Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910101
Marquis Bey
NB-ous: On the Coalitional Drive of the Nonbinary Marquis Bey (bio) The aim here is not to give an incessantly clear definition of nonbinariness, such that we would then have an “accurate” or “correct” definition. Indeed, this impulse—to clarify pristinely, to excavate etymological roots in order for a term to be illuminated once and for all, obviating misuse—is one I have long had, and I feel its tugs now. But that will not save nonbinariness from misuse or misunderstanding. There is in fact something in nonbinariness that refuses this impulse, it seems—something that has long asserted that even if this or that meant X (or shall we say “Q” or whatever other non-X/Y letter so as not to imply gender- and sex-laden allusions) in its supposed origins, in its etymological DNA, as it were, it does not mean that it must be that now, true-bluely. Because what is nonbinariness if not to say, to demand, that yeah, maybe I was Q when I was young, and even when I started to get older, but I am not that now. And do not have to be. And do not wish to be. Like Beans Velocci, who I have met briefly, on a brisk evening in Philadelphia (my hometown) in a heated restaurant tent enjoying food and company and intellectuality, I was made trans. Not, as with Velocci, by Foucault—although he is a supplemental culprit, just not the primary actor—but by other things. In my case, by suggestions and experiences and drives and, too, cartoons. I speak to this in my book Cistem Failure: Essays on Blackness and Cisgender, where I detail across multiple essays the ways that Dragonball Z or The Powerpuff Girls were sites of imaginative inhabitation, where what was extant in my world did not have to be all of the possibilities for myself; the ways this movement of a hand or rejection of a space or unfitness within a community were sites of exquisite rebellion and testament to how we could move differently, think differently, en- and ungender differently in proximity to unsanctioned imaginaries. I came to my nonbinariness [End Page 313] by way of a double refusal: I was refused entry into this or that space, this or that modality, expected as it was and predicated on criteria far less attractive to me than most; but, too, I refused those spaces in tiny, muted ways. They did not want me, at least as I wished to be and become, and I did not want them—there was, in short, “a throwing up of hands and an embrace of the refusal that was the term nonbinary” (Velocci 2022, 476). I love this refusal, a term I have returned to over and over, to the point of exhaustion now, it feels to me, but a term that continues to emerge for its utility, its depth, its feeling of Yes, that’s it. Because it is in that refusal, or whatever one wishes to call it—I hope it is clear that I am not too hung up on the words one uses, as long as they allow you, us, to do and be and reach for the thing we are working toward—that something is going on. That is, very often it seems that much of the scholarship or th
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Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910089
Maya von Ziegesar
Writing about Mentorship, and Mentorship through Writing Maya von Ziegesar (bio) Nancy K. Miller and Tahneer Oksman (eds.)’s Feminists Reclaim Mentorship: An Anthology, Albany: State University of New York Press, 2023 My copy of Feminists Reclaim Mentorship: An Anthology is thin and pink, floppy almost, with title matter written in modern, lowercase letters. Nancy K. Miller and Tahneer Oksman, both English professors and themselves a mentor-mentee pair, introduce the book humbly and autobiographically, musing on COVID, the ’80s proto-girlboss film Working Girl, and their own experiences with mentorship and feminist community. For these and other reasons, including an intrusive, gen-Z cynicism about second-wave feminism that try as I might I can’t always suppress, I picked up Feminists Reclaim Mentorship expecting reminiscences about boys’-club academia, open-secret sexual harassers, older women hardened by their own ascents to power, commitments to reimagining old and broken systems, communities of peer mentors, and reiterations of the importance of reciprocity and listening. I was not expecting such a thoughtful, ambivalent, and sharp book; not expecting to be forced to put it down in order to think deeply about the mentors I’ve had, the almost-mentors I wish I’d had, my mother mentors and peer mentors; not expecting to end up less sure than ever about the right way forward or even the meaning of the word. In short, I underestimated this book. Feminists Reclaim Mentorship has teeth. Feminists Reclaim Mentorship is broken into three parts, following a familiar arc. First, mentorship as we have received it: hierarchical and implicitly patriarchal. The authors in this section reflect on the powerful people they used to aspire to be, or their own successes and failings once they had transitioned from mentee to mentor. They ask when mentorship ends, whether mentorship can transcend its inherent asymmetry, how to listen to your mentees and become a better mentor. The middle section is a crisis point for the meaning of mentorship. The authors here talk about mentor ghosts and [End Page 268] mentor imaginaries, a radical break from traditional mentorship, a refuge for those of us never meant to find our home in hierarchical patriarchy. Finally, in the last section, mentorship is reimagined and reconfigured. Mentor-ship becomes a fluid, reciprocal relationship between feminist peers and colleagues, something nonexclusionary and new. In this section, mentor-ship is reformed by some authors and rejected by others. When I finished reading, I was left with a longing for a final turn of the narrative that would never come. The pernicious and deeply ingrained problems of our social world are articulately described and diagnosed, while solutions are offered, tentatively, as experiments in half-imagined, living alternatives. The aching of the first section—recollections of being a graduate student in search of a mentor who would never manifest—continued througho
玛雅·冯·齐格萨尔(传记)南希·k·米勒和塔尼尔·奥克斯曼(编辑)的《女权主义者重新获得导师:一本选集》，奥尔巴尼:纽约州立大学出版社，2023年。我的那本《女权主义者重新获得导师:一本选集》又薄又粉，几乎是松软的，标题用现代的小写字母写。南希·k·米勒(Nancy K. Miller)和塔尼尔·奥克斯曼(Tahneer Oksman)都是英语教授，也是一对导师-学徒，她们谦逊地介绍了这本书，并以自传的方式思考了《COVID》、80年代的原型女老板电影《上班女郎》(Working Girl)，以及她们自己在导师和女权主义社区的经历。出于这些和其他原因，包括一种对第二波女权主义的侵入性的、z世代的愤世嫉俗，尽管我可能总是无法抑制，我还是拿起了《女权主义者重新获得指导》，期待着关于男孩俱乐部学术界、公开秘密的性骚扰者、因自己的权力提升而变得坚强的年长女性、重塑旧的和破碎的系统的承诺、同伴导师的社区，以及互惠和倾听的重要性的重申。我没有想到这是一本如此深思熟虑、矛盾而尖锐的书;没有期望被迫放下它，去深入思考我曾经拥有的导师，那些我希望拥有的导师，我的母亲导师和同伴导师;不要指望最后会比以往任何时候都不确定前进的正确方向，甚至不确定这个词的意义。总之，我低估了这本书。女权主义者宣称师徒关系是有效的。《女权主义者重获指导》分为三个部分，遵循着一个熟悉的弧线。首先，我们所接受的师徒关系:等级分明，暗含家长制。这一部分的作者反思了他们曾经渴望成为的强大的人，或者他们自己从被指导者转变为导师后的成功和失败。他们会问师徒关系何时结束，师徒关系能否超越其固有的不对称性，如何倾听你的徒弟，成为一个更好的导师。中间部分是指导意义的危机点。作者在这里谈到了导师的幽灵和导师的想象，这是对传统导师的彻底突破，是我们这些从未打算在等级森严的父权制中找到家的人的避难所。最后，在最后一节中，师徒关系被重新构想和重新配置。导师关系成为了女性主义同伴和同事之间一种流动的、互惠的关系，一种非排他性的、新的关系。在这一节中，师徒关系被一些作者所改革，也被另一些作者所拒绝。读完后，我对故事的最后转折充满了渴望，但这永远不会发生。我们社会世界的有害和根深蒂固的问题被清晰地描述和诊断，而解决方案被试探性地提供，作为半想象的、活生生的替代方案的实验。第一部分的痛苦——回忆自己是一名研究生，寻找一位永远不会出现的导师——贯穿全书的主线，最终以一种令人难以忍受的模棱两可告终。最后一篇文章，安吉拉·维罗妮卡·黄(Angela Veronica Wong)的《地狱中的特殊之地:女性帮助女性和女性导师的职业化》，尤其尖刻。王探讨了企业和新自由主义对“女权主义”导师的挪用，有色人种女性无偿导师劳动的极端负担，以及导师无法从根本上改变破碎的体系。师徒关系可以或者应该被收回吗?我不确定。这是我的一线希望:在整本书中，一位作者会提到另一位作者创立的作家团体。还有三个人会提到同一位女权主义作家，她通过自己的书对他们进行了指导。纽约州立大学和纽约州立大学如雨后春笋般涌现，它们既是避难所，也是不可动摇的学术的象征。慢慢地，在我周围，我看到了一群女权主义导师和学员，他们相互支持，敦促集体前进。编辑们是一对师徒关系，这是我前面提到的z世代愤世嫉俗者敦促我认为可爱或噱头而不屑一顾的事实，但在这本书中，这一事实却成为一股真实的、激进的力量。编辑们通过书本身塑造了女权主义社区和师徒关系的重构，这是一种在文本中实施的预言性政治。作为读者，我感到被邀请进入这个社区，并被邀请反思我自己的经历。我想了想我的纯男性逻辑……
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Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910076
Raagini Bora
Abstract: The goal of this article is to conceptualize a decolonial understanding of an Indian genderqueerness, trying to contest the false temporal binaries of coloniality and postcoloniality. Tracing India’s complex and rich queer and genderqueer history preceding British colonization, I dissect the impact of colonization on postcolonial transphobia and understandings of trans. Through a historical literature review and media content analysis of the controversial film The Pink Mirror (2003), I apply a decolonial lens to reimagine locally produced narratives of queerness and genderqueerness through local genderqueer communities, such as Hijras and Kothis.
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Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910091
Audacia Ray
Trans Visibility Cloak Audacia Ray (bio) One Sunday afternoon, as Aiden walked through the vestibule of their Brooklyn apartment building, they saw a long cape hanging on a coat hook near the mailboxes. They thought this odd. Often there were packages dropped off here on the floor, but they’d never seen a tenant use the coat hooks. It was a remnant of a bygone era when this brownstone was inhabited by one family instead of split into three apartments. Aiden had been a goth girl in high school, wore a homemade cape then, a thing that shrouded their ever-changing body in mystery. It made the hated curves of their body invisible but made them a target of merciless teasing. In the New Jersey suburbs of the 1990s, it got Aiden the nickname Dracula. Secretly, they were kind of into being called Dracula, because it meant that the girl name they’d been given by their parents wasn’t being formed over and over again in the mouths of sneering teens. They felt a pang of nostalgia and kindness toward their teen goth self as they looked at this cape. What the hell, Aiden thought, and they lifted the cape up and, with a practiced flourish, swung it around their shoulders. They had been heading out to go buy some snacks anyway, might as well do it wearing a cape and play into someone else’s story, I was out getting coffee and I saw someone casually walking around in a cape! When they got to the bodega, one of the men who was often sitting outside on a broken milk crate was on his way into the store. “Sup, bro?” the guy asked, holding steady eye contact with Aiden as he held the door open for them. Aiden tried not to look startled. This guy usually looked offended by Aiden’s existence, like Aiden’s asymmetrical haircut and gender [End Page 276] nonconformity meant they were a threat to his cis-hetero existence. In the cape, they were no longer a threat, but—what?—a comrade in arms? Aiden gathered their snacks and continued a slow saunter around the neighborhood. They began to get in the groove of getting head nods and uncomplicated greetings from men. What was this sorcery? Men being nice to them? They stopped briefly in front of a chaotic window display in a hardware store, which depicted a backyard BBQ with plastic flames fluttering in the breeze of a small electric fan, and lawn chairs with red, white, and blue NY football helmets emblazoned on them. “Go Giants!” a passing man said to them cheerfully. They continued their walk, thoughtfully crunching away on Funyuns. Their feet took them toward their favorite neighborhood plant shop, where there were always tiny succulents in adorable little ceramic pots with faces painted on them. Very hard to resist. They swept into the store, feeling the whoosh of the cape around their ankles. A twenty-something femme with a lip piercing and an undercut with the long part dyed cactus-green gave them a nod of queer acknowledgment. How could it be that on this one walk, they had been treated with kindness by cis men and also
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Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910087
Natalie Erazo
The Creative Resistance of Trans of Color Culture, Technology, and Movements Natalie Erazo (bio) Jian Neo Chen’s Trans Exploits: Trans of Color Cultures and Technologies in Movement, Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2019 Trans Exploits: Trans of Color Cultures and Technologies in Movement, Jian Neo Chen’s book debut, engages transdisciplinary critique through the examples of trans, gender nonconforming, and disabled artists and activists of color working across film, performance, literature, and digital media, among other cultural practices. Chen locates radical aesthetics and activism that challenge dominant paradigms ordering the world according to racial and colonial binary sex/gender systems (4). Taking as its departure point the 2014 Time magazine cover featuring actress Laverne Cox announcing the “transgender tipping point,” the book critiques the ways in which racialized trans identity has become minoritized in our neoliberal multiculturalist climate and absorbed within the capitalist free market system, yielding merely symbolic rather than tangible structural change. Instead, the book locates trans of color identity outside the confines of nation-states, and it centers communities that continue to emerge and resist singular definition. Chen builds on the legacies of foundational trans of color community-builders Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, and Miss Major Griffin-Gracy and activist scholars such as Christopher Lee and Emi Koyama, whose contributions were often eclipsed by the predominantly white leadership of the first wave of transgender organizations in the 1990s. Using trans in accordance with the likes of Susan Stryker, Paisley Currah, and Lisa Jean Moore, Chen highlights the adaptive, relational, and liberatory possibilities of opening up trans to other meanings and to inclusiveness of gender nonconforming and variant identities and expressions (5). This challenges the pathologized perceptions of transgender identity and embodiment held by white settler-colonial binary and medical systems as well as conventional Western [End Page 260] notions of family and kinship. Focusing on Asian, Black, Indigenous, and Latinx artists and activists, Chen draws connections between embodied experiences of “racial gender displacement and subjugation” and the interrelated legacies of U.S. imperialism, colonization, and captivity, both within and beyond national borders (4). Nodding to Michel Foucault’s “biopolitical genealogies of state and social power,” Chen offers crucial considerations about state policies and carceral infrastructures that create power imbalances within society, ascribing “affective hierarchies of social value including the criminal and civil, sick and productive, perverse and moral, foreign and native” and justifying systemic policing along these lines (16). The first chapter, “Cultures,” explores performance, the body, and sensation and the ways in which Asian bodies have been constructed by the West. Trans migrant Korean
颜色文化，技术和运动的跨创造性抵抗娜塔莉·埃拉佐(传记)陈建新的跨功绩:运动中的跨颜色文化和技术，达勒姆，北卡罗来纳州:杜克大学出版社，2019跨功绩:《跨色文化与运动中的技术》是陈建新的处女作，通过跨性别、性别不符合、残疾的有色艺术家和活动家在电影、表演、文学、数字媒体等文化实践中的工作，进行跨学科的批判。陈认为激进美学和激进主义挑战了根据种族和殖民二元性/性别系统来安排世界的主导范式(4)。以2014年《时代》杂志封面为出发点，女演员拉弗恩·考克斯宣布了“跨性别临界点”。这本书批评了种族化的跨性别身份在我们的新自由主义多元文化氛围中被边缘化的方式，并被资本主义自由市场体系所吸收，只产生象征性的而不是切实的结构变化。相反，这本书将有色人种的身份定位在民族国家的范围之外，并以不断出现并抵制单一定义的社区为中心。陈在有色人种跨性别社区奠基者玛莎·p·约翰逊、西尔维娅·里维拉和梅杰·格里芬-格雷西小姐以及活动家学者克里斯托弗·李和Emi Koyama的遗产基础上继续努力，他们的贡献往往被20世纪90年代以白人为主的第一波跨性别组织所掩盖。根据Susan Stryker、Paisley Currah和Lisa Jean Moore等人的观点，Chen强调了适应性、关系性、以及开放跨性别的其他含义和包容性别不一致和不同身份和表达的解放可能性(5)。这挑战了白人定居者-殖民地二元和医疗系统以及传统的西方家庭和亲属概念所持有的关于跨性别身份和体现的病态观念。关注亚洲、黑人、土著和拉丁裔艺术家和活动家，陈将“种族性别位移和征服”的具体经验与美帝国主义、殖民和囚禁的相互关联的遗产联系起来，无论是在国界之内还是国界之外(4)。对米歇尔·福柯的“国家和社会权力的生物政治谱系”表示赞同。陈对造成社会内部权力不平衡的国家政策和司法基础设施提出了重要的考虑，将“社会价值的情感等级，包括刑事和民事，疾病和生产，反常和道德，外国和本地”，并为这些方面的系统警务辩护(16)。第一章“文化”探讨了表演、身体和感觉，以及西方如何建构亚洲人的身体。韩国跨性别移民行为艺术家Yozmit将表演作为一种表达跨性别化身和“身体通过性别的潜在变态”的方式(33)。陈引用朱迪思·巴特勒(Judith Butler)的话，阐述了变装表演的亚文化实践与“性别本身的模仿结构”以及一种完全解构性别的方法之间的联系(34)。在她2012年的表演《新猫咪之声》(Sound of New Pussy)中，约兹米特通过使用裸露的网状裙子，对性别表达的表面和深度进行了探索，从而挑战了异性恋的视觉秩序。表演“指向了外在和内在生命与身体之间的感官关系的不同网络”(38)。同样，非二元性的印尼裔美籍酷儿艺术家zav Martohardjono将巴厘岛舞蹈与黑人和拉丁舞会文化融合在一起，挑战了东方主义将面纱视为传统女性化家庭生活象征的观念。然而揭开面纱的行为代表了西方想象中不可见事物的去神秘化，Martohardjono对揭开面纱的使用“只会揭示更多的性别转移和威胁”(52)。在整本书中，陈对电影和数字媒体技术作为审美实验和颠覆的渠道进行了丰富的讨论。美国跨性别华裔视觉艺术家兼活动家吴曾(Wu Tsang)在2008年的短片《权利宣言的形状》(Shape of a Right Statement)中向跨性别自闭症权利活动家梅尔·巴格斯(Mel Baggs) 2007年的视频《以我的语言》(In My Language)致敬，巴格斯在视频中呼吁人们关注残疾人在沟通和思想的等级制度下被病态化的方式。陈认为，曾荫权的“不一致”的图像制作实践反映了种族异化的社会历史……
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Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910081
Leslie Feinberg
Dear Theresa, from Stone Butch Blues Leslie Feinberg Dear Theresa: I’m lying on my bed tonight missing you, my eyes all swollen, hot tears running down my face. There’s a fierce summer lightning storm raging outside. Tonight I walked down streets looking for you in every woman’s face, as I have each night of this lonely exile. I’m afraid I’ll never see your laughing, teasing eyes again. I had coffee in Greenwich Village earlier with a woman. A mutual friend fixed us up, sure we’d have a lot in common since we’re both “into politics.” Well, we sat in a coffee shop and she talked about Democratic politics and seminars and photography and problems with her co-op and how she’s so opposed to rent control. Small wonder—Daddy is a real estate developer. I was looking at her while she was talking, thinking to myself that I’m a stranger in this woman’s eyes. She’s looking at me but she doesn’t see me. Then she finally said how she hates this society for what it’s done to “women like me” who hate themselves so much they have to look and act like men. I felt myself getting flushed and my face twitched a little and I started telling her, all cool and calm, about how women like me existed since the dawn of time, before there was oppression, and how those societies respected them, and she got her very interested expression on—and besides it was time to leave. So we walked by a corner where these cops were laying into a homeless man and I stopped and mouthed off to the cops and they started coming at me with their clubs raised and she tugged my belt to pull me back. I just looked at her, and suddenly I felt things well up in me I thought I had buried. I stood there remembering you like I didn’t see cops about to hit me, like I was falling back into another world, a place I wanted to go again. [End Page 220] And suddenly my heart hurt so bad and I realized how long it’s been since my heart felt—anything. I need to go home to you tonight, Theresa. I can’t. So I’m writing you this letter. I remember years ago, the day I started working at the cannery in Buffalo and you had already been there a few months, and how your eyes caught mine and played with me before you set me free. I was supposed to be following the foreman to fill out some forms but I was so busy wondering what color your hair was under that white paper net and how it would look and feel in my fingers, down loose and free. And I remember how you laughed gently when the foreman came back and said, “You comin’ or not?” All of us he-shes were mad as hell when we heard you got fired because you wouldn’t let the superintendent touch your breasts. I still unloaded on the docks for another couple of days, but I was kind of mopey. It just wasn’t the same after your light went out. I couldn’t believe it the night I went to the club on the West Side. There you were, leaning up against the bar, your jeans too tight for words and your hair, your hair all loose and free. And I remember that look in your eyes again
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Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910066
Lena Mattheis
Abstract: This article seeks to explore how nonbinary, ambiguous, and gender-neutral pronouns are used for gender nonconforming characters in seventeenth-century British literature. Focusing on a particularly interesting time for gender nonconformity in British literature, the article traces queer pronoun use in three poems by Aphra Behn and in the prose narrative Assaulted and Pursued Chastity (1656) by Margaret Cavendish. While the history and grammaticality of singular they and other gender-neutral pronouns has been explored in several linguistic studies, the aesthetic dimension and historicity of gender-neutral language in literature is still frequently questioned. An examination of what is only a small sample of literary texts that consciously play with unstable pronouns, ambiguously gendered characters, and gender nonconforming language emphasizes the artistic and creative dimension of nonbinary and gender-neutral pronouns. The fact that we find ambivalent pronouns and gender nonconforming characters at the core of many plays, poems, and novels in literary history also shows that readers have been able to comprehend and empathize with queerly gendered characters and pronouns for centuries.
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Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910070
Denis E. Boyacı, Aslıhan Öğün Boyacıoğlu
Abstract: Drawing from queer theory and transfeminism, this article discusses whether queer- and trans-inclusive feminism is a possibility within the contemporary feminist movement in Turkey by analyzing its approach to the concept of sex/gender. In this context, in-depth interviews were conducted with activists who took part in the feminist movement and the LGBTQIA+ movement in Izmir, Turkey. These interviews reveal that the feminist movement bases its understanding on the sex and gender distinction and heteropatriarchy’s gender binarism, questions the identities of trans subjects, and establishes power domains in terms of being white and cishet. The present study has concluded that the feminist movement does not build sufficiently on transfeminism and queer theory, and reinforces a cisnormative sex/gender approach.
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