Photo by Filmbetratcher
Having two parents who fell in love while studying for their theatre degree, I have been blessed with queer culture my whole life. I was still in my car seat when I imitated the actress on the “Chicago” CD, singing “in… to… his… HEAD!” My sister and parents loved musical theater, old Hollywood and pop culture divas. But this niche culture was not only learned through the perspective of theatre; I also saw how these things were inextricably tied to the queer community. My western Connecticut theatre community has a beautiful pocket of quietly amazing Schitt’s-Creek-queers; my sister and I, two young and soon-to-be bisexuals, got to watch queer people be celebrated in their element. In our exceptionally red town, in a normally liberal region, I had a place to see and feel love.
This is a unique relationship to queerness, and one that I have benefitted from endlessly. But as I mature into my Adult Queer Experience, I’ve discovered the consequence of this perspective; it surfaces regularly yet is always a surprise, worsened by repetition. After many disappointing encounters with those who I respect and love, I’ve lost my naive assumption of general queer acceptance. My once comforting vantage point blinded me from a more pessimistic reality in which traces of queerness are compressed into digestible jokes by open homophobes and by those who bolster tolerance. My most eye-opening experiences have been with my closest friends, those who felt safe to unveil their testiest perspectives with me. Biases most frequently peek out right when you’re feeling comfortable, striking when you’re least prepared to combat. Right before your friend insists they only say “fag” around you. Right before the table denounces someone’s sexuality as a plea for attention. Right before you watch straight men sport a lisp and a flopped wrist to win an award. Right before you are told, again, that you are reminiscent of Kurt from “Glee” (too specific, but I hope you understand how low that blow is).
This is why I haven’t been able to shrug off my irritation with “Queer Eye”. To be clear, this is a long-standing tiff. My parents watched the original iteration, “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy,” in which five gay men transform the life and home of a hegemonically ideal male throughout the duration of each episode. I can’t argue the merits of this process to the subjects themselves, but the overall message troubles me. The show tries to subvert gay stereotypes and frame them as acceptable while simultaneously confirming them. The show also presents the idea that these queer traits can be transformed into something masculine — something for the “everyman.” In a season two episode, Carson Cresely, the show’s fashion expert, observes a subject’s transformed style in the mirror. He lowers his voice and says “Yo, what up dog,” with a smile; this small moment simultaneously comforts the fear of the straight subject by affirming his masculinity and diminishes the trademark flamboyance so prevalent and adored in Cressley. We are shown that you can benefit from queerness without letting it leave a stamp on you. If the Fab Five work hard enough, all of the straights will finally wash their cracks and we can be one homogeneous, fashionable United States of America. The new series, by way of widening the subject pool, seems to have transformed this stilted structure into something less constrictive. I think it’s done a lot of amazing work — but I’m forced to wonder what it would look like to throw the whole model away.
My mother and I got COVID recently. With no season of “RuPaul’s Drag Race” left to watch, we hopped onto HBO and binged the two aired seasons of “We’re Here.” The show features Bob the Drag Queen, Shangela Laqifa Wadley, and Eureka O’Hara as they traverse across the nation spreading the joy of drag. Each episode, like “Queer Eye,” features local subjects that receive a makeover and a weeklong workshop, this time culminating in a performance. Here, we aren’t given ways in which one can sneakily integrate the benefits of queerness into their life. Instead, we are shown how the celebration of queer culture itself is the key to the desired transformation. The drag queens ask not just to be seen, but to be accepted as a gift. They also show the local resistance with which they’re met, highlighting the social weight of their identity instead of compacting it. While traveling to Branson, Missouri, the queens experienced premise removals and calls to the authorities just for being present; yet, they still held enough power to shed joy on those who live in that environment every day. In BumFuck Middle-America, they create spaces for people to feel safe celebrating themselves and support those they love. To those “Queer Eye” aficionados, I think you’ll love “We’re Here.” Watching the unabashed indulgence in and promotion of queerness can, at times, feel shocking; but hopefully, this shock will be followed by liberation. These spaces changed my life. Queerness can’t be contained in a desirable set of traits — but rather in a wealth of unassimilated culture.
The straight guy has his own eyes — let him look. Eat your heart out.