"I envision a politics where one's relation to power, and not some homogenized identity, is privileged in determining one's political comrades. I am talking about a politics where the nonnormative and marginal position of punks, bulldaggers, and welfare queens, for example, is the basis for progressive transformative coalition work. Thus, if any truly radical potential is to be found in the idea of queerness and the practice of queer politics, it would seem to be located in the ability to create a space in opposition to dominant norms, a space where transformational political work can begin." — Cathy Cohen ( 2005 )
A few weeks ago, a colleague tells me that he's had it with the "queer agenda." He's gay and doesn't want anything to do with queer. Coming of age at a time when "queer" was a common slur used against him, his fit with queer as an identity has always been an uncomfortable one. Now he's tired, he says, of being told by queer theory that his sexuality is necessarily fluid, when he doesn't experience it that way. He feels pressure by queer theorists and activists to protest the marriage equality movement and hate-crimes legislation. He wonders where that leaves his friend in Texas, who after a lifetime commitment not recognized by the state, lost everything after his partner's death. He tells me he feels like there is a checklist of political positions and commitments to be considered properly queer.
"Checklist? Proper?" I think, a little shocked.
In my mind, queerness has always been marked by its defiance of definition. I think of the merry, not-so-proper band of queers summoned by Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick back in 1993, including "pushy femmes, radical faeries, fantasists, drags, clones, leatherfolk, ladies in tuxedos, feminist women or feminist men, masturbators, bulldaggers, divas, Snap! Queens, butch bottoms, storytellers, transsexuals, aunties, wannabes, lesbian-identified men or lesbians who sleep with men, or people able to relish, learn from, or identify with such."
When it comes to political movements, along with religious ones, I've always embraced the right to pick what I like, and ignore the rest. Maybe this is because I'm an optimist by nature. Or maybe it's the influence of my mother, a pro-choice, divorced Catholic, who supported sex education, and gay rights. Every Easter when I was growing up, we'd dress up in our pastel sundresses and unseasonably springy sandals ( and heavy wool coats—this being Chicago ) and make our annual trip to Church. On these outings, I'd find my mind wandering to the different facial expressions of the Virgin Mary statues and to the smell of incense, which I wanted to burn in my bachelorette pad when I grew up. I honestly believed that my wandering, curious approach to Church was what God wanted. Otherwise, why would She have made me queer—and with such a short attention span? Like Shug Avery's belief that God made flowers because He wants us to love the color purple, I figured that God and I had a deal, whatever the priest said.
I identify as queer, despite the fact that there are many aspects of my life that might be called homonormative: I am civil unionized to my partner Annie, and we've had a committed relationship for more than 14 years. Together we adopted Cecelia last year, and we own our own home. I am a tenured faculty member in a Catholic institution and I actually like my job very much. And maybe because of this, I think it's even more important to align myself with others in opposition to dominant normative structures and to support the flourishing of genders and sexualities.
Cathy Cohen and others have pointed out that historically queer activism has assumed unmarked privilege around whiteness, cis-genderism and class. But at its best, "queer" can reach beyond individualism and privilege to cultivate the kind of world where we can all live freely. And that can include bringing to light the links between heteronormativity and legal and judicial structures; between sexual violence in all of the ways that it has been institutionalized, from domestic spaces to war to the Prison Industrial Complex. Being queer for me means calling a system of apartheid when I see it, whether in South Africa, the West Bank, or the South Side of Chicago.
"Queer" has work to do, and to do that work means being in coalition with others who might not fully agree with all of our beliefs. And that means taking a risk on the behalf of others as well as ourselves, and yes, having an agenda—or maybe multiple agendas, as we let our imaginations run free.
Unlike my colleague, I don't see queer as a separate or opposed identity from the rest of the LGBTIQ rainbow. Each identity can be in conversation with each other, joined in a stance of active questioning and in defiance of homogeneity.
Francesca Royster is a Professor of English at DePaul University, where she teaches courses on Shakespeare, Popular Culture, gender, race, sexuality and performance. Her books include Sounding Like a No-No: Queer Sounds and Eccentric Acts in the Post-Soul Era ( University of Michigan Press, 2013 ) and Becoming Cleopatra: The Shifting Image of an Icon ( Palgrave, 2003 ).
