Defining Queerness

In writing queer literature, I’ve been very conscious of my identity and how it intersects with what I am inclined to create.

Authenticity is a big deal for me, and as someone assigned female at birth and who presents, at times, extraordinarily femme, I’ve been worried that my experience as a queer person might be overshadowed by the way I appear to the world. I’ve always been fascinated by the performative nature of gender - my biggest style icons have been old Hollywood stars, drag queens, and David Bowie. I enjoy gender as something to play with, and I love my ball gowns just as much as I love my three piece suits.

From a young age I was always… I’m not sure how to say it. Maybe disappointed with the fact that I only got to be a girl. It has seemed monumentally unfair that I could experience only one identity and one body. I’m not sure what that means, even now at 36 years old, but it’s always nagged at me. To me, the performative aspects of gender were always something to play with, to enjoy as a costume. I don’t see myself as female or male - just me.

And sexuality? That’s been just as confusing. I remember looking at myself in the mirror in an antique shop in Quebec City - I was maybe twelve years old - and realizing that I was attracted to women. And it terrified me! I didn’t understand it at all; I wondered if I would be able to get married, have kids, be accepted by my family. I wondered if being attracted to women would mean that I couldn’t fall in love with men. If you’ve read All the Way Happy, you might recognize that moment from my life echoed in Jack’s experience. Jack doesn’t really have the language for that, either (in my mind he is biromantic and homosexual, but the labels aren’t as important to him as long as he can be true to himself).

So here I am, 36 years old, and I just use the umbrella term, queer. That’s what makes the most sense to me. I look like a heterosexual woman, but I’m not. I’m dating a man, but he could just as easily be a woman, and I wear a full face of makeup, but I would do that if I were a man, too, just because it’s fun.

For me, when I write in the voices of queer characters, it is my voice which fuels them. Jack and Theo are a part of me - the quiet, anxious voice of a child who felt so different, and the wild, defiant voice of a young adult raging against the universe. I contain the reality of trying to live as a “normal” person for too many years, and I have felt the inexorable pull towards an authentic life. I’m 36 - Jack and Theo are 37. My queerness, just like theirs, is my all the way happy.