Category: Fall 2025

A part I find especially notable about Eli Claire’s “Pride and Exile” is the section that involves doctor’s treatment of kids with disabilities. Particularly, how the pursuit of a supposed “cure” or “answer” can lead to individuals being harmed. In the text Claire states, “take for instance public stripping, the medical practice of stripping disabled children to their underwear and examining them in front of large groups of doctors, medical students, physical therapists, and rehabilitation specialists. They have the child walk back and forth. They squeeze her muscles. They watch his gait, muscle tension, footfall, back curvature. They take notes and talk amongst themselves about what surgeries and therapies they might recommend” (Claire 103).

Disabled kids are treated like a spectacle; as if they are oddities or animals. They are forced to expose themselves to the judgmental glances of people who will only see them as people who need to be changed or “fixed.” They are meant to bend to the wills of superiors who only want to mold them in their image. In a similar fashion, people in the LGBTQ+ community are meant to prove their queerness. They break down their walls of protection and sacrifice their comfort to appease an audience. They must prove their otherness is real, but at the same time get judged for their otherness due to it not being socially conventional. Both disabled and queer people are seen as malleable. Whether it is with a miracle cure, physical force, or conversion therapy, institutions, the public, or higher ups only want to see marginalized communities be the “same as everyone else.” Even if there is no such thing as an ideal human being, there will always be notions made that everyone should fit into that box to preserve years of humanities built-up fragility and sensitivity.

In class, Professor Kersh posed an interesting question relating to the topics about exile, Eli Clare, and missing home. The obvious question is how does Eli Clare combine these topics into such a profound way. Clare in the beginning of his memoir, writes pages upon pages of descriptions of salmon, logging, the woods to the point I was thinking I was reading the wrong story. The purpose of this was to show Clare’s real home, not just the people and the buildings he that he was exiled from but the physical nature of it. He is unable to live in the place he wants and in the fashion he wants because of human-caused norms that create a hostile environment. Clare mourns this, because he is forced to leave a go to a place that is more “forgiving” and has more community, but it is not HOME. Clare made it clear with every word on those pages, that nature is where is heart is and if the world were different, he would be right back there.

Eli Clare writes about many things, from gender to the environment. But for now, let’s focus on the gender part, or more specifically, the queer part. A lot of Clare’s writing thus far focuses on the idea of gender and how that influences the world. Something in particular that stood out to me was a single sentence on page 19, which can be read very differently than it seems. There are a few parts of this statement to examine.

The idea that I wish to focus on is simple; no one can fully understand someone else’s experience with the world. It’s hard for two people to experience the same things. As Clare says in this sentence, “he has never walked a logging road, listened to the idle roar of a chainsaw, or counted growth rings on an old growth stump…” (Clare, 19), not everyone understands the same parts of the world. This is the primary focus of my reading.

While this is about Clare’s past and how his friend can’t understand the exact experiences that he’s had in life, but that there is something shared regardless. I am taking this to be interpreted as this; while another person can’t always fully understand how a person identifies, they can still hold that human empathy and understand that there is a complex backing to an identity. In this particular example, Clare ends the statement saying “…but we share sensibility about environmental destruction.” While this is about the world around them, it could still be about their personal experiences and identities.

In Moraga’s “It is You, My Sister, Who Must Be Protected” excerpt, Moraga explores her relationship with her family and simultaneously her queerness. She battles against what’s expected of her as a woman, fights to provide for the women in her life she cares for, and above all hopes to receive love back in the end.

Moraga makes a point to repeat a certain phrase: “It is this queer I run from.” Foremost, she wishes to distance herself from how her father’s queerness has manifested: he has completely shut himself off from feeling in order to pass as straight. Still, he has moments where this facade breaks, such as when he was left alone in the house for once and the family “…came back to find our
home in shambles. My mother…started throwing onto the floor
boxes and boxes of cereal, seasons-old and opened, now crawling with
ants and roaches” (Moraga, pg2). His inner turmoil is forever unresolved. He has, in a way, become the heteronormative absent father, in which his neglect towards Moraga’s mother later manifests into the mother’s physical abuse (Moraga, pg3).

Additionally, Moraga feels inclined to fulfill the role as the loving “protector,” both encouraged and held back by her identity as a woman. She feels for her mother’s lack of love and appreciation; “…it takes
every muscle in me not to leave my chair, not to climb through the silence,
not to clamber toward her,” Moraga admits (Moraga, pg5). She sees herself as capable of receiving and giving love in a way that her father is no longer able to: “It is this queer I run from” comes to mind again. When she tries to have a heart to heart with him, she acknowledges that her identity as a woman unconsciously lessens the validity of her words to him. “If I were a man,” she reflects, “I could be one bastard of a sensitive guy. Since I am a woman, people—men and women alike— drink from me” (Moraga, pg7). Just like her mom, she receives the quiet violence from her father because it’s what expected from her. Moraga’s gender identity and her performance seem to constantly wage a war in her throughout her life.

This relationship with her family and identity comes back to Moraga later in life, reflected by the excerpt “The Slow Dance.” She thinks back on how her mother insists that “A real man, when he dances with you, you’ll know he’s a real man by how he holds you in the back” (Moraga, pg25). Moraga wishes to take on that role in her own, queer way, so she can guide a woman through dance like her mother wishes she could’ve had with Moraga’s father. However, she finds Elena and Susan, two women she’s observed and admired, with each other rather than with her. She reminds herself she’s “…used to being an observer…I am used to imagining what it must be like” (Moraga, pg26). Once again, she finds herself unable to experience queerness, much like her father, and must continue to grow and learn about herself to distance herself from such a fate.

The text that I decided to focus on for my second blog post was another one of Saeed Jones’ poems, Boy in a Whalebone Corset, because it really stuck out to me as a poem that explores different a different theme than most of his other poems, which is his religious trauma.

In this poem, Saeed Jones makes a lot of references and allusions to biblical depictions of punishment, focusing specifically on the lines, “he’s in the field, gasoline jug, / hand full of matches, night made / of locusts, column of smoke / mistaken for Old Testament God.” (Jones 12) These allusions make me think of how homophobia is treated in religious contexts, and how faith can be used as an excuse for bigotry and abuse. Locusts represent coming punishment, as mentioned in the second line of the poem, and Old Testament God represents wrath, for example the wrath brought down when destroying the also referenced city of Sodom for the sin of homosexuality.

Another thing to focus on is the Nina Simone record playing in the background, and the lines “And the record skips / and skips and skips.” (Jones 12) I think the record skipping symbolizes something very important, which is that this event seriously traumatized him, to the point at which it is stuck in his mind repeating over and over again, like a broken record.

The reason I wanted to analyze this poem is because it is a very common experience in the LGBTQ community to suffer from abuse from a religious standpoint. Being told that what you are is wrong and that you will face eternal damnation just for being yourself is exactly what happens in this poem when Saeed Jones, exploring his gender, puts on a corset and his father catches him. Not only does the fire his father sets leave scars on his memory, hence the skipping record, but is also an attempt at purification since fire is used in the Bible as a metaphor for cleansing of sins and the father views his son as corrupted by homosexuality, needing to be purified in the eyes of the Lord.

In Cherríe Moraga’s poem, “Loving on the Run,” I was drawn to the speaker’s “improper” grammar and use of syntax to build an identity for herself. The speaker ends every “-ing” word with “-in,” like “talkin” instead of “talking” (19). This colloquial way of speaking highlights the speaker’s refusal to conform to oppressive societal expectations. This dedication to her identity, illustrated by her dialect, is a token of her authenticity and proves to her audience that she doesn’t owe anyone assimilation. Exploring and embracing authenticity is a motif that appears consistently in the readings for this class. Moraga’s linguistic authenticity connects with that of Gloria Anzaldúa’s in “Speaking in Toungues: A Letter To 3rd World Women Writers” as they both implement Spanish words and phrases throughout their writing to highlight their heritage and identity. This changes the scope of the audience for both works. Anzaldúa achieves this by addressing her audience directly as the receptors of a letter to “mujeres de color,” (165). 

Cherríe Moraga also emphasizes the danger of comparing or “ranking” oppressions when discussing the treatment of minority groups (44). She compared herself—a white-passing lesbian—and her sister—who’s black—getting a beating on the street for their respective abnormalities in the eyes of “the Man.” Moraga declares, “We’re both getting beaten any way you look at it,” (44). This connection among marginalized communities rings true throughout our readings and I connected with it specifically in Susan Stryker’s novel, Transgender History where she discusses the connection between prejudice against transgender people and disabled people. Society governs people’s bodies and if the powers that be decide you are “enfreaked,” then you are subject to scrutiny regardless of whatever marginalized group you are a part of (xii). I found this very interesting because both physical disabilities and transness are often outwardly apparent to society, while Moraga’s lesbianism may not be immediately recognizable. This highlights the varying effects of different people living their most authentic lives. I think this idea of the connection between minority groups is incredibly important for activists to remember when speaking out for any cause and it can unite several causes for a more impactful result. 

“Even if there were a cure for brain cells that died at birth, I’d refused.
I have no idea who I’d be without my specific tremoring, slurring, tense body.” (Clare, 2015)

“The body as home, (…)” (Clare, p.10)

I admire Eli Clare, for being able to see his body as home. To find comfort in that home.
To know every single “room” that made up that home, and still choose to love it even when it was violated, messed up, or broken into.

“The body as home, but only if it is understood that bodies are never singular, but rather haunted, strengthened, underscored by countless other bodies.” (Clare, p.11)
I remember the first home I ever lived in. Vividly, I see us eating dinner. I always had friends over. People loved coming to my house. My eyes would light up during special occasions, my mom in the kitchen cooking, my grandpa in his chair chatting with guests, my grandma sipping tea, my dad letting me climb on his shoulders. And then I remember the last time we had guests. My dad, lying in the living room. Eyes closed. No one seemed happy. After that, no one ever came to my home again, we moved out.

“The body as home, but only if it is understood that place and community and culture burrow deep into our bones” (Clare, p.11)

When we moved to a new city where my mom decided to build a new life. What we called home was a rented apartment with two bedrooms. One for my brother, the other shared between my mom and me. I never invited my friends to come over. For how they would see the picture of my dad on the family’s altar. For how they would know I’m still sleeping with my mom and never had my own room because we couldn’t afford one.

“The body as home, but only if it Is understood that language too lives under the skin.” (Clare, p.12)

When I first came to the U.S for the first time, in effort of making new friends as an international freshmen, I tried making a conversation to a white man. He asked: “So do you really eat dogs back home?” I should’ve been angry. But I just laughed. No, I don’t eat dogs back home. I swallowed my words. I swallowed my discomfort. I let the lie in. I let it sit under my skin.

“The body as home, but only if it is understood that bodies can be stolen, fed lies and poison, torn away frorn us.” (Clare, p.12)

I remember the last time I see my dad, I didn’t think it was my dad. After a year away in China, fighting cancer, he was finally home, but to say goodbye. He’s my dad. But I felt like he was a stranger. He looked scrawny, I think he shaved his mustache away. But dad was home at last. I was mad, because I always told dad to not shave his mustache. It was the first time I see how your body, can be taken away from you.

“The body as home, but only if it is understood that the stolen body can be reclaimed.” (Clare, p.13)

The last time I saw my dad, I didn’t recognize him. But I’m learning that grief, too, lives in the body. And when I let myself feel it, instead of hiding it, I am reclaiming something that was once stolen: my memories, my strength, my love. And queerness gives me something that let me enter “my body finally with liberation, joy, fury, hope, and a will to refigure the world.” (Claire, p.13) For many of us, it’s an act of returning to ourselves, to the body we were taught to reject, to the parts of us that were silenced, ridiculed, or made invisible.
And I used to let people laugh at my English. Now, I speak with intention. Because every word I say in a language that once made me feel small is an act of reclamation. And when I write, I give my body a voice.

It’s calling my body home, even when it still trembles with memories, hesitations, silences and strengths. My body as home.

Eli Clare uses a metaphorical mountain as a representation of the goals and obstacles one meets throughout their life, finding their ultimate success at the top of this mountain. This mountain, however, is made up of what is deemed true “success” or “wealth” by a capitalist, patriarchal, hereronormative, ableist society. In this section, Clare writes “Our wheelchairs get stuck. We speak the wrong languages with the wrong accents, wear the wrong clothes, carry our bodies the wrong ways, ask the wrong questions, love the wrong people” (Clare, 1). These different aspects of identity affect how far we can move up the mountain because it depends on what is considered “desirable” by this society. 

I also imagine or interpret this metaphor as a balance scale, similar to the “Sex Hierarchy” or “Charmed Circle” models that demonstrates how society categorizes or ranks sexual behaviors. I imagine this scale with one side holding the “mountain” and the other side with a person. It begins with both sides being balanced, until slowly aspects of our identity with different weights applied to each based on how “good” they are are added on. It is difficult to move up the mountain or maintain balance on the scale because these aspects of our identities that “bring us down” don’t fit into a society that values capitalism, patriarchy, heteronormativity, and ableism. Thus, the gap is widened between who or what is deemed “normal” and the “other” or “exiled”.

The metaphor of the mountain connects to the theme of class because aspects of our identities and how they intersect with each other impact our place on the mountain. My interpretation of the mountain as a scale further emphasizes the identities society perceives as desirable and the ones that are disregarded. However, my interpretation of the mountain as a scale also tells us that maybe we don’t need or even want to be on this mountain or balance this scale. Maybe we learn that we can each create our own mountain or scale that is made up of all these aspects of our identities that make up our personal obstacles, goals, and dreams. And at the top of the mountain, or the perfect balance of this scale, is us accepting and loving ourselves for who we really are. 

In Eli Clares, “Exile And Pride”, he talks about the struggles of leaving his rural, small town to be a part of the urban queer community where he can be accepted… with some caveats. The now upper to middle class queers that Clare is surrounded by don’t fully understand the experience of being lower-to middle class in a rural small-town.

Clare speaks upon specifically the progression of the commercialization of pride/stonewall with the event of Stone Wall 25′ celebrating the rebellion “…the tickets for many of the events costs outrageous amounts of money. Who could afford the benefit dance at $150, the concert at $50, the T-shirt at $25… Stonewall 25 strikes me not so much as a celebration of a powerful and lifechanging uprising queer people, led by trans people of color, by drag queens and butch dykes, fed up with cops, but as a middle- and upper-class urban party that opened its doors only to those who can afford it.”(Clare 41).  The capitalization of queer people and our suffrage is now becoming a commodity that only the most privileged of us can access and with this comes a lot of blatant ignorance and exclusion.

The dangers of only focusing on the good and what we have in society now ignores and stops proceeding to the next steps. Full liberation. Pride today being funded by big corporations and government officials (who are the same people taking away certain rights from certain community members) take us away from our roots of protesting, fighting for the most oppressed within our community. Clare notes that with such focus on Urban efforts of commercialized pride and white wealthy gay people, we are not doing enough for those doing groundwork in smaller, rural towns where statistically they have more risks speaking out because they have no place to hide unlike a populated city.

The dangers of capitalizing off of pride whereas Clare is stating how Urban activists must take a “back seat” and give support to these ground roots activist in rural places before soon the most privileged of us all are now just as oppressed as they would have been years ago.

In a passage from Loving in the War Years page 24 by Moraga it reveals how love and intimacy are shaped by violence, displacement, and uncertainty. ” Loving in the war years calls for this kind of risking without a home to call our own” (p.24) These frames love as a dangerous act that is unstable and unprotected. The lack of home suggests literal displacement that could happen during a war and the absence of culture or social belonging especially for queer women of color.

The repetition of “I’ve got to take you as you come” highlights Moraga consistently adapting to the partners state of being. The relationship is not fully secure. This can tie back into how in war and oppression constantly alters relationships.  The reference to “what deaths you saw today” brings the violence closer, implying that each day carries loss or confrontation with mortality. Which can also take a toll on the relationship.

I also notice the phrase “battle bruised.” It makes the partner’s pain feel physical, as if the war outside has left marks on their body and spirit. But even with all that, the Moraga ends with “refusing our enemy, fear.” To me, that’s the most important part. It means that loving each other, even when it’s risky and uncertain, is an act of resistance. Fear is the real enemy, and choosing love is how they fight back.