In Adrian Piper’s
seminal essay, “Passing for White, Passing for Black” (link below – highly recommended)
from 1991, she explores, as she does in her art works, the ethics of “passing.”
Passing means to be identified by others to be part of a majority with
systematic political, social, or economic power while truly belonging to, or
identifying with a minority or oppressed group. Piper’s work focuses on, as the
title suggests, the implications of passing as white, whether she owes it to
herself to benefit from a system that might otherwise oppress her, or to remain
in solidarity with her ethnic background and face the consequences of that
identity.
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| Piper, Mythic Being series, 1975 |
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| Piper, Mythic Being series, 1973 |
I identify as queer, sometimes bi [a choice I will discuss
more in a future post] because I am attracted to, emotionally and physically,
to men and women. In some ways, I embody the stereotypes of a queer woman, from
my haircut choice to my clothing choices, except for one major exception – I am
in a committed, long-term relationship with a man. When we walk down the street
we can hold hands without fear; we receive accepting looks from almost everyone
(we are still both people of color, so there are always some objectors) and,
for all intents and purposes, I receive the full benefits of passing as
straight.
People are often shocked when I tell them because they
either didn't think I “look bi” (am I missing a mandatory forehead tattoo or
something?) or they immediately say, “but you have a boyfriend.” The first
comment is always just a bit frustrating; queer people should not have to
identify themselves via physical coding unless they make that choice because it
is right for them. I also find it funny that people seem to believe that queer
women have some genetic code that makes them into rabid zombies until they don
a short haircut, a military vest and listen to Dar Williams (I am “guilty” of
all of these things – lock me up in awesome-prison, officer).
The second one, I find much more troubling. This comic from
one of my absolute favorite Instagrammers, Chris Hallbeck (@chrishallbeck) sums
it up pretty wonderfully.
My sexuality does not pause when I am single; it is a lived
experience, a subjecthood I embody and identify with every day. Because someone
else does not experience me as queer, does not mean I am any less so. And
though I am now in a socially accepted relationship, I have experienced my fair
share of prejudice, ignorant comments, and the feeling Piper explains so well
of being excruciatingly aware of your Otherness in a room full of people. I am
always aware that it is by force of chance that I am allowed to engage with
hetero-privilege in this way and that, should I have made a different decision,
my life would be exponentially more difficult, more dangerous.
Of course this does not mean I love my boyfriend any less –
he’s a truly wonderful man and I love him to pieces. Which is why it only
frustrates me that our relationship is both questioned by others when made
aware of my queerness and thrown into ethical tension by the identities society
posits on both of us. I often feel like a bad queer woman, feminist and person
for getting privilege I somehow feel I don’t deserve, for being made part of a club
I never wanted to join. I wonder if people listen to me because they make
assumptions about my orientation, whether they will still listen when they
know. My attempts to subvert the system and challenge beliefs are always offset
by my gained advantages from it. While it is (duh) wonderful to love without
fear, I am constantly and acutely aware of those who cannot, of the system of
power I am benefiting from that harms people I love, that would turn on me in
a second.
This all lives in stark contrast to the fact that I
experience real oppression – I am subjected to lewd sexualization when I say I
am bi; my sexuality, what should be a source of pleasure and joy, has, especially
when I was younger and not out to myself or others, played a real part in my
anxiety and depression. I have felt threatened, Othered, queered, feared, sad,
alone. This makes my “privilege” seem rather hollow, a thin veneer of
acceptance over a terrible relationship.
I have no clear-cut answer. I stay true to myself and hope
that that is enough. I have learned, through force of will, not to shy away
from The Question, to answer it clearly, concisely and without apology. I
answer further questions with as much patience as I think they deserve. I
openly voice my opinions on LGBTQI matters (to the point of being unabashedly that kid in every room I enter). I
remain an active part of the queer community and raise awareness and knowledge
in any way I can. And though none of this will ever be enough, I live and act
and fight in hopes of making a world where I have no more privilege than any
openly, visibly queer, gay or trans couples or any less than a straight couple,
where I do not have to pass to live and love freely. It’s the least I can do.
Links:
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