Coming out

Queer YA and the problem of tragic narratives

I was scrolling through my social media yesterday, looking for interesting articles or funny memes to share on my author page. I came across a sponsored ad for a book which led me to the purchase link. After finding out the content, I was disappointed and frustrated.

It’s yet another LGBTQIA+-themed YA novel with a coming out story that almost ends in violent tragedy. Another story in which a well-meaning non-queer (allocishetero) author has taken a story that is not theirs to tell and wrapped it in what I call a “punishment” narrative.

First, I’m not naming the author or the book. I have read previous works by them, and I’ve liked some and disliked others. I’m also making it clear that yes, unless this person at some future point says otherwise, I do know them to be non-queer. I believe they mean well but very often execute things badly. They are not on blast here, and I think it’s bad form to name and shame, seeing as they are not the only one nor the worst offender.

But it did bring up something in my mind which I feel is very serious, and that is the way non-queer authors write both YA and coming out stories—especially when those two things are in the same story.

I won’t go so far as to say that non-queer people should never, ever write a coming out story or queer YA in general or about bullying and gay-bashing. But I will say that non-queer people, who have never personally experienced those things in a queer context, should tread lightly. In particular, I think it’s wise if they can stay away from having all those things in the same story.

There are a number of observations I’ve made after reading hundreds of queer books over the last five-plus years. I believe this is probably for a few reasons, but one of them is that even allies who have queer friends and family only seem to be aware of a few media-driven storylines.

In some way, non-queer authors still buy into the idea that queerness is itself some kind of heartbreaking condition, like a cancer diagnosis. They have, in their minds, condemned us to experience nothing but tragedy before overcoming and having a romance-driven happily ever after. But that tragedy is centered on and rooted in our queerness, not in all the other things that can be painful or challenging in life.

Coming out stories, as written by non-queer folk, tend to follow a specific trend: a closeted person, fearful of others’ reactions; an unaccepting audience (friends, family, community, etc.); a violent incident (beating, forced into homelessness, suicide attempt); freedom in the form of a relationship (usually same-gender, unless the character is transgender).

The other trend I’ve seen is that these coming out stories focus primarily on gay boys and trans girls. This may be in part because allocishetero women are the main authors. Many straight women are uncomfortable writing about lesbians and bisexual women, but it also tends to collide with media coverage of lgbtqia+ people. The public seems to take perverse delight in the punishment of some while glossing over the violence done to others. It makes it easier for allies to believe that certain queer people deserve more pity than others.

I have had numerous discussions with people who genuinely believe that queer cis women have it “easy” compared to queer cis men. They also have a parallel belief that trans people assigned female at birth have it “easier” than male assigned people. Compounding this is the fact that up until recently, one of the ways trans folk had to use to prove they were, in fact, trans was attraction to cis people of their same birth-assigned gender. Put another way, trans women were expected to be interested in cis men and trans men were expected to be interested in cis women.

Non-queer authors writing coming out stories are rarely aware of this history nor of the long fight to change that perception. So in most of these books, trans characters are first perceived as gay, then heterosexual post-transition. This unnecessarily conflates gender and sexuality as well as being a tell that these non-queer people don’t genuinely see trans people as more than exaggerated gay men or lesbians.

To complicate it further, most of these folks are white and middle class, so they do not understand the role that race and class have with regard to queerness. They also don’t understand that physical violence, bullying, and verbal abuse are not the only ways in which queer people face oppression.

Thus is born the narrative of the poor, tragic white queer boy (or, on occasion, trans girl) whose story results in violence until they can be rescued either by true love or by a magnanimous non-queer person (or both). I’ve seen a version of this with trans boys and with non-binary male-assigned people, but rarely with queer cis girls or female-assigned non-binary people.

I get it. These stories are very rarely for us. Even when they are, they promise us our happy endings only when we’ve faced queer-antagonism (i.e., punishment) first. But even if they are aimed at helping other non-queer people understand us, they do a poor job with a limited number of flat, tired storylines.

We don’t need that kind of help. The media already does a great job of highlighting every one of our stories that ends in our deaths. They also do a great job highlighting every story that shows how we are “just like you, only more queer!” They fail to show all the beautiful, messy, complicated stuff in between.

Ally authors, if you really want to write our stories, stay away from those extreme narratives. Especially if you’re writing YA. Queer teens deal with all the same stuff as everyone else—sexual orientation and gender identity are only part of the coming of age process.

Do you need teen tragedy? Write about a trans girl with loving parents whose mother dies. Write about a gay boy being diagnosed with cancer. Take us through the heartache of having family who moves a lot or who is too poor to afford food sometimes. Being queer complicates all that but doesn’t dictate it.

Do you need something less heavy? Give us the heart-stopping tension of queer kids auditioning for a big production or playing football against the best team in the region. Tell us about that time students picketed outside their school or town hall. Give us a story about bullying and mean kids, but make it about literally anything other than queerness.

Write us into speculative fiction. Make up a school for pixies or gods or werewolves. Send us on adventures in outer space (or inner space). Give us super powers. Make us geniuses who invent solutions for global warming and evil geniuses who thwart our plans to save the planet.

Whatever else you choose to do, please leave tragic coming out stories for us to process and share ourselves if we choose to. Don’t hurt us so you can later save us.

On pen names, author personas, and ethics

Ethics, LGBTQ+, Social Justice, Writing

Because of a current situation with an author, the question of pen names and author responsibility has come up yet again. I don’t want to get into details about any particular author, especially with something ongoing that I’m not closely involved in. This has to do with an author whose books I’ve never read and who I’ve never followed on any social media, so I cannot and will not speak directly to that. Suffice it to say it’s a JT LeRoy situation with a good dash of Rachel Dolezal thrown in.

That is not the subject I want to discuss. There are two intertwined ideas at play: author pen names and authors’ life stories, which converge as Author Personas.

Four years ago (it’s hard to believe it’s been that long), I was still writing as a progressive Christian blogger. Before that, I’d halfheartedly kept a random, anonymous “mommy blog” with posts about some of the cute and weird things my kids did. It was a bit of a silly mix between sunny and sarcastic. The only people reading it were real-life friends.

The “mommy blog” morphed when I started questioning things at our church. I was emerging from what I call fundamentalism lite, and I was seeking the company of other like-minded people. I was still anonymous at that point. But I wanted to really put myself out there, and I’d read advice to use my real name and just enough detail to give myself credibility. So I did.

I’m not sorry I did. During that time, I met some really cool people. I traveled across the country to see them in person, and some are still friends to this day. My religious and political views shifted really far to the left, and I had a ton of support.

At the end of that time, I was dabbling in fan fiction (as an outlet for some of the deep hurts from my religious days) and also beta reading for a website. I met a colleague who became a friend, and she encouraged me to send my first manuscript to her publisher, which I did (and it was accepted).

Meanwhile, some things were blowing up in the progressive Christian world, including a well-known blogger being outed by another well-known blogger. There were as many opinions as people, but the biggest thing I learned was regarding Own Voices writing. A lot of bloggers wanted the conversation to be led by LGBTQ+ Christians. Some of the most vocal were also vicious and saying hurtful and harmful things.

Because I’m a particularly sensitive person, I internalized a lot. I ended up believing that my one book with a bisexual main character might be “offensive” if I didn’t come out myself. So…I did. Publicly. Really, really publicly.

While this was happening, several other progressive bloggers also came out. I’m not exaggerating when I say they weaponized it. People threw accusations at each other that they were posing as “fake queers” to gain credibility points, either to speak for the LGBTQ+ community or to avoid scrutiny for problematic statements. Having just come out myself in order to protect against being accused of appropriation, I no longer felt safe in a community I’d trusted. I felt like a fraud, especially given that I wasn’t out until I was approaching my forties and wasn’t doing things considered “queer enough.” I left, but not without doing my share of damage and leaving broken hearts on both sides.

Fast forward to being a published author. My blog is still public. You can read back through for all my old posts. A few have been deleted, but I’ll bet you could even locate those via Wayback. Everything I just said can probably be found and verified, though I didn’t give much information. I still use my legal name on my Facebook account, and I use my author name (which is actually my birth name) everywhere else. I wasn’t trying to give all the sordid details of my life so readers could feel like they knew me. It’s simply an outgrowth of already having had a public profile while blogging non-fiction. I chose not to cover it up.

All that said, I have no issues with how authors choose to present. Take a pen name, or not. Take a new one for each genre you write, or not. Divulge details, or not. It makes no difference to me as a reader or as a colleague.

Where I find the ethics get tricky: Creating an author persona which is entirely different from your real life.

On the surface, that probably doesn’t matter much, if no one is being hurt. However, it does present a problem when it comes to Own Voices and when there’s risk of harm to others via that persona.

Posing as a member of a marginalized community that you don’t belong to does damage. I’m not simply talking about those people who invent tragic back stories and then con followers out of money, although that’s clearly a terrible thing to do. I mean even in situations like mine.

A white person posing as someone of a marginalized race (like Rachel Dolezal) can easily be sussed. If they come back with claims they really are this other person, they’re rightfully removed from any position of authority. But it’s much more complicated with the LGBTQ+ community.

For one thing, some authors really are transgender and discover this or are able to come out through writing. And some cannot be out, so their author persona reflects their true self. They don’t typically invent tragic back stories to manipulate readers, however. For another thing, there are plenty of folks like me who present to the world as cisgender heterosexual but who actually are not. We may choose to be open about it (or not) for a variety of reasons.

But once a person has invented something for the purpose of manipulating others or for financial gain, it calls into question every single one of us who thought being honest about ourselves was the right thing to do. It means that I might be grilled on my history, since I’m a genderqueer bisexual writer who has only ever been in one long-term relationship that appears cisgender heterosexual. It means trans folk have to out themselves in order not to be accused of lying and manipulating and threatened with legal action. It means potentially losing genuine allies due to lack of mutual trust.

I’m not sure what the way forward looks like. We need to weed out individuals who manipulate, and I have no trust for people who pose as LGBTQ+ folks and really are cisgender, heterosexual, and allosexual (i.e., tick all three boxes). I don’t think they care about or have the best interests of our community in mind.

I do think we need to talk more honestly about Own Voices and why it’s important that people who are part of marginalized communities are heard. This is not to limit what people are “allowed” to write. But I suspect the pressure to be Own Voices touches each of us in different ways. I felt pressure to come out; others may feel the only way is to lie about who they are. Which speaks to the privilege of those folks, and that’s also a much-needed conversation.

I’ve long been an advocate of self-reflection, and this is no different. Rather than a blanket always/never for what authors write or how we present to the world, we should think about the motivation for both of those things. What is underlying our choices, and how can we make those decisions ethically?

If an author is contemplating taking on the persona of someone marginalized, even if it doesn’t include a tragic history or involve money-making scams, that person should ask themselves why they are compelled to do it. Faking being LGBTQ+ or any other marginalized identity doesn’t come with the burdens and joys of our real-life experiences.

Review: Waking the Behr (Foothills Pride #7), by Pat Henshaw

Books, Reviews

In the interest of full disclosure: I do not usually review books below six fountain pens (three stars) if they were sent as a request. I follow up with the author, and I explain my rating. However, if the author chooses to allow a review, I will post it. So in this case, especially because this has been one of my favorite series and because I spoke directly with the author, I’m posting my review. Fair warning: I didn’t like this one much.

About the Book

Title: Waking the Behr

Author: Pat Henshaw

Series: Foothills Pride (#7)

Genre: Contemporary gay romance

Publisher: Dreamspinner Press

Publication date: September 20, 2017

Cover design: AngstyG

Length: 102 pages (29, 689 words)

ISBN: 978-1-63533-916-1

ASIN: B075D86H87

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36099055-waking-the-behr

Synopsis

Both Ben and Mitch think they know exactly what they want. Turns out, they don’t even know their own hearts.

Good old boy Ben has dated women his entire life, while gay nightclub owner Mitch has never considered unsophisticated country boys his type. But after they start hanging out, the small-town contractor and the urban entrepreneur are both stunned by the electricity sparking between them.

As they step outside their comfort zones to spend time together, Mitch finds he enjoys rural car rallies, and Ben is intrigued by the upscale bars Mitch owns in San Francisco. When they share their lives and grow closer, they start to question the way they’ve always defined themselves. Then they kiss and fling open the door to love. Now they must step up and travel the road that may lead to happily ever after—even if that path isn’t one they ever expected to walk.

Review

This is a tough one for me to review because out of all the books in the series, I didn’t care for this one. There were things I liked, but the storyline itself was deeply troubling to me.

I had a feeling going in that this might end up being somewhat of a gay-for-you book. However, I held out hope because many of the books in this series are deceptively simple in concept but much deeper in their exploration of the themes. Unfortunately, I think this one fell a bit flat in that sense.

Ben has only dated women, up until meeting Mitch. From the blurb, I expected they might spend time together and Ben’s feelings for him would emerge. Instead, he’s nearly ready to drag Mitch into a back room almost from the time he lays eyes on him. Right away, that sent up red flags for me. Not only that, Ben even says he’s not “even a little bit” gay. I was already disoriented and confused myself at only a few pages in.

I almost might have bought into the fantasy, except nearly the whole rest of the story is Ben having an identity crisis and spending pages and pages arguing with himself about how he can’t be gay. This is fairly typical straight-to-gay language, and I find it hard to take in book form. Internal struggles are real, but they are difficult to capture on page in a meaningful way. This falls into the category of “too much tell, not enough show.” Instead of a slow-bloom romance, we’re simply told that Ben likes Mitch but still isn’t gay. Repeatedly. Including the very strange phrase “het-o-meter” to describe his attraction and how this meter steadily points more toward “gay.”

The way Ben ends up falling for Mitch is touchy as well. Mitch has almost no personality. His method of charming Ben essentially consists of manhandling him and non-consensually kissing him. Ben has not asked for or implied that this is what he wants; Mitch just does it. That isn’t appropriate on any level. I don’t know if it was meant as romantic or sexy, but I was surprised Ben didn’t deck him. I would have.

Ultimately, Ben concludes (after instant love with Mitch) that he’s bisexual but “leaning toward gay.” It’s true that most bisexual people have preference, however this is done in such an inauthentic way and with nothing to back it up. Ben has also implied that his relationships with women were mistakes, which would lead one to conclude that he really is just gay after all. Once again, this is telling us, not showing us, how Ben reached such a conclusion.

The other thing that really bothered me was Ben’s talk with his brother, Adam (who appeared in a previous book, and I had some issues with his coming out as well). Adam says the equivalent of “hearts not parts” and that labels don’t matter. Unfortunately, he’s wrong, especially in this case. Where we usually get treated to bi erasure by way of “no labels,” this time we had a label with no identifiable information to back it up.

I would not have had any problem with a coming-out-bi story or even one where the character does conclude he’s bi but with preference for men. What I had issues with was how it was done in the most typical, bland gay-for-you fashion. It felt rushed and underdeveloped to me. Confusion in a character is fine, but not if it also confuses the reader. Ben’s angst needed something to counter it, and he needed someone to help him process his emerging sense of self without delivering a no-labels sermon.

The one thing I did love was Ben’s visit to the city with Mitch. The different themed bars/restaurants they stop at are really cool, and it was fun seeing them through Ben’s eyes. However, I did miss the town and people of Stone Acres. We didn’t see much of anyone except Ben’s brothers, and the rest were only passing mentions. As they’ve become like friends, I wished we could’ve seen more of them. They might have balanced Ben out a bit in his angst.

For me, this simply wasn’t up to the standard of the rest. It felt rushed and like it tried to do too much in a small space. And even using the word “bisexual,” it still felt erasing. In spite of that, I would not hesitate to read more from the author because a single disappointing book is exactly that: one book.

For poor handling of coming out, thin character development, and a gay-for-you plot, this gets 4 fountain pens.

Purchase Links

About the Author

Pat Henshaw, author of the Foothills Pride Stories, was born and raised in Nebraska where she promptly left the cold and snow after college, living at various times in Texas, Colorado, Northern Virginia, and Northern California. Pat enjoys travel, having visited Mexico, Canada, Europe, Nicaragua, Thailand, and Egypt, and Europe, including a cruise down the Danube. She now lives in Sacramento.

Now retired, Pat has spent her life surrounded by words: Teaching English composition at the junior college level; writing book reviews for newspapers, magazines, and websites; helping students find information as a librarian; and promoting PBS television programs.

Her triumphs are raising two incredible daughters who daily amaze her with their power and compassion. Fortunately, her incredibly supportive husband keeps her grounded in reality when she threatens to drift away while writing fiction.

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