Queer Life, Queer Love E-Book
11,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Muswell Press
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
The anthology comprises 43 stories, non-fiction pieces, flash fiction and poetry, the winning entries from an international competition to capture the best of Queer writing today. This is writing that explores characters, stories and experiences beyond the mainstream. Celebrating the fascinating, the forbidden, the subversive, and even the mundane, but in essence, the view from outside. The book will be dedicated to the memory of Lucy Reynolds, the trans daughter of Sarah Beal, Publisher at Muswell Press, and niece of co-Publisher Kate Beal. A student, musician and strong advocate of LGBTQI rights, she died in March 2020 at the age of 20.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Sammlungen
Ähnliche
QUEER LIFE, QUEER LOVE
Edited by Matt Bates and Golnoosh Nour
Lucy 1999–2020
Contents
Introduction
When, in March 2020, we received the devastating news of the death of Lucy Reynolds, publisher Sarah Beal’s trans daughter, we both felt immense grief. Neither of us had met Lucy in person, nor did we have any interactions with her, so whilst our grief stemmed from our compassion for Sarah’s loss, it was intensified by the fact that this was another lost queer life.
Being queer is hard. Recognising one’s own personal difference and learning self-acceptance can be a painful and bewildering journey. And it is more than just identifying as LGBTQ+. To us, queerness is about disrupting the status quo. While identifying as anything other than cis-heterosexual is automatically disruptive to the cis-heteronormative world that we have to live in, queerness is also about an attitude, and a courage that lets one express their own deviation from the norm. Writing is an action, a call to arms. Putting words on the page, articulating our fears and desires is a form of resistance: a symbolic shredding of the heteronormative script.
We received hundreds of submissions from almost every corner of the world and with so many amazingly written 2queer texts, the final selection process was tough. In the end, we decided on entries not only representative of many races, genders, and sexualities in all their rainbow glories, but also those that we found sublime and extraordinary in regard to literary craft. In this sense, we were interested in not just pushing the boundaries of gender and sexuality, but also the boundaries of literature itself. That’s why we specified in the submission call out that we were interested in both poetry and prose, short stories, narrative non-fiction or indeed a hybrid of these. Although each entry was submitted independently, as we began the selection process a glorious sense of continuity and community began to emerge. Words and sentences created in private, in those liminal spaces where despair and desire meet, are articulated here and expand upon queer difference, queer difficulty, queer curiosity, and solidarity. These works shout, demand and proclaim our capacity to express queer life and queer love.
This beautifully daring collection is to honour a young, lost, queer life, but also to create more space to encourage and salute the diversity of queer writing, and to celebrate the richness of queer life experience.
Golnoosh & Matt Autumn 2021
In Mercy and with Faith – Katlego Kai Kolanyane-Kesupile
For I did not come to hate the word
h/H/H/HeeEe
instead I (simply) chose the door where
it could be unbridled
to think itself free
no knees for engagements
or hairy palms
from spoiling seed
no braver than when help
could be sought and granted
and tears dove in lullaby streams
and disappeared – when dreams
could still be sweet
no muscle better than
the beating of a heart
against an ear
4
a rush of time fast
slow and clear
if I come bare
in arms
they are a shaking horizon
glittered by a waving sun
I did (not) come here
to hate
in stead, I surrendered
your fight, stayed
Hermetic and took flight.
For in All I can be Mer cy
For in All I can find more Faith
than settle in aboard
an ark. With no course
death
gallops in fields of sorrow.
Katlego Kai Kolanyane-Kesupile is an international award-winning Cultural Architect and Development Practitioner from Botswana with imprints in education, communications and human rights. Her work centres on decoloniality, feminism and disability theory. Her writing ranges from contemporary critiques, creative work in poetry, music and theatre, and scholarly research. Katlego holds an MA in Human Rights, Culture and Social Justice from Goldsmiths University of London.
How to Build an Identity Without an Essence – Jonathan Kemp
‘Behind the permitted words, listen for the others!’
–Jean Genet
If ‘sexual identity is a narrative we tell ourselves and we tell about ourselves’ (Hall, 2009, p.1), then queer narratives, like queer selves, cannot fail to twist, interrupt and trouble the established modes of storytelling. Queer transverses and traverses – crosses and crosses out – all the bog-standard (straight, in every sense of the word) ways of being and telling: queering the pitch because we must. Because content is form, form content.
To define is to limit and as such queer must never be defined, yet strategic essentialism (Spivak) demands that I do, that I name the unnameable, describe the ineluctable. Yet we must never forget that something about queer is inextinguishable, inexhaustible; that ineffability is part of what it is: without it, queer isn’t queer. There must always be a certain unintelligibility at work in queer’s work, for it is an identity without an essence (Halperin). 6
Since its reappropriation/reclamation in the early 1990s as a critical and disruptive force rather than a stinging insult, queer has been a highly contentious word: a battlefield, semantic or otherwise, rather than a straightforward descriptor or noun. But the contentious nature of the word, I would argue, is its very purpose, even its nature, if one could risk claiming it had such a thing. This verbing of a noun has ruffled and must continue to ruffle as many feathers as possible, undermine all certainties, set orthodoxies quivering. As a verb, it reverberates through the corridors of academe, like Jesus tipping the money-lenders’ tables, every department overrun and overturned. The most august of our institutions have been exposed and accused; every gallery, theatre and pleasure dome is a bloodbath of sexual politics, a steaming orgy of queer. It’s wishful thinking, of course, but what else is left once the imagination’s been ransacked, lobotomised by the internal pressure of conformity, but to balance on the tightrope of lunacy and art?
Replace existence with the desire to exist.
Queer always has its legs and eyes wide open, knowing that discursive whoring will get you everywhere. Queer has opened up its arms and said ‘mmmmm yes’ a million times. Like all good cynics, its heart is there, on its sleeve, for all to see. These words: queer thinking, queer theory, queer lives, queer loves are cornerstones demarking a rich territory of consciousness and feeling, testaments to what it is to be – here and now – thinking and living and loving queerly, as a queer, as someone who queers, someone queered.
In 1993, Judith Butler wrote:
The assertion of ‘queer’ will be necessary as a term of affiliation, but it will not fully describe those it 7purports to represent. As a result, it will be necessary to affirm the contingency of the term: to let it be vanquished by those who are excluded by the term but who justifiably expect representation by it, to let it take on means that cannot now be anticipated by a younger generation whose political vocabulary may well carry a very different set of investments (Butler 1993, p.230).
Because queer comes with its own criteria, is its own criteria, as such we can’t use pre-established criteria to recognise it, let alone judge it. If it names anything, it names a critical energy or impulse that can never – must never – settle.
References
Judith Butler, Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of Sex, Routledge 1993
Donald Hall, Reading Sexualities: Hermeneutic Theory and the Future of Queer Studies, Routledge, 2009
Jonathan Kemp’s debut novel London Triptych won the Authors’ Club Best First Novel Award.
The Guardian called it ‘an ambitious, fast-moving, and sharply written work’ and Time Out called it ‘a thoroughly absorbing and pacy read’. His next book, Twentysix (2011), was a collection of queer erotic prose poems. A second novel, Ghosting, appeared in March 2015. His non-fiction 8includes The Penetrated Male, (Punctum Books 2012) and, Homotopia? Gay Identity, Sameness & the Politics of Desire in 2016. He teaches creative writing at Middlesex University. More info on his website: jonathan-kemp.com
My Name is Frida – Rosy Adams
My parents christened me ‘Alfie’. I hate it, just as I hated the dull colours of my boy’s clothes and the hard, angular toys they bought for me. They took me to football club after school, even though it was obvious that I hated that too. Dad would drag me outside for a kick-about on Sunday afternoons and I would try my best, but I wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all myself.
I want to be an artist. They think it’s a waste of time. You’ll never make a living from poncing about with a paintbrush. Dad’s words. Even so, they make sure I never go short of art materials. It may not be what they’d prefer, but I think they were relieved when I found something, anything, that I really wanted to do.
He tries to hide it, but I know Dad is disappointed in me. It must be hard for him. We don’t have anything in common at all. One time, I overheard him say to Mum,
‘Well, at least he isn’t gay. He’s always after hanging round the girls.’
Mum didn’t reply. She doesn’t say much, but she doesn’t miss much either.
My best friend is Fran. She’s the only one who really 10gets me. I go round her house and we dress up and do each other’s make-up with a chair wedged against her door so none of her brothers or sisters can come in. She says she wishes that she was an only child, like me, but it’s not as great as she thinks.
Last year Ms Arlington (my art teacher, who tells us to call her ‘Jen’) introduced me to Frida Kahlo. I fell in love with everything about her. She said, I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it’s true I’m here, and I’m just as strange as you.
I cried when I read it. It was like she was talking directly to me. That’s why I named myself for her, because she made me realise who I really am. She’s the one who gave me the confidence to start showing myself to the world. I don’t care if some of the other kids laugh at me, and even some of the teachers give me the side eye. I’ve got Fran, and I’ve got Frida.
Sam. I watch him from out of the corners of my eyes, or through my fringe so he looks fuzzy and dreamy. Not moving my head to look. Not catching the eyes of the others, who would tease me.
He’s always restless in class. He tosses his head, flicking the hair out of his eyes, and twitching his shoulders from one position to the next.
I catalogue him in secret. At rest, smoking a roll-up out the back, hips cocked and resting his weight on one foot. In P.E., running up and down the football field, not much for kicking the ball, just racing up and down, laughing, 11long legs flicking mud and grass everywhere. Once, angry, arguing with another boy, his head thrown back and teeth showing, and his voice ringing out a challenge.
At night I imagine him with me. The feel of his taut, springy muscle under my hands. Warm breath on the nape of my neck.
Who am I kidding? He doesn’t even know I exist.
My hands are shaking, but the outfit I’ve chosen has no pockets, so I fold my arms tight across my chest. I have to walk slowly because I’m not used to walking out in heels. I’ve practised in the house, but it’s not the same. The clack of them hitting the pavement sounds way too loud.
I can see Fran up ahead. She’s waiting for me at the entrance to the arcade. Even though she’s seen me dressed like this, she has to look twice before she recognises me.
‘Wow! You look amazing.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
We link arms and walk along the Prom. The tide is in and the breakers are throwing spray and sand over the railings. I can see the boys at the end of the wooden jetty, playing chicken with the waves. The setting sun turns them into shadow puppets, but even so I can pick him out with one glance.
I look away.
I make myself breathe in deep through my nose, like the counsellor told me, concentrating on the reek of seaweed and chips.
We stroll, Fran and I, putting on our best whatever faces.
They notice us, and we are showered with wolf whistles and ape noises. But not him. He’s not looking at us. He’s 12mooching around at the back of the group, peering into the water.
Steffan, his best mate, shouts to Fran, ‘Hey Fran! Who’s your friend?’
They haven’t recognised me. I don’t know how to respond, but Fran calls back, ‘Ask her yourself!’
And we strut past, swaying our hips and pretending to ignore them.
The next day, at school, Steffan sits next to me at break.
‘That was you, yesterday, wasn’t it? With Fran?’
I nod, keeping my eyes down, bracing myself for the anger and the ridicule that I know is coming.
‘I just wanted to say, I thought you looked really nice.’
I did not expect that.
‘Thanks. That means a lot.’
He stands up. Smiles. Says, ‘Yeah, uh, like I said, I just wanted to let you know.’
He trips over his bag, catches himself on the chair, and walks away.
After that, Steffan starts to hang out with me and Fran at break times. To begin with, I’m hopeful that he’ll bring Sam with him, but he’s always busy with something or other. Still, it’s nice to have another friend that accepts me for who I am. I’m lucky, I suppose.
One day, we start talking about crushes. It seems like Fran has a new one every week, and she’s not shy about it. Steffan admits to liking someone but he won’t tell us who it is, even when we pin him down and tickle him without mercy. He rolls around on the floor, protesting, ‘Stop, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!’13
Then I tell them about Sam.
They’re quiet for a bit too long.
‘What? Is that bad?’
‘No, no, it’s just that, uh …’ Fran stops, looking awkward.
Steffan says, ‘Frida, you know Sam’s gay, right?’
No. I didn’t know that.
Frida looks down at me from the uneven framing of white printer paper. She appears inscrutable, despite the harsh tracery of thorn covering her chest and shoulders. She seems to say, I live with pain. I’m used to it. Near it is another printout; in it she’s bound and exposed, fractured but still whole, and pierced all over: Christ like, with nails.
I pray to her for guidance. What do I do now? I feel like my world has fractured. I thought he would love me when he realised I wasn’t a boy. Only to find out he preferred boys all along.
I run down to the kitchen. In the cupboard under the sink is a roll of black bin bags. I rip off a couple and return to my room. I pull drawers from their runners, emptying the gorgeous, feminine paraphernalia straight into a rubbish sack. Frida stares at my activity with disapproval. I take her pictures and lay their faces down with care on the dressing table. That will have to go too. Boys don’t have dressing tables. But not right now. The make-up, hair things, and perfumes sitting on top go straight into another bag. Air whooshes out when I tie the top of the bag. It smells of flowers and wax.
When I’m finished there’s not much left. Just one small bottle of nail polish in cobalt blue, the same colour as the Frida’s Casa Azul. I hide it in the back of a drawer.
I heave the bags down the stairs, out the back, and into 14the wheelie bin. On the way back to my room I take a pair of scissors from the kitchen. I sit at my dressing table and look into the mirror. I pick one of Frida’s self-portraits and turn it face up, like a tarot card. It is Self-portrait with cropped hair. She looks at me sideways, with a small, bitter smile, ugly hanks of hair discarded at her feet.
Deep breath. I can do this.
In the morning I sit down at the table and keep my eyes on my bowl of cereal. Dad says,
‘I wish you’d make up your bloody mind!’ and slams the door on his way out of the house.
Mum says nothing, as usual, just looks hard at my bare face and tufty hair. She turns away and starts scrubbing the cooker with unnecessary force.
It’s Monday.
At school, even though our uniform is fairly sexless, people notice, and pretend they haven’t noticed.
I don’t care. There’s only one person who I want to notice me. And he does! He looks at me for a full five seconds, raises his beautiful straight brows and smiles; then turns back to his friends and says something I can’t hear. The friends laugh and turn to look at me as well. Apart from Steffan, who has a moody scowl on his face. I smile at them all and walk to class, reminding myself not to sway my hips.
‘Oh my God!’
It’s Fran.
‘Frida, wtf?’
I forgot all about Fran. This is going to be really awkward.
‘I’m not Frida anymore.’15
‘What? Why?’
‘I’ve, uh, changed my mind.’
‘You can’t just change your mind about your identity! What happened? Is someone bullying you?’
‘No, look, can we talk about this later?’
People are beginning to stare at us.
‘OK, “Alfie”.’
She walks away and I flinch at the sound of my birth name. It sounds wrong. But I’ll get used to it. He’s worth it.
After school I see Sam slouching at the bus stop, alone. I run my fingers through what’s left of my hair and I walk over to him.
‘Hi.’
He glances at me.
‘Hey.’
His eyes return to their contemplation of the pavement.
‘I’m Alfie.’
‘Yeah? I thought your name was “Frida”.’
‘Not anymore. It was a phase. I’m over it.’
‘Whatever you say.’
He yawns. Slides his feet outwards until he’s sitting on the pavement. Pulls out a baccy pouch and starts making a roll-up.
‘You smoke?’
‘Uh, no.’
He shrugs.
‘So what do you do for fun, “Alfie”?’
‘Um, I don’t know. I suppose I need to find some new hobbies.’
He smiles at that.
‘I was wondering … I thought maybe, you might like to go out sometime?’16
‘Like a date?’
I’m breathless. I squeeze out a tiny ‘yes’.
‘Look Alfie, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not my type.’
‘I could …’
‘No, you couldn’t. I’m seeing someone.’
‘Who?’
He lights up. Inhales. Holds the breath for a moment. Lets go. The name sighs out of his mouth with the smoke.
‘Richard Sweetman. He’s on the football team.’
‘But … I thought …’
‘Like I said, you’re not my type.’
The bus pulls up. He offers me the roll-up.
‘Here. You look like you need it.’
I take it without thinking and he steps onto the bus and disappears up the stairs to the top deck.
The driver asks if I want to get on. I shake my head, and the bus shudders away. I raise the roll-up to my lips but it’s already gone out.
Is this how Frida felt, after Diego betrayed her? Did she sit in her room, turning her face to the shadowed corner, replaying the moment he walked away? All the pain she suffered: how did she never try to kill herself?
I am not Frida. I am not so strong.
Mum tries to talk to me. I won’t let her in. She gives up eventually.
Fran messages me at least twenty times. I don’t answer.
There’s another knock on my bedroom door.
‘Just go away, Mum. I don’t want to talk about it!’
‘It’s me. Steffan.’
What’s Steffan doing here?17
‘Can we talk?’
I open the door. He walks into my room, asks if he can sit down. He takes the bed. I sit by the dressing table.
‘What do you want to talk about?’
‘Sam told me, about you asking him out.’
I can’t look at him.
‘Frida …’
‘Don’t call me that!’
‘You’re Frida, more than you’ll ever be Alfie! Stop trying to be something you’re not.’
I put my hands over my face. I can’t bear him to see me.
‘I really like you, Frida.’
‘Even like this?’ I grab the tufts of my hair and pull it, tears stinging my eyes.
‘Yes.’
‘What does that make you then? Are you gay or straight? Or do you have to be bi to like someone like me?’
He looks down at his feet, blushing.
‘I don’t know … does it matter?’
I go and sit next to him on the bed.
He takes my hand. Leans in to me. Kisses me right on the lips, as carefully as if I were a newly emerged butterfly.
No. It doesn’t matter at all.
Rosy Adams is a Welsh writer and therapist who lives in the seaside town of Aberystwyth with her family. She is currently working on producing and editing a new online magazine.
Amethyst – Richard Scott
After Rimbaud
Here they come! Lorries dense with lilac lads – Marys posing in purple spandex – puce puppies and piss-slaves and pierced twinks – amethyst-wigged drag queens serving face, body – daddies painted in mulberry leathers! A hundred floats sparkling and catching the light like split-open geode clusters, glitter and feathers raining down.
And coffins, crystalline and shining, raised high on chiselled shoulders – and jam-velvet canopies sewn with semi-precious stones twinkling like the starry skies of your village childhood – and painted placards and lavender badges and pink triangles, vibrational. O amethyst, stone of transmutation – centring and violet-bright – all this energy becomes love, soothing and self-soothing. Our veins are tinted purple!
And mares, massive and iris-skinned, their legs and flanks stretching down from the amethyst empyrean. Our feathered caps are stroking their furred and calming bellies, low-ceiling and periwinkle safety.20
No one of us are damaged. No burning, molten attrition, mantle’s pressure here – just this effervescence – the continuation of light – retina and optic nerve disco. Amethyst is living iron and single point scrying – prismatic absolute protector!
Even our ruts, pure amethyst-fire and burnished, as we round the bend –
Richard Scott was born in London in 1981. His publications include Soho (Faber & Faber, 2018).
