addition, the image of “the dermis…renewing itself, making another armadillo layer” further develops the binary of life and death (123). Specifically, the juxtaposition, and in fact integration of these concepts contributes to an overall theme in the novel: the difference between survival and living. The ‘scientific’ language and imagery employed in this text is meant to symbolize ‘survival’, while the aspects of decay, entwined within the processes of reproduction and life, evoke a sense of death.
The narrator’s brief attention to any feeling at all amidst a channeling of medical poetry, is in her/his questioning of Louise’s numbness: “you don’t feel a thing” (123). This lack of feeling appears to be due to the reliance on survival as a form of life, rather than embracing living. In fact, the narrator’s choice to leave Louise was a prioritization of survival rather than life; specifically, she/he chose to leave Louise in order to keep her ‘alive’, while staying with her may have caused a faster physical deterioration, but would have enabled Louise to truly ‘live’, in all the sense of the word. In this passage, the narrator’s partial resentment for this choice becomes clear: survival no longer seems as appealing. The end of the quote reconnects us with the ‘savior image, Louise as a “knight in shining armor” (123). While this theme is pertinent throughout the novel, images of the saved vs. savior binary are developed in particular in the last 30 pages of the novel (159, 160, 162, 190). The last image of the novel specifically, channels the idea of Louise as the ultimate ‘savior’ to the narrator: arriving unexpected in a midst of sunlight (190).

“It seems that due to the peculiarities of the event horizon we could watch history pass and never become history ourselves. We could be trapped eternally observing with no-one to tell. Perhaps that’s where God is, then God will understand the conditions of infidelity” (Winterson, 52).

Although this passage considers the seemingly personal aftermath of a relationship, it in fact speaks to the tension between heteronormativity and the queer identity. To watch history pass without ever being a part of it implies a certain marginalization of the “we” speaker. Specifically, the “we” voice appears to encompass the queer identity – ostracized by a sense of secrecy and loneliness: “with no-one to tell” (52). The silencing implied in being “trapped…observing” may in fact reflect the “shaming effects of isolation” that Michael Warner (1991) argues are foundational in the process of repressing sex as an action as well as queerness. In other words, to be imprisoned in a passive, almost victimized state recalls the subordination and demonization of all types of queer (above and beyond our much-loved, but ironically trite LGBT acronym). Similarly to Warner’s conceptualization of a heteronormative power (Warner, 1999), “God” in this passage appears to symbolize the institutionalized normalcy that the narrator feels often at odds with. Nevertheless, acceptance or at the least understanding from “God” seems on some level important to the speaker; there is a sense that the narrator is determined to show “God” the basis of infidelity. In fact, as argued by Warner, infidelity itself is queer, suggesting a series of ‘queer layers’ if you will, through which the narrator identifies with queer (non-gendered, committing adultery, having multiple partners). We are, through this passage, prompted to consider the way that identity, as well as distinct behaviors are stigmatized as queer, and how this suppression has made Winterson pity the deviant as simply a bystander who is eternally powerless in the face of time and its straight white male leader (“God”).