Month: March 2021

Within the LGBTQ+ community, fears arise due to the possible persecution and oppression one can face. Hate crimes are extremely prevalent and unfortunately, are most of the time, not even provoked. Within Bechdel’s “Dykes to Watch Out For”, she provides both a sense of comic relief but also relatability to the reader. In the section “On the Road”, Harriet and Mo are on their way to The March on Washington. Essentially, while on their way they decide to go to a rest stop. At the rest stop they begin to ‘knock’ on the other people in their area, questioning why the 5 year-old needed to know their gender in the bathroom and how everyone gives one of the women “the creeps” (17). The interaction that occurred between two cowboys and the women at the table was extremely striking, as it displayed the hysteria LGBTQ+ community faced. One of the woman stated, “Don’t look now. But there are two cowboys headed straight for us!” Within this statement, the reader is able to visualize the tension and uneasiness within the women. When they arrive at the table, they greet themselves, and as Bechdel portrays it, they are smiling. On the other hand, the women are seen to be having their heads down and eyes directed towards the table. The intense contrast of body language definitely indicates the lack of trust of the women towards the men. The cowboys then begin to say, “You all look like you’re headed for D.C.!”, to which one of the women reply “Yeah? What of it?”. The woman across from her, as Bechdel presented it, had an air bubble thought of a newspaper that was titled, “COED Stabs Homophobe at Hojo’s!” The title itself directly alludes to the fact that the women automatically feel threatened due to what they perceive to be their ‘outward’ sexuality. The men then directly reply, “Well so are we! All the way from Iowa! You have a good trip now, and enjoy the march!” Within the next picture of the comic, the women collectively discuss their mis-interpretation of the two cowboys and how they felt: “Hoo boy! My face was red!” and “Talk about assumptions”. Bechdel’s use of having one of the woman use the word ‘assumption’, while it seems to be making a joke, also shows the severity of how assumptions can somewhat backfire and invalidate masculine-presenting same-sex couples. Ultimately, Bechdel makes a commentary on both masculinity and the dangers of assumptions. Although the women were obviously in fear of their life, rightfully so, it does speak to how society dismisses, at first glance, male same-sex couples and unfortunately, fears the worst.

Ultimately, Bechdel’s comic is seen as relatable and humorous, while also giving the reader an insight into the assumption that two ‘masculine-presenting’ men cannot be a couple. Although these women make a joke about the scenario, the dismissal of male same-sex couples is essentially something that happens very often within the LGBTQ+ community and is somewhat stigmatized.

 

In the reading “How to have sex in an epidemic” it discusses the change in mindset about how and who to have sex with. It is crazy to think that the epidemic completely changed many people’s mindset about casual sex and partners/protection. Now it is more common for people to be concerned about STIs or diseases spread through sex. But back in the 70s it seemed to be of no concern who someone had sex with.
It makes me think about the pandemic we are living in now and how the precautions and new routines we have put in place might affect the way the world works in thirty years. Once again we have to examine our lifestyles and make changes in order to keep us and our friends and families healthy.
Furthermore, to consider the fact that now not only is protection needed during sex but breathing the same air as someone else is a threat to everyone’s safety. But the mindset is still similar to what the article depicted. A person can cut down how many people they have sex with but no matter what they are still at risk for contracting AIDS unless they abstain. Today, the only way to be 100% sure you will not get the virus is to isolate yourself completely. Additionally, in both cases, someone might not show any symptoms of either virus but still be infected.
The multiple similarities and anxieties about both viruses during their respective outbreaks opens up conversation about how we as human beings deal with fear and where our priorities are.

How could two viruses that spread in widely different ways cause the same effects in a community? The AIDS epidemic created extreme tragedy and unrest particularly in the LGBTQ+ community during the 1980s. Covid-19 has affected people all over the world and has disrupted lives to varying degrees. These two deadly viruses have more in common beyond the evident devastation they caused. The social, sexual, and romantic lives of queer people have been stunted and shaped by COVID and AIDS in their respective times.

In the article “How to Have Sex in an Epidemic”, authors Richard Berkowitz and Michael Callen talk about the importance of physical touch and affection, even in the face of potential illness. Gay men were the most affected by AIDS/HIV, which led to them being further ostracized not only in society but also from each other. Gay men specifically were encouraged to distance themselves from each other out of fear of getting the virus. Dispersing a community hurts its members by not allowing them to explore their sexuality and share common experiences. This, unfortunately, occurred again in 2020.

During the current pandemic, many LGBTQ+ people have “come out” or have realized their identity, partially due to ample time without the influences of society. Many creators on the social media platform “TikTok” have shared their experiences coming out as a member of the LGBTQ+ community during quarantine. While the idea of a complete shutdown or quarantine was not as prevalent with the HIV/AIDS crisis, the same inability to be close to anyone or express your sexuality occurred. The feeling of loneliness, feeling lost, and missing a sense of community that the queer people are known to create permeates both ages. These experiences are isolating and will likely affect the way queer people interact in the future.

Connecting the effects of these viruses matters because they are both cultural and societal moments that shaped the way queer people could discover themselves, as well as the way that society sees them. However, because the community has an online presence in the 21st century, there is still the ability to connect on an emotional level, which was not possible for queer people during the AIDS crisis. Acknowledging the loss of both lives and experiences has been common in both the AIDS crisis, as well as the COVID-19 pandemic. It will be a part of our community’s history, which is why it is helpful to compare both situations in the context of each other.

       The beginnings of the AIDS epidemic were filled with uncertainty and many questions. However, within a year, it was understood that AIDS – known as GRID [Gay-Related Immune Deficiency] at the time – was sexually linked.  Richard Berkowitz and Michael Callen, however, chose to focus on the subject of disease in a section of their paper, How to Have Sex in An Epidemic. They state: “the issue is disease – not sex” (573). This message is repeated three times within the section, almost verbatim, to place an emphasis on the misconceptions of the AIDS epidemic and the misdirection of the ‘safety guidelines’ during the era.

         While it is true that AIDS can be transmitted through sex, the act of sex itself was not the problem. As the paper points out, the epidemic is about disease and its focus should be on the prevention of the spread of the disease. With the statement: “the issue is disease – not sex,” Berkowitz and Callen highlight the dangerous misdirection of placing sex at the forefront of the AIDS epidemic. They are not arguing that people practice what we may now consider as ‘unsafe sex,’ however. What they argue is that instead placing the focus on sex – specifically how many partners should one have, who should one have sex with, and how many times should one have sex – the focus should be on the nature of the disease. As they point out in their writing, even if a man limits himself to one partner a month, he can still contract the disease from one of them (572). By placing sex at the forefront, the importance of understanding the spread and prevention of the disease is undermined. 

         By focusing the discussion on sex, the discussion turns towards the sex practices of gay men. The name ‘GRID’ itself was explicit in identifying one group: thereby, changing the topic away from the disease and towards gay men. Which then gave the government, medical practitioners, and media an excuse to scrutinize and violate the lives of people within the community. In other words, instead of discussing how many lives were taken and discussing the prevention of more deaths, the discourse focuses on scrutinizing sexuality. What I believe the authors’ purpose in repeating this message was to bring our attention to this problem. The discussion is not focusing on the correct topic – disease and the spread of the diseases is the issue, not sex.

In a pandemic world where we are kept from human interaction, one can call back to another time where something similar occurred: the AIDs epidemic. Of course, AIDs and COVID are not the same but in both cases, there was, or still is, a responsibility to inform people in order to keep them safe/healthy. However, the question remains: who actually does that, and do people listen to the warnings/concerns when they’re presented?

In their article “How to Have Sex in an Epidemic,” Richard Berkowitz and Michael Callen look at how sex has changed due to the AIDs epidemic. They “believe that AIDs patients have an ethical obligation to advise potential partners of their health status [… and they] believe that AIDS patients must allow their partners to make their own choice” (572). This is all well and good, and people should and did do that. But patients, and their partners, are human beings who have desires and don’t always want to go into their sexual histories, especially if it is the first time with a person.

An interesting example of this is in Angels in America by Tony Kushner. The play deals with many topics, one of which being AIDs and how it affects people. To Berkowitz and Callen’s point, there is an interaction between Joe and Louis (Part 2, Act 1 Scene 2) where they sort of discuss the potential dangers of them having sex. Joe knows that Louis’s boyfriend/ex-boyfriend has AIDs and that makes him nervous. There are multiple times where Joe states his discomfort and yet, Louis continues to “persuade” him to go further than he may be comfortable. In fact, Louis barely addresses the fact that he himself has had a sexual relationship with someone with AIDs. He has made his choice (to leave Prior and find new people to have sex with) but he doesn’t give Louis as much of a choice to decide what he’s comfortable with. By not having that conversation, and considering both of their comfort levels, both Louis and Joe are putting each other in danger.

Similarly, in the comic Dykes to Watch Out For, the characters Lois, Mo, and Ginger discuss how much sexual history you should go into with a new partner, even if it is just a one-night stand. It is hard to know, they decide, how much to disclose but it is a conversation that should happen. Unlike the scene between Joe and Louis, later scenes in the comic show Mo and her partner, Harriet, taking the time to have that discussion, ensuring that both feel safe and comfortable to continue.

Sexual histories are something no one wants to go into. But in an epidemic, it is important to consider it, especially when having sex with someone new. Perhaps, the important part of the conversation isn’t merely “Who have you f*cked” but “What are you comfortable with so that this can be a safe and pleasant experience.” Our current lives in a pandemic have reopened that conversation of people’s comfort levels in order to feel safe. Yes, we are human beings with needs, and we shouldn’t ignore them. But one’s own safety and the safety of others should not be ignored. If that happens, one moment of joy can have catastrophic consequences.

In Allison Bechdel’s Dykes to Watch Out For, there is a brief comic strip that takes place in a Howard Johnson’s in middle America. Prior to this episode, the women are driving from a different city to Washington DC to attend an LGBT rights march. From the beginning of the vignette, it is clear that the women are uncomfortable in a rural setting. The comic’s illustrations portray the women as angry and nervous. Someone complains that the chili has meat in it, and Mo is frustrated that a child asked his mom if she is a boy or a girl. The episode gets incredibly tense when two white cowboys approach their table, and Harriet grips her fork as if she is prepared to physically defend herself by stabbing one of the men. Thankfully, the women assumed wrong; it appears that the men are a couple from Iowa who are also on their way to the same march. 

Dykes to Watch Out For primarily focuses on a queer community in an urban setting, but for a brief moment, this episode focuses on queer, urbanized bodies in rural spaces. These women are clearly used to urban anonymity and ability to live in queer communities, and those commodities are taken from them once they are in a rural space. Out of defense, the women insult surrounding people, calling them “corn fed kids” and “escapees from Heritage USA” (Bechdel 17). Additionally, it is important to note that the women appear closed off and distant from everyone else in the restaurant, which is a stark contrast to Cafe-Topaz’s close-knit atmosphere. Based on these observations it is clear that these women assume that rural spaces are not only homophobic areas to escape, but are also areas that lack queerness entirely. Because they are in a rural space, these women assume they are the only queer people at the HoJos. Proof of this mindset is further reinforced after the two rural-looking men from Iowa tell the women that they are also on their way to the LGBT rights march in DC– illustrations portray Harriet and Mo’s faces as shocked and surprised before looking relieved. 

The idea of rural queerness is not new to me, as I have just spent the past half a semester reading stories that illustrate these identities and communities. Yet for many people, this episode of Dykes to Watch Out For might be a revelation. Through consistently written stories of marginalization, many people believe that rural spaces are unsafe for queer bodies and should be escaped. I acknowledge that these narratives are important to read and that homophobia in the countryside is a real issue. Yet sometimes these narratives go so far to say that queerness in rural spaces do not exist, and homophobia exists because queer bodies are incredibly rare and easily singled out. I think that Bechdel does a really nice job of acknowledging the lesbians’ discomfort of spending a night in middle America AND acknowledging that the main characters in Dykes to Watch Out For are not the only queer people in the county.

In Angels in America by Tony Kushner and Song of Myself by Walt Whitman, there is a similar theme of one person or being embodying many people. Both writings use the symbol of the body to represent the personification of many people in that one body. In Angels in America, the Angel, when speaking to Prior, the Angel is described as having eight vaginas and “a Bouquet of Phallī” (Kushner 165). In Song of Myself, Whitman states, “I contain multitudes” (Whitman 53). Both statements represent one person being many at once.

For Whitman, it is less his own personal body that is many different people but the body of the poem that contains him as many different people. This connects to the actual body of the Angel, having many different sexual organs. In both pieces of writing, one person is representative of many people within their bodies. They also represent many different lived experiences within one person. The Angel’s connection to Prior places him as the person who represents the many people who are struggling with AIDS at the time when the play takes place. Whitman embodies people of all races and genders within his poem, moving around between all of them.

However, as we discussed in class, there is a problem with having one person embodying many people and their experiences but is that true for both of these writings? It is somewhat problematic that Whitman, a white man, talks about being a Black slave and explaining that he understands the slave’s suffering (Whitman 33-34). A white man, who most likely never had to experience the brutality that a slave has had to endure, should not be speaking as though he knows and understands what it is like to be a slave. 

As for Prior and the Angel, containing many people in the body of the Angel and the experiences of many people in Prior may be slightly less problematic than the way Whitman does so in his writing. Prior can embody many people’s experiences because he is really only embodying the experiences of those who have AIDS. He can give a voice and a body to show the suffering that so many people like him have to go through. Whitman takes on the bodies of those he has no connection to, while Prior takes on bodies that he does connect to. This difference makes Prior’s embodiment less problematic than Whitman’s.

In the Allison Bechdel comic, Dykes to Watch Out For, I found Mo’s level of concern about the AIDS epidemic to be immediately recognizable. Even as recent as a couple years ago, I don’t think I would have been able to emphasize as much with Mo as I feel I can now.

The first set of chapters, “Risky Business” portrays a debate that has become all too common as the pandemic has worsened. In comparison to Lois, who is acting more freely based on her rationalization that she is “low risk” and doesn’t need to worry about it, Mo is quite paranoid about the AIDS epidemic, even telling Lois she should “stop having sex.” For all of us who have experienced a pandemic, a similar debate comes up. When are we being too cavalier? When are we being too paranoid? In such an uncertain situation, especially when we knew very little about how COVID-19 was spread, it was understandable that people didn’t really know what to do. It’s quite interesting to me to see a very similar debate come up within the context of the AIDS epidemic, and I think that points to the awful government response and rampant misinformation throughout both crises.

One of the later chapters, “Modern Love,” does an excellent job at addressing that sense of anxiety even further. Even with the explanation Ginger gave both Lois and Mo about the AIDS epidemic, Mo is still concerned about getting physical with Harriet. However, Harriet mentions that while Mo is right to be concerned, that she should relax a bit. It’s impossible to track all previous activities that may have exposed you to the virus, but Harriet rightly says that there are plenty of low risk ways to show affection for one another, like kissing, if they don’t both feel comfortable about getting more intimate (which they eventually do anyway). I think this exchange takes on a lot of prevalence in the context of the recent pandemic as well. I, for one, was a lot like Mo in that I hardly left my house for a year when the pandemic hit, and the few times I did I was much too paranoid about every interaction, even though I was wearing a mask and being safe.

Due to some of these parallels, I wouldn’t be shocked to hear that some of the narratives and controversies of the COVID-19 pandemic gave some people from the LGBT community who experienced the height of the AIDS crisis a bit of deja vu. The severity of the disease and anxiety around social interaction brings up similar issues in both cases. Even with COVID-19, there were some groups that were “high risk” and some that were “low risk,” just like we saw with the AIDS epidemic. As a result of these parallels, I think it’s clear that as a society we need to make more of an effort to learn from and prepare for these health crises, so that we are better equipped to fight whatever the next one is.

Alison Bechdel created the comic Dykes to Watch Out For and in the process created queer joy in a time of devastation for the queer community because of the AIDS epidemic. She does so while also sharing relatable experiences for queer people in this time period, including bringing up the sexual history of someone’s past partners to try and safeguard from contracting HIV/AIDS. However, she also shares moments of joy and solidarity within the community during these years – most notably in the comic strip titled “Bringing it Home.” In this comic, Mo is sharing her experiences from the March on Washington. One panel includes her saying that “for one weekend we had a glimpse of real freedom. It was like being 100% queer and proud of it, but at the same time not being queer at all anymore…y’know?” (Bechdel 18). In this moment she is sharing the joy and freedom that she felt by being surrounded by other queer people and how freeing the solidarity of this was – but it is also important to note the overshadowing sadness in this joy as well. This feeling of freedom and solidarity is present in so many queer spaces and can feel so empowering and freeing, but underneath this is the acknowledgement that so many spaces are not safe and liberating like this and that the feelings experienced in these spaces are often rare.
Furthermore, the quote that it was like being queer and proud but “also not being queer at all anymore” stood out because of the idea that queerness is something that sets community members apart from other people but would not be present if everybody was queer. This feeling can only be experienced by members of a minority community in the sense that people who are not oppressed or separated by their identity will never know the feeling of not fitting in in most places, whereas when there are these spaces for queer people it is a rare thing that is appreciated and not taken for granted. This speaks to the bigger idea that most queer people learn to accept and celebrate their identities because with that identity comes the community of people who share similar experiences. Finding these spaces brings joy and comfort into the lives of queer people, and it is incredibly important that Bechdel chose to share these moments of queer celebration and joy rather than only sharing moments of anxiety and fear in a time where queer communities were being torn apart by both the epidemic and the homophobia that came with it.

In his autobiographical essay collection Times Square Red Times Square Blue, Samuel Delany recounts his sexual and social contacts with Rannit, a “good-looking East-Asian,” who frequents the same porn theater as him (84-88). Delany concludes that Rannit operates “outside an entire discourse of ‘normal’ male/female relationship” (88). Indeed, Rannit’s sexuality is convoluted: he seeks sexual gratifications from men; he is a “connoisseur of heterosexual porn;” he sexually harasses women on the street; but he is “naturally affectionate” and “friendly” (85-6). Rannit appears to hold at once too many contradictions; is he homosexual, heterosexual, both? How can he keep groping women and being so “affectionate” and “friendly” all the time? Following constructionist and intersectional lens, without attempting to categorize Rannit’s sexuality but only to examine how it forms, I underscore that Rannit’s sexuality and gender are simultaneously social-economically driven, racialized, “performative,” and historically situated (“Combahee River Collective Statement;” Michel Foucault The History of Sexuality; Judith Butler Gender Trouble).

Rannit comes from an immigrant and working-class background. He lives with his mother (85). He works full-time on the sidewalk distributing leaflets for a strip club (84). Given his inflexible working and living condition, he can only enact sexual outlet briskly during lunch hour at porn theaters and through his collection of straight porn cached at home (86). Alongside this constricted mobility, it would have been difficult for him to seek casual sexual encounters with women, for I speculate that Rannit is likely to be desexualized and feminized as an Asian American male within the American hetero and homo sexual-hierarchies (Richard Fung “Looking for My Penis”). (I can’t speculate about his sexual encounters with women from his own race, for it would require knowledge I do not have of his culture’s values on sex and the physical proximity of his racial group in his time among other factors).

Porn theaters, on the other hand, facilitate easy and frequent sex but are proliferated with male sexuality. Delany describes sex with Rannit as “protracted and friendly,” “fulfilling,” and “satisfying” (84, 88). Perhaps Rannit has been able to bend his sexuality however the situation affords it. Rannit goes to the theater not only to seek sexual pleasure but also homosociality. In another word, he goes to the theater to have social sex and experiences that would then shape his gender and sexual behavior. Rannit says of his sexualization at the theater and his persistent harassment of women: “That’s what I go to the movies for! Trying to cop a feel, that’s just what guys do, ain’t it? I see lots of other guys do it” (88). Rannit admits that his sexuality and gender are “performative,” shaped by his sexual interaction, socialization, and the porn materials in the theater (Butler Gender Trouble). After writing five pages about Rannit, even Delany declares Rannit’s sexual “habits” to be “a cross between social and obsessive” (88). He harasses women because he has incorporated such behaviors (pervasive in porn, mainstream media, and other men) into his sense of gender identity and without it, he wouldn’t know how to be.

However, Rannit’s sexuality, as I have delineated so far, only develops as it does while the theaters still exist and afford it. I wonder, when they are closed down, how his sexuality would ramify in another direction or if he is able to continue it elsewhere.

Delany often presents us with complex people and situations that resist categorization and linear judgment, for it is impossible and even futile to fit Rannit into a sexual category. He inhabits no specific sexual identity but perpetuates sexual acts that are curtailed by his working and immigrant background, politicized by race, situated within a specific historical period and place, and determined by gender performativity.