Author: Rebecca Roberts

In Fun Home, Alison Bechdel’s graphic memoir about her family and coming of age, one moment that stood out to me was Alison’s “ring of keys” moment. The scene captures Alison’s first experience of queer recognition. While eating at a diner with her father, she notices a woman who defies typical gender norms. She has short hair and is wearing masculine clothing. Alison writes, “But like a traveler in a foreign country who runs into someone from home- someone they’ve never spoken to, but know by sight- I recognized her with a surge of joy” (Bechdel 118). It’s the first moment she recognizes someone who reflects what she has felt about herself inside.

What makes this moment so powerful is the way Bechdel uses image and text to convey this moment. Alison doesn’t have the language to understand why she may feel herself drawn to this woman, but she knows she does, and that the connection is meaningful and joyful. The woman is front a center on the page, but it’s young Alisons reaction that is the most powerful part. Her tiny face looks on with awe. She is viewing this woman with reverence, seeing what is possible, a version of herself that she didn’t know could exist.

But this moment is quickly shut down when her father dismisses her joy and the woman, rejecting what Alison is feeling. The interruption shows how fragile moments of self-discovery can be, especially when they challenge tradition norms of family or society.

In the musical adaptation of Fun Home this scene turns into a ballad sung by a young Alison. It gives voice to everything she couldn’t articulate in the moment, focusing on the woman’s “ring of keys,” something so simple but confirming for Alison. The lyrics express the longing of the encounter.

This visual memory becomes a turning point for Alison. She begins to understand her identity through recognition and seeing someone she could become. Bechdel shows how important moments of recognition are to young queer children. Visibility is important, and recognition can become transformative.

In Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble, she argues that gender is not intrinsic, but learned and performed. I recently rewatched Ted Lasso, a show about an American football coach who travels to England to coach a Premier League football (soccer) team. When we think about the typical gender performance of masculinity, we think of dominance, emotional restraint, and toughness. However, Ted completely contradicts these ideas. He constantly rejects the traditional norms of masculinity and instead embraces traits that are sometimes considered typically feminine like vulnerability and compassion.

Ted’s performance is the embodiment of what Butler calls gender trouble. Instead of leading through a masculine model of toughness or aggression, he encourages his players to “be the best versions of themselves, on and off the field.” He openly expresses his feelings and advocates for mental health. One of the main challenges Ted’s character faces is his anxiety and frequent panic attacks. In season 2, Ted begins seeing a therapist despite his initial reluctance, and in doing this he learns to be emotionally vulnerable and accept care from others. His kindness is not portrayed as his weakness, but his biggest strength.

Ted’s influence spreads. Every other character in the show, especially the players, begin to reject what may be considered traditional masculine norms, and follow in Ted’s footsteps of embracing vulnerability. They advocate for each other, openly accept their differences, and talk about their feelings. Jamie Tartt’s character has one of the most important arcs in the whole show because of Ted. He starts the show as a bully, constantly picking on people who he deems weaker than him and trying to take all the glory on the field. By the end of season three, Jamie is listening and communicating with his teammates and celebrating their shared victories. All together, they challenge what it means to be a man.

Ted‘s character constantly plays with the possibilities of gender performance. He constantly shifts between humor, leadership, and kindness. He breaks the traditional ideas of masculinity and embraces a version of manhood that is emotionally intelligent and kind.

“Gender reaches into disability; disability wraps around class; class strains against abuse; abuse snarls into sexuality; sexuality folds on top of race … everything finally piling into a single human body. To write about any aspect of identity, any aspect of the body, means writing about this entire maze.”

            This quote from Eli Clare really stuck out to me. I know we discussed it in class, but I wanted to think about it deeper and share some of my thoughts. This passage highlights the true way that identity functions. It is not a set of distinct categories we fit into, but a combination of these things and the ways they intersect and interact together that define who we are. We discussed in class how the verbs that Clare uses, “reaches; wraps; strains; folds” are important to understanding this passage. They suggest tension between these categories and how they are dependent on each other. It also suggests that there is some sort of movement, like we are always changing and growing, and the important aspects of our identity are moving and changing with us. Clare says, “To write about any aspect of identity, any aspect of the body, means writing about this entire maze” (143). This line suggests that we can’t rely on categories to neatly define ourselves like we would sometimes like to because identity is fluid, and we cannot talk about one category without talking about another.

When thinking about this during class I couldn’t help but think about family, specifically my brother and I. It’s interesting to me that siblings can grow up together in the same house with the same parents and be treated so differently. I think this is more significant when there are two siblings who are different genders. Being the oldest and the only girl, I think a lot of pressure is placed on me that I don’t see placed on my brother. The expectation that I will go to school, get a job, get married, have kids. Though that’s never spoken aloud, and I know my parents love me no matter what, I know they secretly hope for that heteronormative life for me. It’s hard to grow and change when I so what to be approved by my parents and meet their expectations for me. I think these ideals are not placed on my brother so much. It seems as if my parents aren’t as concerned about whether he ends up married with kids or not. Traditional gender roles are hard to escape from, especially when gender and family are so deeply rooted in identity. Clare writes in “The Mountain”, “The body as home, but only if it is understood that place and community and culture borrow deep into our bones” (11). I feel my childhood, my family, my hometown, my parent’s expectations deeply rooted in my identity and who I define myself as.

Clare has a talent for being so deeply relatable. Though I may not share the same experiences as him, I’m able to see myself in his words. His words remind me that identity is always evolving. Identity can be intertwined with any part of our lived experience, like my relationship to gender and societal/familial expectations. Clare’s relatability reveals that while our individual identities are unique, they cross the same broader systems that shape our lives. He challenges us to recognize this and embrace the complexity of who we are.

“Written on the body is a secret code only visible in certain lights; the accumulations of a lifetime gather there. In places the palimpsest is so heavily worked that the letters feel like braille. I like to keep my body rolled up away from prying eyes. Never unfold too much, tell the whole story. I didn’t know that Louise would have reading hands. She has translated me Into her own book” (89).

Throughout the novel, the narrator struggles with commitment in their relationships. They say, “My circadian clock, which puts me to sleep at night and wakes me up in the morning in a regular twenty-four-hour fashion, has a larger arc that seems set at twenty-four weeks. I can override it, I’ve managed that, but I can’t stop it going off” (79). They seem to not last very long in relationships and, consciously or unconsciously, seek out emotionally unavailable, typically married, partners.​ They also make themselves emotionally unavailable. In this passage they say they “keep their body rolled away from prying eyes” and “never unfold too much, tell the whole story” (89). They don’t let anyone get too close, until Louise. Though the narrator struggles with this, they still ultimately desire a deep connection and a mundane, normal life with someone. They frequently write very philosophically and are extremely emotionally charged, wishful, and reflective. Their struggle doesn’t stop their need for love. They finally find this with Louise. From this passage, you can see that the narrator feels very deeply for Louise, more than any of their previous partnerships. 

When the narrator says, “Written on the body,” they are referencing a deep connection with their own past and the people they have been romantically involved with. Like scars, the narrator’s stories live with them on their skin. Though they have struggled with connection and commitment and have previously kept themselves somewhat withdrawn, they still are important aspects of the narrator’s past. The narrator’s connection with Louise runs deeper than with their previous partners. The narrator says “you have scored your name into my shoulders, … you play upon me, dumming me taut” (89). The most important line to me is, “I didn’t know that Louise would have reading hands. She translated me into her own book” (89). Louise breaks the narrator out of their mold. She makes the narrator finally settle and open up. The narrator’s life with Louise is written the deepest on their body. 

Despite the narrator finally settling down with Louise, the narrator only gets this dream for a short time. I find it interesting that once she finally commits to someone and is with them outside of infidelity, they are still taken away from her. If the narrator doesn’t leave, outside forces will still end the relationship. This connects back to the very first line of the novel, “Why is the measure of love loss?” (9). Maybe the narrator isn’t destined to be with anybody forever and can only understand and apprectiate their connection once they are physically gone, from their life or from life itself. I wonder if the narrator will be able to find any relationship again after how deep the narrator’s connection was with Louise.