I was thrilled to be able to attend a special Mangos with Chili show on Sunday night at Bluestockings in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. I was thrilled not just because I consider the founders, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha and Ms. Cherry Galette, dear amig@s, nor because dear amig@s of mine have performed under the spicy sweet banner, pero because the center is queer, trans, and gender nonconforming artists of color. Sunday night, people packed the bookstore and activist center to bear witness to the words and work of Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, Victor Tobar, Ignacio Rivera, and Jai Dulani.
Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha opened the floor reading a piece from a memoir she’s working on about her life as a queer femme from Sri Lanka and creating community. Victor Tobar, in a series of stunning spoken word pieces, brought us to the Bronx and Brooklyn, and explored struggling against gentrification in those streets, what those streets demand of of their queer brown children, and how those children grow into adults, not easily, but wrapped in memories that constrain and free.
Brooklyn Black Boricua Ignacio Rivera used words to redefine the body as an answer to negative socialization and abuse and, in doing so, reclaimed kinky sexuality in his own terms. Rivera forced the listeners to confront our histories of violence and our daily interactions with it above and underground.
Jai Dulani closed the circle by presenting a film he has been working on regarding Caster Semenya entitled Caster Semenya: Wrong is Not Her Name. The film, through the use of news clips, looks at the invasive scrutiny Semenya’s gender underwent following her win in the women’s world 800-meter race. Dulani shows how race and gender biases collided and the history of the white, male, heteronormative gaze on the bodies of those who claim “woman.”
The artists in this Mangos with Chili performance reveal a breadth of talent fed by real life experiences rooted in personal struggles and continued survival. Some of their work will make you uncomfortable because of its frankness and raw reality, pero for many it will feel like someone opened the curtains in a dark secret room you were sitting alone in, let the sun in, and then threw a party.
It was all love.
Please follow Mangos with Chili as they decide their next tour and please follow all of the amazing artists. Arte, poesia y imagen can change the world.
As Michael Bibler mentions in the introduction to Cotton’s Queer Relations, it seems impossible that there could be enough material out there to serve as the basis for such depth of criticism on an incredibly narrow topic. There are a few notable classics that have homoerotic undertones and even some more overt mentions of homosexual encounters that are discussed in works like The Confessions of Nat Turner, but these queer moments seem like blips in what appears to be an otherwise overtly heterosexual literary scape. Is Bibler reading too much into plantation literature? Are his examples only the result of the passionate desire to find queer meaning in texts where none exists? The answer to both questions seems to be no.
Bibler’s arguments are focused and supported with strong evidence from the texts and the work of other critics. But the argument by Bibler is more complex than a simple acknowledgment of the existence of queerness in plantation literature; he argues that the queer subtexts in plantation literature expose wider social injustices in plantation life, and that queer relations also move racial inequality and sexism to the forefront.
Bibler wants to make it clear that same-sex relations here do not necessarily mean homosexual relations. I will allow the reader of Cotton’s Queer Relations to delve more deeply into the complex reasoning behind his assertion; but in a nutshell, he essentially pleads that the closeness of same-sex relations in the textual examples he uses stand in such conflict of the heterosexualized and paternalistic structure of the plantation that they can be defined as queer even if they are not directly homosexual. It is an interesting take, and one that may initially sound like a bit of a stretch.
Terminology notwithstanding, Bibler offers fresh readings of literary classics like Absalom, Absalom! and gives contemporary insight to controversial texts like Styron’s Nat Turner. He digs deep into Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and is able to juxtapose Big Daddy’s simultaneous tolerance of homosexuality with his unabashed lack of respect toward the black servants he employs, effectively layering new meaning on a well-worn text. He picks apart the relationships of white women and their black servants in the works of Lillian Hellman, Katherine Anne Porter, and Margaret Walker, describing them as “romances”—and supports his logic—even though none of the women in the stories share an erotic lesbian moment, or even a kiss. While there are a few minor stretches here and there in Bibler’s text, he overall pleads his case. He certainly does not appear to be afraid of stirring controversy, and does a remarkable job of defending his arguments while he discusses each point.
It may seem quite an impossibility, but the film Leading Ladies is, simply put, a quietly revolutionary dance musical. While most dance musicals (think Dirty Dancing, Save the Last Dance) center on the boy-meets-girl heterosexual love match, Leading Ladies is a beautifully wrought girl-meets-girl story. It is simultaneously a dance musical, coming-of-age story, and coming-out narrative. The power of the film comes from its ability to maintain the generic conventions of the story while completely rejecting the hetero-normativity that is typically the narrative thrust of the genre. What’s perhaps even more amazing is that Leading Ladies succeeds at thwarting convention within a conventional structure while simultaneously being a whole lot of damn fun. Lesser films would sink under such weight.
Helmed by first-time directors Erika Randall Beahm and Daniel Beahm, this joyous film tells the story of the Campari women. The matriarch of the family is ballroom-dancing stage mom Sheri, played by Latin and Ballroom Champion Melanie LaPatin. Sheri has two daughters: like-minded drama queen and dancing champion Tasi (Shannon Lea Smith), and Toni (Laurel Vail), Tasi’s practice partner and the wallflower of the family. The film centers on Toni’s relationships, particularly with the emotionally volatile Tasi, and an unexpected romantic attachment to Mona (Nicole Dionne), a bubbly and outgoing woman Toni meets at a dance club. While LaPatin’s acting is a bit stiff, Smith’s neurotic and self-obsessed Tasi is played to high-pitched perfection. Vail might be the real star of this film, however, as she says more with her eyes than many actors can express with a word. She artfully plays the Ugly Duckling, the quiet witness to familial squabbles and the glue that keeps the Camparis together.
Leading Ladies has an ebb-and-flow, alternating between slow and quietly stirring scenes and vibrant, fast-paced dance numbers (most notably a hysterical and boisterous number set in a grocery store). The heart of this film beats loudly and quickly, and it leaves the viewer invigorated and deeply moved. To learn more about her hopes for the film, its generative process, and the ideological concerns that lead to its creation, I recently spoke with co-director Erika Randall Beahm.
Beahm co-wrote the film with Jennifer Bechtel, a friend and LGBT youth advocate in Champaign, Illinois, and Bechtel was struggling to find mainstream films that spoke to the young gay community. As Bechtel and Beahm perceived it, most gay and lesbian cinema tends towards violence or explicitness, while mainstream cinema features gay characters as “the sidekick.” Beahm and Bechtel thus sought to create a “family-centered gay and lesbian film for the mainstream market.” Their hope is that Leading Ladies provides gay youth with a positive portrayal of gay romantic love and thus “open a dialogue within themselves” and perhaps between gay youth and their families.
The film eschews aggressive and explicit representations of gay love for a romantic and “joyful falling in love which... straight kids get to experience in movies all the time.” Indeed, Leading Ladies treats its same-sex couple as any movie musicals’ heterosexual pairing: they meet, they dance, they fall in love. The romance is beautifully articulated through an artful juxtaposition of two dance sequences. Toni and Mona’s meeting is shot like a typical dance movie sequence—bright lights, loud music, and overhead shots looking down on the dancers. This film could be Dirty Dancing, if it weren’t for the same-sex couples dancing on stage and in the audience. Indeed, this is the goal of the film: to illustrate that dance (and by extension, romance and love) is the same for same-sex couples as it is for heterosexual partners. Toni leads Mona through a raucous, enthusiastic dance, and as convention dictates, the two find love while dancing. In a beautiful inversion of this sequence, we next find Toni in Mona’s lush apartment, where the more romantically experienced Mona takes the lead in the dance of romance. The lovers’ embrace is gorgeously shot in sensual blush tones and shadow.
For choreographer and dancer Beahm and youth musical programmer Bechtel, dance served as an obvious choice of backdrop for the love story. Beahm choreographed the film’s dances with Melanie LaPatin and Benji Schwimmer, the former So You Think You Can Dance! winner who also plays Toni’s best friend in the film. For Beahm, dance has an inherently transformative power: “There’s this kind of kinesthesia with dance that gets people to literally be moved on a physical level, and I believe also on an emotional and intellectual level.” The love scene between Mona and Toni, for example, is highly choreographed to match the non-diegetic music; Beahm suggests that this emphasis on “energy shifts… and the musicality” of the scene helps the spectator “lose sight of this being a gendered duet, and it just becomes two people moving together, falling in love.”
By emphasizing the movement and musicality of the scene, then, Beahm hopes to ease the fear of spectators who are uncomfortable with same-sex coupling and perhaps open a space for internal dialogue within the spectator: “For people who might have a hard time seeing two women... make out, it becomes this kind of transference of two bodies going through these really emotional and tender but also choreographed spaces, and so gender becomes less important.” By shifting the spectator’s focus from gender distinction to the movement of the body the film illustrates how little gender matters and how love—like dance—is a universal language. Thus the film utilizes dance to open up a space for shifting “people out of the fear they may feel if they’re watching from an outside perspective.”
Though the idea of dance as a catalyst to ideological and personal transformation may seem unusual, Beahm is quick to point out that dance has often added a “queer element” to the movie musical. In West Side Story, for example, the spectator sees groups of men “snapping and skipping” and yet the dance isn’t “sexualized, it’s charged and it’s activated.” Dancing is particularly subversive in moments of unison dancing, she suggests, when members of both sexes dance the same movements, suggesting a unity of the sexes and the democratization of the body. Leading Ladies takes this democratization one step further, rejecting the hetero-normative ballroom dance structure of male lead and female follow and replacing it with same-sex couplings. In doing so, Beahm simultaneously feeds off of the democratizing nature of dance while rejecting the rules of a dance form that reinforces gendered performance.
It is the inherent queerness in dance that Beahm finds so appealing and in tune with her views on feminism. For her, dance and feminism are “compatible” because they are both “hard to pin down” terms; their “slipperiness” as terms allows them to create spaces for dialogue and questioning. She likes her feminism to work “from the inside out,” enjoying the notion of becoming part of a system, and breaking it down from within. This is why her personal mantra is the cheeky suggestion to “wear pearls to the country club and then talk dirty.” Ultimately, Leading Ladies represents a filmic expression of this mantra—by placing non-conventional characters within a conventional generic structure, the film wears its pearls but then lets out a glorious, enthusiastic expletive as it sits down to dinner. Swearing has never been so much fun.
In the introduction to her new book The Promise of Happiness, Sara Ahmed asks readers a provocative question: “Do we consent to happiness? And what are we consenting to, if or when we consent to happiness?” Ahmed takes on the elusive topic of happiness not to define it, but to look at how it works. Amazingly, this book does not get trapped in abstraction. Sara Ahmed approaches her critique of happiness with explicitly feminist, anti-racist, and queer analysis, always attentive to the historical moment in which she’s writing. She moves through what she calls an “archive of happiness,” comprised of novels, philosophical treatises, films, utopian proposals, and dystopian visions that all deal in some way with happiness.
In the first chapter, the author reads older European philosophical and psychological accounts of happiness, many of them concerned with the family as a site of happiness. This history of ideas sets the groundwork for the ways in which happiness is constructed in contemporary times. Ahmed introduces the figure of the “affect alien” as a person who challenges the happy family ideal. This figure takes shape in the next three chapters in the form of “feminist killjoys,” “unhappy queers,” and “melancholy migrants.”
These chapters demonstrate how happiness gets used as a form of social control. In looking at how feminists challenge the notion that people are naturally happiest in rigid gender roles, Ahmed writes, “The struggle over happiness forms the political horizon in which feminist claims are made.” Her reading of the classic novel The Well of Loneliness considers how an unhappy ending for a queer main character opens up a possibility for social critique that a “happy” one might not. In her reading of the film Bend It Like Beckham, Ahmed asks why certain kinds of rebellion (say, against one’s immigrant parents) get celebrated in mainstream film while other kinds (say, against British imperialism) don’t. She also recasts the age-old parental plea of “I just want you to be happy,” as a way in which a child is obligated to be happy in order to make the parent happy (a kind of debt).
In concluding chapters, Ahmed cleverly turns her gaze to the future by looking at the varied promises of happiness presented in speculative fiction. Dystopian visions, such as Ursula LeGuin’s short story “The People Who Walked Away from Omelas,” can show how insidiously the happiness of the majority might be used to justify cruelty toward the marginalized. Ahmed acknowledges that positioning happiness as a goal has disturbing implications. She suggests a new approach to living: “...if we no longer presume happiness is our telos, unhappiness would register as more than what gets in the way. When we are no longer sure of what gets in the way, then ‘the way’ itself becomes a question.” In her conclusion, Ahmed uses the word hap (itself so much more buoyant in sound than the heavy happiness) as a way to work through new ideas at the level of language.
Ahmed writes in her introduction, “To kill joy... is to open a life, to make room for possibility, for chance. My aim in this book is to make room.” I think Sara Ahmed succeeds in her project. Fresh in its premises and elegant in its follow-through, with plenty of incisive questions to move it along, The Promise of Happiness offers new lenses on an emotion rarely challenged. I suggest you make room for it on your shelf.
Edited by Noemi Martinez The Voices Against Violence Project
Unapologetic. Raw. Honest.
The third issue of Voces Zine is a collection of poetry by artists from different communities—indigenous, people of color, trans, and queer—sharing their experiences as survivors of domestic and sexual violence. Originally inspired by a small community of Latino immigrants, this issue represents a first-time inclusion of contributors from outside of its original roots.
The eclectic air of the compilation reflects this shift. During an interview I asked editor Noemi Martinez about the strengths and weaknesses of such a model; she discussed how the stories could be competing or compatible, but that each needed to be told. I appreciated her insight and find this invites a greater audience, while also revealing the individual ways we experience violence against women. Some stories might resonate with one reader more than others, but each exposes the important variance of dynamics in surviving violence: blaming, loving, mistrusting, self-hating, empowering, forgiving, healing, hiding, ignoring, being vulnerable, being strong, being uncertain, being alone, being supported.
At times I felt I could sympathize with each word (“unwrap your bandages/let them wounds breathe/let them scab and itch/and fall/away”), with the uncertainty (“am i better?”), and with the paradox of anger and barren strength (“i aint no fucking weak, limp, helpless, shaking, hiding, trembling, dying, lonely, battered girl. i’m a woman with a black eye.”). Other writings left me unattached or distant, to which I cite Martinez’s foreword, “There is no guarantee how one will react to a particular writing when you are a survivor…as a reader, you might find these writings triggering, not helpful, judgemental [sic], totally off, fucked up, questionable, right on, brutally honest, truthful inspiring.” The point: take from Voces Zine what you can relate to, learn from what you might not, and leave the rest behind.
Voces Zine was created to support survivors and to provide a teaching tool for discussion and understanding of what violence against women means. While the variety of themes provide this type of catalyst, at times the compilation seemed to be more of a therapeutic outlet for each contributor. To this end, I do not fault the project, but commend it for its ability to provide a space in which “victim, survivor, thriver” can share, question, and grow.
I admire each of the contributors for finding the strength to speak up and write out and urge any person questioning, challenged by, or curious about violence against women to take a look through Voces Zine. In the interview, Martinez explained, “I’m not an editor. I’m not professional.” Although I believe she has proven her worth of both titles with this endeavour, the humility of her statement is yet another reflection of the DIY compassion and grassroots foundation of this project. Voces Zine is more than words on paper; it’s a resource of hope, inspiration, and healing.
To celebrate Gay and Lesbian Pride Month, the Sundance Channel has released five digitally animated Lizzy the Lezzy short films featuring the irreverent stand up comedy and musical humor of their title character. Who is this Lizzy the Lezzy – besides an Internet and television phenom who’s been featured on AfterEllen.com and Logo TV’s Alien Boot Camp? Well, as she puts it: "I’m Lizzy the Lezzy and I am a dyke." (I guess it’s okay when she says it.)
For your information, she also goes by “muff munching freak,” among other deceptively self-deprecating labels. In reality, lesbian pride is her thing. If you’re not shy about lesbian, gay, or heterosexuality, you’ll want to check out Lizzy’s films as soon as possible for a good laugh or two…or nine (I counted). Even though Lizzy uses these often disparaging labels to identify herself, she quickly dispenses with the formalities and basks in happy banter about the joys of being a lesbian, and the joys of sexual intercourse between all people: "Love is bi. Love is queer. Love is shoving things in your lover’s rear." But also: "Love is for all wherever you are."
Whether she’s lamenting the fact that women aren’t allowed to walk around with bare breasts exposed in most industrialized parts of the world—something people of both sexes and most sexual orientations might complain about too—or the unfortunate smallness of the out and proud lesbian community, Lizzy is a cute, singsong-y presence of simple animation who makes for a good few minutes of enlightenment here and there. Accept her humor or don’t: it’s unapologetic and refreshingly matter of fact, even if it doesn’t cover any new turf. Though Lizzy has a tendency to sexually objectify women—admittedly so—she also professes to love women in their natural glory; some of her comic stints are as much celebrations of womanhood as they are lesbian identity.
Two things that might alarm some viewers are Lizzy’s high-pitched voice and childlike appearance; she somewhat resembles an extra from an episode of South Park. This demeanor aligns nicely with the open-minded awe and wonder Lizzy employs to examine the world around her, and allows for her witty stand up to seem fresh. She’s not a child, though she is somewhat babyish, and those who find the likes of South Park difficult to stomach are hereby cautioned to stay away.
Fans of The L Word will want to seek out Lizzy’s shorts that critique and celebrate the show and its characters. Even though she can’t remember all the lyrics to the show’s theme song, it’s fun hearing her take on its mainstream, Hollywood-packaged lesbian ideals. The Lizzy the Lezzy digital shorts were created by Ruth Selwyn and can currently be viewed online at SundanceChannel.com and LizzytheLezzy.com.
Bye Bi Love is a short film about a woman named Vera who receives a wedding invitation from her ex, and has a decision to make. Ticking this box is answering the most loaded question ever, and the reasons for this become clear as Vera’s story unfolds in a series of flashbacks depicting scenes with her current and former partners, all in the same apartment.
Stylistically, it’s a rondo, which is really nice to see executed on film so sophisticatedly. It’s easier and more expected in classic stage drama, but whoop, there it is in 2010, which makes a linear story more cyclical, and shakes up the viewer with suspense and familiarity at the same time. I didn’t even think suspense was possible outside of a Hitchcock thriller, but director Giovanna Chesler repurposes both of these storytelling tools in a more naturalistic narrative, and nails it.
Lots of queer people of colour are represented here, positively or incidentally (points scored for both). Attitudes to commitment, marriage, and breakups bear the brunt of the bitterness, and, although the word "bi" is in the title of the film, there are no specific jibes about or plaudits for bisexuality, and there are hints of parents approving of their children’s same-sex relationships. The apartment is as much a character as the characters are, and it reflects the style of the film itself: minimalist. Every person and prop has a reason for being there, and the film is as well crafted as the stylish setting.
It looked great, and felt pretty good too. Watching it was like mainlining gossip without the guilt: I cringed at Vera’s situation (no “plus one” on the wedding invitation you send your ex? Damn!) while she remained none the wiser. But I was distressed to realize I couldn’t comfort the characters either. They weren’t real—they were over there on the screen doing uncanny impersonations of my friends, and in some ways, me. The ending was completely and utterly satisfying.
Find it. Watch it. And look out for Giovanna Chesler’s next big thing, because it’s gonna be awesome.
“What’s the status of Le Tigre?” an eager—albeit slightly angst-ridden—fan asks Kathleen Hanna during the Q&A session after the screening of Le Tigre: On Tour. I, too, had been wondering the same question—because this band, who has proven so formative to women young and old everywhere, seems to exist only in our collective lesbo-feminist consciousness at the moment. For myself, in particular, I was introduced to Le Tigre’s music a year before they performed their final show in NYC, on 18 September 2005, so I never had the opportunity to witness their awesomeness in concert. Their existence to me, in other words, was always to me like a memory, an extant pastness that is real but not actual in that particular moment. I think their existence, for me, is kind of like how people understand Jesus or Santa Claus: he’s touched their hearts, and therefore he’s real… at least they think he’s real, but they’ve never actually seen him.
Which is why this documentary is so utterly amazing: the film, comprised of compiled concert and backstage footage from their final tour for the album This Island in 2004, and including more recent interviews with the trio—Johanna Fateman and JD Samson, in addition to Kathleen Hanna—is essential to the band’s continued existence in our collective lesbo-feminist consciousness. Seeing footage of live performances made me dance in my seat, and it brought tears to my eyes, particularly during the scene in which Hanna turns to Samson and gives her an acknowledging look—the “this is it” moment—of it being the last performance (“Deceptacon”) of their final show.
Director Kerthy Fix did a brilliant job creating this documentary in a way that proves attractive to all audiences: her attention to the trio of characters, and their feminist, queer ethics that embody the desire that each person be her “own lost hero,” as Hanna professes, speaks to everyone who wants to cultivate themselves as strong, powerful, and unique individuals. The documentary-as-archive is so crucial not only to preserving the band’s music, but also Le Tigre as a seminal part of the riot grrl movement, which has been built by the enterprising musical endeavors of the band collectively and separately, as each has her own individual pursuits.
Here we can think, of course, of Kathleen Hanna’s previous band, Bikini Kill, as the foundational component of this movement. And, as we Bikini Kill fans know so well, there is a scarcity of Bikini Kill footage out there—they existed before the explosion of the Interwebs, of the social media sites and blogs—so having this documentary is a welcomed addition to the steadily growing archive of the feminist and riot grrl movements.
Kudos to Fix for providing feminists young and old with this filmic insight into the iconic band—from Hanna’s deadpan explication of dressing room snack items (i.e., a bowl of fruit fit for the pope) to Fateman’s detailed vitamin regiment and Samson’s coming to terms with her Casanova status—and their raw lyrics and hot dance moves (“West Side Story meets Jazzercise,” to be precise).
Le Tigre: On Tour does not yet have a distributor; indeed, it’s still in the processing stages, pre-color correx and sound fix. Hopefully, by the end of the year, this film will be picked up and shown in theatres across the world for all the Le Tigre fans who, like me, long to connect with the band that filled their hearts and heads with sweetness and light.
Sometimes you stumble upon really small, obscure films that leave such an impact that you just want as many people to see it as possible. Desigirls by Ishita Srivastava is one such film. Filmed as a graduate thesis project at New York University, this twenty-minute documentary explores a refreshingly new topic—the South Asian lesbian community in New York City. I had the opportunity to watch the film and speak to the director afterward. Even though Desigirls is a student film, Srivastava approaches the topic with maturity and a sincerity that makes it a truly engaging film.
The film follows two women—Priyanka and ‘A’—as they discuss their sexual identities and their role within the South Asian queer community in New York, represented by two key institutions – the ‘Desilicious’ parties and the South Asian Lesbian and Gay Association (SALGA) meetings. Priyanka is an openly pansexual woman who embraces her sexual identity and is an active member of the community. ‘A’, on the contrary, is living a double life, afraid to come out to her parents and secretly exploring her sexual identity.
Srivastava explores the lives of the two women with sensitivity, never intruding too much on their space. While Priyanka willingly offers herself to the camera and interacts freely with it, ‘A’ turns out to be the more interesting character to follow since her anonymity allows her to be emotionally vulnerable in front of the camera. The segment where she discusses her relationship with her brother is particularly moving. Srivastava does a commendable job of letting the characters be, without forcing much upon them or from them.
At times the film becomes ambitious in its scope, trying to accomplish too much in its very short runtime. Srivastava attempts to develop the two main characters and also explore the various events centered on the community. There’s enough in there to be expanded to a longer documentary. Of the two main events, the film focuses more on the SALGA meetings even if that wasn’t the original intention. Srivastava has the ability to make the viewer feel comfortable with what’s going on in front of the camera. The presence in the SALGA support meetings doesn’t seem intrusive, and shadowing Priyanka and ‘A’s lives keep the viewer hooked.
The most fascinating elements in the film emerge from the observations and statements made by the various characters. At one point Priyanka decisively states that her friends from India are far more tolerant of her sexuality than the Indians she knows who have been raised in the U.S. Meanwhile ‘A’ exhibits certain resentment in the dichotomy of never being able to come out to her conservative parents yet witnessing her brother having much more freedom in lifestyle choices than her. Thus the film effectively presents the fractures present within this very small community. All in all, Desigirls is a low budget student film for sure, but the story it tells is very powerful nonetheless, and one that desperately needed to be told.
Review by Pulkit Datta
Click here to read Pulkit's interview with Ishita Srivastava at The NRI.
Desigirls will be screened at the Queerin’ Queens film festival at the Queens Museum of Art in New York City on June 20th.
Edited by Jerome Kugan and Pang Khee Teik Matahari Books
Body 2 Body is the product of Malaysia’s young, hip and well-connected who’ve banded together to compile a collection of short stories and essays on living la vida non-normative. Edited by local art scene stalwarts Jerome Kugan and Pang Khee Teik, Body 2 Body is a landmark of sorts, mainly as the first anthology of local LGBT writing and as tangible evidence of Malaysia emerging out of the dark ages. Unfortunately, eclipsing this Book-of-Records significance is the violently uneven standard of writing. At times reasonably good (Brian Gomez and Shahnon Shah’s) but jaw-droppingly appalling in others (Abirami Durai and Jerome Kugan’s).
To begin with, Brian Gomez’s "What do gay people eat?" is a cracking tale of parental ignorance transformed into heartwarming acceptance. Gomez brings to life his central characters, a pair of middle aged Indian parents who are about to welcome their son and his boyfriend to home-cooked food for the first time. Agonising about what gay people eat (hint: not traditional Indian food as initially presumed), the dad soon learns that yes, gay people are just like everybody else and are not transported en masse from “the West.” At many turns funny and true to life, Gomez sets a fine example of a well-executed short story, something sadly not followed by others in Body 2 Body.
Don’t let a short story fool you into thinking it’s literary child’s play. The first rule in writing one, however, is simple: a good short story should not betray it’s primary descriptor: “short” (a memo Joyce did not read when he wrote The Dead). And because it is constrained by brevity, a good short story should also effectively evoke a moment in time and not a saga stretched out in six pages.
Overall, all the entries in this anthology do not have a problem with being short and sweet. The quality of storytelling in a few contributions, however, leaves plenty to be desired. Jerome Kugan’s "Alvin" is about an on-and-off relationship between two hard-partying men and is more like a poorly edited film with arty pretensions than an engagingly-written story. The couple, Alvin and Jay, share some relationship highs like tender conversations after sex, and lows like lack of commitment, and soon drift apart without proper goodbyes as moody anti-romantics do. To end his postmodern romance, Kugan’s epilogue for Alvin and Jay reads like a kinky French-Spanish film played on fast-forward:
A year later, Alvin and Jay are a couple, sharing an apartment in Mont Kiara. After a few months of lousy sex, they decide to have an open relationship. Jay meets Gochi, 26yo hottie originally from Singapore but working in KL to be closer to his mature Japanese expat boyfriend. Jay has sex with Gochi and offers threesome [sic] with Alvin. Alvin protests at first but after threesome [sic], confesses that he has fallen in love with Gochi. Jay is devastated, think it’s his fault, goes to Frangipani to get drunk. While drunk, he meets 40yo Hansen and 28yo Maria, a bisexual couple from London. Jay has sex with Maria while Hansen watches and masturbates. Later, Hansen fucks Jay while Maria sucks his cock. Jay is moaning as he is fucked, thinking of Alvin.
Charming.
Abirami Durai’s "Have you seen my son?" shows great promise of being about trans-acceptance but is impeded by a flimsy sequence of improbable events and cliches: Alex is returning home from studying abroad and as friends and family do, they welcome the return of the prodigal son with bated breath at the airport. But it’s Anna who returns, not Alex. The shock and surprise of a transgender homecoming is severely offset by Anna’s entire family and friends not recognising her at all save for our narrator, Anna’s best friend. The two return to Anna’s home separately after her family and friends shuffle quietly back into the cardboard cut-out where they come from. There, we see Anna packing her old stuff to leave the family home for good because being literally invisible to her parents is much too unpleasant. As old friends do, the narrator and Anna reminisce about old flames until the dad suddenly walks in and asks Anna about Alex’s whereabouts. This leads to Durai’s ambiguous message on pseudo trans-accceptance; Anna’s dad is still clueless (or in denial or just visually impaired?) that she’s really his son, but compliments on how pretty she looks instead. At least he thinks she’s pretty! That’s gotta be good, right? Right?
Perhaps quirkiness verging on the surreal is a new and uniquely Malaysian writing style that I’ve yet to come to grips with. And maybe the schlock of the new will eventually herald substance and maturity. A bumpy road of a read made up of an uneven mix of good and substandard writing may one day smoothen out by work that are published not because they were the only ones lying around the editors’ desk. Body 2 Body is nonetheless a praiseworthy effort in putting non-normative genders and sexualities on the local literary map, but the schoolteacher critic in me cannot refrain from saying, “Can do better!”
Directed by Courtney Trouble Reel Queer Productions
**This video is not in the least bit suitable for work!**
Courtney Trouble, the creator of Seven Minutes in Heaven: Coming Out!, is one of the hottest new directors of queer porn. After creating No Fauxxx in March 2002—a website with 150 models, twenty videos, and a free social networking community—Trouble started making full-length queer porn videos. She has also been in a few porn films herself, which she says adds to her respect for those in front of the camera. To date, she has ten feature films available. Seven Minutes in Heaven is the first film of a three-part series of “reality porn,” unscripted amateur porn where the participants get to choose partners, sex toys, and chat about their experiences. It is set up like a wild slumber party night, with scenes being fueled by those timeless junior high games, spin the bottle and truth or dare, though these versions definitely end up in a lot less awkward and a lot sexier scenarios then making out sloppily in a closet! The truth or dare sequence leads to some brief food play and some of the hottest group sex scenes in the film. Seven Minutes in Heaven was nominated, like many of Trouble's films, for the 2010 Feminist Porn Awards. I liked the parts where participants talked about their experiences or discussed certain issues, like sucking cock and having it be your first time in a porn—though at times the conversations dragged on a little long and were a bit too reminiscent of the familiar reality television confessionals, leaving a viewer feeling like they want the action to get going already! A lot of new queer porn films, including this one, have real musicians add to the soundtrack, which I think is a cool idea in theory. Seven Minutes in Heaven included Purple Rhinestone Eagle, Jenna Riot, DJ European DJ, and Diamond Beats. However, when it comes down to it, I don't generally feel like there truly is good porn music. The way I see it, if you barely notice it, that's probably the best. This soundtrack, at times, sounded pretty riot grrrlish, though that might be a turn-on for some! The inclusion of S&M and kink was prevalent throughout, though pretty mild with some role play, flogging, gagging, fisting, and a few moments of knife play. There was definitely a lot of use of sex toys, mainly vibrators; a crop; and a good amount of dildo use for some steamy fucking and lessons on sucking. Many times there were multiple scenes going on at the same time, though you could only hear or get a glimpse of the indirect scenes, which definitely spiced things up. Though the cast wasn't super diverse, it is always refreshing when there is a variety of real-sized bodies. Also of note was the use of safer sex; gloves and condoms were utilized throughout. Since there is generally not a lot of sex education oriented towards queers, I was glad to see a film where it encourages the notion that safe sex can be both easy to do and not make sex play any less erotic. Seven Minutes in Heaven: Coming Out! has a lot to offer, and scenes get better and better as the film progresses and the participants get more comfortable with each other. Watching this film certainly made me very curious to explore Courtney Trouble's other films. If they are as appealing as this one, I would say she deserves all the credit she has coming her way. Review By Lesley Kartali
So, I sometimes forget that reading erotica and looking at BDSM queer porn in the library of an Ivy League university is not necessarily standard practice. Lucky for me, I go to Brown, where I’m concentrating in Gender and Sexuality studies, and have somehow managed to legitimize studying sex manuals with postmodern theory in order to (supposedly, so they say) get a degree next year. Along with my academic studies and personal intrigues, I am also active with various events and groups on campus explicitly related to sexuality, so am known on campus for… well, let’s just say, when I pulled out Tristan Taormino’sSometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch/Femme Erotica in the middle of the bustling Science Library lobby during the mad rush of studying for midterms, I got simply passing (mostly jealous) chuckles from friends venturing down into the depths of the stacks with unread textbooks in their arms.
This exciting collection of twenty-three stories is edited by author, director, and educator Tristan Taormino, and is a part of the Best Lesbian Erotica series, which has won three Lambda Awards. Cleis Press, who published the book, focuses on queer sexualities, putting out various sex guides, gender/queer theory texts, and works of fiction.
As the publisher notes, Sometimes She Lets Me: Best Butch/Femme Erotica is about “dispelling myths, realizing fantasies, and delivering outstanding writing with distinct contributor voices.” In the introduction, Taormino expresses the desire to “queer gender throughout the spectrum,” viewing gender as multilayered, constantly changing, and problematizing the reductionist and prescriptive discourses around butch/femme identities:
Butch/femme is bulging jeans, smeared lipstick, stiletto heels, and sharp haircuts. It’s about being read and being seen. Sometimes it’s about passing or not passing. It’s about individual identity and a collective sense of community. It’s personal, political. It’s performance and it’s not. It’s the visceral space between the flesh and the imagination.
The stories focus on the separation and convergence of the personal and the political, the body and fantasy, and address some examples of what really goes on in bed between self-identified butches and femmes. As a new reader of butch/femme lesbian erotica, I was surprised about the diversity of relationships, identities and desires, and found that while some of it was a real turn-on for me, others not so much. But that is okay. In the end, the appeal of the collection is about the confidence and attitude that exudes from the authors as they own their own identity expressions, desires, and pursuits of pleasure.
"Why shouldn't we have the chance to make our own babies, have our own children?”
That's one of the first lines spoken in The Baby Formula, a delightful award-winning Canadian mockumentary that took two honors in 2009: the Audience Award at the Toronto Inside Out Lesbian & Gay Film & Video Festival and Best LGBT Film at the Nashville Film Festival. Director and producer Alison Reid is also responsible for Succubus, the 2006 short film that served as the springboard from which the feature-length The Baby Formula was spawned (pun intended).
In the ancient world, Athena was the Greek goddess of wisdom, and Lilith was Adam's first wife, kicked out of the Garden of Eden in favor of Eve. In The Baby Formula, Athena and Lilith are a comfortably settled married couple who are about to become parents. Both are wise, defiant women, and they have decided to do things a little differently. See, these ladies are pregnant with each other's biological babies.
Shortly after the opening credits, we're taken inside the laboratory of two Canadian scientists being interviewed by a documentarian (Alison Reid). Both scientists—Dr. Oldenfield, a balding older man with a Scottish accent, and Jim, his younger awkward counterpart—claim they have made it possible to create life with artificial sperm generated from stem cells. In the wry words of Dr. Oldenfield, “People think we're making men obsolete; we're simply making them unnecessary.” “One day we'll make women unnecessary, too,” replies Jim.
It's a risky and controversial procedure, one that Athena willingly undergoes because she works for the lab and desires a family with Lilith. Athena is the first to get pregnant from artificial sperm created from Lilith's stem cells. When the two scientists are questioned about government approval for the procedure, they claim it won’t be approved for at least a decade, if at all.
While Athena is all aglow with baby on board, Lilith is jealous. She decides to also be pregnant, and gets inseminated with Athena's woman-sperm without Athena's permission. This being a comedy, we know this cannot be the only challenge for our dynamic duo. The tactless documentarian and her persistent crew contact Athena's deadbeat closet-case brother Larry, who swears that Lilith's baby is his. Larry threatens to expose the women, which could in turn expose their unique babies and cost Athena her job. The couple decide on a preemptive strike and gather both of their families together to tell them where their grandbabies were really coming from. As would be expected, that's when things get really interesting.
To say that The Baby Formula is simply a send-up of medical ethics and the lesbian baby boom would be a gross oversimplification. It gets its jabs in everywhere. For example, in one especially memorable scene, the film pokes fun at the cultural appropriation that underpins white middle class neoliberalism. Lilith and Athena are discussing possible baby names following a pregnant couples yoga class. Lilith plans to name her daughter Abigail after her grandmother, while Athena runs down a list of Japanese names. When Lilith points our that neither she nor her wife are Japanese, Athena hilariously defends herself by saying, “Hey, humanity is universal.”
In fact, The Baby Formula manages to achieve something many queer films haven't: a certain universal appeal. By introducing us to the couple's (very different) families, we are reminded of the ever-shifting dynamics every family faces when dealing with pregnancy and children. We see kids and parents learning from their mistakes, new parents quickly shifting gears from giddy to exhausted, and disparate families coming together in love during times of great sorrow. The Baby Formula even ends with a lively holiday party–which is most formulaic of happy family film endings–proving the long-standing hypothesis that no matter how they are conceived, every family borne from love is a real and valuable one.
Edited by Gregg Drinkwater, Joshua Lesser, and David Shneer New York University Press
Torah Queeries is a compilation of sixty drashot, short exegetical essays, each of which addresses one of the parshiyot, segments of the Torah that comprise the yearly cycle of the reading of the Five Books of Moses. The reason there are sixty drashot rather than the usual fifty-four is because six additional ones are included, each dealing with one of the major Jewish holidays. Each drash engages the pertinent sacred text from a particular queer perspective—whether by exploring passages traditionally assumed to prohibit homosexuality (such as Elliot Dorff’s “How Flexible Can Jewish Law Be?”), by “updating” the story so it speaks to some aspect of the modern-day quest for a more just community (such as Steve Gutow’s “Setting the Stage for Pluralistic Judaism“), or by uncovering the presence of queer gender or queer desire in the Torah itself (such as Sarra Lev‘s “Esau’s Gender Crossing”).
On one hand, the book is an attempt to queer the act of Torah interpretation itself in a variety of ways: reading against the grain, turning traditional interpretations on their heads, reading with an eye to the margins of the stories, and claiming the right (as queer people and other outcasts) to interpret Torah in the first place. On the other hand, as the editors are careful to point out, there is absolutely nothing new about approaching Torah interpretation in this way. Although this is sometimes forgotten, Torah interpretation has always been fundamentally creative, confrontational, and revolutionary.
One need only read a single page of Talmud to understand that contradiction, upheaval, and the search for a more just and inclusive Jewish society are at the sacred core of textual interpretation and generation in (at least rabbinic) Jewish tradition. Thus, Torah Queeries is both boundary-crossing and radical and squarely traditional. As its focus on, and profound respect for, the Torah suggests, the book seeks to root itself firmly in history while simultaneously contributing to the continued dynamism of a modern, evolving Judaism.
Torah Queeries is close to my heart, and I was fortunate to have had the opportunity to participate in the project in its first incarnation as a weekly queer Torah commentary blog. I’m also fortunate to be able to say that many of the authors in the anthology are my colleagues and friends. I’ve experienced firsthand the amazing community that has accrued around a shared love of Torah, as well as a shared belief in the value and dignity of queer people in all our forms.
Torah Queeries and related queer Jewish projects are creating venues for queer Jewish scholarship, creativity, and community. This is precious, powerful work.
I was around eight years old when I went to my first Pride parade with my mom and her girlfriend. I was fourteen when my mom went on national television for a campaign demanding the right to marry for lesbians and gays. And I was twenty-five when I married my long-term girlfriend within months of same-sex marriages becoming legal in my country. In many ways, the struggles for social equality and equal rights for LGBTQ people have been tied to key events in my life, and these days at Pride, as a thirty-two year old, I often feel like an old timer, like a living, breathing embodiment of history.
I know every detail of key steps in the lesbian and gay rights movement since the late 1970s because they have been a part of me. But when I say I know every detail, I mean every detail of the German lesbian and gay rights movement. When I moved to Canada a few years ago, I realized that I knew virtually nothing about how these struggles have played out in my new home.
Nancy Nicol’s film series From Criminality to Equality closed that gap in knowledge for me. On four DVDs with a total playing time of over six hours, Nicol chronicles the history of the lesbian and gay rights movement in Canada. Starting with the struggles over anti-discrimination clauses in the Human Rights Act in the 1970s and '80s, to the fight over marriage equality in the late 1990s and early 2000s, wach DVD focuses on separate issues within a certain timeframe. When watching the entire series, the interconnectedness of these issues through time becomes very apparent. Key individuals of the lesbian and gay rights movement appear again and again, and the films show a clear progression of issues from the step out of criminality to societal and legal recognition of same-sex relationships. Each film is jam-packed with information, and while some segments are a bit lengthy, the series provides an enlightening summary of the past forty years of LGBTQ history in Canada.
The most moving of the four DVDs for me was Politics of the Heart, which portrays lesbian and gay families in Quebec as they fight for equal parenting rights. Not only did it remind me of my own history growing up with two mothers, it also presented a perspective the other three films lacked. It reminded the viewer that even in times when lesbian and gay people didn’t have the same rights as heterosexuals, we found unique and often very creative ways to live our lives and live them well. Politics of the Heart shows that queer families existed in spite of not being recognized by law or the broader society. As one friend put it: “I would have liked to have seen less about the fights and more about our alternative lives. We don’t just exist in opposition to heterosexuals.”
While it is certainly important to remember and highlight that the path to equality has been a bumpy one, as someone who has lived, breathed, and been defined by the struggles for LGBTQ equal rights, the film series missed an opportunity for showcasing one of the key features of that distinguishes the lesbian and gay rights movement from many other social movements: that we love who we love, not in opposition to something, but in embracing who we are and what makes us happy.
