A Case for the Validity of Exclusionary Spaces

Recently, I posted an article arguing that bachelorette parties should not be tolerated in gay bars. It quickly met a familiar kind of neo-liberal resistance: namely that exclusion of any kind is unfair, unjust and to be avoided at all costs. Or, in other words, can't we all just get along? 

As far as I'm concerned, there is validity in preserving spaces for marginalized groups that explicitly exclude dominant groups. There is NOT validity in preserving spaces for dominant groups that exclude marginalized groups. (Just as a note, I'm focusing on LGBT spaces for the purpose of this entry, but I feel the argument can/should be applied to other marginalized experiences).

First off, I am not suggesting that all spaces should be exclusionary all the time -- of course it's wonderful that there are spaces that are "equally accessible" to everyone. Absolutely, I enjoy hanging out with straight people in spaces where we can all feel comfortable. And yes, I do think it's great to open dialogue and encourage interaction between, among and within all kinds of different people, perspectives and viewpoints. This is an essential component for learning, growing and establishing new ideas about the world.

But it is not "The Solution We Should Be Working Towards".

Why? Simple: We do not live in an egalitarian society. Power hierarchies exist, and these dynamics are easily and often insidiously replicated, even in spaces that are purportedly "inclusive". From the definition of the values of the space to who is given authority within them, power is present in various subtle but visible ways. And more often than not, what is established falls along the same predictable lines of valuation/devaluation that infiltrates dominant institutions. I can't speak for everyone, but I personally would feel a lot less comfortable voguing in a mixed bar than an explicitly gay one. The fact is that inclusive spaces are usually more inclusive of "the right kind" of minority, i.e. the one that plays by more normative rules.

So, there is something to be said for the comfort of a space that precludes a certain kind of predictable power dynamic. For one, it removes the often-frustrating burden of representation, when marginalized group members are asked to speak for or explain their larger group ("why do gay people care so much about getting married?", "why do you think gay men are more promiscuous?" "Why are lesbians so angry all the time?").  It can also create conditions that allows for a more nuanced investigation of a particular perspective. This raises the overall discourse and allows for more complex understandings of important sociopolitical issues, particularly when these ideas are eventually put in conversation with other formulations on the same topic.

Exclusionary spaces are also particularly important in cases where dominant institutions make no effort to create them, or indeed actively resist their creation. Consider, for instance, the resistance to the establishment of LGBT resources in many high schools, or the exclusion of trans* people in the vast majority of both heterosexual and LGB spaces. The point is to empower voices that go largely ignored, even violently opposed, in other spaces. It would be great if all voices held equal weight in all spaces, but that's simply not the case. The painful truth is that some people need exclusionary spaces to feel safe, respected and heard.

This is a key point of differentiation, and why I have no patience for arguments like "no one could get away with excluding gay people from straight bars". Straight people (as a group) don't need an explicit safe space to be heard because they have no corresponding lack of access, support or visibility to justify the exclusion. This is because every space that isn't explicitly gay is assumed to be heterosexual. Invisibility has been a primary historical tool in LGBT disenfranchisement and oppression. To overlook this is to deny the very real struggle of "coming out", the pain and terror that invisibility has inflicted on LGBT people for decades, and the political importance of stating our existence. To this day, the pressure of the heterosexual assumption alone is enough to cause many LGBT people to inhibit expressions of affection, question their dress, change their posture, worry about their vocal inflection, doubt their competency, accept daily expressions of prejudice, feel isolated, fear each other, and kill themselves. So yes, we need a space that states simply and defiantly, "we exist."

I understand that many allies feel that this reinforces separatist notions of identity. Allies deserve to be celebrated and play crucial roles in all progress and social change. However, allies do not experience oppression and marginalization in the same way as the group they support. This isn't a good or a bad thing, but it does means that there's certain areas of experience that are inaccessible to allies, and those areas deserve exploration just as much as our points of human commonality do. Ideally, both ally-inclusive and -exclusive spaces can exist, because they serve different functions.

Finally, I am of course aware that problematic hierarchies are established even within these exclusionary spaces.  This legitimates the need for other exclusionary spaces, which will legitimate the need for still others. That's a good thing...the more spaces created, the better. And again, let me reiterate that this should always operate in balance with the opening up of established spaces and the creation of spaces that promote inclusion. I simply resist the idea that the latter is better, or negates the need for the former. Ignoring power paints a rosy picture, but not a very realistic one.

"It Gets Better" and the Fragile Fag

This week, in celebration of National Coming Out Day, MTV and Logo will air an hour-long follow-up to its February "It Gets Better" special, and I will groan in irritation.  

Ever since it’s inception in 2010, I’ve disliked “It Gets Better”, a trying-so-hard-not-to-be-a-vanity-project for Dan Savage, the supposed patron saint of tell-it-like-it-is liberalism. Stating my distaste is generally met with eye-rolls and indignation; “Why must you find fault with everything?” one of my less sympathetic companions asked me. “This project is trying to help people.”

But it is not merely my deep-seated cynicism at work here. Sure, I'm partially turned off by the treacly and self-indulgent ramblings of upper-middle class white men whose “betterness” tends to amount to the fact that they have found a relationship with a person who looks and acts remarkably like themselves. And yes, it does annoy me that for most of the celebrity contributors, "it" got a lot more “better” than the average viewer's life ever will.

No, my dissatisfaction with "It Gets Better" actually stems from its genesis. As most will recall, "It Gets Better" was founded in reaction to the rash of gay teen suicides that occurred in 2010. These stories were lumped together and labeled as the stories of teens who were “bullied to death.”

Let me state outright that I am in no way underestimating the horror of bullying, which is inarguably a serious and very real issue. However, I think these stories create a dangerous and misleading narrative about what I'll call the "fragile faggot."

The narrative of the fragile faggot goes like this: gay individuals (but usually gay men) are psychologically defenseless and without resources. They are helpless lambs in the woods, and they need your (read: heterosexual) help. These stories are pitying, and essentially a gay equivalent to the damsel-in-distress.

This may not ostensibly seem like an issue, but its consequences are hugely problematic. First, it allows for scapegoating. In the "bullied to death" example, the bullies are painted as unambiguous villains: deviant, misanthropic youths senselessly tormenting defenseless victims. All of a sudden, the wider social problem is excused or omitted. Instead of prompting us to question the biased institutions and unsupportive communities that created and maintained an environment where such bullies could even be allowed to reign, this narrative merely asks us to pity the victim and demonize the bully. It's the bully who is the problem, it says, not you.

But we are all indicted in these stories. It is not enough to condemn bullies, we must condemn the institutions that permit such behavior and our unwillingness to challenge them. This oversimplified narrative largely obscures the fact that individuals with supportive peers, teachers, families and communities are hugely less likely to attempt suicide. The fact is that if these support systems regularly existed, the bullies would not have been so powerful.

The second major issue is that the concept of the fragile faggot leaves no room for queer empowerment. Just like the princess who must wait for her hero to rescue her, so is the fragile faggot depicted as lacking any self-sufficient resources. This is a form oppression that has historically been used present women as naturally possessing inferiorities, and it's now being used on queer and LGBT people in the same way.

"It Gets Better" contributes to this. Its message essentially amounts to "Don't worry! Help is on its way". It leaves no possibility for self-efficacy or empowerment. “Wait it out, you’ll escape” is not the same as saying “you are strong and you will overcome this.” Rather than encouraging LGBT youth to challenge, resist and overcome, it asks them to sit tight and wait for things to change. This is essentially analogous to telling queers to wait patiently for those in power to generously grant us rights rather than us demand them. This is ridiculously passive and panders to unjust hegemonies.

It is essential to empower LGBT youth to agitate for change. Instead of telling them that it gets better (which, realistically, we cannot promise), we need to be providing resources to MAKE it better. Whether this is something as large as establishing a support network in schools or as small as encouraging the personal belief that this treatment is fundamentally wrong, resistance to heterosexism should always be a goal.

LGBT history is filled with powerful, subversive and brave individuals who fought for their independence against the odds. LGBT people possess a tremendous amount of resilience and courage, and we deserve to acknowledge this as a reality. Instead of “It Gets Better”, why not “Make It Better”?