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When gay marriage was legalized in the U.S. in June 2015, many people cited the change as a sign that gays have achieved acceptance in mainstream society. In the months prior to Obergefell v. Hodges, the supreme court case that struck down all state bans on same-sex marriage, scholars engaged in a heated debate about whether or not same-sex marriage should be allowed. Critics of same-sex marriage include social conservatives as well as critical feminist and queer theorists.

The debate before same-sex marriage was legalized:

Social conservatives worried that same-sex marriage would undermine the stability of traditional nuclear families and the sanctity of marriage. These scholars see heterosexual marriage and the heterosexual nuclear family as the foundation of society – resting on a gendered division of labor, a confining of women to the private, familial sphere of society, and monogamous partnership. Their logic followed that this method of social organization was the bedrock for raising healthy, moral children, and a healthy, moral society (Dobson 2004; Elshtain 1991; Lutzer 2004; Josephson 2005). Social conservatives also feared the sexual promiscuity attached to same-sex couples would erode the institution of marriage by exposing children of same-sex couples to non-normative sexual practices such as polyamory (Dobson 2004). Marriage as an institution connects sex with reproduction, a Christian value — and thus, social conservative scholars feared allowing homosexuals to access the institution would destabilize this connection by acknowledging nonprocreative sex as a legitimate practice (Gallagher 2003; Baskerville 2006; Lutzer 2004).

Other critics of same-sex marriage, critical feminists and queer theorists, were concerned that same-sex marriage would reinforce patriarchal and heteronormative relations. Feminists who adopt a critical perspective of the struggle for marriage equality contend that it will produce institutionalized gender-role differentiated marriages (Lehr 1999; Robson 1992; Walters 2001) and a new type of same-sex nuclear family based in heterosexual values of monogamy, parenthood, and the concept of partners as property (Auchmuty 2004; Baird and Rosenbaum 1997; Butler 1996; Ettelbrick 1997; Lehr 1999; Polikoff 1993; Walters 2001). For these reasons, many queer theorists fundamentally reject same-sex marriage because they believe engaging in the institution assimilates queers to heteronormativity through forcing them to adhere to the norms associated with traditional heterosexual marriage. Duggan (2002: 176) denotes this “homonormativity.” Valverde (2006:156) finds in same-sex marriage the birth of a new norm for assimilated homosexuals: a “respectable same-sex couple” — a gentrified downtown home, nuclear family, joint bank accounts, and good style.

Some feminists even say same-sex marriage is a “sell out” (Baird and Rosenbaum 1997: 11); incapable of rehabilitation (Saalfield 1993), and unworthy of the queer struggle (Ettelbrick 1997). These theorists question the queer community’s focus on marriage equality, and instead believe queers should focus their activism toward more pressing issues such as racial and classed inequalities in larger society and within the queer community.

Proponents of same-sex marriage argue marriage confers rights that same-sex couples are entitled to: inheritance, health benefits, taxation, parenting, and childcare (Eskridge and Spedale 2006; Sullivan 1996; Walters 2001). They argue that legalized same-sex partnerships lack the social and symbolic legitimation of marriage, leading to an almost “second-class citizenship” for lesbian and gay couples. Some queer theorists find positivity in the same things critical queers are concerned with: these theorists contend marriage will provide stability for same-sex partnerships by reigning in the libido and promoting monogamy (Hausknecht 2003; Josephson 2005; Raunch 1997; Rotello 1997; Sullivan 1996). While queer theorists critical of same-sex marriage find the promotion of monogamy to be a normative heterosexual value, other queer theorists think this could be good for promoting stable couples within the queer community.

What are the results?

Since same-sex marriage has been legalized, scholars have continued to debate how queers’ acceptance into the institution will affect society, queer community, and the institution of marriage itself. Does the legalization of same-sex marriage lead to “homonormativity” – queers assimilating into heterosexual society through adopting their norms of behavior?

Some scholars predicted gays and lesbians would transform the institution rather than the institution transforming them (Green 2010; Taylor and Rupp 2014; Graff 1997). Sociologist Adam Green conducted a study of same-sex spouses to explore these claims. He found that his interviewees’ marital status allowed them and their relationships societal recognition, which facilitated more access to support from not only of family and friends, but also co-workers and employers. The same-sex spouses in his study felt their marital status positively influenced their social capital — the social resources they have access to that promote financial and emotional well-being.

Green also found that same-sex marriages resist assimilating to the norms typical of heterosexual marriage, and in effect, they “queer” marriage as an institution. For example, participants engaged in non-monogamous norms and practices, negotiated the domestic division of labor and authority in a way that resists traditional gendered roles, and do not necessarily conform to the nuclear familial structure. Other scholars’ research underscores these points: a vast majority of same-sex couples articulate highly egalitarian domestic division of labor organized by individual interests and desires, rather than predetermined role-differentiated tasks (Dunne and Sullivan 2004; Blumstein and Schwarz 1983; Dunne 1997; Patterson 1995), and non-normative sexual desires and practices are still a central value of queer partnership (Albertson 2014).

Given the debate and these results, I propose we adopt a different perspective on the subject of same-sex marriage. Instead of perceiving of this change as a loss for the queer community, or as a “sell out,” trading rights for assimilation into “acceptable” behavior, we should see queers as the powerful political forces they are. Let’s recognize queers’ access to marriage as an institution constitutes a “queering” of one of the most traditional institutions in our society. Queers have infiltrated an institution that has historically been used to enforce gender roles, oppression of women, and normative sexuality. Some queers may continue to advocate for the abolition of marriage as an institution due to its harmful historical effects – however, I see this as an opportunity for us. We queers have the chance to erode the institution of marriage and separate its symbolism as the ultimate signifier of love from the heterosexual oppressive norms it promotes and enforces. Come one, come all, down to the court house — it’s time we queers destabilize some heterosexual structures!

 

 

 

Works Cited

Albertson, Cory. “Looking—Who Are We Now?” Contexts, vol. 13, no. 4, 2014, pp. 54–56.

Baird, R.M. and S.E. Rosenbaum. 1997. Same-Sex Marriage: The Moral and Legal Debate.                                 Amherst: Prometheus.

Auchmuty, Rosemary. 2004. Same-sex marriage revived: Feminist critique and legal strategy.                        Feminism & Psychology 14(1):101–126.

Baird, R.M. and S.E. Rosenbaum. 1997. Same-Sex Marriage: The Moral and Legal Debate.                                Amherst: Prometheus.

Baskerville, Stephen. 2006. The real danger of same-sex marriage. The Family in America. Online                Edition. 20, 5, 6.

Bevacqua, Maria. 2004. Feminist theory and the question of lesbian and gay marriage. Feminism                & Psychology 14(1):36–40.

Blumstein, Phillip and Pepper Schwartz. 1983. American Couples: Money, Work and Sex. New                      York: William Morrow.

Butler, Judith. 2002. Is kinship always already heterosexual? Difference 13(1):14–44.

Dobson, James. 2004. Marriage Under Fire: Why We Must Win This Battle. Oregon: Multnomah.

Duggan, Lisa. 2002. The new homonormativity: The sexual politics of neoliberalism. Pp. 175–194              in Russ Castronovo and Dana Nelson, eds., Materializing Democracy: Toward a Revitalized              Cultural Politics. Durham: Duke University Press.

Dunne, Gillian A. 1997. Lesbian Lifestyles: Women’s Work and the Politics of Sexuality. Toronto:                University of Toronto Press.

Elshtain, Jean Bethke. 1991. Against marriage – II. Accepting limits. Commonweal 1(118):685-686.

Eskridge, William. 2002. Gaylaw: Challenging the Apartheid of the Closet. Cambridge, MA:                           Harvard University Press.

Ettelbrick, P. 1997. Since when is marriage a path to liberation? Pp. 118–124 in Andrew Sullivan,                   ed., Same-Sex Marriage: Pro and Con. New York: Vintage.

Gallagher, Maggie. 2003. The divorce thing: A diversion in the marriage debate. The National                       Review Online. August 13.

Graff, E.J. 1997. Retying the knot. Pp. 134–138 in Andrew Sullivan, ed., SameSex Marriage: Pro                     and Con. New York: Vintage.

Gross, Neil. 2005. The detraditionalization of intimacy reconsidered. Sociological Theory                                 23(3):286–311.

Hausknecht, Murray. 2003. Gay marriage and the domestication of sex. Dissent Fall: 8–10.

Herdt, Gilbert. 1992. Coming out as a rite of passage: A Chicago study. Pp 29–67 in Gilbert Herdt,                 ed., Gay Culture in America. Boston: Beacon Press.

Josephson, Jyl. 2005. Citizenship, same-sex marriage, and feminist critiques of marriage.                                 Perspectives on Politics 3(2):269–284

Kane, Emily W. 2006. “No way my boys are going to be like that!”: Parents’ response to gender                       nonconformity. Gender & Society 20:149-7

Lehr, Valerie. 1999. Queer Family Values: Debunking the Myth of the Nuclear Family.                                      Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

Lutzer, Erwin. 2004. The Truth About Same-Sex Marriage. Chicago: Moody Publishers.

Taylor, Verta, and Leila j. Rupp. “Are We Still Queer Even Though We’re Married?” Contexts, vol.                   13, no. 2, 2014, pp. 84–87. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/43872921. Accessed 5 Dec. 2020.

Patterson, Charlotte, J. 1995. Families of the lesbian baby-boom: Parents’ division of labor and                       children’s adjustment. Developmental Psychology 31:115–123.

Polikoff, Nancy. 1993. We will get what we ask for: Why legalizing gay and lesbian marriage will                      not dismantle the legal structure of gender in every marriage. VA Law Review 79:1535

Raunch, J. 1997. For better or worse? Pp. 169–181 in Andrew Sullivan, ed., Same-Sex Marriage:                     Pro and Con. New York: Vintage

Robson, Ruthann. 1992. Lesbian (out)law: Survival Under the Rule of Law. Ithaca, NY: Firebrand                   Books.

Rotello, Gabriel. 1997. Sexual Ecology: AIDS and the Destiny of Gay Men. New York: Dutton.

Saalfield, C. 1993. Lesbian marriage…(k)not! Pp. 187–195 in Arlene Stein, ed., Sisters, Sexperts,                      Queers: Beyond the Lesbian Nation. New York: Panguin.

Sullivan, Andrew. 1996. Here comes the groom: A (conservative) case for gay marriage. Pp. 252–                    258 in B. Bawer, ed., Beyond Queer. New York: Free Press.

Valverde, Mariana. 2006. A new entity in the history of sexuality: The respectable same-sex                             couple. Feminist Studies 32(1):155–163.

Walters, S.D. 2001. Take my domestic partner, please: Gays and marriage in the era of the visible.                 Pp. 338–357 in Mary Bernstein and R. Reinmann, eds., Queer Families, Queer Politics:                       Challenging Culture and the State. New York: Columbia University Press.

https://www.alibris.com/A-Queer-New-York-Geographies-of-Lesbians-Dykes-and-Queers-Jen-Jack-Gieseking/book/47628635?matches=10

The above link is to purchase the book from an online queer bookstore in Colorado. Alternatively, check out this link for a list of queer bookstores around the world, and consider purchasing the book from one of these options: https://queerhistory.com/queer-booksellers. Support queer businesses!

Since the legalization of gay marriage in 2016, many scholars contend we have entered into a ‘post-gay’ society wherein homosexuality has finally achieved mainstream status, and gays have assimilated. Jen Jack Gieseking’s book, A Queer New York, debunks this myth. Based on research collected between 2008 and 2009, A Queer New York explores the historical significance of lesbian and queer spaces in New York City, specifically in well-known neighborhoods such as Greenwich Village, Park Slope, Bedford-Stuyvesant, and Crown Heights. He asserts, however, “long-term, owned territorial spaces associated with LGBTQ people – e.g. neighborhoods, bars, and cities – do not support how lesbians and queers produce…everyday urban spaces” (xvi). These ‘territorial spaces,’ such as gayborhoods, became associated with LGBTQ populations due to research on white, cisgender, (mostly) wealthy, gay men. Gieseking pushes his readers (and other queer studies scholars) to resist the association of gayborhoods with queer placemaking, asserting that model has never accurately represented the diverse ways in which lesbians and queers engage in community.

Gieseking, himself a ‘queer, lesbian, butch, trans dyke,’ set out to explore how  gentrification in New York City, which led to the disappearance of many lesbian and queer spaces, has impacted poor and working-class lesbians and queers. With the help of archival research and a series of multigenerational interviews, Gieseking crafted a much-needed, never-before-told lesbian-queer historical geography of NYC that allows his readers sight of the invisible (or overlooked).

Lesbians and Trans- and Gender Non-Conforming people (tgncp) have seldom anchored sociological research. Scholars have traditionally incorporated them within an analytical framework that relies on terms centering the practices of gay men. Resisting these limited definitions of lesbian and queer lives, Gieseking developed constellations, evoking the imagery of astronomical constellations and astrology, to understand how lesbians and queers produce urban space. Within this framework, each individual lesbian-queer space is a star, and lesbian-queer placemaking only become visible when one views stars, and their paths, in relation to one another. This concept leaves room to understand that just because lesbian and tgncp do not (or more likely: cannot) lay claim to physically owned property or territory, that doesn’t mean that they do not create spaces for themselves. Rather, these spaces are as fleeting, fluid, and ever-present as stars – even when they are unseen to the rest of the world.

Gieseking presents various examples of constellations that contrast to the territorial placemaking that gay men often forged in gayborhoods. His interviewees articulate the lengths they go to just to see other lesbian-queers in the face of constantly-changing and rapidly-gentrifying NYC. One woman remembers commuting an hour or more to a bar frequented by other lesbian-queers. Another attended a house party hosted by a friend’s ex. Many interviewees even hung out in Park Slope with the hopes that a lesbian would approach. Moreover, Gieseking’s interview data reveal the added challenge many queers of color experience when accessing queer community. One interviewee, a multiethnic, working-class, feminine woman named Dana “talked at length both about the time, money, and effort required by queer women of color to find one another, and the limits to connecting to the Black and Latinx queer women’s and tgncp’s scene” (123). Interviewees of color described their need to resist not only heteropatriarchy but also racism and classism. A Queer New York amplifies the voices of lesbians and queers of color and holds white queers and lesbians accountable for their own colonialist, racist, capitalist ways of producing space in the city.

Furthermore, Gieseking argues that white lesbian and queers in NYC are both gentrifiers and victims of gentrification. He provides evidence that lesbian and queers’ gathering in an area of the city leads to price inflation, which then eventually displaces them as wealthier, (often) whiter heterosexual couples move in. As a result of this vicious cycle of capitalism-colonialism and displacement, lesbians and queers are forced to access queer community in constellations.

I highly recommend reading this book, especially if you are a queer woman or tgncp, someone who studies queerness, is interested in queer history, or someone familiar with the city’s different regions. Although Gieseking provided figures of maps throughout the book, I found sections of the book challenging to maintain my interest due to the in-depth geographical history provided. This is likely because I am not a trained geologist and have never studied geography. I acknowledge the importance of and contributions of geography to this study. Still, I question the study’s accessibility to audiences unfamiliar with New York City and who do not study geography.

Gieseking’s concept of constellations aptly describes how lesbian and tgncp carve out space in NYC. However, I also question whether his theory applies outside of NYC. I would imagine that constellations can also describe lesbian and tgncp behavior in other cities in the U.S., but does it apply to rural areas? Suburban areas? What about online communities? This question is especially relevant to me, as I’ve conducted my own research on virtual communities of queer women and non-binary people. I wonder, how does Gieseking’s theory hold up when applied to communities that do not rely on physical space to create a place for themselves? Gieseking asserts “these places are carried in, and on these women’s and tgncp’s memories and bodies, in the paths they continue to take between these stars” (xvii). A beautiful sentiment, for sure, and powerful (re)interpretation and empowerment of a community that has too often been rendered invisible, but I’m not so sure if his theory is strong enough to allow for application outside of these very specific circumstances. Only time will tell!

Tiktok is a social media app that exploded in popularity during the COVID-19 quarantine. I know from my experiences as a queer woman on the app that there is a “gay side” and a “straight side” of Tiktok. As a researcher and sociologist, I became interested in what role the app plays in shaping and maintaining queer community through the proliferation of queer content and culture. So I asked my interviewees about their experiences on the app… Here you can find a compilation of “gay tiktoks” made by me. Their topics range from making fun of straight people, sticking up for themselves, celebrating their queer identity, explaining gender identity and pronouns, showing off cute queer relationships, drag, and making fun of themselves and their culture.

You can access my Tiktok compilation by clicking on the Tiktok logo below:

I spoke at length with two of my interviewees about their experiences on the app and the role it plays in their lives. One of them, who I refer to as Elizabeth, is a 21 year-old white upper-middle-class lesbian who garnered a bit of a following on the app from January-May 2020. She had about 9k followers and decided to delete her account as a result of one of her videos reaching “straight tiktok,” where she received many homophobic comments that took a toll on her mental health. We spoke about the drawbacks of the app for queer community, that the app was never made for queer people to use it in this way and has instead been appropriated for such use – there is no moderation of people trolling and spreading hate, so if a creator’s videos that are directed toward a wlw audience reach straight tiktok, the effects can be damaging.

Before Elizabeth decided to delete her account, she was having an amazing time on Tiktok. She made friends with other semi-famous lesbian content creators and they formed their own friend group, complete with a group chat and almost-daily facetime calls, happy hours, and trivia nights. This is the first time Elizabeth ever felt she has had a queer community, and it brought her a lot of joy; she says “it’s just like a place that I feel like welcome like being myself.” She jokes that for her friends in this group, tiktok is almost like a dating app, and “also it serves as a place where like, within the queer community we can like joke about things that are specific to queer people.”

Deeper than a surface-level sense of belonging as a result of tiktok, Elizabeth talks about the effects of queer representation on tiktok on her self-confidence and acceptance.

“just seeing representations of like, queer women that like aren’t afraid of like, being on the more masculine side, whatever, like that really helped me like embrace, how I wanted to look and dress, in a way that like… I always like wanted to dress more masculine, but like didn’t have the courage to do it… and now I do because I realized like, there are people, there are more than like a few people out there like me. So, like it kind of like serves as a confidence boost I’d say”

For Elizabeth, Tiktok was the first time in her life she felt immersed in queer community, and her interview reveals the ways in which tiktok provided space for collective identity formation, queer support, and representation through the proliferation of queer content and culture. Another interviewee, Jess, a Chinese-American upper-middle-class lesbian, identifies the ways in which Tiktok provided queer women and non-binary people a platform to discuss issues specific to their community. Jess explains and critiques a recent aesthetic trend on the app, cottagecore:

“Specifically with lesbian tiktok I think a lot of people are into this so called like ‘cottagecore’ aesthetic of like, wanting to like, basically like do like little house on the prairie and like live in a cottage with your girlfriend, make your own jams, have a lot of chickens, like all that kind of stuff, and um, I think that like cottagecore can be like a fun starting point I think, you know like if you wanna dress like you live on the prairie like, have fun with that! But I also think that um, a lot of like what’s built into cottagecore is like very, like, colonial, like, I’m gonna go live on this land which, if you’re in the US and you’re not indigenous, like that’s stolen land and you’re settling on it. So I think that, I think that there’s definitely potential in cottagecore to like, reject and disrupt notions of like capitalism and settler-colonialism, but like I think that again, it’s a very white-dominated narrative that has become like, ‘I want to settle on this land.’”

Jess explains she has seen many tiktoks where members of the community start dialogue about this topic, and that is where she found this critique. Jess’ testimony speaks to the potential of Tiktok as an app to facilitate dialogue within the queer community about how to resist forces of heteropatriarchial colonial-capitalism. I think this point shows that a central value of the community of queer women and non-binary people is what scholar Jen Jack Gieseking calls “dyke politics,” a radical antiestablishment advocacy. Both Elizabeth and Jess, along with the compilation I have created, provide us with examples of how queer women and non-binary people appropriate space within the Tiktok app for their own use: they share their stories, facilitate community dialogue, support one another, and just generally use the app to gain a sense of belonging to the greater queer community.

 

Many people contend that gay people have achieved acceptance in mainstream society. This begs the question, then, is there even a need for queer community anymore? Didn’t gay people mostly stick together to resist homophobia and create a ‘safe space’ for themselves? There must not be a need for that anymore, right?

Recent scholarship refutes this claim. In his book A Queer New York, queer geologist Jen Jack Gieseking terms this line of thinking, ‘the myth of neighborhood liberation.’ Gay people, and more specifically, lesbian, bisexual, and queer (LBQ) women and trans- and gender non-conforming people (tgncp) have historically ascribed to the theory that claiming space within a city through the ownership of property (and creation of ‘gayborhoods’) is the ultimate step towards liberation from heterosexual society. Gieseking contends this narrative has failed LBQ women and tgncp time and time again, because they are not able to maintain these spaces over space and time as a result of economic and racial barriers (i.e. gentrification, displacement, socioeconomic status, etc). The ‘myth of neighborhood liberation,’ then, is a heteropatriarchal colonialist construction of the ownership of property as the ultimate step towards liberation and legitimization of the gay community. Scholars’ attention to this specific type of placemaking has marginalized the resilient communities of LBQ women and tgncp within sociological scholarship. My interview data shed light on the ways in which LBQ women and tgncp creatively, instinctively, actively, and resiliently take part in, create, and maintain their own sustaining nonresidential communities.

My interviewees, queer women and non-binary people, shed light on the vital role queer community plays in their lives; my interviewees show the gayborhood may be obsolete, but queer community sure isn’t. Even though queer women and non-binary people still conceptualize their queer community as necessary for their well-being, it is not always easy to come by. Despite my participants’ articulated desire and need for queer community, macrosocial forces of racism, cisnormativity, and classism are reproduced within my participants’ queer communities.

Depending on one’s social location, factors of one’s identity such as class, race, and gender, accessing queer community can be a struggle. My research data suggest that even though many queer groups embrace an ideology of inclusion, societal norms of whiteness and cis-ness still persist. Jess, a 21 year-old Chinese-American cisgender woman, articulated her struggles fitting in in queer spaces as a woman of color.

“I would say in general it’s been tricky finding one because I think being a person of color makes it hard, like, even when I go to a queer space, like I’m still sort of, an odd one out because I don’t look like other people there. And I don’t have the same like, experiences. Um and at my school, there are a lot of identity groups, so there is an identity group for like LGBTQ folx, and I’ve tried like going to meetings and like making it a sort of like, regular habit to be involved, but, it’s never really clicked for me and I don’t necessarily know why. I think partially because, I think it’s not as bad as maybe like in some other places, but like there are still a lot of white people involved and it makes it difficult.”

Jess is describing what sociologist Elijah Anderson calls “white spaces,” places where whiteness is the norm that governs the space. Some classic examples of “white spaces” are places where people of color have historically been excluded, such as colleges and universities and country clubs. White spaces can be found anywhere, however, and the concept allows us the opportunity to understand more deeply what Jess’ critique really means: queer communities, even though they are conceptualized by their members as being an ‘inclusive’ and ‘safe space,’ are still governed by norms of whiteness that alienate queers of color.

Furthermore, LBQ spaces and communities, even though they have embraced an ideology of inclusion, are also governed by gender norms that challenge tgncp membership. Alix, a non-binary white (add age) self-identified Dyke, spoke in their interview about the difficulty some tgncp have obtaining acceptance in communities of LBQ women. Alix is the head of the Dyke March Maine Committee in 2021, and they were instrumental in constructing the Dyke March as a space open to all dykes:

“going into it I was really adamant that Dyke March would be um, would be affirming of trans women as women and that we would not get into any TERF-y (Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminist) territory and it would not be accepted and anybody who tried to go that way would be shut down, and we did have some of those conversations when we put out calls for the virtual Dyke March because we had people who maybe, some people would look at and think don’t identify as Dykes, um submit videos, and I said like we’re not in the business of policing who is or is not a dyke, um if people submit a video and they wanna be a part of the Dyke March, so be it, we’re gonna welcome them and include them, but we did early on have a lot of discussions about who is welcome in the Dyke march, who is a dyke…”

Despite their effort to enforce an inclusive space, Alix’s own acceptance in the Dyke March was sometimes questioned:

“I think I caught one of my committee members off-guard because she was saying like well, dykes are lesbians. And I was like well I don’t identify as a lesbian because I don’t identify as a woman! And then we got into a whole, you know, thing, so I think that definitely, um, I mean that came up very quickly.”

Alix’s interview shows that queer spaces, no matter how ideologically committed to inclusion, still struggle to resist structural heteronormative structures of the gender binary. They even said about communities of queer women in general,

I have thought to myself before, when kind of like grappling with my own like gender identity and stuff, I’ve thought like I don’t really want to transition to be a man because I don’t want to lose my place within the community of queer women. And I, that just I guess goes to show that I thought that was certainly a possibility, you know, that once I, if I truly identified as a man, presented very masculine, that I would somehow become an outsider in that community and I didn’t want to lose that.

This data begs the question: why? If queer women embrace an ideology of inclusion, why is it then that trans- and gender non-conforming people are systemically excluded? Sociologists Japonica Brown-Saracino and Amin Ghaziani provide a possible explanation in their article about the 2003 Chicago Dyke March. Brown-Saracino and Ghaziani contend that “organizers embraced an explicit ideology of broad inclusion while implicitly using the March as a vehicle to celebrate their own, narrower dyke identity which they believe Pride organizers marginalized.” They theorize that these queer women’s ideology and identity conflicted with one another and prevented them from achieving a truly inclusive Dyke March.

I imagine this explanation could also apply to my interviewees’ critiques of their own queer communities. The desire of white queers to include queers of color and tgncp conflicted with their desire to celebrate their own, narrower identity as cisgender white queers. I think white queers have to face the music: their tactics in facilitating inclusive community may not be effective. If white queers do not actively resist creating white, cisgender spaces, the status quo will reproduce itself. It is up to us to define our own places, and if inclusion is truly a core value, I believe that should reflect in the power structure of queer communities and organizations. Center the voices and concerns of queers of color and tgncp, even (and especially) if white queers numerically dominate a space.

The identity of Dyke has transformed from something to be ashamed of into a badge of honor: Gieseking describes that dyke politics “underly lesbian-queer productions of space and place” and are “antiracist and anticapitalist politics that fuel queer feminist ideas of community” (A Queer New York 25). Let’s take what it means to be a dyke (an outcast, a revolutionary, an antiracist, anticapitalist, fuck-the-system dyke), and put it to use; queers of color and trans- and gender non-conforming people should no longer be excluded from dyke politics, or from lesbian-queer spaces.

This e-zine puts my data, collected for my Honors Thesis, in conversation with other aspects of queer community and culture. I conducted 14 qualitative interviews with self-identified queer individuals to explore the ways in which lesbian, bisexual, and queer women and trans- and gender non-conforming individuals create, shape, and maintain community during the COVID-19 Pandemic. Using my data as a starting point, I set out to explore some of the topics my interviewees brought up, and to produce some articles to be consumed by a public audience. In this e-zine, I consider topics such as Marriage Equality, a book review of a new queer study, inclusivity in queer spaces, and the community-building power of Tiktok as a platform. This website is for anyone who is interested in gaining a better understanding of the sociology behind queer community. You do not have to be queer to engage with my work, and there is a glossary of terms for this exact purpose – so that non-queer non-sociologists can still read and digest my work. However, I hope that for the queer people who come across this e-zine, it can serve as a starting point for thinking critically about the power we have to create and maintain communities to uphold our values and work towards our goals. Since queers are vastly underrepresented and understudied in sociological scholarship, this e-zine is a testament to, and love letter to, the resiliency of queer women, trans- and gender non-conforming people, and queers of color.