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The New Queens For "RuPaul's Drag Race" Season 10 Have Been Revealed And Shantay They Can All Stay

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Come on season 10, let’s get SICKENING!

So although we're in the midst of an All Stars season, you'd be lying to yourself if you said you weren't thinking ahead to season 10 of RuPaul's Drag Race.

So although we're in the midst of an All Stars season, you'd be lying to yourself if you said you weren't thinking ahead to season 10 of RuPaul's Drag Race.

After all, season 10 will air pretty much immediately after All Stars ends, and the new series will have 90 minute episodes. I'm shooketh.

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Well, now we have the information you've been craving. The new queens have been announced and, tbqh, my wig has already flown to Mars.

Well, now we have the information you've been craving. The new queens have been announced and, tbqh, my wig has already flown to Mars.

So let's get into all 14 queens...

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First up is Aquaria, who is noted to already have a "big reputation preceding her". She's a gem in the New York drag scene crown, and has already been photographed by Steve Klein for Vogue Italia.

First up is Aquaria, who is noted to already have a "big reputation preceding her". She's a gem in the New York drag scene crown, and has already been photographed by Steve Klein for Vogue Italia.

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Asia O'Hara is a big player on the pageant circuit, winning Miss Gay America on her first attempt.

Asia O'Hara is a big player on the pageant circuit, winning Miss Gay America on her first attempt.

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Blair St. Clair is tagged as a "broadway baby at heart" who "plans to sing, dance, and act her way across the finish line."

Blair St. Clair is tagged as a "broadway baby at heart" who "plans to sing, dance, and act her way across the finish line."

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According to Dusty Ray Bottoms herself, she's "dark, glamorous, and trashy". She's also well known for her signature "dotty-faced make-up", so watch out for that.

According to Dusty Ray Bottoms herself, she's "dark, glamorous, and trashy". She's also well known for her signature "dotty-faced make-up", so watch out for that.

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Season nine is shaking the house once more, with the return of Eureka O'Hara, who had to leave last time due to a knee injury from popping a split. Let's hope she doesn't try that Aja death drop anytime soon.

Season nine is shaking the house once more, with the return of Eureka O'Hara, who had to leave last time due to a knee injury from popping a split. Let's hope she doesn't try that Aja death drop anytime soon.

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There's a new Kardashian in town! Apparently known for her giggle as well as her butt, Kalorie Karbdashian-Williams will be the twerking queen.

There's a new Kardashian in town! Apparently known for her giggle as well as her butt, Kalorie Karbdashian-Williams will be the twerking queen.

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Kameron Michaels is known as the "bodybuilder barbie doll" which sounds like a pretty badass aesthetic tbh.

Kameron Michaels is known as the "bodybuilder barbie doll" which sounds like a pretty badass aesthetic tbh.

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You might not know Mayhem Miller yet, but you'll definitely know her drag family: Raven, Morgan McMichaels, Delta, and Detox. Those are some big high heels to fill!

You might not know Mayhem Miller yet, but you'll definitely know her drag family: Raven, Morgan McMichaels, Delta, and Detox. Those are some big high heels to fill!

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And it's the same with Miz Cracker, whose drag mother is none other than season eight winner, Bob the Drag Queen. Will there be two winners in the family?

And it's the same with Miz Cracker, whose drag mother is none other than season eight winner, Bob the Drag Queen. Will there be two winners in the family?

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Monét X Change has a degree in Opera Performance, so it's probable we could see her singing her way to the crown. But if that's not the case, apparently we'll see her "blur the lines of comedy, performance, and New York City grit".

Monét X Change has a degree in Opera Performance, so it's probable we could see her singing her way to the crown. But if that's not the case, apparently we'll see her "blur the lines of comedy, performance, and New York City grit".

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Monique Heart knows how to do hair, how to do makeup, and how to dance, which sounds like a triple threat the other girls should be a little wary of.

Monique Heart knows how to do hair, how to do makeup, and how to dance, which sounds like a triple threat the other girls should be a little wary of.

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There's another drag baby in the season! Vanessa Vanjie Mateo calls Alexis Mateo mother, and considering Alexis has competed twice, maybe Vanessa has the inside scoop on how to snatch those wigs, and the crown.

There's another drag baby in the season! Vanessa Vanjie Mateo calls Alexis Mateo mother, and considering Alexis has competed twice, maybe Vanessa has the inside scoop on how to snatch those wigs, and the crown.

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Bitch, she's from Chicago! The Vixen "combines elements of political art and protest" in her performances and will apparently bring "activism and fire" to the stage.

Bitch, she's from Chicago! The Vixen "combines elements of political art and protest" in her performances and will apparently bring "activism and fire" to the stage.

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And last but not least, we have Yuhua Hamasaki. Although she now lives in NYC, Yuhua originally hails from China. She's sewn dresses for Bob the Drag Queen and Peppermint, so we could be looking at the winner of any sewing challenges.

And last but not least, we have Yuhua Hamasaki. Although she now lives in NYC, Yuhua originally hails from China. She's sewn dresses for Bob the Drag Queen and Peppermint, so we could be looking at the winner of any sewing challenges.

VH1

Whew! That was a lot to take in. I think I'm gonna need to lie down until 22 March, when season 10 begins. See ya then!

Whew! That was a lot to take in. I think I'm gonna need to lie down until 22 March, when season 10 begins. See ya then!

VH1


28 Tweets And Tumblr Posts About Anal Sex That Will Have You Howling

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Australia's New Deputy Prime Minister Once Said "Sordid Homosexuality" Threatened To "Wipe Out Humanity"

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“Unfortunately gays are here and, if the disease their unnatural acts helped spread doesn’t wipe out humanity, they’re here to stay.”

Federal member for Riverina Michael McCormack was declared the new Nationals leader on Monday and will be Australia's new deputy prime minister as a result. The decision has quickly prompted outrage due to views he expressed more than 20 years ago when acting as editor for a local paper.

Federal member for Riverina Michael McCormack was declared the new Nationals leader on Monday and will be Australia's new deputy prime minister as a result. The decision has quickly prompted outrage due to views he expressed more than 20 years ago when acting as editor for a local paper.

Mick Tsikas / AAPIMAGE

"Many LGBTI Australians will be justifiably concerned about Michael McCormack being our deputy prime minister given his hateful comments against us in the past," said Just.equal's Rodney Croome in a statement.

"Many National Party voters will share our concern given the strong Yes vote in many parts of rural and regional Australia.”

"The apologies Mr McCormack made in the past are welcome but given the hatefulness of what he said, and the high office he has stepped in to, he needs to walk the talk.”

“He needs to get behind initiatives that will reduce the unacceptably high levels of LGBTI isolation, prejudice, and suicide that still exist in some parts of rural Australia.”

27 Coming Out Couple Glow-Ups That'll Give You All The Feels

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“I went from unhappy and hurting to being blissful with the love of my life.”

gabbiehurrellwills

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"Left: picture with a girl I liked during freshman year in college. Right: picture with the guy I'm going to marry." —giancarloangelor

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"I'll leave the guys to the guys and keep my girl." —Jhaneice Johnson, Facebook

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"My junior high 'boyfriend' and I were two awkward little ducklings who glowed TF up. Seventeen years later, I’ve got a wife, he’s got a partner, and we’re all better for it!" —becku

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"I dated guys for my entire 26 years of existence. I thought mediocre happiness was my reality — until I met this one girl, about seven months ago, who completely swept me off of my feet, and my world will never be the same! ❤️" —jennifert46d2833b6

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"It's hard to tell which smile screams, “I’m gay,” I know." —alisonwisneski

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"From high school to college, thank goodness for the glow-up!" —jennyj43c4fe0e4

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"The only guy I ever dated (who ended up being my best friend for many years) and an insecure and closeted version of myself vs. my hopefully-forever girlfriend and a self-confident me." —giorgiag2

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"2008 to 2017." —magsaloo

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"From 16 to 21, my last boyfriend and my now fiancée." —magsaloo

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"The left image is me in 2009 attending high school prom with my then-boyfriend. The right is me in 2015 attending my wedding with my wife. I'd say the glow-up is pretty real and very strong since I went from small fem to big butch." —britneyw47152e52c

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"Me circa 2015 vs. me this past fall. I went from unhappy and hurting to being blissful with the love of my life." —sarah479485b44

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"Back in high school, I totally tried to date boys...but here we are today! This is a photo of me proposing to my fiancée!" ❤️ —annes4504b801b

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—Jon-Michael Poff, BuzzFeed

"Left: my senior prom, in 2014, with my best friend from high school, pre-coming out. I'm smiling but was miserable in that dress and makeup. Right: my girlfriend's semi-formal, in 2017, post-coming out. We've been dating for almost 10 months, and it's the happiest I've ever been!" —ebank14

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dezc2

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"High school freshman me vs. college freshman me. I decided to be just friends with this guy — and fell madly in love with this girl! She taught me that it is more than okay to own my sexuality, and she held my hand through my journey of self-acceptance. We are in our second year of dating and couldn’t be happier!" —sophiekibi

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"I couldn’t figure out why I was so bad at having boyfriends. Turns out I was looking in all the wrong places." —laurenc42f6bf37f

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"On the left was my first high school boyfriend, circa 2008, and on the right is my amazing girlfriend. 😊 I'm ridiculously in love with her!" —emilycmorgan

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"2011 to 2018. Thriving." —annieo4fea491aa

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"I deleted most of the pics of my ex-boyfriends, but this sums up my relationships with them: awkward where neither of us are super happy. And then there’s me and my girlfriend of nearly two years, so much in love and always ecstatic to be together!" —victoriaz4a8b03a00

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"It gets better, and gayer." —mollyrb

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"He was nice and all, but my girlfriend is beyond words." —morganc20

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"My high school boyfriend and I on the left, and my wife and I announcing our pregnancy on the right!" —anikkam2

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"16 to 21. I'm currently engaged to my beautiful fiancée and can’t wait to call her my wife. ❤️" —magsaloo

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"High school ➡️ college. I’m finally myself, and I’ve never been happier." —whitneyr47620d2fa

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"Freshman in high school (2009) vs. senior in college (2017). My fiancée has been the love of my life for six wonderful years, and coming out was the best decision I ever made! ❤️" —clarak49794a419

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Submissions have been edited for length and/or clarity.

A Federal Court Just Ruled For Gay Rights In A Major Discrimination Case

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Afp Contributor / AFP / Getty Images

A federal appeals court on Monday ruled that a 1964 civil rights law bans anti-gay workplace discrimination. The decision rebukes the Trump administration — which had argued against a gay worker in the case — and hands progressives a win in their strategy to protect LGBT employees with a drumbeat of lawsuits.

The dispute hinges on whether Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, which bans discrimination on the basis of sex, also bans workplace discrimination due to sexual orientation.

The Court of Appeals for the 2nd Circuit ruled Monday, “We now hold that sexual orientation discrimination constitutes a form of discrimination ‘because of . . . sex,’ in violation of Title VII.” In doing so, the court overruled a lower court — and a precedent from two previous court cases — and remanded the case to be litigated in light of their reading of Title VII.

The decision holds national implications due to its high tier in the judicial system, and because it’s seen as a litmus test of the Trump administration’s ability — or inability — to curb LGBT rights through court activism. The Justice Department had injected itself into the case even though it wasn’t a party to the lawsuit and doesn’t normally involve itself in private employment disputes.

The case was heard in New York City by all 13 judges in the 2nd Circuit, known as an en banc hearing, which leaves the Supreme Court as the only avenue for a potential appeal.

The ruling comes soon after another major gay-rights ruling in 2017, thereby giving momentum to the argument that anti-gay discrimination is prohibited even without a federal law that explicitly says so.

"Sexual orientation is a function of sex and, by extension, sexual orientation discrimination is a subset of sex discrimination," the majority wrote.

In reaching its decision Monday, the court pointed out that anti-gay discrimination would not exist "but for" a person's sex. That is to say, gays, lesbians, and bisexuals would not experience this type of unequal treatment had been born a different gender, or were attracted to a different sex.

"A woman who is subject to an adverse employment action because she is attracted to women would have been treated differently if she had been a man who was attracted to women," the majority wrote in an opinion led by Judge Robert Katzman. "We can therefore conclude that sexual orientation is a function of sex and, by extension, sexual orientation discrimination is a subset of sex discrimination."

Although no federal law directly bans anti-LGBT discrimination in workplaces, in 2010, Donald Zarda sued his employer, Altitude Express, Inc., alleging the company terminated him for his sexual orientation in violation of Title VII.

Zarda’s lawyers deployed an emerging legal argument that contends Title VII applies to gay workers.

That position has been adopted by the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, a largely autonomous federal agency that handles civil rights disputes in the workplace and supported Zarda in court.

An EEOC lawyer told the judges at a September hearing in Manhattan, “Sex stereotyping says that if you are a man attracted to a man, or a woman attracted to a woman, you’re not behaving the way those genders are supposed to behave.”

But the Justice Department took opposite stance, thereby pitting the federal government against itself.

“There is a common-sense difference between sex discrimination and sexual orientation discrimination,” a Justice Department attorney told the court in September, arguing that Congress could have clarified the law but didn’t.

The discord between agencies stems from the Trump administration turning away from the Obama administration’s LGBT-friendly trajectory, thereby letting lawyers under US Attorney General Jeff Sessions clash with more autonomous corners of the federal bureaucracy.

Under Sessions, the Justice Department has tried to roll-back several LGBT gains, rescinding Obama-era policy that protects transgender students and reversing a policy that said Title VII protects transgender workers. Sessions also filed a brief at the Supreme Court in favor of a Christian baker who refused a wedding cake to a gay couple, and in Zarda’s case, argued Title VII also doesn’t encompass sexual orientation.

A dissenting judge countered that Congress "did not then prohibit, and alas has not since prohibited, discrimination based on sexual orientation."

The Obama administration had tried to skirt the issue of whether Title VII covered gay workers. In 2012, the administration sought to dismiss a sexual orientation lawsuit based on Title VII by saying a plaintiff failed to prove the facts to support the sex-stereotyping claim. In 2016, the Obama administration arguably dialed back its position when it didn’t even try to dismiss a similar lawsuit.

On Monday, the 2nd Circuit found "sexual orientation is doubly delineated by sex because it is a function of both a person’s sex and the sex of those to whom he or she is attracted. Logically, because sexual orientation is a function of sex and sex is a protected characteristic under Title VII, it follows that sexual orientation is also protected."

But in a 74-page dissent, Judge Gerard Lynch wrote argued that Congress had not intended to outlaw anti-gay discrimination when it approved Title VII's language in 1964. And in contrast to dozens of states that have explicitly passed laws banning anti-LGBT workplace discrimination, he argued Congress "has not done so yet."

Lynch writes that Title VII "was intended to secure the rights of women to equal protection in employment" and that Congress "did not then prohibit, and alas has not since prohibited, discrimination based on sexual orientation."

However, Judge Raymond Lohier rebutted that thinking in a concurring opinion, saying that Judge Lynch was misguided to speculate on Congress's intent.

"Time and time again," Lohier writes, "the Supreme Court has told us that the cart of legislative history is pulled by the plain text, not the other way around. The text here pulls in one direction, namely, that sex includes sexual orientation."

Courts seem a ways off from resolving Title VII’s scope on LGBT issues. In April 2017, the 7th Circuit Court of Appeals ruled in favor of a lesbian who made the same claim that she was protected by Title VII. But in December, the the Supreme Court declined to hear a challenge from 11th Circuit, which said Title VII does not cover gay workers.

As A Black Woman, I'm Tired Of Having To Prove My Womanhood

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Loveis Wise for BuzzFeed News

“Male or female?” the stranger asked me.

I was 21, standing in a brightly lit 7-11. All I wanted to do was buy my siblings Slurpees.

I was so surprised by the casual way this person had decided to interrogate my gender that I accidentally blurted out, “Male!” and then, realizing my mistake, “No, no — I mean female!” My face burned as I carried the ice-cold drinks to the counter.

The stranger grinned at me, as if we were sharing something intimate. “Duuuude,” he said, putting on his Ray-Bans, “You said male first.”

I got back into my car in silence. My sister repeatedly asked me what was wrong. So I told her, adding a laugh to assure her that I was okay. But seconds later, as I reversed out of the parking lot, I crashed into the passenger side door of a crème-colored sedan. Everyone involved in the accident was unhurt, but both cars became crumpled metal at the point of impact.

For over a decade, I’ve had experiences likes these: public instances where I have been mistaken for a man. And while each incident hasn’t resulted in a car crash (my car insurance rates are doing fine), I’m always left disoriented, wondering which fragment of my identity was responsible for the misdirected sir, the muffled joke. On some days, I decide it’s the automatic way most people associate tallness with maleness. Other times, I wonder whether it’s my deep voice, an androgynous outfit, or a short haircut that provoked the reaction.

But I’ve also been well aware that my race and gender play a huge part in these misconceptions. I have lived long enough in the world to notice that black women are rarely allowed full access to their femininity.

It was no accident that a random white dude in a 7-11 thought it was perfectly okay to ask me if I was a woman.

The former slave and abolitionist Sojourner Truth (1797–1883), originally Isabella Van Wagener.

Mpi / Getty Images

Sojourner Truth might have never actually asked the famous question attributed to her. A former slave, she is best known for her fiery speech at an Ohio Women’s Rights Convention in 1851. According to a transcription of the speech by women’s rights activist Frances Dana Gage, published in the New York Independent in 1863, Truth repeatedly asks rhetorically: Ain’t I a Woman? But there’s also a different existing transcription of the speech written by Truth’s friend and reporter Marcus Robinson, in which Truth never asks the question at all. While many historians think this other version is more likely to be accurate, it is less widely known. The Ain’t I a Woman? iteration, instead, is what many students will read if they take a Black Feminist Thought 101 elective.

Assumptions that black women are nonfeminine have been firmly embedded throughout US history. “If black women in America are stereotyped as unshakable, our research shows that there is another closely linked myth that persists: that Black women are less feminine than other women and, in fact, even emasculating,” write journalist Charisee Jones and academic Kumea Shorter-Gooden in Shifting: The Double Lives of Black Women in America. “The myth sprang to life in the characters of Mammy and Sapphire, then evolved into the archetype of the coarse, sassy Black girl, a ubiquitous image in popular culture … such images take an immeasurable toll on the psyche of Black women, who in their desire to be seen as ladylike, to challenge the notion that they are less feminine, may affect a way of talking or behaving that does not reflect who they are.”

Serena Williams of Team USA in Asheville, North Carolina.

Richard Shiro / Getty Images

Black women are constantly perceived as having attributes often assigned to masculinity; we are read as “strong,” “indestructible,” “invulnerable to pain.” A 2014 OkCupid study of the dating habits of its users revealed that 82% of nonblack men had a bias against black women. Serena Williams has been likened to a man, alongside her older sister Venus; her impressive, beautiful body scrutinized for most of her career. Leslie Jones was subjected to outrageous racist and sexist trolling before the Ghostbusters movie premiere. A West Virginia official considers it perfectly fine to call Michelle Obama an “ape in heels.” A 5-foot-3-inch black woman scares a tall white man so much he shoots her in the face.

My existence in my tall, dark-skinned black woman body means that I’ve constantly had to confront gendered assumptions assigned to black women en masse, and to face the ways I’ve internalized many of these painful ideas. While today I can say that I inhabit my femininity in a way that’s significantly less dependent on external validation, the path to this inner conviction was far from simple. I spent too much of my time grappling with the question Ain’t I a Woman? — not because I was unsure, but because the world so often seemed to be.

I’ll never forget the first time I was misgendered. I was at the New Mexico State Fair as a recruit-in-training at a private military college in Roswell, New Mexico. It was our first “liberty” — for a full day, all cadets could be off campus grounds. Even though we were still required to wear our uniforms, it was going to be a fun day.

I spent too much of my time grappling with the question Ain’t I a Woman? — not because I was unsure, but because the world so often seemed to be.

I was hanging out with my pretty friend Lauren, who’s light skinned and short, and about half of the men’s basketball team were tailing us, all eager to get her number. We made our way to the Test Your Strength game, and the guys hung back, flirting with my friend as I walked ahead.

“Step right up, my good sir!” the game attendant bellowed at me in what can only be described as a circus voice.

I was mortified, and hoped that the guys did not hear, but the light cackling behind me dashed those hopes. The attendant, flustered, offered up five hundred apologies and a free swing with the hammer. I hit the large black button half-heartedly, and even though I get nowhere near “Mega Strength,” the attendant awarded me first prize — a four-foot stuffed Clifford dog.

“It’s the uniform,” he said, as I walked away, the red dog slung underneath my arm.

Maybe this time I was misgendered because of my boxy, straight-cut Army uniform. But, even before that experience, I have always felt like my femininity was never assumed.

If all girls were supposed targets for the evils of the world, then why was I never assumed to need the same kind of post–school dance chaperoning as my white friends in junior high? Why was I instructed to “toughen up” and affixed with the label of “strong” before I even entered grade school? As a kid, I just didn’t get it. Not completely, anyway.

Women don’t have to be dark-skinned Amazonians like myself to be forced to endure gender policing. In Hunger, Roxane Gay’s latest memoir, the author details the numerous times strangers failed to see her as a woman solely due to her weight. And it is butch-presenting women or trans women of color who will be most subjected to violence and even death because of their assumed gender.

American feminist, abolitionist, and social reformer Frances Dana Barker Gage (1808–1884), circa 1840.

Kean Collection / Getty Images

Having one’s femininity questioned and then disregarded is an experience Sojourner Truth knew all too well. According to Princeton historian Nell Irvin Painter, author of Sojourner Truth: A Life, A Symbol, Sojourner nee Isabella was born in the late 1790s in upstate New York to James and Elizabeth Baumfree, who were slaves under Johannes Hardenbergh. Her life was never far from the blatant cruelties of American slavery: constant sexual abuse, poor living conditions, abrupt and devastating familial separation. Isabella gained her freedom in 1826 and renamed herself Sojourner Truth in 1843.

“We think of Truth as a natural, uncomplicated presence in our national life. Rather than a person in history, she works as a symbol. To appreciate the meaning of the symbol — Strong Black Woman — we need know almost nothing of the person,” writes Painter. “As an abolitionist and a feminist, she put her body and mind to a unique task, that of physically representing women who had been enslaved. At a time when most Americans thought of slaves as male and women as white, Truth embodied a fact that still bears repeating: Among the black are women; among the women, there are blacks.”

"At a time when most Americans thought of slaves as male and women as white, Truth embodied a fact that still bears repeating: Among the black are women; among the women, there are blacks.”

Most writings during Truth’s time are breathless in their physical descriptions of her. To Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, she was the “Libyan Sibyl,” a reference to a North African prophetess painted on the Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo. In her preface to the Ain’t I a Woman speech, Frances Dana Gage wrote that Truth was a “weird, wonderful creature” with “an almost Amazon form, which stood nearly six feet high, head erect, and eyes piercing the upper air like one in a dream.” Gage’s description also has Truth baring her arm up to her shoulder to the audience. This is the image of Truth most American children will witness during their abbreviated Black History Month lessons, a tall, dark-skinned black woman showing off her muscles like a Venice Beach weightlifter, her body a testament to the way she subverts traditional notions of femininity.

When I played college basketball, there was always a chance that at an away game, a loud-mouthed frat boy might ask the referee if I was really female, audibly hypothesizing whether I was taking steroids. I knew such remarks were trash talking at their most base, and often pretended not to hear them, but the truth was something more complicated. I was hurt, but I was also confused: I played alongside white women just as tall and strong as I was. Why weren’t these bros directing their femininity policing and insults toward them? What was it about my body that attracted such scorn and doubt?

“Society remains uneasy with female strength of any stripe and still prefers and champions delicate damsels — an outdated sentiment that limits all women,” black feminist writer Tamara Winfrey-Harris writes in The Sisters Are Alright: Changing the Broken Narrative of Black Women in America. “But because the damsel’s face is still viewed as unequivocally white and female, it is a particular problem for black women. As long as vulnerability and softness are the basis for acceptable femininity (and acceptable femininity is a requirement for a woman’s life to have value), women who are perpetually framed because of their race as supernaturally indestructible will not be viewed with regard.”

Even with boundary-pushing artists like Grace Jones — utterly flamboyant in her gender-bending outfit choices — to look up to, I have still been anxious about walking the tightrope of femininity. When I was younger, I wanted a Nia Long pixie cut but was nervous about the possible increase of sirs. I was nervous about being seen in my basketball warm-ups for too long. Shit, for a while, I was even embarrassed about the fact that my initials are HE. I wish I wasn’t so uneasy about my gender presentation back then — in addition to being a source of significant anxiety, there were a lot of thrift store tuxedos I missed out on.

Grace Jones performs at Common People Festival at Southampton Common.

Harry Herd / Redferns / Getty Images

I’m supposed to go to frustrating lengths to “prove” I’m feminine and offset my blackness (keep my hair long, my voice soft, my clothes appropriately girly), while women who are white or lighter in appearance are given more latitude for experimentation. Diane Keaton and Cara Delevinge “play” with tomboy styles. When a white movie star cuts her hair to pixie length or shorter, she’s gamine or elegant. To be sure, black women can and do don these sort of androgynous looks and hairstyles, but they are often read differently on our bodies: Elegant transforms into militant, boyish into manly.

Blackness, especially when attached to a black woman’s body, is overwhelmingly gendered masculine. “When antebellum middle-class white women were ‘angels of the house’— beautiful, pious, chaste, and delicate — black women were thought to be the beasts in the fields, who did not need their bodies, sensibilities, and virtue protected. While the 19th-century slavery-based American economy depended on this distinction, the bestial view remained long after black bondage passed away,” writes Winfrey-Harris. The tenets of white femininity fail to stand on their own unless we are constantly reminded of their shadow: the strong, masculine black woman.

Gage’s strident, rabble-rousing account of Truth’s Ain’t I a Woman speech is very different than the retelling from Robinson, who wrote about the same speech in 1851, only weeks after the convention took place.

Serving as secretary of the convention, Robinson writes that Truth asked permission to speak — very unlike the aggressive takeover that Gage portrayed. The real Sojourner Truth “took pride in speaking correct English and objected to accounts of her speeches in heavy southern dialect,” Painter writes. In fact, Truth’s first language, under the Hardenbergh family, was Dutch, and she most likely would not have learned English until she was sold to the English-speaking Neely family at 9 years of age.

The tenets of white femininity fail to stand on their own unless we are constantly reminded of their shadow: the strong, masculine black woman.

The most most notable absence in Robinson’s account of Truth’s speech is the “Ain’t I a Woman?” refrain. Painter notes that, while Robinson may have missed the question once, it is highly unlikely he missed it four times (the number of times it is repeated in the Gage version): “Gage’s rendition of Truth far exceeds in drama Marcus Robinson’s straightforward report from 1851. Through framing and elaboration, she turns Truth’s comments into a spectacular performance four times longer than his.” Gage wanted to write something dramatic — she didn’t necessarily want to report the truth.

It was not Truth who needed to ask the mainly white audience whether she was considered a woman — it was Gage. Writing in competition with Harriet Beecher Stowe and to further her own cause as an advocate of women’s rights, she boldly created the caricature of the Sojourner Truth we most know today. Unable to attach a concept of strength to the white women she was primarily fighting for, Gage relied heavily on Truth’s “strong” black body to do the work of convincing her readers that women were not so delicate that they could not entertain the rights and privileges of men. She needed the symbol of Sojourner Truth to win this battle; an honest account that took Truth’s complicated humanity into account would just not do.

How Three Big Superhero Movies Killed Off Maybe-Queer Characters

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Florence Kasumba (left) and Danai Gurira in Black Panther, 2018.

Walt Disney Co./ Everett Collection

There’s a scene toward the end of Ryan Coogler’s record-smashing hit Black Panther in which Killmonger (Michael B. Jordan) cuts a woman’s throat. The woman is a member of the Dora Milaje, an all-female special forces unit tasked with protecting the African utopia of Wakanda and its royal family. In a moment that’s blink-and-you’ll-miss-it quick, Killmonger uses the woman’s body as a shield, while the other Dora Milaje surround them. The woman only has time to say “Wakanda forever” before he kills her and her body hits the ground.

It’s rare to see Okoye (Danai Gurira) — the general of the Dora Milaje and Wakanda’s fiercest warrior — falter in battle, but for just a second, her face crumples in anguish. Then her despair quickly transforms into rage, and she lunges at Killmonger with renewed ferociousness, brandishing her spear.

Though Okoye is romantically involved with W'Kabi (Daniel Kaluuya), and the strength of their relationship saves Wakanda from a bloody civil war, there’s still something about the way Okoye mourns the death of the woman that suggests she might have meant more to her than just a fellow fighter or friend.

Gurira in Black Panther.

Walt Disney / Everett Collection

Or maybe I’m just reading way too much into this scene just because it reminded me so strongly of other moments from two other major superhero blockbusters over the past year. In Taika Waititi’s Thor: Ragnarok from last fall, a flashback of a battle between Tessa Thompson’s Valkyrie and the movie’s villain Hela (Cate Blanchett) ends with Valkyrie reaching desperately for one of her fellow female Asgardian warriors, who’s just been killed; there’s a look of agony on Valkyrie’s face. And in last summer’s Wonder Woman, directed by Patty Jenkins, when Robin Wright’s Antiope dies early in the movie’s first act — killed by a bullet shot by German soldiers who’ve invaded the mythical all-women island of Themyscira — her right-hand woman, Menalippe (Lisa Loven Kongsli) screams and runs to her side, crying into the sand.

All three movies have been not only celebrated contributions to the renaissance of the superhero film, but also praised for featuring more women and people of color both in front of and behind the cameras than many of their predecessors. They also all invoke the mythology of exclusively women warrior tribes — tribes that, according to the comics from which the movies were adapted, featured a number of queer characters. But you probably wouldn’t know that based on the movies alone — not unless you know where to look. Strong warriors mourning the deaths of their fellow female soldiers, who sure seem like they might have been more than friends, is the kind of subtle queer coding that LGBT viewers have come to expect (a lot of the lesbian and bisexual characters in film and TV these days wind up dead).

Getting queer characters into a movie isn’t as simple a matter as casting. As the critic Mark Harris wrote for Film Comment in an essay about stalled LGBT representation in today’s American cinema, a character isn’t queer unless “a writer figures out a way to make it known.” Mourning a lover can be one of those ways, subtle enough not to rankle the international markets, but significant enough that queer viewers might take the bait. The ever-popular dead-lover trope, whether intentional or not, is one of the laziest sorts of queerbaiting, and beyond its obvious offensiveness — why are so many lesbian or bisexual characters still relatively anonymous, killed, or both in 2018? — at this point it’s mostly just plain boring. Even the more pleasant little maybe-queer moments we’re starting to see in some blockbusters lately (a touch or a glance, a flirty line) amount to pretty lame attempts at LGBT inclusion, which Hollywood is getting outsize credit for. When will we stop seeing the same tired tropes recycled over and over again?

Gal Gadot as Wonder Woman in 2017.

Clay Enos / Warner Bros. / Everett Collection

The assumption that all the Amazons in antiquity were lesbians is mostly a modern invention, but Wonder Woman’s origin story still has super queer roots. William Marston, the creator of the Wonder Woman comics, based Amazons and their Paradise Island not only on those from Greek mythology, but also on the two women with whom he shared his life: his wife, Elizabeth Marston, and their romantic partner Olive Byrne. Olive and Elizabeth raised their children together and remained partnered after William’s death. In 2016, DC Comics writer Greg Rucka confirmed that Wonder Woman herself is also bisexual, as fans of the comics had long suspected (the girl grew up on an island of all women — I mean, come on).

In October, Variety asked Wonder Woman star Gal Gadot about Rucka’s comments, and whether or not Wonder Woman is bisexual in the film. “It’s not something we’ve explored,” she said. “It never came to the table, but when you talk theoretically about all the women on Themyscira and how many years she was there, then what he said makes sense. In this movie she does not experience any bisexual relationships. But it’s not about that. She’s a woman who loves people for who they are. She can be bisexual. She loves people for their hearts.”

Gadot

Warner Bros / ©Warner Bros/Courtesy Everett Collection

Gadot’s Diana makes one joke about “the pleasures of the flesh” during a conversation with Steve that leads one to believe she might have had experiences with women — “men are essential for procreation but when it comes to pleasure, unnecessary” — though she just as easily could be talking about, y’know, masturbation. It’s likelier that, as Gadot says, Diana’s bisexuality “never came to the table.”

But the first installment of her new franchise could have been so much queerer — that is, queerer in terms of gender and power; queerer as in, less invested in heteropatriarchy and the havoc it wreaks — without having to make Diana herself explicitly queer at all. If only the spirit of Themyscira wasn’t extinguished the moment Diana left her home island’s shores. She never seems to reflect back on her childhood, or mine her memories for the things her aunts taught her. (Both Antiope and Menalippe are Diana’s aunts, and, at least according to Greek mythology, sisters, but...whatever.) Antiope’s death might have seemed less cheap if we at least got the sense from Diana that her life mattered.

But at the very least, all the queer Wonder Woman subtext was made textual in a SNL skit last October, with Kate McKinnon playing a lesbian human who’s just washed ashore on Themyscira and is surprised to learn none of the Amazons identify as lesbians. “The whole thing seems so super gay!” she says, baffled. Diana, in full Wonder Woman gear, gives her a kiss out of pity, though afterwards she says, “I feel nothing.” If Wonder Woman doesn’t feel even a little bit queer while making out with Kate McKinnon, perhaps there’s no hope for her after all.

Gadot kisses Kate McKinnon on an episode of Saturday Night Live.

NBC

In Thor: Ragnarok, we get a better sense of how fighting with an all-women army, and watching that army fall, has influenced Thompson’s Valkyrie. Thor (Chris Hemsworth) crash-lands on a planet overflowing with garbage where Valkyrie’s been hiding out and working as a bounty hunter, drinking away her memories of life on Asgard. She captures Thor and sells him to the Grandmaster (Jeff Goldblum), and it’s only later when Thor forces her to remember how Hela ruined her life that she agrees to help him battle her. After all, Hela killed the woman she loved.

That’s how Thompson played the character, anyway, according to an October Rolling Stone profile: "There's a great shot of me falling back from one of my sisters who's just been slain,” she says. “In my mind, that was my lover."

Valkyrie is bisexual in the Marvel comics upon which the Thor movies are based — openly so, and in a relationship with the anthropologist Annabelle Riggs. Thompson tried to convince director Taika Waititi that her character should be explicitly bi in the movie, and according to Rolling Stone, he agreed to shoot a glimpse of a woman walking out of Valkyrie’s bedroom, though eventually it had to get cut for time. Thompson wrote on Twitter earlier in October that when she played Valkyrie she was “faithful” to the original character’s bisexuality “in her depiction” even though “her sexuality isn’t explicitly addressed.”

Tessa Thompson as Valkyrie in Thor: Ragnarok, 2017.

Marvel / Everett Collection

We don’t end up missing much; a woman walking out of a room is barely more confirmation of Valkyrie's bisexuality than the existing scene where she watches her lover die. Thor: Ragnarok’s queerest vibes instead come from other characters: Blanchett’s Hela is a delightfully evil drag queen villain in the vein of the Ursulas and Maleficents who came before her, while Goldblum’s Grandmaster is another flamboyant bad guy in eyeliner you can’t help but (kind of) root for. A queer king of a garbage island making a pretty blonde boy do his bidding? You’ve gotta admit it’s fun, even though, yeah, #problematic.

It’s a bummer that there’s a good amount of (evil) queer joy in Thor: Ragnarok, but the one heroic character who’s supposed to be canonically queer gets stuck only with queer loss and pain. But better to be queerly devastated than queerly dead, I suppose.

Gurira, Lupita Nyong'o, and Kasumba in Black Panther, 2018.

Everett Collection

For all of the boundaries Black Panther’s broken down, from its refusal to plod along the usual, ideologically vacuous good versus evil plotlines, to its Afrofuturistic costuming and set designs, to its history-making, record-breaking success, its reception has still been tinged, in certain circles, by a bit of disappointment.

In a spinoff of Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Black Panther, Roxane Gay and Yona Harvey’s Black Panther: World of Wakanda, a love story unfolds between two members of the Dora Milaje, Ayo and Aneka. One of those women, Ayo, is portrayed in Coogler’s Black Panther by Florence Kasumba, but she doesn’t have any romantic relationships in the movie. Last April, Vanity Fair reported that an earlier cut of the film featured a scene in which Danai Gurira’s Okoye and Ayo make eyes at each other. “You look good,” Okoye says, and Ayo responds in kind. “I know,” Okoye says, grinning.

After the story was published, a Marvel representative reached out to Vanity Fair to say that “the nature of the relationship between Danai Gurira’s Okoye and Florence Kasumba‘s Ayo in Black Panther is not a romantic one and that specific love storyline from the comic World of Wakanda was not used as a source.”

But rumors about that scene surfaced again earlier this month, when E. Oliver Whitney at Screencrush asked screenwriter Joe Robert Cole about the deleted scene, and whether it was supposed to imply a queer romance between Okoye and Ayo. “I think the short answer is yes,” he said, pointing out that the filmmakers had played around with a few different storylines and character arcs, though he doesn’t remember that deleted scene in particular.

In mid-February, Gay told the Advocate that the deletion of that scene was disappointing. “Even when great progress is made, some marginalized groups are told to wait, are told, not yet, are told, let's do this first and then we will get to you," she said. "And we are also told we're asking too much, that we should be grateful for what progress is being made. But I don't buy into that. It would have been incredible and so gratifying to see a queer black woman in what will likely be the biggest movie of the year. Alas, not yet."

Even if that scene between Okoye and Ayo had been included in the final cut of the movie, it wouldn’t have been much more an explicit queer romance than a shot of a woman leaving Valkyrie's room in Thor: Ragnarok, or Okoye mourning a fellow soldier’s death. Do we even need these tiny little moments of queer confirmation, when they might not even be noticeable to anyone in the audience who isn’t trained to look out for signals that possibly, perhaps, just maybe something queer could be going on here? They’re crumbs when LGBT audiences deserve a feast.

Marvel

Black Panther missed an opportunity to include the stories of explicitly queer black women at a time when queer characters of color are still grossly underrepresented in mainstream media. But that doesn’t mean the movie fails to leave any room for queerness. Les Fabian Brathwaite, writing for Out magazine, argues that even without the deleted scene, Black Panther still feels “inclusive and representative of queer identity.” For one thing, the Dora Milaje channel both masculinity and femininity with their bald heads and bold lips. At one point, Okoye “literally snatches her own wig during one of the film’s most thrilling battles.” She throws her wig in some white guy’s face! The scene functions as both a fuck-you to white, Western beauty standards and an incredible addition to the queer canon of wig-snatching — the GIF is already iconic.

Plus, Brathwaite writes, Black Panther “imagines an African nation that was never conquered, never colonized, and is therefore free from the scars of that defilement.” We can therefore assume that Wakanda would function similarly to precolonial African societies, in which “ideas about gender and sexuality were shaped by tradition but ran contrary to what Christian colonists believed acceptable or natural.” Many of the anti-gay laws in African countries today can be traced back to the imports of imperialism; we can guess that Wakanda, left to develop its own value systems, would be a place where queer people are not only tolerated, but celebrated.

Still, it’s one thing to imagine a world’s possibilities and another to see those possibilities come to fruition. Speaking to Vulture, Florence Kasumba said earlier this month that she’d “love to” see her character Ayo’s sexuality explored in the future of the MCU “at some point. Not now, because it’s too soon. At this point, the focus is somewhere else.”

“Some point” might not be too far away. They're not on the big screen, but the queer plotlines on the CWs' Supergirl and, more recently, Black Lightning have excited LGBT superhero fans; in the latter, Nafessa Williams plays Anissa Pierce, who fights crime as Thunder, a groundbreaking black lesbian superhero. And Thompson just told Cinemablend that in Marvel’s upcoming fourth phase, “Women reign supreme.” Maybe someday soon queer characters will too. ●

I Fell In Love With The First Girl I Dated After Coming Out

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Sarah Maxwell for BuzzFeed News

Two or three times before I officially came out even to myself, I switched my Tinder over to show me women. At first I set it up to show me both men and women, but I soon realized that this was more or less the same as having it show me only men, because there are way, way more straight men on Tinder than queer women. I would have to swipe through, like, fifty guys to see even one girl. And because the whole reason I’d made the switch in the first place was that I was still trying to evaluate whether I was actually interested in women or merely wished that I was, it was women I wanted to focus on. So I made my Tinder gay. That first time, I didn’t really want to match with anyone—I just wanted to see the girls that were on there, and to see how it felt to be there as someone looking for women. It was an experiment. I swiped left on women for ten or fifteen minutes, relieved not to feel anything more toward them than I did the men I passed over the same way.

But then a profile came up which made me pause. It belonged to a girl around my age, wearing a leather jacket and a beanie over shoulder-length brown hair. She was pretty, slightly tomboyish but femme-ier than any girl I’d been attracted to in the past, so much so that I was not sure whether I was attracted to her or wanted to look like her. My thumb started to hurt, and I realized it remained against the screen, suspending her in Tinder purgatory. And that’s where she stayed for two days. Instead of choosing one way or the other, I simply closed out of Tinder altogether. Because even though I wasn’t sure exactly what I thought of her, I didn’t want to reject her. Her bio was brief, but funny, and her pictures made her seem interesting and fun. She did not fit the extremely narrow idea I had then about what a queer girl looks like—which is to say, more boyish, or more androgynous—and that, more than anything, made it hard to look away.

Eventually, after I wore myself out trying to decide why exactly I was fixated on this girl and what that meant, I swiped right on her, and we matched. I was both flattered and panicked; I’d been so singularly focused on how I should proceed that it had not really occurred to me to wonder what she would do, or had already done. I did not have very long to wonder what would happen next; my phone vibrated with a new message while it was still in my hand.

It said: “Are you the same Katie whose articles I’ve read online?”

If she’d read things I’d written, she was probably wondering what I was doing looking for girls on a dating app.

Well, fuck, I thought. She recognized me. And if she’d read things I’d written, she was probably wondering what I was doing looking for girls on a dating app. She had probably taken a screenshot of my profile and maybe even texted it to one or more of her friends. I am not proud to admit this is where my brain went, but I began to envision a scenario in which my sexuality (and by extension, my character) was called into question by any number of serious young book bloggers. My first book would be recalled for factual inaccuracies, and then I would have to go on an apology tour for a $20,000 speaker’s fee. And I wasn’t ready for all that. I didn’t have an explanation for myself, let alone anyone else. I did not want to take apart the person I’d spent twenty-eight years becoming only to find that I couldn’t make anything solid from what was left. I felt that if I replied to that girl and told her that I was the person she was thinking of, it would only lead to more questions. I didn’t want more questions. So I did not reply. I deleted Tinder. And almost a year’s worth of confusion and anxiety later, I downloaded OkCupid in its place.

This is not meant to be some kind of dating-app endorsement. Both of these apps have value. It’s just about knowing your audience and your intentions. For me, Tinder was an excuse. Tinder was what I used when I wanted to reassure the bossier of my friends that I was doing my dating due diligence. Tinder, for me, is pure performance. I swiped left on, like, everybody. I didn’t have enough information to work with, and I wasn’t putting myself out there in any meaningful way. I knew that I needed more than five photos and a one-line biography to work from. I also knew I was far too terrified to participate in low-stakes, first-date casual sex just yet. Tinder isn’t just a hookup app, but, at least where I live, among my age group, it has more of a casual-sex bent to it than OkCupid does. Plus, there just weren’t all that many girls on there. I would swipe through five or eight of them and then the app would tell me there was no one left, at least until tomorrow. And this was in New York City.

At work I complained about my bad luck to my friend Mackenzie, and she said a lesbian friend of hers said that all the gay girls were on OkCupid. “Ughhhhhhhh,” I said. “Fine.”

It was with great trepidation and a little excitement that I created a brand-new OkCupid profile. I uploaded my photos and described myself as charmingly as possible. I filled out my stats—5'11'', agnostic, not much drinking and even fewer drugs, a Sagittarius, not that I believe in all that. Then it came time to label my orientation, and I froze up. It was all well and good for my therapist to tell me it was okay not to know exactly what to call myself, but I had to enter something. It’s getting more acceptable and cooler these days to say “no labels” or that “labels don’t matter,” but when it comes to filling out forms, it sure helps to have a word handy. I had set my profile to show me only women, but that didn’t mean I was ready to use “gay” or “lesbian” to describe myself. I wasn’t sure it was fair, and I wasn’t out to my family or most of my friends, let alone the public. I remembered that girl who recognized me on Tinder, and I picked “bisexual,” in no small part because I was paranoid the same thing would happen again.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that the number-one thing I’d always hated about OkCupid with men didn’t apply to OkCupid with women. I have since talked to women who’ve gotten their fair share of sexually aggressive messages from other women, but in my short time there, I did not receive a single gross or insulting message. (Full disclosure: I was on there for only about two weeks. But still. Spend a week on OkCupid looking for men and you’ll get enough garbage for a lifetime.) It was all, Hi, how are you, my name is Whatever, you seem cool. Or hi, you’re cute, I love The X-Files, too.

Talking to girls was different. I loved talking to girls.


Each time I matched with a girl I’d “winked” at or whatever, I got heart palpitations. Then I’d talk to her, and usually our conversation would trail off after a few messages. For the first time in my life I did not feel racked with guilt if I didn’t want to respond to someone. Nor did I feel ruined if she did not respond to me. That was just what dating was; sometimes two people like each other and sometimes it doesn’t line up. People had been trying to tell me this for years, but it had always felt so much heavier than that. It had felt like endless failure. But talking to girls was different. I loved talking to girls. I’d been doing it my entire life. And if there was still something in me that felt like I was playing a character—Girl Who Effortlessly Flirts with Other Girls—there was a larger part that wondered if it was supposed to have been this painless all along.

Four days into my time on gay-girl OkCupid, I had two dates lined up one night after another. I know there are people out there who do this all the time, but for me, whose M.O. with online dating was to meet approximately one man, one time, once a year, this was, well . . . significant. I felt nervous, very nervous, but excited, too. Both girls were cute, and seemed normal. I was interested in one more than the other, which made me feel like a genuine casual dater. Someone with a roster of possibilities. Finally I understood why my friends had always told me to just “go on a bunch of dates”—it spread out the pressure. When you go on only one date a year, it is pretty easy to let it mean too much. Making two dates in the same week was deeply out of character for me, but then, the whole point of all this was to try out for another role.

My first date was on a Monday night with a girl named Lydia, and all day long all I wanted to do was throw up. It wasn’t the same kind of nausea I’d felt before a date with a guy—the kind I hoped would transform into a bona fide illness so I could cancel with a guilt-free conscience. I wanted to feel perfect—I just didn’t. I could barely eat, and that never happens to me. I couldn’t focus on work. I am pretty sure that all I did that day was get up from my desk to refill my water glass or to sit in the bathroom for as long as I felt I could get away with it without people thinking I was having some kind of gastrointestinal problem. Toward the end of the day I walked over to our office manager’s desk and quietly asked for some Pepto-Bismol. When she held out the box I took four.

I got to the bar ten minutes early, like I always do when attempting to get somewhere exactly on time. Sitting under an umbrella on the bar’s garden patio, looking at the straight couples on dates all around me, I wondered what people would think when they saw me sitting with another girl. Would they buy it? Was I passing? Would it be obvious that I had never done this before? How does a girl who dates other girls sit on a bench, waiting for one of those girls to arrive? (Hopefully, looking at Instagram and Twitter and pretending to text.)

When Lydia got there I stood up and put my arms out to hug her because I didn’t know what else to do. “Oh!” she said. “We’re hugging? Okay!” And then we did that kind of asexual one arm over, one arm under hug you do with someone you don’t really want to be hugging. Later she would tell me she hates hugging anyone she doesn’t know. Me too, but what was I supposed to do, shake her hand?

Anyone looking at us would have known immediately: first date, no question. But as soon as we sat down I forgot about the other people there. We spread two drinks apiece over four hours of talking, and hugged awkwardly again when we said goodbye. I felt nauseated the whole time. It was great.

Throughout the date I’d accumulated a dozen texts from Chiara, having a conversation with herself about how the date was going and if it was still going and what I was thinking. I’d started excitedly and slightly drunkenly responding, in caps and full of typos, as soon as Lydia and I parted ways:

I REALLY LIKE GET
*HER!!!

She replied: OMG!!!!!!!!!!!

I hope she liked me too! Idk!

Text her! TEXT HER

I was nervous to text Lydia, and also afraid of being rejected, but my desire to talk to her again, as soon as possible, outweighed those fears.

Never before in my life had I made anything resembling “the first move.” I was always too nervous, I thought, and too afraid of being rejected. But that night, I realized that wasn’t quite it. I was nervous to text Lydia, and also afraid of being rejected, but my desire to talk to her again, as soon as possible, outweighed those fears. So while I stood in my kitchen shoving graham crackers into my face, because we hadn’t eaten dinner and I was starving and a little dizzy, I talked to Chiara about what I should say. She suggested I say what she’d texted Mark (the man she’d eventually marry) after their first date: “Mark! I think you’re great. Thanks for the fun night.” It’s simple and direct, she explained. It says you’re interested in them without having to explicitly say you want to see them again. I knew she was right, so I texted Lydia, slowly and carefully: “Lydia! I think you’re great. Thanks for the fun night.” Then I waited a truly agonizing six minutes, during which time Chiara repeatedly talked me off the ledge. And then Lydia wrote back and asked if I’d want to hang out again. I was so happy all I sent in return was “DUH.”

I liked Lydia so much I canceled the other date I’d scheduled for the next day, a Tuesday, and instead made a second one with her for the following Saturday night. In the meantime, we texted constantly, and I worried she would Google me. Our first date had lasted four hours, but I had not told her in that time that I hadn’t dated women before. I’d told her I’d written a book, but didn’t say much about its topic. I didn’t want to scare her, and historically, the book had scared people away. Or I had spent a long time thinking it had. In any case, it was a first date, and I don’t think anyone owes anyone much on a first date—it’s a very preliminary vetting. I figured that I would talk about it if and when it became more relevant, which would probably happen as soon as I really liked someone. I just didn’t expect to really like someone so soon.

On Saturday, Lydia and I met at the subway stop between our apartments and got on the Q to Coney Island. I’d bought us two tickets to a Brooklyn Cyclones game, realizing only after we got there that they were for “Star Wars Night.” At first we were under the impression that all this meant was that people had come to the game wearing Star Wars hats and T-shirts, and you could buy a promotional Star Wars soda cup for eight dollars. But then, after the first inning, a number of people dressed in Star Wars costumes ran onto the field and began acting out a plot-line involving Darth Vader kidnapping Princess Leia and hiding her somewhere inside MCU Park. As the actors mouthed their lines, their prerecorded voices played over the speakers. This provided a great source of small talk for Lydia and me, which was helpful because it was soon apparent that we were both considerably more nervous than we’d been when we first met. We bought two ciders, a Diet Coke, a burger, and a soft pretzel between us, and we barely touched any of it. In every moment I wasn’t talking, I was thinking about how to tell her who I really was.

In every moment I wasn’t talking, I was thinking about how to tell her who I really was.

Soon enough, she gave me my cue. “I want to hear more about this book,” she said. So I told her all about it, and watched her face, waiting for her to check out. But she didn’t. Instead she asked if I had gone out with another girl before, and after a record-breaking-long “um,” I said no, I hadn’t. Barely ten days earlier I had come out to Chiara as a woman who, after a lifetime spent trying to date guys, wanted to date women instead. And here I was on one such gay date, coming out as a former straight girl. I felt like apologizing and laughing and throwing up. Somehow I kept all three in. Then Lydia said, “But you still date guys, too, right?” And though I had labeled myself “bisexual” on OkCupid, not wanting to lie, not knowing how else to reconcile my past with my future, though I had spent years trying to nail down the exact breakdown of my attractions, I didn’t hesitate or hedge. I knew. “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

The baseball game ended (the Cyclones won), and a group of thirty actors rushed the field, beginning a mass, make-believe lightsaber fight that lasted nearly twenty minutes. When they were done, fireworks exploded over the park to the tune of, appropriately enough, Katy Perry’s “Firework.” Already it had been a perfect date, and it wasn’t even over.

As we walked away from the park, Lydia took my hand, and when I looked at her she said, “Just remember, I’m nervous, too.” We walked to Luna Park and bought tickets for a haunted-house-themed ride called the Ghost Hole, a complete waste of money, unless you want an excuse to sit very close to someone in the dark. We walked the boardwalk until we found an empty bench to sit on. Then she kissed me, and I felt the thing I was supposed to have felt when I kissed guys. A few minutes later, someone yelled, “Get a room!”

There was so much about the circumstances of our meeting that seemed crazy to me. I couldn’t believe she lived only one and a half blocks away from me, and worked in a shop across the street from me, and I had never seen her. I couldn’t believe that I’d had such a great first date (and second, and third . . .) with the first woman I’d gone out with. Or that I’d met her on the very dating website I’d spent so much time hating and avoiding. I couldn’t believe we were still together, and happy. I couldn’t believe how natural it all felt. All those times I’d opened a dating app hoping to find love with the very first person I met, and look—it actually kind of happened.

I told my parents about Lydia after we’d been dating for about two weeks, but not, initially, by choice. The plan had been to tell them the next time I was in Minnesota, at the end of August. But early one morning in late July, my mom texted me to tell me about a dream she’d had in which I brought home a man I’d fallen in love with. (Apparently his name was James.) Just to be clear: this isn’t something that happens with us. We don’t text all that much, and when we do, it tends to be something about something my parents watched on MSNBC, or a picture of their Australian shepherd, Kiah, or a brag about their snowfall. Nor has my mother ever been the type of mother who asks when I’ll finally bring a boyfriend home. She did not drop hints. This text was different, and eerie. I knew right then that I couldn’t wait any longer to tell her. So I called her, still lying in bed, and I told her I had met someone recently, actually. But she was a woman. Her name was Lydia. I felt relieved the way I feel relieved when I’ve gotten onto an airplane and the flight attendants have closed the door and I can’t get out of it even if I really, really want to.My mom responded to my news with a perfectly Minnesotan “Oh!” She asked all the questions she would’ve had I been telling her I’d met a man—age, job, how we met—and some she wouldn’t have: Did it feel normal when I kissed her? (Yes.) Was I nervous about holding her hand in public? (Not often, but sometimes.) She told me she was happy if I was happy, and that she would love me no matter what. Then she told me I should call my dad separately, but not for a couple of hours, because they were headed to Byerlys for groceries. Both she and my dad would tell me that day that my being gay may take some getting used to, but I said that was okay. It would for me, too. ●


The Stars Of “Everything Sucks!” Say The Show Is A Milestone For Young Lesbian Representation

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Emaline (Sydney Sweeney) and Kate (Peyton Kennedy) in Netflix's new series,
Everything Sucks!

Netflix

For the young stars of Everything Sucks!, Netflix’s new fictional series about a group of high schoolers growing up in 1990s Oregon, working on the show has felt like a milestone in LGBT representation given its exploration of a young, lesbian romance.

“The entire show defies stereotypes,” Peyton Kennedy, who plays the role of Kate Messner, told BuzzFeed News. “There’s so little representation in regular mainstream media that it’s incredible to be able to convey so much in one show.”

Everything Sucks! is as much of a coming-out story as it is a coming-of-age story for Messner, one of the show’s main characters. The 10-episode season, which first premiered on Netflix on Feb. 16, shows Kate navigating her sexuality and realizing that she doesn’t actually have romantic feelings for her boyfriend, Luke O'Neil (Jahi Di'Allo Winston), because she likes girls instead.

Kennedy said this is groundbreaking because while Everything Sucks! isn’t the first TV series to depict LGBT teens, she noted that there haven't been a lot of young high schoolers in lesbian relationships onscreen.

“There’s barely any representation for girlfriends in high school,” she said. “There’s a bit of representation in older generations, but I think for the teens who are watching it who identify with these characters, they will be able to feel comfort and hopefully acceptance at the end of the show."

Luke (Jahi Di'Allo Winston) and Kate (Peyton Kennedy) in their hometown of Boring, Oregon.

Scott Patrick Green / Scott Patrick Green/Netflix

After Kate realizes she’s a lesbian and isn’t romantically interested in boys, she tells her boyfriend, Luke. He doesn’t have the easiest time with the news because, as actor Jahi Di'Allo Winston puts it, “he feels this gravitational pull towards her” and is insecure at the thought of not being together.

“Society won’t talk about insecurities within young boys enough,” Winston said. “Boys are supposed to be big and tough … but it’s a little bit of an insecurity for him. Like, ‘You need me, I need you, I don’t know how I’m going to go on to some other girl without you.’”

Despite his initial heartbreak and struggle, Luke eventually makes peace with Kate no longer being his girlfriend and the two settle into being each other’s best friends; Luke’s mom and Kate’s dad even start to date, solidifying their friendship and bringing the two of them even closer. The actors said they’re happy the show tackles toxic masculinity head-on and doesn’t shy away from the complicated nature of growing up and coming out.

“Guys can be vulnerable; guys don’t have to be these tough, strong men because toxic masculinity is awful. I hope that our show shows that,” Kennedy said. “Kate grows so much throughout the season and she really comes into herself. I think so many young people who will watch it will be able to find themselves in her.”

As the season progresses, viewers watch as Kate falls for another high schooler in the drama club, Emaline (Sydney Sweeney), in addition to trying to survive all the other awkward encounters that come along with being a teenager in a small town. Emaline initially bullies Kate at school and doesn’t appear interested in having any kind of relationship with her, but actor Sydney Sweeney says this is because Emaline is grappling with her own insecurities.

Kate filming her high school's morning show.

Scott Patrick Green / Scott Patrick Green/Netflix

“Kate knows what she wants and Emaline doesn’t,” Sweeney said. “For Emaline, love is just love. It doesn’t matter if it’s between a girl and a girl or a guy and a girl, so she just embraces that.”

In the last episode of the first season, Kate and Emaline finally get together. The two kiss while dancing onstage after their drama club’s movie premiere. The actors said they enjoyed filming the scene because after three months of filming they had become best friends in real life and thought “it felt like this beautiful moment for everyone who’s watching it.”

“It’s so raw and so real and so genuine,” Kennedy said. “Not that many people get to represent that on TV.”

“Especially at our age,” Sweeney added.

“There’s so much pressure for girls about how you feel like you have to be something for other people. Emaline feels like she has to stand on top of a car or on top of a table and yell out in this Shakespearean language to get people to notice her, but she should just be herself and figure out who she is,” Sweeney said. “Girls are just trying to figure out who they are as we grow up.”

RuPaul’s Version Of LGBT History Erases Decades Of Trans Drag Queens

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The author performing in Brooklyn, New York.

Rebecca Smeyne / Via the culture whore

After yearning to do drag for nearly two decades in hiding, I had my makeup done for the first time at a MAC counter on Fifth Avenue in 2012. I had religiously watched Seasons 1–4 of RuPaul's Drag Race in secret from inside the closet, and from listening to the queens bicker while they drank cocktails, I learned that a queen just starting out sought out a mother to teach her her skills. So, newly out and proud, I found myself in the chair of a makeup artist to whom a friend had referred me: a giant, shit-talking, off-duty blonde drag queen named Sweetie.

Sweetie had pounds of mascara and permanently limp wrists, and was exactly the kind of gay who'd make my mom grasp my hand and pick up our pace when I was younger, were we to cross paths at the mall. As she painted huge shimmery eyelids on me, she gabbed about her life in New York, about RuPaul “before she was rich,” and the parties of the ’90s. She refused to teach me to glue down my eyebrows like I'd seen the girls on Drag Race do. By the time she got to my lips, I realized I was in the presence of New York drag royalty.

Before she finished, Sweetie leaned close to tell me that she knew about private clubs where girls like us could meet gentlemen who love us. Startled, I told her that I just wanted to do drag, not BE a woman.

"Honey, all of us want to BE women," she said, looking me squarely in the eye and waving a powder brush at me like a magic wand, "or none of us would do this shit."

That day, getting my makeup done by the late legend, I took my first glimpse into the world of drag as it exists outside of the Drag Race studio: one that predates Drag Race and the mainstream visibility of the art form by generations.

Those of us who work in drag were not surprised to hear RuPaul’s recent comments about trans inclusion (or in this case, exclusion) on Drag Race. In an interview with the Guardian this past weekend, she said that Peppermint, a trans woman and fan favorite who competed in (and nearly won) Season 9, had been allowed on Drag Race because she “didn’t get breast implants until after she left our show; she was identifying as a woman, but she hadn’t really transitioned. … You can identify as a woman and say you’re transitioning, but it changes once you start changing your body.” To imply that a trans woman isn’t really a woman until she has breast implants is to invoke the same mindset of ignorant conservatives who marginalize and demonize queer people every day.

Contestant Peppermint attends 'RuPaul's Drag Race'- Season Premiere party on March 7, 2017 in New York City.

Angela Weiss / AFP / Getty Images

As RuPaul’s Drag Race was renewed season after season and its popularity heightened, the girls in New York began to notice that out trans women weren’t making it onto Drag Race — or if they did, it was only by sneaking by casting undetected. Rumors trickled down into the local scenes that being on hormone replacement therapy or having breast implants could disqualify you from getting your golden ticket to Drag Race fame. By the time the show made the jump to VH1 last year, exponentially increasing its audience, it was clear to us that Drag Race was choosing a specific and incomplete image of the art form to uphold. The drag queens favored most on the show weren't only glamorous like RuPaul, witty like RuPaul, and meticulous like RuPaul — they were cis like RuPaul.

RuPaul is no stranger to backlash from the trans community. The show’s sixth season featured a mini challenge called “Shemale or Female,” in which RuPaul instructed the contestants to guess by looking at images of body parts whether those parts belonged to “a biological woman, or a psychological woman.” However, it wasn’t until RuPaul’s comments to the Guardian — which she later doubled down on in a tweet: “You can take performance enhancing drugs and still be an athlete, just not in the Olympics” — that she proved herself an outright transphobe. The ensuing backlash, which prompted responses from Peppermint and other Drag Race alums, led Ru to post a series of half-assed apologies.

As an art form, drag is a notoriously futile venture, but it also leads a lot of girls like me to discover our identities.

The problems with RuPaul’s comments are obvious and conspicuous. She told the Guardian that “drag loses its sense of danger and its sense of irony once it’s not men doing it, because at its core it’s a social statement and a big f-you to male-dominated culture. So for men to do it, it’s really punk rock, because it’s a real rejection of masculinity.” Implying that men are capable of rejecting masculinity in a way that women are not is nearsighted to say the least, and her mention of “danger” is especially repulsive at a time when queer and trans women are raped and murdered in record numbers with every passing year. In what ways are drag queens who transform temporarily into women giving more of an “f-you to male-dominated culture” than trans women when they can at any time return to their place of privilege and power as men living in a patriarchal world?

If RuPaul sees her show as the Olympics of drag, she is thereby dangling her renown and prize money just out of reach of those she deems unworthy. Appearing on Drag Race has in fact become the only way to make a viable living off of drag. As an art form, drag is a notoriously futile venture, but it also leads a lot of girls like me to discover our identities. That’s what makes it especially frustrating that American trans women have been more or less disqualified from appearing at the Olympics — considering most of us who work in drag are about $100,000 away from feeling at home in our bodies.

RuPaul rose to prominence in drag at a time when there was less of a clear distinction between what constitutes a drag queen and a trans woman. Before the show made drag go mainstream, many drag queens' lives involved a lot of staying home, their heads wrapped, gigantic sunglasses shrouding their bare faces, biding their time until their next chance to put on 30 pounds of hair and 50 pounds of jewels and own the fucking universe. It didn’t really matter how drag queens presented otherwise, or who their partners were, or even their birth names.

Dorian Corey, of posthumous Paris is Burning fame, was a Goddess in the ballroom, her gowns festooned with feathers and 10-foot trains. Without an adoring crowd hanging on her every move, she was somewhat of a hermit, her only daylight coming from the bulbs of her vanity mirror, and with only cats or visitors (or eventually filmmakers) to keep her company. In the decades preceding Drag Race, queens like Corey were only renowned for their feminine presentations, and to most people they would never be known as anything other than “she.”

Before the internet, you wouldn’t be able to see a queen out of drag unless you knew her intimately; as a fan, all you’d know about her would be confined to what she presented at gigs. If you were to ask a performer about her gender identity, you wouldn’t investigate any further than simply asking, "are you full-time?" Hell, Ru herself wasn't seen out of drag onscreen until a decade after she’d achieved mainstream fame and commercial success, in 1999’s But I'm a Cheerleader.

RuPaul in But I'm A Cheerleader.

Lionsgate

This is what we mean when we say that trans women were the pioneers of drag. Before the advent of Drag Race, participating in drag required you to sacrifice your manhood entirely, whereas nowadays we have a rich vocabulary when it comes to queer and trans identities and their associated expressions. The categories of what we now call “drag queens” or “trans women” weren’t so clearly divided, because the spotlight of the stage bore witness to all. For instance, drag legend Lady Bunny would respond with a high-pitched giggle if you called her transgender, but you will never, ever see her out of drag. Legendary women like Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, pioneers of the LGBT rights movement, would likely identify as trans women today, but identified fiercely as drag queens in the ’60s and ’70s. At a time when LGBT people were fighting just to exist, it made no sense to split wig hairs.

Here's the gag: Most straight people still can't see the difference between a drag queen and a trans woman. They see effeminate gay men, drag queens, and trans women — all “faggots.” In a straight man’s world, there’s no need to tell us apart.

At a time when LGBT people were fighting just to exist, it made no sense to split wig hairs.

Because drag used to be totally inaccessible to the outside world, and is therefore missing from historical narratives of pop culture, RuPaul now represents our entire diverse community to the straight people willing to listen. Those with an open mind, who don’t think we’re all condemned to hell, will therefore see the entire spectrum of femme presentation through the lens of his show. By virtue of her decades of celebrity, RuPaul holds an immense amount of power. She’s not only exposing us to the public who had no prior access or insight into our world; she is literally writing LGBT history.

.RuPaul's Drag Race’s rising popularity over the past 10 years has coincided with the evolution of social media and the rise of online queer discourse. For the first time, we see the 360 degree view of a drag queen's life: every detail of their mundane off-duty lives. As marginalized queer people found each other on the internet, so arose the language to categorize our identities — who is a woman, who is a man, who’s in between, and who’s outside. We began to talk about a drag queen "as a boy" once we saw them in the workroom, or saw selfies of them out of drag on our feeds.

Drag queens used to have to exchange their sexuality for relative celebrity. At the clubs where they worked, they belonged onstage, not commingling or cruising amongst the commoners. But in large part thanks to Drag Race, queens can now be considered gay men with viable capital in the sexual marketplace. When preparing to compete, they don’t only plan glam looks for the runway, but also pack cute outfits for their male presentations during the interview and workroom scenes that comprise most of the show. Drag queens aren’t quite queens anymore — they’ve stepped down from the throne to become common gay men who have the impulse and the skills to transform their bodies temporarily into women. The notion that a drag queen is actually a man is one that RuPaul created and established in the zeitgeist with her career, and later with her show.

Now, by drawing a distinction between queens based only on whether the silicone bags hanging from their chests are on the outside or inside of their bodies — and by withholding her spotlight from people who literally aren't man enough — RuPaul is not only erasing present-day trans queens from the history of drag, but also abandoning the decades-long deification of drag queens into honorary womanhood regardless of their everyday presentation.

It's not just that the the fame and success that comes to a queen after appearing on Drag Race is being withheld from trans women who want their slice of the pie. It's that trans women baked the pie, and RuPaul sold it to straight people.

Ru would probably be the first to agree that the primary tenet of drag is turning gender into a fart joke. Her most famous aphorism, after all, is that “we’re all born naked, and the rest is drag.” And yet somehow she can't see that the diversity among drag performers — our different bodies, different lifestyles, different spirits — is what gives depth and breadth to our creed. To quote the reigning queen of Season 9, Sasha Velour: "That's the real world of drag, like it or not." The gender binary exists to enforce patriarchy and shackle queer people. By abiding by that binary so strictly in casting for the majority-boys’ club that is Drag Race, RuPaul purposefully erases the world she came from: a world that doesn’t categorize queens based on their body parts, and one where fierce trans women have always existed. ●

LINK: Queens Are Questioning RuPaul’s Grip On Drag Culture After His Controversial Trans Comments



16 Important Lessons "Queer Eye" Has Taught Us

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“I never want people to feel like they are not gay enough, or straight enough. It’s so much more about what is in your heart.”

Queer Eye is not a conventional makeover show. It's jam-packed, full to the brim of advice, especially for your emotional well-being.

Queer Eye is not a conventional makeover show. It's jam-packed, full to the brim of advice, especially for your emotional well-being.

Netflix

Like when Karamo spoke this truth about how the walls we build between ourselves and other people don't achieve anything.

Like when Karamo spoke this truth about how the walls we build between ourselves and other people don't achieve anything.

Netflix / Scout Productions

When Tan talked about the value of taking the time to make yourself look good every single day.

When Tan talked about the value of taking the time to make yourself look good every single day.

Netflix / Scout Productions

And when Tan talked about how looking good is also important to the people around you.

And when Tan talked about how looking good is also important to the people around you.

He then added that Vera, Bobby's wife, makes an effort every single morning for him and that he should do the same for her.

Netflix / Scout Productions

Jonathan has pointed out that it is also important to look good if you are working from home.

Jonathan has pointed out that it is also important to look good if you are working from home.

Netflix / Scout Productions

Oh, and another thing.

Oh, and another thing.

Netflix / Scout Productions

Antoni has also made this good point about how cooking for one is actually just as meaningful as cooking for others.

Antoni has also made this good point about how cooking for one is actually just as meaningful as cooking for others.

Netflix

And then there's this lesson about confidence.

And then there's this lesson about confidence.

Netflix / Scout Productions

When Tan talked about the difference between style and fashion.

When Tan talked about the difference between style and fashion.

Netflix / Scout Productions

And when Jonathan said it is never too late.

And when Jonathan said it is never too late.

Netflix / Scout Productions

Then there's this point about not changing who you are.

Then there's this point about not changing who you are.

Netflix / Scout Productions

And if none of those worked, hopefully this will.

And if none of those worked, hopefully this will.

Netflix / Scout Productions

When Karamo said this about vulnerability.

When Karamo said this about vulnerability.

Netflix / Scout Productions

It's not just the Fab Five who are good at advice. Here's something from Esther, Remy's mom.

It's not just the Fab Five who are good at advice. Here's something from Esther, Remy's mom.

Netflix / Scout Productions

And here's Bobby when he talked about the prejudice and self-loathing he experienced when he was growing up, and how letting go of your past frees up your future.

And here's Bobby when he talked about the prejudice and self-loathing he experienced when he was growing up, and how letting go of your past frees up your future.

Netflix / Scout Productions

And finally, when he said this while gardening.

And finally, when he said this while gardening.

Netflix / Scout Productions

LINK: Tom And Abby From "Queer Eye" Are Now Back Together Again, And Oh God My Heart

LINK: "Queer Eye" Is The Most Empowering And Positive Show On TV Right Now

From Hollywood To This Power Plant, Men Who Report Sexual Harassment Are Asked Why They Didn’t Fight Back

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Even before the butt-grabbing incident, James Tepperwien said his colleague Vito Messina had come onto him at least three times. Usually it happened during target practice at the Indian Point nuclear power plant in New York, where they worked in security. Tepperwien considers himself a "man's man," but as much as he wanted to hit Messina, he assumed any physical fight between men holding loaded guns would make the situation far worse.

Then on Nov. 10, 2004, Tepperwien said, Messina came up from behind and aggressively grabbed his buttocks, driving his fingernails into Tepperwien's rear end. Tepperwien confided in another colleague, who told him that Messina had once tried to mount him on a desk. That prompted Tepperwien to speak to human resources the next day, he said in a 2007 deposition.

"All I'd like to do is come in here and do my job and go home safe every day," Tepperwien told HR, according to deposition transcripts. "I know I'm not the only guy he assaulted. I want to be the last guy." But the following year, Tepperwien said Messina made yet another unwanted sexual advance, and in the years since, at least eight more men have alleged that Messina groped and harassed them as recently as 2016.

Several others told Tepperwien that despite Messina groping them, grabbing their crotches, and telling them they looked “sexy,” they didn’t report him because they didn’t think they’d be believed. They also figured nobody would do anything to stop Messina, who'd been at Indian Point since 1989.

Tepperwien quit in 2006, citing a “hostile work environment” and the “potential for further harassment and assault,” and the next year he sued Entergy Corporation, which owns the nuclear site. Last year, three more men filed lawsuits against Entergy alleging that Indian Point management brushed off complaints against Messina because the company didn't take the sexual harassment of men seriously. Entergy has denied wrongdoing, and while Tepperwien ultimately lost his case after a five-year battle — an appellate court ruled Entergy met the minimum requirements under the law in its response — the three recent cases against the nuclear facility remain pending.

As proof of gender bias in the Entergy cases, the lawsuits state, a male security guard was quickly fired after he made sexually inappropriate comments to two female employees in June 2017, even though the women didn't file a complaint. Messina, by comparison, was put on 10 weeks’ paid leave in 2005 after Tepperwien’s second complaint against him and was issued a letter of reprimand that warned he could be fired if misconduct continued. Even as complaints piled up, though, Messina kept his job and was viewed as “untouchable” because of management’s failure to take action, the lawsuits filed in 2017 allege. In 2015, Entergy officials assigned him to frisk about 150 men before a drill testing security officers on their preparedness for a terrorist attack on the plant. Messina's behavior was so widely known at that time, according to civil complaints, that a contractor joked everyone would have to "go see 'Happy Hands Vito' to be patted down," and commented after his own physical screening that he "didn’t know whether to light a cigarette or call the rape hotline."

When the company moved to fire Messina in March 2016, an Entergy official gave Messina a heads-up and allowed him to retire, according to the men's attorney, Amy Bellantoni.

The Indian Point nuclear power plant in Buchanan, New York.

Mario Tama / Getty Images

All told, the lawsuits say that at least nine men have been victims of Messina's harassment over the years, most of them among the unionized security staff at the nuclear facility, which sits on the Hudson River about 35 miles north of Manhattan. But Entergy staff frequently dismissed these allegations and told Messina's victims, "That's just Vito," the suits say. At least two supervisors told these men they should threaten Messina with physical violence to stop their torment, lawsuits allege.

Entergy insisted in a brief statement that it "acted appropriately at all times in this matter," and said it "will continue to vigorously defend itself in this matter and expects to prevail on the merits." Messina has denied all allegations of harassment in court filings, and through his attorney he declined to comment.

The response to Messina's behavior at Indian Point by Entergy officials, as described in lawsuits, deposition transcripts, and complaints to federal offices, points to the unique problems men face when dealing with sexual harassment, especially among blue-collar workers. Because Messina was married to a woman, as were several of the men who said he harassed them, it was easy for managers to dismiss the complaints as just guys horsing around. Some of the victims seemed to think this too. Patrick O'Hara, who worked at Indian Point at the same time as Tepperwien, said in a deposition that he didn't consider his encounter with Messina sexual harassment, although Messina "tried to grab me in my testicles."

"I think it's all changed because of Kevin Spacey."

"We have a culture that does not really want to deal with the victimizations of men," said Chris Kilmartin, a psychologist who consults workplaces on preventing sexual harassment.

There were at least 63 federal lawsuits filed around the country in 2017 by men who said employers mishandled their cases of sexual harassment, according to a BuzzFeed News review of court records. Those cases are only a tiny sample of the problem, since the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission averages around 2,000 complaints from men of sex-based harassment annually, and it costs money to elevate a complaint to a lawsuit. Men are typically the perpetrators in these complaints, just as they are when women bring complaints of sexual harassment. And women and LGBT individuals face far more harassment in the workplace than straight men. Yet, even in a climate that has prompted female workers in a variety of fields to take a stand against sexual harassment, male victims largely remain in the shadows, held back by a mix of societal myths, legal challenges, and workplaces that take complaints from men less seriously.

There have been few studies looking at sexual harassment suffered by men, and because few men want to publicly admit they've been victimized, there is little insight into what happens when they do come forward. But advocates point to evidence that it's not uncommon. An activist organization, Stop Street Harassment, said in February that its survey indicated 43% of men said they’d been sexually harassed, and one out of every six sex harassment complaints filed to the EEOC comes from men.

"It's not just mom-and-pop stores, it's big corporations, big companies," Anna Park, a regional attorney for the EEOC, told BuzzFeed News. "Everyone talks about the #MeToo movement, but this stuff has been going on for a very long time, and it's disheartening that it continues to happen."

While it has mostly been women speaking out since the #MeToo movement began, men in country music, modeling, and acting have revealed their own stories in recent months. More than a dozen men alleged misconduct by Kevin Spacey after actor Anthony Rapp came forward to say Spacey made a sexual advance toward him when he was 14. But frequently, when men alleged harassment, they said people would ask why they didn't just beat up their perpetrator. They include 49-year-old actor Terry Crews, a 6-foot-3, 245-pound former NFL linebacker with a reputation for challenging stereotypes about masculinity. Crews said that talent agent Adam Venit "viciously grabbed [his] penis and testicles" in 2016. When one Twitter user challenged Crews, "Can't beat his ass? Come on man," Crews responded, "Broke people — fight in the street. Rich people — sue each other. I'm rich."

Terry Crews

Robby Klein / Getty Images

Tepperwien, an Air Force veteran who worked in medical imaging for most of his career, said he received similar comments after he complained in August 2005 that Messina again had made unwanted advances toward him during a car ride. A supervisor named John Cherubini asked Tepperwien why he didn't "punch him out,” Tepperwien said in his deposition. Tepperwien had thought Cherubini was "on the up and up," but at that point, he told BuzzFeed News, he asked himself, Are they all stupid?

"Two wrongs don't make a right," Tepperwien said.

The Entergy Corporation bought Indian Point just prior to the 9/11 terrorist attacks, and soon after ordered an internal review of security at the facility, whose proximity to New York City has the power to create a radiation crisis in the Big Apple. Security staff told investigators at the time that substantiated claims of sexual harassment "brought little apparent disciplinary action and certainly did not result in termination." Investigators couldn't review records relating to sexual harassment because a security manager at the time said he didn't maintain a central log and couldn't find the relevant documents. Nearly a third of security staff said in a 2003 internal review they feared raising a security concern with management because of possible retaliation. (More recent federal inspections concluded that personnel were willing to raise concerns with management, though not specific to harassment.)

Experts see a connection between how a company deals with sexual harassment issues and how well it adheres to other laws and regulations. "The good news is that nuclear plants are not a house of cards; a whole bunch of things have to happen for a disaster to occur," said Dave Lochbaum, a nuclear safety expert with the Union of Concerned Scientists, a watchdog group. "But when you have people reluctant to raise issues, you're shortening that string."

The three federal lawsuits filed since Tepperwien’s confirm the fears employees faced as they debated whether to take complaints about Messina to their bosses. In late October 2015, Messina bolted into an Indian Point bunker and began "hugging on and tickling" Ted Gordon, one lawsuit says. Gordon, a security officer, said he shook Messina off, grabbed his lunch, and sat down, but Messina came over, pulled Gordon's face up against Messina's crotch, and said,"I'm going to stick your head in the freezer and fuck your ass until it hemorrhages."

That episode with Messina was not isolated, Gordon said, but he worried he'd face retaliation by the company if he reported it. After he finally did file suit against Entergy in July 2017, Gordon was reassigned to work in an 8-by-8-foot enclosure, which he viewed as a punishment, and said that colleagues began making sexually offensive comments to him.

Tepperwien had also been fearful a decade earlier. He thought he might get fired or face harassment in other ways for ratting on a fellow union member. "I didn't want my tires cut, I didn't want my wife getting obscene phone calls," he told BuzzFeed News. It wasn't out of the question, he said, that someone might defecate on his personal items. And when he did work up the courage to complain about the unwanted advances, Tepperwien said he received pushback, not support. Following the second incident, in August 2005, Messina was moved to a different shift. Tepperwien complained that wasn't good enough, because he might still encounter Messina while he was armed. A security manager, Terrence Barry, warned Tepperwien that he might be removed from duty for being "over-emotional," according to a complaint Tepperwien later filed to the EEOC.

Tepperwien takes comfort in the fact that he did report Messina, because he said if more people would take action from day one, there would be fewer men allowed to attack people for years without consequences. "Unfortunately," Tepperwien said of his case, "the company didn't do a damn thing about it."

A jury awarded Tepperwien $500,000 in punitive damages in 2009, only to have a district court overrule the decision and an appeals court uphold that court's ruling. Tepperwien can't help but think his treatment by the company and the courts was due to low regard for sexual harassment of men in the workplace. But now, Tepperwien told BuzzFeed News, "I think it's all changed because of Kevin Spacey."

Until just 20 years ago, federal law didn't even accept that men could be harassed by other men.

That changed with Joseph Oncale, who worked on a Louisiana offshore oil rig in 1991. For years, Oncale told BuzzFeed News, he felt ashamed that he didn’t stand up for himself when several male coworkers, including his supervisors, tormented him. They routinely made sexual comments, including telling Oncale, who was 21 at the time, he had a "cute little ass," he said in a lawsuit filed in 1995. They threatened to rape him, placed their bare genitals against his neck, and forced a bar of soap into his anus, he said. The men worked and slept on the rig for seven days at a time, so there was no escape. The company, Sundowner Offshore Services, declined to intervene, telling Oncale that the guys were just roughhousing, his lawsuit said. Within a few months, Oncale quit. "I felt that if I didn't leave my job, that I would be raped," he said in a deposition after filing his lawsuit.

"I consider myself a man's man," Oncale, who’s now 48, told BuzzFeed News. "My daddy raised me to be a man, to be honest, to be hardworkin'." But Oncale was also afraid of how the rest of the world might look at him if he went public about the harassment. “You know, because I felt like they're going to look at me like I allowed this to happen," he said. "That's what holds a lot of people back — men, women, it doesn't matter. Because if you hadn't ever been put in that situation, then the people don't understand."

At the time, federal courts insisted that male-on-male sexual harassment was not illegal. During one deposition, Oncale recalled, the attorney for Sundowner "props his feet up on the table and says, 'Yeah, they done it, but there's no law against it.' I never want to feel that small again. I felt like I was not even human. That vision haunts me still to this day."

The case made it to the US Supreme Court, which in 1998 ruled unanimously that it is a violation of Title VII of the Civil Rights Act to sexually harass members of the same sex. It didn't matter that Oncale and his tormentors were all heterosexual, the high court ruled, because harassment did not have to be "motivated by sexual desire.” In the opinion, Justice Antonin Scalia wrote that “common sense and an appropriate sensitivity” would enable courts to tell the difference between “simple teasing or roughhousing among members of the same sex” and behavior that was “hostile or abusive.”

Oncale was too anxious to attend the Supreme Court hearings, but he was elated when he heard Scalia's opinion. "I felt like everybody else that was out there that didn't have a voice had a voice now," Oncale said. "Hey, we don't have to take this, there's a law now."

Oncale still lives in southern Louisiana, and still works in the oil industry. He's now a foreman with three dozen guys working under him.

"I've always told myself, if I ever get put in a supervisor's position, I would never ever make people feel the way I had to feel," Oncale said. "And I would never accept it if somebody had to go through what I had to."

Men still face a cultural bias that says they can't be victims. More than 200 women and girls spoke about abuse from former gymnastics physician Larry Nassar before a single male victim came forward this month. That victim, Jacob Moore, said he wanted to share his story so that other guys will not "be scared to come out because of stigma that guys can't be sexually abused or taken advantage of."

"I felt like I was not even human. That vision haunts me still to this day."

Queens Are Questioning RuPaul’s Grip On Drag Culture After His Controversial Trans Comments

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RuPaul in drag promoting the third season of RuPaul’s Drag Race All Stars.

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"I'm not just [a] drag queen,” RuPaul once said. “I am the drag queen — number one.”

For more than 20 years, RuPaul has been the face of drag in America. In the early ‘90s, the nation’s curiosity was piqued by the 6-foot-4-inch man who strutted around unapologetically in outrageous dresses, dazzling blonde wigs, and thigh-high boots — the same man who coined the famous phrase, “You’re born naked and the rest is drag.” RuPaul wiggled his way into the public consciousness with hits like “Supermodel” and “Snapshot,” became the face of a high-profile MAC cosmetics campaign, and even briefly helmed a talk show, The RuPaul Show, in the mid ‘90s.

But it was RuPaul’s Drag Race, the Emmy award–winning show, that truly brought drag culture — and, with it, RuPaul — out from gay bars and ballrooms and into people’s living rooms.

The show, soon to begin its 10th season but currently airing its third season of the All Stars iteration, may have begun as a wry parody of America’s Next Top Model, but it’s since evolved into a pop culture smash embraced not only by the LGBT community but the internet at large. (If you’ve been online at all in the last few years, chances are you’ve encountered a reaction GIF from the meme-generating show.)

But in light of what have been called transphobic comments by the television star, some in the LGBT community, including drag queens and former Drag Race contestants, are questioning the influence RuPaul wields over drag culture and wondering whether drag is evolving beyond the queen who helped pioneer it.

Chelsea Guglielmino / Getty Images

The controversy began this past weekend when RuPaul was asked by the Guardian if he would allow a transgender contestant to compete on the show if they had physically transitioned. The answer? "Probably not.”

"You can identify as a woman and say you’re transitioning, but it changes once you start changing your body," RuPaul told the newspaper.

"It takes on a different thing; it changes the whole concept of what we’re doing," he said. "We’ve had some girls who’ve had some injections in the face and maybe a little bit in the butt here and there, but they haven’t transitioned."

(RuPaul’s representatives did not respond to multiple requests for comment from BuzzFeed News. In the Guardian piece, RuPaul was out of drag, and has said in multiple interviews that he doesn’t really care what gender or pronouns people use when referring to him.)

In the interview, RuPaul noted that Peppermint, a queen who appeared on Drag Race Season 9 and who finished as first runner-up, did identify as a woman while competing in the show, but argued she hadn’t “really transitioned” because she didn’t have breast implants.

Peppermint in 2017.

Angela Weiss / AFP / Getty Images

Several former contestants on the show were quick to express their shock, hurt, and strong disagreement with RuPaul’s comments.

“My drag was born in a community full of trans women, trans men, and gender non-conforming folks doing drag,” tweeted the the show’s most recent winner, Sasha Velour. “That’s the real world of drag, like it or not."

“A queen is a queen and I’m sad that we keep having to say this,” Velour said.

Tatianna, a veteran queen from Season 2 of Drag Race who later competed on All Stars, said, "Drag is art. Drag is for everyone. Drag can be created by anyone."

Gia Gunn, another former contestant from the show's sixth season, said on Twitter, "Trans women were the first entertainers I ever saw in drag and have always been a big part of the industry."

Gunn, who came out as trans after her stint on the show, later asked in a YouTube video, “Does this mean as a trans woman I will no longer be considered for future seasons of All Stars?”

Yet some contestants also defended RuPaul. Season 8’s Derrick Barry said RuPaul should be able to set his own rules: "You may not agree with all the rules, but please be respectful to his vision for the show."

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But for many trans and gender-nonconforming people, the comments RuPaul made weren’t surprising given his past history, according to Meredith Talusan, the executive editor at Condé Nast’s LGBT vertical, Them, and a former BuzzFeed employee.

Talusan, who is trans, told BuzzFeed News that she used to watch Drag Race but stopped after RuPaul came under fire in 2014 for using the words like “tranny” and “she-male” in segments on the show.

That controversy prompted GLAAD, the LGBT media watchdog, to release a statement condemning the use of the derogatory terms. “These words only serve to dehumanize transgender people and should not be used,” GLAAD said.

After that storm, Logo, the network on which Drag Race previously aired before switching to VH1, issued an apologetic statement: “We have heard the concerns around this segment. We are committed to sharing a diverse range of trans stories across all our screens and look forward to featuring positive and groundbreaking stories of trans people in the future.”

“I just didn’t necessarily feel like he was responding to the criticism,” Talusan said of the 2014 controversy. “I didn’t really see a demonstration of real affinity with the trans community and so I guess not having felt that myself, I felt like it was a show I didn’t absolutely need in my life.”

Venus Selenite, a black trans woman writer, also said on Twitter that RuPaul’s past comments had “shown us who he is.”

“His recent comments about not allowing trans people on Drag Race are not surprising,” Selenite said. “They are harmful and wrong, but not surprising.”

Selenite, who declined an interview with BuzzFeed News, recently wrote a Twitter thread titled “#RuPaul, His Transphobic History, and Why He Is Not the Know-It-All on Drag.”

Season 9 winner Sasha Velour defended trans drag queens after RuPaul's comments.

Afp Contributor / AFP / Getty Images

Peppermint, the trans queen RuPaul mentioned in the Guardian piece, told BuzzFeed News she felt “perplexed, sad, fearful, and speechless” upon hearing the host’s words for the first time.

“My womanhood is not really up for debate and negotiation by anybody else, and my womanhood is not at stake,” Peppermint said.

Mathew Rodriguez, a staff writer at the LGBT-focused website Into, said RuPaul should not be afforded any leniency based on his status or star power.

"I don’t think that in other instances we would be like, ‘okay,’ if a show discriminated against a group of people based on their bodily reality,” he told BuzzFeed News.

For Rodriguez, RuPaul's rules about anatomy were a "masking for transmisogyny and misogyny in general,” and they also overlooked the historical contributions of trans women to drag.

"A lot of culture starts on the margins, and with drag culture, that starts with trans women of color," Rodriguez said. "The most marginalized in our community kind of helped build this art, this craft and now as it gets more mainstream they’re being kept out of the conversation.”

For instance, Marsha P. Johnson, who played an integral role in the Stonewall riots of 1969, was a black drag performer who many believe would have identified today as a trans woman (the term transgender was not in wide use in her lifetime).

The country’s leading trans rights group, the National Center for Transgender Equality, has noted the difference between people who perform drag and people who are transgender, but adds, “While some drag queens live their lives as men outside of their drag personae, people of any gender can be drag queens.”

After the outraged reaction to his comments, RuPaul eventually released a statement, saying, “I understand and regret the hurt I have caused.”

“The trans community are heroes of our shared LGBTQ movement,” he said. “You are my teachers.”

Talusan, the Them editor, said RuPaul needs to be reminded of the influence he wields as a gatekeeper in the drag community. “RuPaul isn’t necessarily mindful of just the power he has within this industry, the power that he has in terms of controlling people’s livelihoods, being able to sort of like turn people into celebrities,” she said.

“I personally know very successful trans drag queens who are just like, ‘I will just never have the opportunity to make — my career advancement, ya know, is limited, simply because of the fact that I can never be on Drag Race,’” she said.

"I think it’s a good time for us to examine our dependence upon one source for what’s supposed to be a diverse kind of flow for information and culture and art, which is drag"

For Peppermint, RuPaul’s comments should prompt some soul-searching in the LGBT community over the influence Drag Race holds over drag culture.

“I think it’s a good time for us to examine our dependence upon one source for what’s supposed to be a diverse kind of flow for information and culture and art, which is drag,” said Peppermint.

However, she stressed she didn’t think it’s time to “invalidate or demote RuPaul” after this recent mishap.

“I think we just need to look for someone else who can provide just as much influence,” she said.

More local drag queens are now making themselves heard online in the aftermath of RuPaul’s comments, according to Rodriguez.

"I've been seeing a lot of local performers speak up and say, 'Hey, this is only one facet of drag and the community's so much larger,’” he said.“So if this is something that you love, but maybe you're not totally invested in RuPaul anymore, go to your local bars, support your local queens.’"

"Drag Race is not the only way in America to consume drag," Rodriguez said.

"Drag Race is not the only way in America to consume drag."

With growing pains being a part of any successful franchise, Peppermint said she doesn’t believe this will be the nail in the coffin for the show. “I don’t think it’s going to tarnish the show or turn people off from watching it,” she said. “I think, if anything, I’m hoping it causes people from the community to rally around it and take care of this precious, this gift that we have.”

But, she cautioned, the show needs to adapt to keep up with the times.

“I think anything that’s going to survive in the future needs to be adaptable … people who don’t adapt, things that don’t adapt, they die off,” she said.

Peppermint said she hopes she won’t be the last trans queen to compete on the highly rated reality show — and RuPaul has since indicated he’s open to including trans queens. After his initial apology, the host tweeted, “In the 10 years we’ve been casting Drag Race, the only thing we've ever screened for is charisma uniqueness nerve and talent. And that will never change.” (However, the tweet was mocked by some, as rather than including a picture of the striped trans flag, RuPaul shared an image of green and yellow stripes that some were quick to note appeared to be a 1950s artwork titled “Train Landscape”).

Despite her hurt, Peppermint hopes RuPaul is able to recover from this latest blunder.

“She’s human and has the right to her opinions and she said she’s learned from this experience and it appears as though there was a little bit of an evolution or a change, at least some openness.”

“I have to take that for what it is. If she’s apologizing, I accept it. If she’s saying she’s open, I accept that,” Peppermint said.

“Everyone has room to change.”

LINK: RuPaul’s Version Of LGBT History Erases Decades Of Trans Drag Queens

Here’s What The Original Cast Of “Queer Eye” Thinks Of The Netflix Reboot

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Jai Rodriguez, Thom Filicia, Carson Kressley, Ted Allen, and Kyan Douglas at the 2003 premiere of Queer Eye.

Scott Gries / Getty Images

When Jai Rodriguez sat down recently to watch the Netflix reboot of Queer Eye, he was somehow able to totally disconnect from his role as the culture guru of the original Fab Five and just enjoy himself as a fan. “And I fangirled out — hard,” he told BuzzFeed News. “I loved it.”

For Rodriguez, watching the show also underscored just how much time has passed since the original Queer Eye for the Straight Guy first debuted. “Being out in 2003 was political. You being out was saying something,” he said. “Whereas now it’s not really as big of a deal.”

“We were talking to the guys of the new cast and they were like, ‘Were any of you married on the show?’ And we were like, ‘Are you kidding? We weren’t legally allowed!’ Such a different time,” he said.

When Queer Eye first premiered on Bravo in 2003, it was a bold new reality show featuring a cast of five cosmopolitan, openly gay men who were plucked from total obscurity and transformed into international stars. The show arrived in a United States where 59% of people opposed marriage equality and “don’t ask, don’t tell” was still the law of the land. The most prominent gay characters on television were in Will & Grace.

And, yet, Queer Eye was a phenomenon.

The show's premise was simple: Five gay men with different skill sets — ranging from cooking, to fashion, to home improvement — were tasked with sprucing up an unsuspecting and usually unkempt straight guy, taking him from drab to fab.

But Rodriguez and his fellow hosts Carson Kressley (fashion), Kyan Douglas (grooming), Thom Filicia (decor), and Ted Allen (cooking) soon became household names, helping to make over what the country understood about gay people and masculinity.

While the show irked some in the LGBT community for its reliance on the stereotype of gay men being experts in fashion and decor, it was an immediate hit for Bravo, earning the cable channel its highest ever ratings. NBC, Bravo’s parent company, soon took took notice and aired the show after Will & Grace to millions more viewers.

Queer Eye may be the talk of the water coolers in America's big cities,” the Chicago Tribune soon declared, while Canada’s Globe and Mail newspaper said it was “the most talked-about new program of the new TV season.” The New York Times credited the show with helping give rise to a “metrosexual moment,” while noting it was prominent among the gay-themed shows finding a wider audience.

Soon, the Fab Five were everywhere: They were interviewed on The Tonight Show, making over then-host Jay Leno; they attended the 2003 VMAS, watching Madonna and Britney Spears kiss on stage; Liza Minnelli presented them with the “Biggest Gay Heroes” honor at VH1’s “Big in 03" ceremony; and they were even parodied on South Park. The show was soon airing in 170 countries, picking up an Emmy in the process.

Rodriguez, Allen, Filicia, Douglas, and Kressley in 2004.

Andrew Kent / Getty Images

But when word leaked in January 2017 that Netflix was planning on rebooting the reality show almost 10 years after the original ended, many were initially reluctant to embrace it, fearful that too many years had passed and too much LGBT progress had been made to return to an outdated show.

“Netflix is reviving another small-screen relic — and, we fear, all the problematic stereotypes that come along with it,” wrote TV Line, asking whether the reboot would set gay rights back a decade. (Fittingly, just months earlier, the same fears were raised when it was announced NBC planned to reboot Will & Grace.)

Yet the Netflix reboot, which premiered last month, has proved immensely popular with fans both old and new — in part because of the changes producers made from the original. “The original show was fighting for tolerance,” says fashion expert Tan France in the reboot’s opening episode. “Our fight is for acceptance.”

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With its emphasis on self-care, body positivity, and joy, Queer Eye (“For the Straight Guy,” was cut from the title of the reboot, which features an episode with the Fab Five making over a gay man) has been popular with critics and on social media. “Queer Eye manages to combine all the brain-dead fun of the original … with an underlying and rather profound examination of masculinity,” wrote Eleanor Margolis for the New Statesman. “On top of that, it has a trait that, in these certifiably Dark Times, we can only appreciate: pure, uncut positivity.”

Members of the original cast are also fans of the changes Netflix has made to the series, including its more racially diverse cast (France is a British-Pakistani Muslim, Karamo Brown was the first openly gay black cast member on MTV’s The Real World). “I love that the cast is more diverse. I love that the people that they’re making over are more diverse,” said Douglas, the original grooming expert. “I love them. I think it’s a great show.”

They also applauded the reboot’s attempts to deal with complex subjects such as religion, race relations with police, internalized homophobia, and heteronormative views of LGBT relationships. With excitement, Rodriguez said the Queer Eye reboot is “allowed to tackle issues we were not really allowed to delve into.”

The reboot also shifts most of the action from New York to Georgia, the same state where an Augusta station manager once refused to air the original Queer Eye until 2:30 in the morning due to scenes he believed "crossed the line of decency with blunt sexual innuendo."

The new Queer Eye cast (from left: Karamo Brown (culture), Jonathan Van Ness (grooming), Tan France (fashion), Antoni Porowski (food and wine), and Bobby Berk (interior design).

Carin Baer / Carin Baer/Netflix

Rodriguez said the new show works because it’s more accessible and allows the new Fab Five to be vulnerable, rather than comic book heroes answering a clarion call as depicted in the original’s credit sequence.

“We were superheroes who were meant to be perfect. They never showed us flawed; they never showed us making mistakes,” Rodriguez said. “This new version isn't like that. Sometimes they're in tank tops and shorts. They're just relatable, they're easy breezy; they're not the gays that are better than you — they're the gays who just want to help.”

“Our show, if you remember, everything was designer, high-end,” he said. “I had to wear a blazer in every episode.”

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Both Douglas and Filicia, the original grooming and decor experts, believe the new Queer Eye has been embraced because it’s arrived at just the right time.

“It’s been a little bleak,” Filicia said. “I think there is a strong reaction to the show because it has a great lineage, a great history, and I think that people are ready to feel good about things again.”

Douglas described the reboot as an antidote to the “strange, difficult time” the country is going through.

“The underbelly of racism is so clear for anybody who decides to see it and homophobia and transphobia,” he said. “This new Queer Eye is the antidote to all that in some ways — it’s like, thank god there’s still some queer people in your living room.”

Allen, the original food expert, said both his version and the reboot help viewers see gay men as real people instead of caricatures.

“I think that when a conservative family sees this group of five happy, successful, accomplished people devoting themselves to helping somebody who's a bit of a mess, it humanizes us,” Allen said.

He and Kressley, the original fashion expert, believe that although society has evolved, and important LGBT progress has been made, the new version is just as necessary as ever.

“Even though we have made great strides in our community with marriage equality and many more advances in trans rights, at the end of the day, there is still a lot of homophobia and a lot of people that have not been exposed to gay people,” Kressley said.

“It doesn’t matter what era we live in — visibility is so important because … little queer kids need to see flamey people like me and Jonathan [Van Ness],” Kressley said. “It’s okay to be any kind of person you want to be; it’s okay to be who you are. I think that’s why it’s important that it’s back.”

Douglas, Kressley, Filicia, and Rodriguez at last month's West Hollywood premiere of the Netflix reboot.

Emma Mcintyre / Getty Images

LINK: Here's What The Original Cast Of "Queer Eye" Is Up To Now

Here's What The Original Cast Of "Queer Eye" Is Up To Now

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Spoiler: The original Fab Five are still, well, fabulous.

It's been 15 years since Queer Eye for the Straight Guy first debuted on Bravo, becoming a ratings and cultural phenomenon.

It's been 15 years since Queer Eye for the Straight Guy first debuted on Bravo, becoming a ratings and cultural phenomenon.

Peter Morgan / Reuters

“Being out in 2003 was political. You being out was saying something,” original culture expert Jai Rodriguez told BuzzFeed News. “Whereas now it’s not really as big of a deal.

“We were talking to the guys of the new cast and they were like, ‘Were any of you married on the show?’ And we were like, ‘Are you kidding? We weren’t legally allowed!’ Such a different time,” he said.

Here's what the original Fab Five have been up to since their show went off the air in 2007.

Here's what the original Fab Five have been up to since their show went off the air in 2007.

Emma Mcintyre / Getty Images

Evan Agostini / Getty Images

What he's been up to:

Since the original Queer Eye ended its run in 2007, Kressley has held a number of notable jobs, from hosting How to Look Good Naked to Dancing With the Stars to The New Celebrity Apprentice, but currently he serves as judge on the hit reality TV show RuPaul's Drag Race, which he's been a part of since the start of Season 7 in 2015.

What he thinks about the show's lasting impact:

When Queer Eye first premiered in 2003, it was unlike anything TV viewers had seen before. "To this day, it is the gift that keeps on giving," Kressley said, because he runs into young millennials who tell him how the show made coming out easier for them.

"I get goosebumps. That is a real blessing," he said. "Very few people get to work on a show that’s that impactful.

"That is the power of being out and being visible and also of being yourself," he said.

Fun fact:

Prior to landing his Queer Eye gig, Kressley worked as a stylist and creative director for Ralph Lauren. A colleague told him about the Queer Eye search and he set off, determined to audition, although he ran into a few roadblocks in the process: He couldn't find anyone to give him an exact answer on where casting was being held until finally on the last day he was given the correct information, walked into the room, and wowed the powers that be with a personality that was "exceptionally sassy that day" — the rest is history.

Scott Gries / Getty Images

What he's been up to:

For the last 10 years, Ted Allen has been the host of the hugely popular cooking show Chopped.

What he thinks about the show's lasting impact:

"When I think about having done Queer Eye, I could die tomorrow if I had just one person — and I've already had hundreds of gay people tell me it made it easier to talk about these issues with their parents, and I know that’s happened, I know that's happened a lot," Allen told BuzzFeed News.

Fun fact:

In the early '00s, Allen wrote for Esquire magazine, but when he made the decision to transition to the then-fledgling Bravo reality show that was Queer Eye, the magazine's editor-in-chief David Granger thought it was a bad idea. After the show proved a huge hit, the two met again at the 2003 VMAs and Allen says Granger told him, "Well, I guess you weren’t so insane after all."

Antoni Porowski, the food expert on the Queer Eye reboot, used to work for Allen. While some fans of the new series joke that Porowski is more of a model than a cook, Allen defended his friend's culinary skills: "You’re talking about guys who can barely make a Pop-Tart. Of course Antoni has to start with things that are fairly simple with these guys."

"You know, you can’t expect them to build a croquembouche on lesson one," he said.

Matthew Peyton / Getty Images

What he's been up to:

Most people may not realize that acting was Jai Rodriguez's actual profession prior to landing the Queer Eye job — and it's how he still makes a living now.

Rodriguez boasts an impressive résumé, which began on a high point when he starred in the Broadway production of Rent at the age of 18. After Queer Eye, Rodriguez appeared on FX's Nip/Tuck, which he landed when he moved to Los Angeles a decade ago. He has also played smaller roles on shows like Grace and Frankie, Grey's Anatomy, The Magicians, and Fox's forthcoming drama The Resident.

Rodriguez said many Queer Eye fans often can't place where they've seen him before when he pops up on a TV drama: "I think when it's not in the vein of a Queer Eye, it's really hard for people to connect the dots and be like, 'Oh, it's the same person.'"

What he thinks about the show's lasting impact:

"My biggest takeaway is that over the years thousands of people have come up to me and said they could come out and it was safe because their parents loved us," Rodriguez said.

"We all took this little show on Bravo thinking no one would ever see it. Like, we were all gonna go back to our normal jobs. It was not supposed to blow up to be this cultural phenomenon and thankfully it really did and changed the dialogue around LGBTQIA issues. We were like an accidental part of that," he said.

Fun fact:

As a means of testing if Rodriguez would be compatible with the other guys who'd officially been cast, Bravo, NBC, and the show's creative director invited him to a meeting. But there was a hidden catch: While he had been tasked with trying to "hold [his] own comedically," he didn't know the others were told to make it impossible for him to get a word in edgewise.

After leaving the meeting, he called his agent to vent his frustrations with the audition, which he thought was unprofessional. His agent responded, "Well, apparently you did better than you thought. You start Monday."

Lawrence Lucier / Getty Images

What he's been up to:

Thom Filicia has maintained his own NYC-based design company for nearly two decades, meaning he was well on his way to making a name for himself prior to the Queer Eye phenomenon. His impressive career has seen him design interiors for Jennifer Lopez and Tina Fey.

What he thinks about the show's lasting impact:

Filicia is still close with his fellow Fab Five friends and talked about his fondness for the work they accomplished through the show: "I love what we did. I love what we were able to accomplish at that time. I think it was a lot of fun. I think it was very poignant. I think that it had great spirit, a great point of view."

He also said that he's a fan of the Netflix reboot: "I like that it’s continuing, at some level, with a new group of guys, which I think is pretty cool so it has legs to move forward."

"I think it’s a really positive, wonderful thing to have been a part of," he said.

Fun fact:

According to Rodriguez, Filicia was the funniest member of the bunch. In fact, his sense of humor helped him land the Queer Eye job.

"I was stuck in an elevator with a talent scout and we were stuck in there for about an hour and it was hilarious," Filicia said. Little did he know, that random encounter would lead to the talent scout notifying him that Bravo was looking for an interior designer for an upcoming show.

While his charming and funny personality endeared him to the producers, it was his past work that ultimately landed him the job. "When I met with Bravo and the production company, I showed them my work and I showed them the projects that I was doing," he said, "and then they felt that my work was the kind of thing that made sense for what they needed."

Peter Kramer / Getty Images

What he's been up to:

In recent years, Kyan Douglas has opted to slide out of the spotlight for the most part, although he still does makeovers on the The Rachael Ray Show from time to time because, he says, "nothing makes me happier than helping somebody that they sort of self-identify being in a place where a makeover will be helpful for them.

"I love that because ... there is a wonderful synergy between physical transformation and an internal transformation," he said.

Douglas said he has grappled with the fame that came from being on the show, finding the loss of privacy uncomfortable. "Fame can be a really wonderful teacher and it was for me," he said.

"Part of what I learned from my 15 minutes is that that’s not so important for me and I’m not such a great candidate for fame. I found it intrusive," he said. "I found the loss of anonymity to be scary — to go into a room or to go outside walking on the street and noticing people staring at me, people taking pictures. It was personally kind of uncomfortable."

Douglas now lives in Tennessee on a seven-acre plot of land that he loves tending to. He also spends his time in New York City, where Ray's show is filmed, and his home state of Florida.

What he thinks about the show's lasting impact:

Douglas said he's proud to have been involved with the show, in part because of his own struggles as a queer kid who was "scared to walk to the bus stop or get off the bus after school because I was going to be picked on."

"[I] got to, in some ways, forward the conversation with Queer Eye and that feels wonderful," he said.

"I loved doing Queer Eye," Douglas said. "It was a fun experience, a game-changer, a life-changer, and it gave me so much of what I thought I wanted when I was in my early thirties, all that sort of stuff that we’re taught we’re supposed to go after in life."

Fun fact:

Douglas's name at birth was Hugh Edward Douglas Jr., but he told BuzzFeed News that he didn't really care for it, often going by Eddie or Edward growing up, but those didn't feel quite right to him either.

When Douglas was 23, the name Kyan came to him after he'd participated in an Inipi prayer, and ever since then it stuck.

LINK: Here’s What The Original Cast Of “Queer Eye” Thinks Of The Netflix Reboot


Matt Bomer And Other Gay Celebrities Have Been Buying Out "Love, Simon" Screenings For Their Hometowns

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Even Love, Simon director Greg Berlanti has gotten in on the gesture.

Love, Simon has meant many things for many people, but for prominent gay celebrities like Matt Bomer, the groundbreaking gay YA love story has compelled them to share the feeling of representation with audiences in their hometowns.

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The Magic Mike: XXL actor bought out an upcoming Sunday screening of Love, Simon in his hometown of Spring, Texas.

Via Twitter: @tyleroakley

Pentatonix's Scott Hoying and Mitch Grassi, also known as Superfruit, add that Love, Simon "really helped us understand just how much we missed out by not having it when we were growing up."

Hoying and Grassi have bought out a theater in their hometown of Arlington, Texas for a Saturday screening of Love, Simon.

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Via Twitter: @JoeyGraceffa

Via Twitter: @elviagarcia_

Via Twitter: @kirstin

LINK: The Queer Actor At The Heart Of “Love, Simon”

LINK: 4 Things You Need To Know About "Love, Simon"

Here’s All The Funniest And, Also, Most Brutally Honest Twitter Reactions To Christina Aguilera's Appearance On The Season Premiere Of "RuPaul's Drag Race"

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“It’s so refreshing to see Christina Aguilera on TV, not holding a box of Oreos.”

So, as you probably know by now, Christina Aguilera made a truly iconic appearance as a guest judge on the premiere of RuPaul's Drag Race Season 10 last night, as well as on Untucked.

So, as you probably know by now, Christina Aguilera made a truly iconic appearance as a guest judge on the premiere of RuPaul's Drag Race Season 10 last night, as well as on Untucked.

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And, well, of course, Twitter was there to react to all of her quotable and meme-worthy moments.

And, well, of course, Twitter was there to react to all of her quotable and meme-worthy moments.

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Why Is "Angels In America" Still The Most Prominent Story Being Told About AIDS?

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The most dramatic story I know about AIDS in America is not one I’ve seen played out on a theater stage. Instead, that story was outlined in a 2016 in Centers for Disease Control report: One of every two black men who have sex with men in the United States are projected to become HIV-positive in their lifetimes, even though they have “fewer partners and lower rates of recreational drug use than other gay men.”

The most dramatic line I know about AIDS in America was not written by a playwright, but by New York Times magazine journalist Linda Villarosa. According to a story she wrote last year: “If gay and bisexual African-American men made up a country, its rate would surpass ... all other nations” on earth.

Graywolf Press

So many HIV/AIDS narratives written by writers working in poetry, journalism, history, and drama today — from Cathy Cohen’s Boundaries of Blackness to E. Patrick Johnson’s Sweet Tea, to Kevin Mumford’s Not Straight, Not White to the poems of Danez Smith and Justin Phillip Reed — share something with that morbid CDC statistic and Villarosa’s grim observation. These stories place black people at the heart of the American AIDS story, something the most celebrated play about AIDS, Tony Kushner’s Angels in America, fails to do.

I was a teenager laying on the floor of my parents’ suburban home watching the 1993 Tony Awards when a snippet of that mystical play first caught my attention. I didn’t yet clearly understand I was gay, but I was often cruising for things that were kinda gay though not too gay. Since my mom loved angels and our home was filled with representations of them, my obsession with a play about them wasn’t too suspect.

And obsessed I became. Though I couldn’t afford to see it when it came to Los Angeles, I bought a copy of Angels in America Part One: Millennium Approaches as soon it was published and devoured it in a single reading. Perusing my tattered copy, the underlined lines seem so juvenile and corny to me now, but they appealed to my 16-year-old soul.

I didn’t get to see Angels dramatized until Mike Nichols’ 2003 HBO film, a year in which my father died, I finally understood myself to be gay, and I sought guidance from angels more than ever. But I didn’t get to see Angels fully mounted onstage until I saw it in previews on Broadway in February, a quarter century after I’d first read it, in a production from England’s National Theater directed by Marianne Elliott.

The play works in how funny it is and — when the Angel is onstage — how magical it can be. Many of the laugh lines are still carved into my brain. Where it doesn’t work, however, is in its terrible racial politics, which are so egregious I was ashamed I hadn’t noticed them sooner. But that’s the trouble with Angels: It’s so solemnly self-important, has been so validated as a Very Important AIDS Story, and is so bombastically long, that it’s hard for viewers to see how conservative and basic it often is.

In its nearly eight-hour running time, there are only two nonwhite characters who are typically played by the same black actor: a Magical Negro named “Mr. Lies” (a travel agent who transports crazy white people during their hallucinations) and an equally Magical Negro nurse named Norman Arriaga — known to his friends as Belize — who is there to clean up the emotional mess and literal blood of the otherwise all-white cast.

From left: Prior (Andrew Garfield) and Belize (Nathan Stewart-Jarrett) and Harper Pitt (Denise Gough) and "Mr. Lies" (Nathan Stewart-Jarrett) in Angels in America: Millennium Approaches on Broadway, 2018.

Brinkhoff-moegenburg

Just as when it debuted, much of the buzz around Angels on Broadway is about how relevant Kushner’s parable is to contemporary America. In many ways, the nation that elected Trump to “Make America Great Again” isn’t so politically different from the Reagan-era “Morning in America” depicted in Angels decades ago. New Deal liberalism is still under assault, AIDS is still lethally stigmatized, and much of the US still views itself in relation to a cartoonish idea about Russia.

But what has definitely changed is me. I’m no longer an isolated queer child overwhelmed by bombast and grateful for almost any queer story: I’m a 40-year-old AIDS researcher who understands that Angels in America is not a particularly interesting or honest representation of those early years of the plague. Indeed, there have been many better representations of AIDS in America for decades now, but none have achieved canonization quite like Angels has. And while Angels doesn’t purport to be history as such — its subtitle is “a gay fantasia on national themes,” after all — it has an outsize cultural role in how Americans imagine AIDS as Gone With the Wind had for antebellum slavery and Black Panther has recently had for imagining Africa.

For this reason, it’s important to ask who gets to tell mainstream AIDS stories in America, and to consider why this one — about white, gay men who don’t really engage in any political resistance — keeps getting retold.

Donald Trump and Roy Cohn.

Bettmann Archive

Roy Cohn — especially as portrayed by Nathan Lane in relation to lanky, “All American” Lee Pace as Joe — is a monster: a fat, diseased, crude, cursing Jewish lawyer who buggers on the down-low. He tries to corrupt Joe, who stands in for innocent American white youth in the form of a guilt-ridden Mormon trawling for dick behind his wife’s back. It is doubly ironic that Roy, who dies of AIDS, supported Reagan in the play (who ignored AIDS for so long) and mentored Trump in real life (who ended the Office of National AIDS policy and routinely insults Haitians regarding AIDS).

Roy’s and Joe’s daddy/son relationship feels more honest than Angels’ main lovers’. When Prior (Andrew Garfield) tells Louis he has AIDS, Louis (James McArdle) abandons him; Louis runs into the arms of Cohn’s lover Joe, while Prior takes comfort in the arms of Joe’s mother Hannah (Susan Brown). As ACT UP Oral History Project co-creator Sarah Schulman has pointed out, this is antithetical to what actually happened when AIDS became undeniable in New York: Queers took care of one another while their straight families of origin largely abandoned them.

Kushner subjects us to gay abandonment and straight salvation.

Deep into Part Two: Perestroika, Prior acknowledges this: “There are thousands of gay men in New York City with AIDS and nearly every one of them is being taken care of by a...friend or by...a lover...Everyone got that, except, me. I got you.” But weirdly, we don’t see this, nor any form of queer political resistance happening in the America of Angels, for Kushner subjects us to gay abandonment and straight salvation.

But what’s really unforgivable are Angel’s racial politics. In an epically long play about AIDS, a single black actor portrays two small characters as the emotional mule for not just all the white characters, but for the white playwright and audience, too. Though the actors who play Mr. Lies and Belize do wonderful things (Nathan Stewart-Jarrett is stunning in the current production, as was Jeffrey Wright in the film), the role is that of a Magical Negro: a male mammy who exists primarily to develop white characters emotionally and enlighten white audiences.

Roy (Nathan Lane) and Belize (Nathan Stewart-Jarrett) in Angels in America:
Perestroika
on Broadway, 2018.

Brinkhoff-moegenburg

Cohn calls Belize a “nigger” and that’s how he’s treated by everyone in Angels. When he’s on duty as a nurse, Belize takes physical care of Roy. When he’s off duty, Belize takes emotional care of Prior (when Louis leaves him) and of Louis (when he feels guilty for leaving Prior) and (as Mr. Lies) of Denise Gough’s Harper. When Roy bled all over the stage in the play’s current iteration and I wondered how a stagehand would clean it up, I rolled my eyes when Belize did it — turning the sole black actor into the janitor.

But the scene that made me most uncomfortable is when Belize and Louis are on a bench and Louis is talking — and talking, and talking, ejaculating a monologue of bullshit at Belize while the black character throws shade in looks. When I saw it, the overwhelmingly white audience found this hilarious. But if you’re a queer of color and have ever been spoken to in this way, you don’t find Louis very funny.

Louis (James McArdle) and Belize (Nathan Stewart-Jarrett) in Angels in America: Millennium Approaches on Broadway, 2018.

Brinkhoff-moegenburg

Kushner’s “joke” here is supposedly how funny it is when clueless white liberals talk over black people. But this is only funny to white liberals. Angels is coming back on the heels of the critical success of playwright Martin McDonagh’s film Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, which makes a similar mistake in having its heroine, Mildred Hayes (Frances McDormand), use the phrase “nigger torturer” repeatedly for comic effect — ostensibly to show her support for black victims of police violence? — while the movie turns the one black woman in the movie into a near-mute prop.

Belize isn’t exactly a prop, and he speaks up about his anger, complaining he’s “trapped in a world of white people.” In a 2016 Slate oral history, actor Jeffrey Wright said: “Belize’s place there is not comic relief, although he’s witty and all of that.” The African-American director of the original Broadway production, George C. Wolfe, said that “Belize was as smart and had just as aggressive a degree of intellectual rigor as Louis did,” which was “important to me, because I didn’t just want a black gay clown.”

Jeffrey Wright in the 2003 screen version of Angels In America.

HBO / Kobal / REX / Shutterstock

Belize may not be a clown, but he certainly functions as comic relief for the audience. And what’s more, because Kushner segregates him in a lily-white world; he exists more for the emotional development of the white characters than he does for his own. Belize says, “I have a man, uptown,” but we never see Belize’s man and know nothing about him nor any of Belize’s family. In Angels, Jewish characters have conversations with other Jews, Mormon characters have conversations with other Mormons, but the black characters only talk to white people. The result? Angels in America gives the impression that black American queerness only exists in relation to white, gay men.

And this representation is egregious, given how HIV/AIDS disproportionately slaughtered — and continues to slaughter — black people in America. In any of the recent print or podcast interviews with Kushner, I haven’t heard him asked about race. But a decade ago, he gave a very revealing answer to New York magazine about what he thought “may be the best scene in the play — we call it the ‘Negro Nightmare’ scene,” in which Belize tells Roy about his vision of Heaven. “I’d remembered a dream I had after my grandfather died. He was angry at me about being gay, and then this black man showed up and said, ‘I am the Black Other.’ So I wrote it after we started rehearsals.” Kushner literally dreamt of othering black people, the black director Wolfe liked it, and it made it into the play.

I happened to see Angels the same week I read Keith Murphy’s searing eight-subject profile on “what happened to those lone, ‘token’ black actors?” from ’90s TV shows. Since then, I’ve been considering how seeing a single black character (such as Nikki on Dawson’s Creek or Belize in Angels) exist in a world where they’re wholly dependent on white people can be damaging to both actors and viewers. Isolated black characters tell audiences black people can’t find love from each other, but only from white people.

Angels in America gives the impression that black American queerness only exists in relation to white, gay men.

The same white-centered stories keep getting amplified and rewarded, even though work which centers on black people and AIDS is not new. Marlon Riggs’ 1989 film Tongues Untied — which uses Joseph Beam’s quote “Black men loving Black men is the revolutionary act” as a refrain — premiered as Kushner was developing Angels. The movie was produced for public TV with a seemingly modest budget. Angels, however — which was produced for HBO with a $60 million budget — is widely taught in schools, and has been revived in major productions around the world. Consequently, most of the real black men in Tongues Untied who died of AIDS (like Riggs, Beam, and Essex Hemphill) are far less widely known than the fictional white characters in Angels.

Narratives about gay rights that have been embraced in recent years — the Broadway production and HBO film of Larry Kramer’s The Normal Heart, the many stage productions and HBO film of The Laramie Project (which I crewed on), HBO’s The Case Against 8, and the entire How to Survive a Plague franchise — all center white, gay men like Angels does. And they do so by framing white, gay men as both the most extreme victims and valiant heroes in fighting discrimination in America all while sidelining or ignoring black voices.

Tongues Untied

Courtesy of Signifyin' Works and Frameline Distribution / Via frameline.org

I had many reservations about the portrayal of humans (particularly the women, who are caricatures) in this new production, but I was also reminded of the one truly queer thing I loved about it. Magically performed in the current production by Amanda Lawrence and six puppeteering “angel shadows,” the Angel is neither god nor human. And while vaguely gendered as female, the Angel isn’t really a binary gender. This is the most genderqueer element of the play — something I subconsciously sensed as a younger reader but certainly couldn’t really articulate. (If written today, it would make sense for the Angel to use they/them pronouns.)

But the play’s queerest element still can’t make up for how there isn’t a multiplicity of people of color (or experiences). Art can’t responsibly tell the story of America only through the experiences of white people, nor can it tell the story of AIDS without dramatizing the specific horrors it has had on the black community — and yet, Angels does both. Because not unlike how it imagines heaven to be a “city much like San Francisco” — a city that has had an alarming decline in its black population in recent decades — Angels in America gentrifies blackness out of the American AIDS story. ●


Steven W. Thrasher, a BuzzFeed contributor, is a doctoral candidate in American Studies at New York University.

I Thought Going To Korea Would Help Me Find Home

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Hannah K. Lee for BuzzFeed News

You can trace my lineage when I speak Korean. My Korean teachers could hear the American in the rounded vowels and slurred consonants, and in the wild and lyrical intonations they could detect southern blood, and would ask, without fail, if my parents were from Gyeongsang-do, a province southeast of Seoul. For months, each of them tried — and failed — to drill the accent out of me and get me to mimic the Seoul accent: clipped, with a steady, almost monotone texture.

The first time I went to Seoul was about a decade ago. It was the beginning of summer, and I spent the first month holed up in a one-room down the hill from where I was taking Korean language classes. I was 23, and I had decided to come for the summer until I figured out what I was doing with my life. I was exhausted, but I didn’t know that then. What I knew was that I was depressed, and that I could not continue to live in San Francisco or New York or anywhere else in America so I might as well leave. All told, I ended up staying for almost three years.

The students I fell in with at the language institute were young, out of college, still in college, peripatetic men and women, some in a midlife crisis, others in a quarterlife one. We were lost, so we came here: half-Koreans, adoptees, one-and-a-half, second, and third generation Korean-Americans — gyopos — from Tulsa, Buenos Aires, Yokohama, Munich. We didn’t have much in common with one another, other than the fact that we were still figuring out our shit and nobody was in a rush to get a real job.

They were drinking friends, and I had a million of them.

We spent the day doing grammar exercises and our nights barhopping around Sinchon, a college neighborhood at the nexus of three major universities. At night the neon lights turned on and the pavement would be papered with flyers advertising kissing rooms and bottle specials. Drunk kids would take turns kicking padded soccer balls on the street. Usually we would start off at a barbecue place and get $3 servings of pork belly and soju, the national liquor that either tastes like sweet vodka or rubbing alcohol, depending on your mood. I learned a catalog of drinking games that started with either counting or pointing, but always ended with shots of soju perfunctorily plopped into mugs of cheap, clear beer.

We were lost so we came here.

I remember one winter night we went to this dimly lit bar in a half basement, where one of the girls was friends with the bartender, whom she called Justin oppa — older brother. Justin oppa practiced tricks, spinning empty tequila bottles around his long forearms and back. On special occasions, he would light a drink on fire.

A Korean-American girl, who had a face like a Cheshire cat but whose name I can’t remember, jerked her head and shouted, "Look at the LBHs!"

"What?" I asked.

"The LBHs!"

"What's that?" I shouted back. I followed her gaze to a table of four white men with fat stomachs and shit-eating grins. They had a familiar look in their eyes as they scanned the bar.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Losers Back Home!" She laughed. I threw my head back and laughed with her.

In that first year I took long walks around the city. I would get on the subway, a clean, almost noiseless contraption that hummed you to places. I let it take me to theater districts and street stalls, brightly lit cafés, galleries, and museums. I liked how I could slip into the scenery and stay still. The seasons sank into one another. For the first time it was quiet — there wasn’t that low-grade buzzing that happened when I would walk around a mall in Tampa or the streets of Brooklyn.

During the winter break in between quarters, I decided to work on an apple orchard. The farmer couple that ran it picked me up the night before to go camping underneath a magnificent sheath of ice, which they would climb with their friends. When we arrived at the campsite, some of their friends’ children had been eagerly awaiting “the foreigner,” and were appropriately disappointed when they saw me. “You’re not American!” they chirped. “You just studied in the States as an exchange student!” It is an odd sensation of displacement, when the narrative context is suddenly reversed: I was a foreigner who looked native.

After the children had been put to bed, the adults huddled around the fire, roasting pork belly and shooting soju from paper cups. “I know you were born in the United States,” one man said to me while chewing on a piece of gristle, “but you will always be Korean.”

I was a foreigner who looked native.

In the spring I joined a gay men’s tennis group, made up mostly of white collar workers in their thirties and forties, that met every Sunday around noon on clay courts on the north bank of the Han River. I was the youngest, the maknae, with a shoddy forehand but a curiously dependable backhand. We played tennis for five or six hours, sliding back and forth on the baked clay until our legs were streaked with orange dirt. Around sunset we would wash up at the faucets outside and then head to a restaurant and share big, satisfying pots of braised pork spine topped with crushed perilla seeds. Afterward, I would go to Jongno, a quiet neighborhood in the heart of Seoul for a second round at a pojangmacha, a drinking tent, with another one of the members, H, where we would drink until dawn.

The pojangmacha we went to reminded H of home: Jeju Island, a rocky crag off the southern coast of the peninsula where they have their own dialect and the women are famous for harvesting abalone and sea cucumbers from the ocean. The pojangmacha was one of many that lined the street: big red tarps with strings of light bulbs, a cart full of fresh seafood and meat, and plastic tables scattered around it. The ahjumma, a woman who moved from Jeju, had run the tent since the ’80s. She set up each day around 7 p.m., and packed up almost 12 hours later at the first signs of sunlight. She called me “Teacher” and him “Osaka,” because he had moved there when he was an adolescent. We saw our love for Korea reflected in each other — as a place of infinite missed possibilities.

The food was incredible. Everything was cooked to order — squid marinated in a vinegary red pepper sauce doused with sesame seeds, fish bursting with roe that you ate head to tail, and freshly steamed cockles. Sometimes she would tell you what to get. And always, she would fry up some eggs and give them to you on the side — even if you didn’t ask.

On some nights, if you were eyeing someone at a nearby table, you could tell her, and she would take a temperature of the situation and maybe urge all of you to sit together. If you were feeling morose about marriage pressures, she’d commiserate with a beer and give you advice. Sometimes she would tell you to make your parents happy and settle down, have kids. Forget about this life.

In the winter, she lit gas heaters, Velcroed the plastic sides, and weighed them down with jugs of water. Cold winds buffeted against the tarp, as steam collected on the plastic inside. Men came in groups of two, four, six, sometimes nine and ten, huddling around the little blue, plastic tables, raising their glasses to one another. Gay men who wanted nothing more than to be in the company of their kind, even for just a moment, to loosen the knots at their throats and say, let us drink to this and that and one another. I was there too, raising my glass and calling them older brother, friend, lover, until daybreak.

How can I describe what it feels like to be in a place where you belong?

It sounds like a sigh. It tastes like electricity.

It wasn’t until I had come out as gay and moved to New York City from Florida for college that I became sharply aware of my race — that I was Asian-American and therefore undesirable. I had imagined New York to be a gay utopia, but it was there, when I wanted to kiss someone or go on a date or went to gay clubs, that I felt it most. This rupture. A glass wall. Forever a spectator and never a participant. My last year in college, I discovered for the first time that I found another gay Asian man attractive. At a party, he told me that he liked my writing. I thanked him and told him I thought he was cute. “I don’t date other Asians,” he spat out, as though unspooling venom. I said nothing, because I understood that we had both internalized racism in ways beyond our understanding.

To come of age as a gay man in America necessitates identifying with whiteness and constantly measuring yourself against it. While overt racism of the “No fats, no femmes, no Asians” variety has (mostly) gone underground, it’s still the operating logic of desire even when there are no white men present. The real tragedy though is how it changes you: We shape ourselves around those expectations, whether it’s around the ideal — masculine, fit, wealthy — or around what they expect you to be: diminutive, pleasing, wanting. Sometimes you’re the exception, the one plucked out of the pile. The one not like the others. Both ways of being though, feel like states of disavowal.

To come of age as a gay man in America necessitates identifying with whiteness and constantly measuring yourself against it.

In The Argonauts, Maggie Nelson writes about how she wishes she could imagine female sexuality that hadn’t been tainted by sexual violence. “I don’t even want to talk about ‘female sexuality’ until there is a control group,” she writes. “And there never will be.” In Seoul, that’s what I believed I could have. I was living in an alternate universe where I could imagine, scene by scene, a parallel history. In the spring, I would watch packs of high schoolers in their uniforms bombarding a fried chicken stand after school. I pictured myself among them, 16 years old, with dark navy pants growing short for my legs. He would have the childhood I believed I should have had. He would grow up confident — a bright young man. He would never question his place in the world, and would be utterly mystified if someone tried to explain that experiencing racism wasn’t just a slur, but also a feeling of isolation, in which you believe yourself to be ahistorical, a person without a people.

I believe the reason why so many Korean-Americans stay in Korea, long past when it’s good, is because that particularity of being a racial minority, which had been such a burden throughout our lives, had become a relative privilege. Seoul is a very easy place to live as an American. You can make a decent living teaching English; no experience required. A college degree, although pro forma, is easily avoided. Despite — or perhaps, because of — Korea’s recent history of utter destitution, it is a place where speaking English or being white still has real, material benefits. There lingers a strange mixture of awe and bitterness toward white people. Consequently, Seoul is a city filled with expats who do not necessarily love the city, but rather, love what it can do for them. They love who they can become.

I was living the life I thought I had missed out on, with all of its attendant fun, power, and pleasure. I was ravenous for it, and believed there would be no consequences. I drank. I was good at it and every night was an exhibition of will. Once I downed an entire bottle of soju in a single shot on a dare. You would be a good businessman here men said, slapping my back. I grinned and poured everyone another round and told them to drink. I invited myself to tables of strangers, and sometimes I slept with them. I flirted with women. I flirted with married men. I could be anything I wanted, because for the first time, I felt that I could.

This life, too, was a masquerade. One gyopo friend from Texas said that Korea was like quicksand, and the more you struggled to leave, the more the country would suck you in. I felt that pull, how I could become lulled into this false sense of self. I was Korean-American, and felt I had to stake my claim back home in America. This was a moment to exist in the hyphenate, in the breath between two worlds.

I went back to Seoul again early this January on assignment to profile BTS, who had, without even trying, become the most successful K-pop group in America. On the weekend, I was at a loss over what to do with myself. I was so used to living in Seoul that I didn’t know how to pass through as a tourist. I went back to my favorite places and found that many of them were still there — the Korean-Japanese café with its beautiful wooden bar and fermentation projects, the barbecue pork place that sourced their meat from black pigs from Jeju Island, and the North Korean naengmyeon restaurant that made their buckwheat noodles from scratch.

Of course, I went back to the pojangmacha too, the one called Jeju Island, to see if it was still there. My friend warned me that the neighborhood of Jongno had changed rapidly in the past few years. The area had become trendy, and the hidden, sometimes seedy bars, had been replaced by sleek storefronts for expensive restaurants and tasteful boutiques. That Saturday night, straight couples crowded the tiny walkways in long coats waiting for tables and commenting on how they never knew such a cute place existed.

I was so used to living in Seoul that I didn’t know how to pass through as a tourist.

We got to the pojangmacha a little early. The ahjumma took a beat to remember me, but called me “Teacher” when she did. I told her she looked great, and she laughed that she had gotten a little tuck. I looked around at the tent, and everything looked the same, but the clientele had changed. It had become gentrified in all meanings of the word; it was a gay neighborhood that had receded a little further back into the closet. My friend told me that local business owners had formed a revitalization committee that deliberately kept gay people out. The transformation was stark and violent.

I got the cockles and the shishamo, and we quietly sipped on soju. It tasted like gasoline. I thought back to the last night I had spent in Seoul in this same pojangmacha, crying with friends over scallops and soju. It was the end of summer and the weather was cool and crisp like a melon split open. The ahjumma couldn’t believe that I was leaving. It was a slow night, and she was drunk after a few beers and burned our eggs and gave them to another table. She called me a bitch when I told her I was leaving for the States the next day.

There’s a Korean word jung that’s translated as “feeling,” “heart,” or “sentiment.” It has no English equivalent. The Chinese character has two parts: one that means heart, and the other that means the color blue or green, colors that have no distinction in Korean. It’s the color of youth. It’s the feeling you have when you meet someone for the first time, but remember them, as though from a past life, and it’s the thing that bunches up in your throat, day by day, so that when it disappears, it takes something of yourself. It’s the thing that makes you hold on when you should let go. Koreans often say that love is tragic, but jung is lethal.

The ahjumma demanded to know when I would come back to Korea. I didn’t know, I said, but I promised that I would. ●

E. Alex Jung is a staff writer at New York Magazine/Vulture.

This essay is part of a series of stories about travel.

This essay is part of a series of stories about travel.

BuzzFeed News


Christina Aguilera Surprising Farrah Moan Is The Purest Thing You'll See Today

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The inevitable doppelgänger meet up happened!!!

So, as you probably know by now, RuPaul's Drag Race had a truly iconic gag during its season premiere when Ru introduced Christina Aguilera as Season 9 queen Farrah Moan.

So, as you probably know by now, RuPaul's Drag Race had a truly iconic gag during its season premiere when Ru introduced Christina Aguilera as Season 9 queen Farrah Moan.

Of course, the comparison between the two has been a running joke since last year, when a fashion site confused Farrah for Xtina.

VH1

And Xtina totally delivered it, giving a Snatch Game-worthy impersonation of Farrah.

And Xtina totally delivered it, giving a Snatch Game-worthy impersonation of Farrah.

VH1

Well, it turns out Xtina did more than just pay homage to Farrah, she also surprised her backstage on the set of Untucked and it was truly a sweet moment:

youtube.com

And Farrah was genuinely shook to meet her idol:

And Farrah was genuinely shook to meet her idol:

World of Wonder/ youtube.com

But, perhaps the best moment was when Farrah told Xtina how much her music meant to her and why she connected to it.

But, perhaps the best moment was when Farrah told Xtina how much her music meant to her and why she connected to it.

World of Wonder/ youtube.com

And Xtina complemented Farrah back, calling her an inspiration.

And Xtina complemented Farrah back, calling her an inspiration.

World of Wonder/ youtube.com

All I can say is, I am glad we finally had this inevitable meet up happen. Now, Xtina drop that album!!!

All I can say is, I am glad we finally had this inevitable meet up happen. Now, Xtina drop that album!!!

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