Journal articles on the topic 'Transgender Historical Society'

The presence of transgender groups in India holds considerable cultural and historical significance. Despite their longstanding presence in Indian society, comprehensive data on their socio-economic status remains scant, with the 2011 Indian Census marking a notable first step in enumerating the transgender population. This community grapples with multifaceted challenges, including familial rejection, limited educational and employment opportunities, and widespread discrimination. The prevailing social stigma and lack of acceptance often lead to exclusion from mainstream society, perpetuating cycles of poverty, illiteracy, and vulnerability. Addressing the complex challenges faced by transgender communities requires concerted efforts from policymakers, civil society, and the broader community to foster awareness, challenge societal norms, and implement inclusive policies that uphold their rights and dignity. Embracing diversity, promoting inclusivity, and fostering equitable opportunities are essential steps towards creating a society where transgender individuals can live with dignity, respect, and equal opportunities.

A nursing perspective following McIntyre and McDonald’s framework was used to unpack the complex issue of challenges faced by transgender people in the Canadian healthcare system, considering historical, ethical, legal, social, cultural, political, and economic perspectives. Transgender people have unique healthcare needs which are often misunderstood or unaddressed by healthcare professionals, leading to poorer outcomes and inequities. Issues concerning transgender people are becoming a focus and a higher priority for society. This literature review reveals the complexity of this issue as the roots in historical, ethical, legal, social, cultural, political, and economic contexts are explored. A variety of barriers and facilitators exist to addressing and resolving this issue, including transgender people avoiding healthcare, intolerance, lack of knowledge and understanding, lack of healthcare provider training, media representation, and economic costs. The analysis of this issue can be used to inform resolution strategies to utilize facilitators and overcome barriers, including increasing awareness and knowledge, improving education and healthcare provider competency, and utilizing nurse leaders as advocates, role models, and agents of change. Improving care of transgender people is a nursing leadership priority. By implementing the suggested resolution strategies, the healthcare system can begin to move towards a more inclusive, understanding, and holistic model of care to improve healthcare access and outcomes for transgender people.

Abstract This article seeks to start a discussion that may help us understand why the category “transgender,” created to include all trans* experiences, has excluded some. If “transgender” cannot fully include all trans* people, can it still be a useful category to adequately capture and analyze the lived experience of historical actors? It is in tracing back the genealogy of transgender, in the search for a name that could encompass the multiple and sometimes contradictory relationships between one's body and its social recognition, that we may attempt to discover why transgender has eclipsed terms such as transsexual and transvestite. The article first examines the parallels between recent debates in the historiographies of gender and transgender as terms that can express the complex social representation of bodies negotiated by language. Second, it studies how much a genealogy of transgender in the past reveals in fact a multiplicity of terms to express a realignment between body and a self that can be read by society. Ultimately, the author proposes the study of first-person narratives as the best way to comprehend the multiple terms used to express the diverse and sometimes contradictory identities an individual can embody.

While individuals have demonstrated gender diversity throughout history, the use of medication and/or surgery to bring a person’s physical sex characteristics into alignment with their gender identity is relatively recent, with origins in the first half of the 20th century. Adolescent gender-affirming care, however, did not emerge until the late 20th century and has been built upon pioneering work from the Netherlands, first published in 1998. Since that time, evolving protocols for gender-diverse adolescents have been incorporated into clinical practice guidelines and standards of care published by the Endocrine Society and World Professional Association for Transgender Health, respectively, and have been endorsed by major medical and mental health professional societies around the world. In addition, in recent decades, evidence has continued to emerge supporting the concept that gender identity is not simply a psychosocial construct but likely reflects a complex interplay of biological, environmental, and cultural factors. Notably, however, while there has been increased acceptance of gender diversity in some parts of the world, transgender adolescents and those who provide them with gender-affirming medical care, particularly in the USA, have been caught in the crosshairs of a culture war, with the risk of preventing access to care that published studies have indicated may be lifesaving. Despite such challenges and barriers to care, currently available evidence supports the benefits of an interdisciplinary model of gender-affirming medical care for transgender/gender-diverse adolescents. Further long-term safety and efficacy studies are needed to optimize such care.

The identity of an individual is often determined by the moral dictates and judgments of the society. However, individuals who seek to challenge these with their personalities, sexual orientations and inclinations are often shunned, abandoned and treated as the “other”. Abandoned by families and ridiculed by negative stigmas, they are usually left with no other option, than resorting to begging or singing in weddings, to make a living. Even with such vulnerability to harassment and violence, their agony mostly remains unnoticed. This only indicates the extent of helplessness and neglect this community faces. Various rights granted to this community are seldom potent and welfare measures hibernate on paper. Though the Indian Constitution makes mighty promises prohibiting discrimination of all sorts, there exists ambiguity concerning the concept of gender and the effects that such a prohibition can have on third gender rights. With the Supreme Court taking a proactive step in the NALSA judgment, there has been significant attention drawn towards transgender rights, which will be examined in the paper subsequently. Highlighting the historical growth of the transgender people and analyzing their position in jurisdictions across the world, this research paper aims to shed light on the murky world of suffering and discrimination this community has been relegated to in India. Despite some positive developments that have contributed to increased awareness and recognition of their plight, major problems still plague this section of the society. In addition to the social and legal position of the transgender community and the judicial treatment of the same, the paper also seeks to act as an expose when it comes to make-believe cases of being transgender.

This paper aims to illustrate the research path and methodological aspects of the study of sexual normativity with reference to a specific population of the LGBTQ+ universe, namely binary and non-binary transgender people in the Italian context through the analysis and historical reconstructions of the path of gender affirmation, in daily life and in the narrative proposed by the main old media. The decision to orient the focus of the analysis on transnormativity is related to the observation of an important research gap present in the scholarly literature, which has so far analyzed the processes of the construction of sexual normativity in mainstream society - and, as a result, has produced several studies and theorizing on heteronormativity and the male homosexual population (or homonormativity) - while conspicuously leaving out noncisgenderist sexual identities (transgender, genderfluid, agender, etc.). Following up on these premises, specifically, the following research questions were set: what are the reference gender models that guide and direct the identity construction of transgender people? And what are those of binary and non-binary people? how do these models reflect aspects attributable to mainstream sexual normativity (mainly heteronormativity and cisgenderism) furthermore, what differences are evident among these reference models in relation to various socio-demographic and identity aspects (how do they vary according to age, educational qualification, gender identity status, and sexual orientation). In order to try to answer the questions of the research design, a survey was conducted, using a biographical approach, through the administration of semi-structured interviews with privileged witnesses working in the field of gender reaffirmation pathways in the medical, clinical and legal fields, in order to reconstruct the chronological and cultural stages of the construction of transnormativity from the enactment of State Law 164/1982 to the present day. In contrast to this perspective, new, increasingly fluid, complex, and differentiated demands are emerging, which have generated debate on the one hand and tension both with mainstream society and within the LGBTQ+ community on the other. This further fragmentation of cis-heteronormative criteria could, for some, pose a threat to the achievements and social positions acquired through years of struggle, demands and construction of their own sexual normativity.

After reviewing the use of isolation in US prisons and public restrooms to confine transgender people in solitary cells and single‐occupancy bathrooms, I propose an explanatory theory of eliminative space. I argue that prisons and toilets are eliminative spaces: that is, spaces of waste management that use layers of isolation to sanctify social or individual waste, at the outer and inner limits of society. As such, they function according to an eliminative logic. Eliminative logic, as I develop it, involves three distinct but interrelated mechanisms: 1) purification of the social center, through 2) iterative segregation, presuming and enforcing 3) the reduced relationality of marginal persons. By evaluating the historical development and contemporary function of prisons and restrooms, I demonstrate that both seek to protect the gender binary through waves of segregation by sex, race, disability, and gender identity. I further argue that both assume the thin relationality of, in this case, transgender people, who are conceived of as impervious to the effects of isolation and thus always already isolable. I conclude that, if we are to counter the violence of these isolation practices, we not only need to think holistically about eliminative spaces and logic, but also to richly reconceptualize relationality.

Due to the different historical developments, there are significant differences between China and the West regarding culture and values. As a group that has always been sensitive, there is also a pronounced difference between how the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) group is treated in Chinese society and Western society. These differences include the aspects of social acceptance of the LGBT community, legal protections, as well as the pressures that they face from the family, workplace, and other levels. This research aims to conduct a comparative analysis of the status and treatment of the LGBT community in Chinese and Western societies, with a particular focus on the experiences of LGBT individuals in China. The study will investigate the challenges and discrimination faced by the LGBT community in China, including legal and social barriers to equality and inclusion. Additionally, the research will examine the ways in which LGBT individuals and activists in China are utilizing new media platforms to advocate for their rights and reduce stigma. Based on the findings, the study will propose recommendations for improving the social and legal protection of LGBT individuals in China, as well as strategies for increasing the visibility and representation of the LGBT community through media outreach and public education.

When the decree to cut pigtails and change clothing was introduced in the late Qing and early Republican periods, there were many clothing changes. The feminization of men's clothing was widely discussed at the time as a distinctive dress code trend. This article looks at the historical documents that documented this event and analyses the specific manifestations of this phenomenon by looking at the groups and regions where the feminization of men's clothing took place. The article analyses the phenomenon of men wearing women's clothing to blur their gender and explore the image of cross-dressing men in the society of the time and its meaning. Through the analysis of historical documents on the diverse, outward expressions of cross-dressing men, the fact that diversity in masculinity existed in that time is illustrated. This leads to further induction of the respective images of masculinity and a discussion of the various reasons behind this phenomenon. The article concludes with an attempt to reveal the motives that produced the feminization of men's dressing, both in terms of external social and internal causes, and to discuss whether the feminization of men's dressing in the late Qing Dynasty involved transgender identity the analysis of masculinity.

At first I thought he was a baseball fan from Cleveland. As he came closer I saw the cross on his blue and red cap, and I realized I had seen this guy before. I was staffing a GOHI exhibit at the Columbus gay pride parade. GOHI is the Gay Ohio History Initiative, a group of volunteers who formed a partnership with the Ohio Historical Society in 2006 to “preserve, archive, and curate Ohio's LGBT history and culture.” Interestingly, the “preeminent history preservation organization” in Ohio is serving as a model of collaboration for public educational institutions concerning lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer (LGBTQ) history. This may strike one as curious given that two out of three Ohio voters supported a constitutional ban on marriage equality in 2004 even though the state legislature had already adopted a similar measure. The state also does not prohibit employment or housing discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation or gender identity. Yet Columbus maintains a national reputation as a “gay-friendly” city, suggesting that the political terrain in Ohio is as mixed as ever. The old saw—“As goes Ohio so goes the nation”—still seems pertinent.

O período pós-moderno tem sido marcado por atitudes de violência, preconceito e desrespeito contra a população LGBT. A história registra as mais variadas formas de sofrimento das pessoas que expressam sua sexualidade e/ou identidade de gênero de forma diversa daquela tida como “normal” por uma sociedade heterossexista. O preconceito se revela não só em atos de agressão física, revela-se no insulto, no desprezo, na discriminação, na intolerância, na violência cotidiana em se recusar a chamar a pessoa pelo nome social. Trata-se de um debate de inegável relevância na atualidade e a despeito de inexistir Lei Federal que ampare a modificação do nome civil em razão da identidade de gênero, não significa ausência de direito, e os Tribunais Superiores têm estado atentos à pluralidade social e da necessidade de promover o bem de todos sem preconceito, conforme dispõe o art. 3º, IV, da Constituição Federal de 1988. Nesse contexto, o Supremo Tribunal Federal (STF), em recente decisão, possibilitou aos transgêneros a mudança do nome e gênero diretamente no Cartório de Registro Civil. O Tribunal Superior Eleitoral (TSE) entendeu que candidatos transgêneros poderiam utilizar o nome social na urna a partir das eleições de 2018 e possibilitou a utilização da reserva de cotas de acordo com a identidade de gênero. Portanto, “transgêneras ou simplesmente pessoas Trans são pessoas abrangidas por uma expressão “guarda-chuva”, utilizada para designar as pessoas que possuem uma identidade de gênero diferente da que corresponde ao sexo biológico” (TSE, Consulta n 0604054-58/DF, 2018) e a discrepância entre a aparência física e as informações no registro de nascimento ocasiona situações constrangedoras e de humilhação no cotidiano dessas pessoas, o que justifica que sejam tratadas pelo nome social, já que a identidade de gênero decorre do princípio da dignidade humana, da igualdade, da vedação à discriminação, além de ser uma manifestação da própria personalidade do indivíduo. O presente trabalho tem como objetivo propor a normatização do uso nome social da pessoa transgênero no âmbito do Tribunal de Justiça de Rondônia. Para tanto, faz uma reflexão sobre a violência em razão da orientação sexual e identidade de gênero, demonstrando o crescente índice de assassinato por crimes de ódio no Brasil, especialmente contra as pessoas Trans, bem como, a recusa da sociedade e do próprio Estado no tratamento das pessoas Trans pelo nome social sendo uma violação de Direitos Humanos. Utilizou-se de uma abordagem qualitativa, de cunho descritivo e procedimento bibliográfico para o desenvolvimento da pesquisa. O resultado do estudo demonstrará a necessidade de se superar preconceitos históricos e erradicar a violência homofóbica em prol de uma sociedade mais justa, cidadã, que respeita à diversidade e promove Direitos Humanos. ABSTRACT The postmodern period has been marked by violent acts, prejudice and disrespect of the LGBT population. History records the most varied suffering of those who express their sexuality and / or gender identity differently from that perceived as "normal" by a heterosexist society. Prejudice is revealed not only in acts of physical aggression, it is revealed in insult, contempt, discrimination, intolerance, everyday violence in refusing to call the person by their social name. It is a current debate of undeniable relevance, and, despite the fact that there is no federal law that supports the modification of the civil name due to gender identity, does not mean absence of right, and the High Courts have been aware that society is plural and the need to promote the good of all without prejudice, according to art. 3º, IV, of Brazilian Federal Constitution. In this context, the Federal Supreme Court (STF), in a recent decision, made it possible for transgenders to change name and gender directly in the Civil Registry Office. The Supreme Electoral Tribunal (TSE) understood that transgender candidates could use the social name in the ballot box from the 2018 elections and made it possible to use the quota reservation according to gender identity. Therefore, "transgender or simply trans persons are those covered by an "umbrella expression", used to designate persons who have a different gender identity from the one corresponding to biological sex" (TSE, Query n 0604054-58 / DF, 2018) and the discrepancy between physical appearance and information in the birth certificate causes embarrassing and humiliating situations in the daily life of these people, which justifies being treated by the social name, since the gender identity is derived from the principle of human dignity, from equality, from prohibition to discrimination, as well as being a manifestation of the individual's personality. The present work aims to propose the normatization of the use of the social name by transgender in the Court of Justice of Rondônia, so it makes a reflection on the violence due to sexual orientation and gender identity, demonstrating the increasing index of murder by crimes of hatred in Brazil, especially against Trans people, and that the refusal of society and the State itself to treat trans people by the social name is a violation of human rights. We used a qualitative, descriptive and bibliographic procedure for research development. The result of the study will demonstrate the need to overcome historical prejudices and eradicate homophobic violence in favor of a more just, citizen society that respects diversity and promotes human rights. Keywords: Access to justice. Human Rights and Citizenship. Transgender and Social Name. Community LGBTI +. Court of Justice of Rondônia. Texto completo em PDF: O uso do nome social no âmbito do Tribunal de Justiça de Rondônia.

In the fall of 2022, two professors from two different academic disciplines launched an interdisciplinary undergraduate course named Power to the People: Social Movements in United States History (Power to the People henceforth) at a small private religiously affiliated liberal arts college in the southern United States. The goal of the course was to provide students with a comprehensive background of historical social movements and the strategies and tactics used by the people to make change. In an era and climate where critical race theory, Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer/Questioning, Intersex, Asexual, Two Spirit (LGBTQIA2S+) identities, citizenship status, and other social identities and issues have become political flashpoints, the faculty developers knew this course could incite controversy, yet they also believed it could welcome critical dialogue needed by students preparing to enter careers a society plagued by binaries and divisiveness. Furthermore, the students in these two disciplines expressed interest in this subject matter as it related to their professional pursuits. This article explores a rationale for this course, the experience of teaching an interdisciplinary, team-taught course, the design of the course, pedagogical strategies employed, and it concludes with reflections on challenges and successes from the first year of teaching this course. This article seeks to provide educators with information and ideas for how to broach difficult topics in the college classroom with a collaborative, interdisciplinary course.

This paper examines the tensions between the law, politics and public opinion in Singapore via a landmark 2014 ruling that upheld the constitutionality of Section 377A of the Penal Code criminalising sex between men. It argues that the ruling dealt a serious blow to the human rights project for minority groups in Singapore due to complex socio-political biases towards homosexuals and a narrow legal logic that is overly deferential to the legislature. This “tyranny of the majority” not only reinforces longstanding prejudices against the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) community and deprives them of their rights, but potentially results in the graver consequence of compromising the integrity of the Singapore Constitution and the country’s democratic ideals. The paper also illustrates how the court of public opinion, split between conservative and liberal pro-humanist camps, not only keeps this issue at an impasse through opposing representations of homosexuality but also reflects an important ideological juncture that Singapore currently finds itself at as it navigates the path to modernisation and liberalisation. It urges a humanistic re-imagination of the law where the formulation and instrumentalisation of laws are constantly renegotiated and reworked to become more responsive as historical contexts and social relations between various parties beyond the State and its apparatus evolve. It also ventures that decriminalising homosexuality presents Singapore with the opportunity to define a new Asian post-colonial modernity and that the concept of “rights capital” can introduce greater equity and dignity within society.

This article discusses transgender history, and argues for a broad understanding of such. The first part contains a discussion on cis normativity and historical research, specifically within women’s and gender studies. Certain stereotypical explanations of gender transgressive experiences, in particular the so-called ”passing woman” are examined as part of a certain feminist heritage. In this particular line of research, cross-dressing is considered an emancipatory practice where cisgender women disguise themselves as men in order to escape the boundaries of patriarchal society. The article does not contest the occurrence of such experiences, but argues for more, and more nuanced, understandings of sex and gender. The second part of the article considers five Swedish gender transgressive persons: Anders Magnus Åhrman (also Anna Maria, 1777-unknown date of death), Lasse-Maja (Lars Larsson Molin, 1785–1845), Aron Forss (1807–1854), Andreas Bruce (1808–1885), and Carl August/Helga Lundström (1862–1915). One of the key arguments is that such cases should not be analysed only on the basis of assigned sex. Such assumptions of sex and gender identities are problematic in several ways. For example, they leave out important areas of research by viewing the experiences of transfeminine persons as ”male”. Also, they ignore more complex and non-binary understandings that have been available for recognizing, articulating and interpreting sex and gender before the 20th Century. Through other departures, the article argues, it is possible to more fully apprehend both the conditions of gender transgressions and the ways in which sex and gender have been understood through history.

The article is dedicated to the study of problems of postcolonial feminism in the Philippines and revealing of reasons why they need creation of a separate program that differs from the program of pioneering theorists of postcolonial criticism (Edward Said, Gomi Bgabga, Gayatri Spivak, etc.). The problem of the article is unsufficiently studied postcolonial feminism. The example of the Philippines shows scientific limitations of local articles, however, there is an urgent need to update the whole field of acute issues in the lives of the Filipinos on whom feminist criticism is most focused today. The relevance of the article is due to the interest in development of feminism in the Philippines – postcolonial country which suffered both from colonial West policy and American domination, and had a matriarchal culture in pre‐colonial times. The aim of the article is to analyze the problems, ideas, and strategies of postcolonial feminism in the Philippines in terms of postcolonial philosophy and gender theory. Authors analyze social problems in the lives of the Filipinos, including unresolved women’s issues at all levels of society and LGBTIQ community, sex tourism and prostitution, etc. Cultural foundations of gender perceptions are analyzed in the Philippines and reasons are found for distrust of the Filipinos to Western critics of patriarchy in artificial imposition of patriarchy by Spanish conquerors in colonial times. Authors consider paradoxical situation of LGBTIQ community in the Philippines emphasizing non‐violent and non‐homophobic nature of Philippine society which is represented by the figure of babaylan – transgender woman or feminine shamanic man known even in pre‐colonial times. In addition, authors analyze in detail the problems of sex tourism, prostitution, abandoned children from “white men” who represent not only saved forms of colonialism in the East (they represent the model of symbolic relations between West and East as a relationship between the dominant and the subordinate), but also have transformed into social problems which require regulation by the authorities. The novelty of the study is in an attempt to find interdependencies between historical and cultural characteristics, gender perceptions, and strategies of postcolonial feminism in the Philippines.

Over the past few decades, society’s perception of transgender individuals has significantly transformed, leading to increased recognition and acceptance. However, despite these positive changes, transgender people have historically faced numerous challenges and stigmatization. This article delves into psychiatric perspectives on transgender sexuality and its impact on mental health. It emphasizes the importance of integrating psychiatrists into primary care to enhance engagement in outpatient behavioral health services for transgender and nonbinary adults. Gender identity and sexuality are interconnected aspects of human experience, and understanding transgender sexuality is essential for mental health professionals to provide effective support and care. Gender dysphoria, a psychological condition stemming from incongruence between gender identity and assigned sex, profoundly affects the mental health of transgender individuals, emphasizing the necessity of affirming and comprehensive mental health care. The significance of cultural factors and intersectionality in supporting transgender individuals and mental health professionals play a critical role in identity development by creating safe and supportive environments for exploration and self-acceptance. Affirmative approaches and treatment options, such as hormone replacement therapy and gender confirmation surgery, are discussed, stressing the importance of collaborative care involving medical and mental health professionals. Ultimately, this article underscores mental health professionals’ vital role in supporting transgender individuals’ mental well-being, fostering inclusivity, and contributing to more affirming society.

The research focuses on the specifics of defining and classifying individuals with non-binary gender identity in Pakistan. On the one hand, within Muslim society which is oriented toward traditional values such persons are largely marginalized and perceived as a wholesomely negative phenomenon, scrutinizing which is reprehensible per se. However, we have determined a considerable number of terms which are applied to “third gender” (and applied rather randomly, due to the disparaging attitude to such people). The main reason behind existing terminological variety is that the “third gender” is traditionally viewed in Pakistan through the prism of hijra – unique South Asian communities that include those who, while not being biological females, are unwilling or unable to act according to societal expectations from the male gender. Thus, the unsystematic character of contemporary approach to non-binary gender discourse in Pakistan is predetermined by deep historical roots of this phenomenon and its autonomous development in the region. Upon analyzing a broad range of sources, we classified their suggested terms for “third gender” in the light of theoretical works on gender. It allowed us to establish five discourses (physiological, psychological, Islamic, colonial, legal) with their own specific nomenclature, the practical applicability of which was assessed in this article. Comparative analysis of existing classifications demonstrates that various nomenclatures exist autonomously, which considerably hinders the unification of terminology. This situation can be regarded as an instance of a larger problem within Pakistani society – namely, incoordination of different societal fields and mechanisms of political and legal action.

Although health care institutions continue to address the importance of diversity initiatives, the standard(s) for treatment remain historically and institutionally grounded in a sociocultural privileging of heterosexuality. As a result, lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ+) communities in health care remain largely invisible. This marked invisibility serves as a call to action, a renaissance of thinking within redefined boundaries and limitations. We must therefore refocus our habits of attention on the wholeness of persons and the diversity of their storied experiences as embodied through contemporary society. By rethinking current understandings of LGBTQ+ identities through innovative representation(s) of the media, music industry, and pop culture within a caring science philosophy, nurses have a transformative opportunity to render LGBTQ+ visible and in turn render a transformative opportunity for themselves.

This article addresses sexual diversity, the historic struggle for the rights of LGBTQIA + groups, and the silencing they have suffered over the centuries. The text discusses the history and progress of this struggle to break the barriers of silencing, and confirm their rights in society and in educational practices in two State Schools located in the municipality of Tobias Barreto/SE. The theoretical approach will be post-structuralist based on scholars who approach the trajectory of homosexuals and transgenders in the historical and social context. Although the battle was fought at the beginning of the fight quietly, the achievements are still minimal in view of the full range of violence suffered by homosexuals and transsexuals in the social environment that they are part of. The violence suffered by LGBTQIA+ is a problem to be discussed in the educational environment, through the history of struggle as an element of empowerment for these young people.

Depathologisation of gender diversity in the ICD-11 marks a shift in psychological services for transgender and gender nonconforming people. Even though the stipulated changes are only practically applicable ever since early 2022, a general move towards affirmative psychotherapeutic and counselling practice has been noticed ever since 2018. The present paper covers three main models of mental health care for gender minorities, namely the conversion therapy model, the transsexual gatekeeping model, and the affirmative model, in order to view them under a novel lens. Drawing on Science, Technology and Society Studies, the universalist presumptions and rigid gender roles of the traditional models are brought under scrutiny. Moreover, the itinerary reveals the need for situated narratives that encourage self-determination and renovate the therapeutic relationship as a means of self-exploration instead of an institutional control mechanism. Concluding, it is remarked that intersectional knowledge is crucial in compensating for micro-aggressive practices and dynamics historically promoted by psychologists and other mental health providers.

Aim/Purpose: To inclusively consider the diversity within student gender-identification at post-secondary institutions, we investigate expanding gender self-identification options on admissions forms; often the first point of student contact with campuses. Background: Even if inspired and motivated by inclusion, many of the gender categories in use presently have challenges, including conflating gender identity with sex assigned at birth, providing too many response options giving rise to ethical issues, and using outdated or misunderstood terms. Methodology: We conducted a sequential mixed-methods exploratory research design that consisted of interviews (n=9) with administrators in post-secondary institutions, followed by a survey of said administrators (n=21), and finally a survey of students (n=45). Contribution: The data detail experiences and inform best practices for ensuring gender inclusivity, specifically concerning students who identify as transgender or non-binary, when filling out forms. Findings: Results indicate that moving beyond binary gender categories entails a balance between (1) institutional issues of data integrity for effective use of gender data, and (2) providing flexible and inclusive options for gender-identification that extend within and beyond the gender binary to ensure students are counted where historically they have been invisible. Recommendations for Practitioners: To balance inclusivity and data management institutions may consider a two-part question, first asking about gender (woman, man, non-binary), and then asking about gender-identification experiences (yes/no). Recommendation for Researchers: As a system, we must find a way to balance inclusion with data management, and transgender and non-binary students must be free of administrative burdens in order to exercise their voice and access post-secondary education. Impact on Society: Collecting expanded gender categories in the school system is only the beginning of a shift in how transgender and non-binary students feel welcomed and supported on campus. The shift is critical to the focus and wellbeing of these students. Future Research: Future researchers, we suggest, may wish to focus on gathering examples of implementation of expanded categories and illustrations of how these data are used to inform and shape changes to policy, practices, spaces, services, and programs. More in-depth exploration of the inclusion of Two Spirit identities in ways that allow their identity to remain intact rather than partially represented in response to the gender question.

RESUMENUna de las manifestaciones más significativas de cada sociedad es el diseño de su ritual funerario, puesto que refleja las bases religiosas e ideológicas en las que se sustenta su organización. Aunque muchos de los procesos implicados en los funerales son efímeros, los cementerios y las sepulturas contienen información material que es estudiada por la arqueología con métodos cada vez más sofisticados, entre los que destacan los análisis isotópicos y genéticos. No menos importantes son los nuevos planteamientos teóricos. Si en la arqueología de la muerte tradicional los enterramientos eran ordenados por riqueza, sexo y cronología, en la actualidad se añaden otras perspectivas de estudio, como el papel asignado al género o la manipulación ideológica del ceremonial fúnebre. Finalmente, las nuevas ideologías del presente plantean retos y cortapisas que estimulan, pero también dificultan, el trabajo arqueológico. Palabras clave: arqueología funeraria, muerte, ideología, ritual, género, excavación de cementerios ABSTRACTOne of the most significant manifestations of every society is the design of its funeral ritual since it reflects the religious and ideological frames on which its organization is based. Although many of the processes involved in funerals are ephemeral, cemeteries and graves contain material information that is studied by archeology with increasingly sophisticated methods, including isotopic and genetic analyses. No less important are the new theoretical approaches. Within the traditional “Archeology of Death”, burials were ordered by wealth, sex, and chronology. Nowadays, other study perspectives are added, such as the role assigned to gender or the ideological manipulation of the funerals. Finally, the new ideologies of the present pose challenges and obstacles that stimulate, but also hinder, archaeological work. 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AbstractMedicine cannot be outside of the historical changes occurring in our society. The identity and sexual diversity of an individual is a critical aspects of their health. Creating inclusive units that allow access to health care for a population with different needs is the hallmark of improving their care.

The transgender community has faced and continues to face discrimination in almost every part of the world. The inception, extent, and duration of such differential treatment coupled with violence may differ across the globe. The reason behind this could be the cultural and constitutional values of the concerned nation along with the traditional position of transgenders in the relevant society. The movement of LGBT community to assert their presence and voice their concerns can be traced in different countries. Argentina can be distinguished as a vanguard in the advancement of inclusive policies, notably with the passage of its Gender Identity Law in 2012, marking it as the inaugural nation worldwide to formally acknowledge an individual’s gender identity without imposing any prerequisites. This article provides a concise overview of the historical trajectory of the LGBT movement in Argentina, followed by an examination of the constitutional and legislative framework established to safeguard the rights of transgender individuals in the country. Subsequently, it delves into the enactment and notable attributes of the Gender Identity Law. It also provides a comparative analysis of transgender law in India vis a vis Argentina and criticises the contrasting approach followed by different States of India. It concludes with the finding that Argentina’s Gender Identity Law is quite progressive from which countries like India can take inspiration.

The existence of lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender (in Indonesia known as LGBT) has become a sexual problem ini human’s life. These minority people considerably have a sexual deviance in their life. Therefore, sometimes, they are discriminated and violated by people who dislike their existence. Eventhough, on the other side, every man has an affinity rights in Law. Besides, LGBT is not an epidemic disease in society entirely. Some of them has contributed in the historical event in the past. Thus, through this article, the writer would present the information of LGBT’s life from historical and religious perspective.

AbstractThis research paper meticulously traces the historical trajectory and contemporary landscape of LGBT rights in India, comprehensively examining legislative advancements, pivotal judicial rulings, and societal paradigms. It underscores the paramount importance of prioritizing human rights over entrenched societal norms, particularly in the context of including transgender individuals as equal and integral members of society. The imposition of stringent moral standards has historically curtailed freedom of choice and expression, disproportionately impacting the marginalized queer community. This study endeavors to explore the multifaceted evolution of LGBT rights within historical contexts and assesses the practical accessibility of these rights as guaranteed by Constitutional Law, case law, and other pertinent legislations. Through a nuanced analysis, this research scrutinizes the extent to which societal perceptions, cultural shifts, and policy changes have influenced the inclusion and acceptance of the LGBT community. Additionally, it aims to illuminate persisting issues that continue to be disregarded or inadequately addressed, including healthcare disparities, socio‐economic inequalities, and cultural stigma.

This study combines methodological tools of conceptual metaphor theory and narrative psychology with theoretical assumptions of the intersubjective psycholinguistic approach to meaning to explore instantiations of transition narrative metaphors in 16 TED talks given by transgender people and posted on the TED platform within the period between January 2013 and July 2020. The speakers are aged from 20 to 70; 8 males and 8 females; 2 black and 9 white Americans, 2 Filipinos, 1 black South-African, 1 Puerto Rican, and 1 white Australian. The study offers a new interpretation of narrative metaphor based on the intersubjective model of meaning. Within this model, narrative metaphor is conceived as extended conceptual metaphor instantiated in a number of multimodal metaphoric expressions made coherent by the textual, social, cultural, and historical context of the narrative, but primarily by its interactive situational context, which includes the audience into the narrative through empathy and gives them power to change the narrative. The research reveals that all the 16 analysed narratives rest on the TRANSITION IS CONTEST narrative metaphor that represents a conflict between positive self-evaluation of transition by a transgender individual and its negative evaluation / unacceptance by the society, which makes transition a traumatic experience. The density of words and phrases instantiating the CONTEST metaphor in the 16 narratives varies from 2,5 to 3 % which means that they are key linguistic expressions of the narratives. The CONTEST metaphor provides a deeper insight into transgender transition compared to the JOURNEY/TRAVEL metaphor found to represent transition experience in existing cognitive linguistic and transgender studies. The JOURNEY/TRAVEL metaphor fails to grasp the intersubjective and, consequently, traumatic nature of transition experience. The results of the research suggest that narrative as well as narrative metaphor can be given a more accurate interpretation if they are approached from the intersubjective perspective, which reflects their true nature as socially and culturally shaped interactive phenomena.

AbstractTransgender (trans) Filipinos are disproportionately vulnerable to health problems because of the inaccessibility of essential healthcare services resulting from the invisibility and exclusion of trans health in Philippine health and related social institutions. Because of the institutional prejudice and discrimination against trans Filipinos in Philippine society, an intersectional approach presents an opportunity to analyze the invisibility and potentially elucidate the unique health needs of trans Filipinos. This article elucidates how the invisibility of trans Filipinos in health is a product of co-existing and interacting prejudiced and discriminatory institutions, such as the law, education, and medicine, where the historical experiences of colonization, the hegemony of cisgenderism, and the impact of capitalism remain salient. By elucidating these co-existing and interacting structures and forces, this article highlights the gaps in the Philippine healthcare system, such as the lack of affirming and protective policies for trans health and the limited cultural competence of healthcare providers. In light of these, future research and policy work must work towards integrating gender-specific and gender-inclusive approaches, centering the voices of trans Filipinos in health discourses, and decolonizing and expanding the local understanding of trans health among Filipinos.

This article features a reflexive iteration of engaged scholarship regarding the Queer Liberation Theory Project, a community-based research study with the social justice group Queer Ontario, which involves academics, activists, and artists, a number of whom are cross affiliated. We explore the tensions and challenges involved in developing and creating knowledge via an engaged scholarship process that must respect the historical philosophical perspectives of a social movement as well as today’s academic theories. This article addresses the challenges of developing new knowledge (a theory) that counters a powerful, neoliberal, mainstream segment of today’s lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) movements, with implications for society at large. The layered issues associated with engaged scholarship are disentangled, including vulnerability to neoliberalism, navigating competing perspectives, and how academics/activists/artists both understand and engage in knowledge creation.

The narrative logic of mainstream Malayalam cinema is often predicated on heteronormative values and homophobic social practices. Though representations of LGBTQIA+ (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, intersex, asexual and agender) desires (both individual and collective) have been subject to changes particularly after the historical verdict of 2018, mainstream Malayalam cinema is quite reluctant to explore “the love that had for so long been left out in the cold” (Griffiths 2008, 130). Barring a few exceptions, most of the films produced in Kerala (since Malayalam cinema’s inception in 1928) have characterised LGBTQIA+ as aberrant, abnormal, or deviant. Having said that, there have been considerable efforts from progressive filmmakers to critique and subvert the homophobic sentiments of the society and engage with queer desires in Malayalam cinema either denotatively or connotatively. This has been made possible due to their exposure to variegated cultural values as a result of the changing socio-economic and political conditions. By identifying three major tropes (the closeted queer body, the stereotyped queer body, and the visible queer body) in queer filmic representations, the paper attempts to map the many expressions of queer subjectivities in Malayalam cinema. In the process, the article demonstrates how queer cinema in Malayalam disrupts heteronormativity using its queer aesthetics.

Critical events in Leonard Matlovich’s life depict a reluctant activist for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender/gender diverse, and queer+ (LGBTQ+) equality. He served in the US military and subsequently came to personify the broad social challenges to the military’s homophobic culture and recruitment practices. Matlovich’s experience of a series of life metamorphoses made a difference beyond the individual. His example inspired multitudes of other concerned citizens in how to undertake their metamorphoses to challenge institutionalized homophobia. Breakthrough learning experiences in Matlovich’s life are presented to explore and refine aspects of transformative learning theory by applying Jane Martin’s metamorphosis model. The learning nexus between individuals and society is shown to be a dynamic interaction where both aspects of Matlovich’s story and his influence are explored in the context of today’s LGBTQ+ equality struggles. The article shows the conducive personal and societal conditions that enabled his various metamorphoses as whole-of-individual identity and sociocultural crossings toward transformational change. Additionally, the implications of Martin’s educational metamorphosis are discussed. Adult educators are encouraged to emphasize learning located in the learner’s life circumstances, exemplary case studies to inspire cultural crossings against injustice, and transformations as being about grasping in situ learning opportunities in the cross-influence between the whole person and their socio-historical context. Matlovich’s experiences show how relevant dimensions of Martin’s theoretical approach, coupled with support from allies, can contribute to personal agency and can build a groundswell of learning needed to support activism for social justice movements.

Cardiac sex differences represent a pertinent focus in pursuit of the long-awaited goal of personalized medicine. Despite evident disparities in the onset and progression of cardiac pathology between sexes, historical oversight has led to the neglect of gender-specific considerations in the treatment of patients. This oversight is attributed to a predominant focus on male samples and a lack of sex-based segregation in patient studies. Recognizing these sex differences is not only relevant to the treatment of cisgender individuals; it also holds paramount importance in addressing the healthcare needs of transgender patients, a demographic that is increasingly prominent in contemporary society. In response to these challenges, various agencies, including the National Institutes of Health, have actively directed their efforts toward advancing our comprehension of this phenomenon. Epigenetics has proven to play a crucial role in understanding sex differences in both healthy and disease states within the heart. This review presents a comprehensive overview of the physiological distinctions between males and females during the development of various cardiac pathologies, specifically focusing on unraveling the genetic and epigenetic mechanisms at play. Current findings related to distinct sex-chromosome compositions, the emergence of gender-biased genetic variations, and variations in hormonal profiles between sexes are highlighted. Additionally, the roles of DNA methylation, histone marks, and chromatin structure in mediating pathological sex differences are explored. To inspire further investigation into this crucial subject, we have conducted global analyses of various epigenetic features, leveraging data previously generated by the ENCODE project.

In this article we explore the relationships amongst anti-doping sciences, ‘abjection,’ and the protection of ‘women's’ sport. We introduce three novel concepts: ‘abjection bias,’ ‘abjection potential,’ and ‘intersectional abjection,’ as tools with the potential to provide greater nuance to understanding the context for these contentious issues in contemporary sport. The debate concerning participation in women's sport—especially elite sport—of people who do not fit within traditional definition of ‘women’ is increasingly fraught with acrimony with anti-doping sciences often recruited as arbitrator. With access to opportunities such as participation at the Olympic Games at stake, emotions run high in arguments that typically centre on inclusion of transgender and gender diverse (TGD) athletes on the one hand and protection of the women's category on the other. While sport theorists have begun the important work of identifying the roots of these problems deep within the structure of modern sport and society itself, they have hitherto paid little attention to the philosophical underpinnings of that structure. Through the lens of feminist critical analysis, we seek, in this paper, to understand the complex role of ‘abjection’ in framing the current debate in sport and in related anti-doping sciences. From a clear definition of abjection as a perceived existential threat due to violation of the status quo, we introduce the new concepts of ‘abjection bias,’ ‘abjection potential,’ and ‘intersectional abjection’ in order to understand and explain what in common parlance we might call ‘gut reaction.’ By looking at the few notable previous treatments of sport abjection and highlighting the historical connections between anti-doping sciences and efforts to protect the women's category, we demonstrate that this co-development is, in part, more easily understood in the context of ‘abjection.’ We conclude that the clarity gained can also help to shed light on current policy decision-making in relation to the question of protecting the women's sport category.

Jeanette Winterson’s 2019 novel Frankissstein is a contemporary re-reading of Mary Shelley’s classic Gothic text Frankenstein that profoundly challenges ideas of what it means to be human in the present day, by drawing on posthuman ideas about the constitution of the self. In this novel, Winterson portrays various forms of ‘monsters’ such as AI, lifelike sex dolls and transgender embodiment. Drawing on both Frankenstein as a text and the infamous creation story of the novel, Winterson creates a deeply intertextual cast of characters that blurs the following: Ry (Mary Shelley), a transgender doctor, Ron Lord (Lord Byron), the creator of a line of sex bots, and Professor Stein (Frankenstein), a scientist interested in AI and cryopreservation. Framed by vignettes of Shelley’s composition of Frankenstein, these characters draw together a set of highly contemporary desires and anxieties about the relationship between the social and science, the ways in which matter is always articulated through both the discursive and the material, and how, to quote Karen Barad, “what often appears as separate entities (and separate sets of concerns) with sharp edges does not actually entail a relation of absolute exteriority at all” (“Posthumanist Performativity” 803). Winterson implicitly and explicitly explores ideas of the posthuman—for instance, in the novel Stein gives a lecture titled “The Future of Humans in a Post-Human World” (74)—and suggests that the future is one in which “binaries belong to our carbon-based past” (72), in ways both liberating and disturbing. While Stein talks about our posthuman future of overcoming even death with the zeal of an evangelist, Winterson undercuts this celebratory rhetoric by situating these emerging forms of self-making in a lineage of the monstrous—”Frankenstein was a vision of how life might be created—the first non-human intelligence” (27)—that suggests the posthuman itself to be a kind of monstrosity. For Winterson, the contemporary monster is one bound up in technologies of self-making, an ambivalent process of both promise and danger that entangles us with monstrosity: “Frankenstein in the monster ... the monster in Frankenstein” (130). Drawing on posthuman theory, I propose that we can read Winterson’s novel as suggesting that modern subjectivity in itself has become defined by hybridity, a mixing between human and non-human elements that problematises many of the boundaries of selfhood that Enlightenment humanism valourised for so long. As Donna Haraway famously said in her “Cyborg Manifesto”: late Twentieth-century machines have made thoroughly ambiguous the difference between natural and artificial, mind and body, self-developing and externally designed, and many other distinctions that used to apply to organisms and machines. Our machines are disturbingly lively, and we ourselves frighteningly inert. (11) Against this historical backdrop, Winterson suggests that new forms of being human—or becoming posthuman—are emerging, in which sex, gender and sexuality have become profoundly entangled with various forms of biological and informational technology. “We’re still biology but we’re better biology” says Stein (113), suggesting that the future holds new forms of modifications of the body, including smart implants and the uploading of consciousness to computing systems. In situating transgender treatments, AI and sex-bots in a lineage of the monstrous that begins with Frankenstein, Winterson (as much as posthuman theorists), is interested in the way that new forms of technologies mean that all subjectivity has become monstrous itself. But what might it mean to be posthuman? Feminist philosopher Rosi Braidotti has suggested that our post-Enlightenment, posthuman era is one in which the category of the human has become problematised. She says, “not all of us can say, with any degree of certainty, that we have always been human, or that we are only that” (1). For Braidotti, women, people of colour and LGBT people have never been accorded fully human status, and as such the rapid technological change that has challenged humanity as a category is to be embraced, if not precisely uncritically. She argues that posthuman subjectivity is notable for the way that it collapses the boundary between nature and culture, and for the interweaving between human and non-human elements in contemporary life. I want to suggest that one name for those subjects that Braidotti describes that ‘have never have been quite’ human is monster. The figure of the monster deployed by Winterson is one that haunts contemporary ideas of sex, gender, and sexuality. Nikita Mazurov has called the monster a “continuous, unstable project of both disassembly or ex-figuration and of unsanctioned coupling” (262), a posthuman praxis of “hybridity of form” that challenges state-sanctioned productions of the self. The monster challenges ideas of fixity, the metaphysics of presence and essence that created the humanist project. It is, in this sense, abject in the sense that Julia Kristeva famously described, as that which “disturbs identity, system, order [and] does not respect borders, positions, rules. The in-between, the ambiguous, the composite” (4). The composition of the monster collapses such foundational binaries as male/female, gay/straight, dead/alive, human/machine, human/animal, black/white, and inside/outside. “The monster is one who lives in transition”, as Paul Preciado says (“Can the Monster Speak” 20). Monsters have therefore historically done profound cultural work, for as Jack Halberstam has said, “monsters have to be everything the human is not and, in producing the negative of human, these novels make way for the invention of human as white, male, middle class, and heterosexual” (22). As Frankissstein suggests, monstrous others continue to haunt contemporary subjectivity. Winterson suggests the human to be an embattled category—and here we must remember that one of the ways in which humanisation emerges is the easy identification of binary gender, as Judith Butler noted long ago in Bodies That Matter (xiii). Haraway anticipated the mainstreaming of the monster in her metaphor of the cyborg, which was, after all, “monstrous and illegitimate” (15), a post-gender, post-Oedipal figure built from the interaction between flesh and machine, nature and culture. The invention of the human, therefore, has become ever more a precarious thing in a posthuman world. Given her interest in gender and sexuality, one of the chief lenses through which Winterson has been read through is queer theory (Moore; Haslett; McAvan). With its portrayal of new forms of gendered and sexual subjectivity, Frankissstein can be productively read against more recent queer and trans theory that take a more posthuman approach to embodiment, rather than that of the linguistically-constructed, Butler-inflected queer theory, which has largely formed the critical context for Winterson’s work on sex and gender. While queer and posthuman theory are not completely coterminous with one another, both arguably take as their starting point a deconstruction of an image of the human which has historically been normatively considered white, male, heterosexual, and cissexual. Taking queer and trans theory into a material turn, Preciado has notably talked about what he calls a “pharmacopornographic” (Testo Junkie, 33) regime, in which globalised post-industrial capitalism runs on the “biomolecular” and “semiotic-technical” (33) industries that produce gendered and sexual subjectivity. Preciado polemically argues that contemporary capitalism is notable for its pervasive regime of pharmaceuticals that modify the body, and pornography that stimulates sexual desire (and here we might add the semiotic regime of sexuality on smartphones, through chat, photos, and dating apps like Tinder and Grindr). Capital, in this regime, has become “sexual capital” (40). As a result, what is a commonsense cis-normative understanding of transgender subjectivity, which relies upon an economy of medicalised body modification, can be said in Preciado’s analysis to constitute the truth of all subjectivity in the present given the ubiquity of pharmaceutical interventions like the contraceptive pill, Viagra, Prozac, and Ritalin. He says, “you think that you’re cis-females, but you take the Pill; or you think that you’re cis-males, but you take Viagra ... . You, you as well, you are the monster that testosterone is waking up in me” (393). The figure of the monster has been a trope of transgender studies since at least Susan Stryker’s “My Words to Victor Frankenstein above the Village of Chamounix”, which explicitly draws upon Shelley’s Frankenstein as an antecedent for trans subjectivity, suggesting that we see trans bodies as profoundly unnatural, and that as a result, “like the monster, [trans people are] too often perceived as less than fully human due to the means of [their] embodiment” (245). Preciado suggests that the monstrosity popularly imagined to be the unique property of transgender bodies, their partiality and hybridity, is in fact more properly a universal condition of the biopolitical regimes that constitute contemporary life. Almost all of us take pills that modify our bodies and minds, almost all of us construct our sexualities through the semiotic—these non-human elements profoundly interweave with the human in new forms of universal monstrosity. It is perhaps therefore unsurprising that Winterson would also take up the figure of Frankenstein’s monster in her examination of contemporary forms of posthuman subjectivity. The character of Ry, a transgender doctor, is characterised in the novel as an exemplar of a broader cultural interest in self-making, stating that “it really is my body. I had it made for me” (122). This is a self-making that calls into question the construction of other selves, for as Ry says, “I am part of a small group of transgender medical professionals. Some of us are transhuman enthusiasts too. This isn’t surprising; we feel or have felt that we’re in the wrong body. We can understand the feeling that any-body is the wrong body” (114). As strongly as Preciado, the novel suggests that biomolecular and semiotic-technical regimes constitute all contemporary subjectivity, conditioning what is possible, materially and discursively. Far from being uniquely transgender, the desire to transform the body has become universal. Halberstam notes that “the monster always represents the disruption of categories, the destruction of boundaries, and the presence of impurities” (27). “I live with doubleness” says Ry (88), who is depicted as both a transgender man and non-binary. Winterson’s rendering of trans subjectivity suggests transgender to be a kind of both/and state, in between or troubling the sex/gender binary. This occurs in broad and occasionally problematic ways, as when Ry describes himself as “fully female [and] also partly male” (97), an idea that has not been universally appreciated by trans readers for whom misgendering has been a critical concern since at least Julia Serano’s Whipping Girl. Winterson’s take on trans identity as being fluid but grounded in assigned sex seems in many ways ill at ease with a contemporary trans politics grounded in a post-transition authenticity. But what is at stake in Winterson’s depiction of monstrosity is the impurity of the very category of human, the way that it has become interwoven with the bio-medical and semiotic forms of capitalism. It is not simply that Ry disrupts boundaries—though he does do that—, it is that by troubling the sex/gender binary he calls into questions the construction of identity of those around him, too (Stein dubiously says that he is “not gay” despite his desire for Ry). Where Stein’s posthuman rhetoric describes a future in which “we will be able to choose our bodies” (119), this customisation of the self is suggested to already be here for transgender people; “think of yourself as future-early” (119). Ry’s transness is described by Stein as “interven[ing] in your own evolution [being both] the here and now, and a harbinger of the future” (154). The monstrosity of trans corporeality is thus figured as indicative of a general societal movement, confirming Preciado’s ideas of a generalised bio-medical-semiotic posthumanity. We can see this in another way in Winterson’s depiction of sex bots, which render the landscape of contemporary sexuality in characteristically grotesque ways. The character Ron Lord creates a range of female sex bots from 60s hippy to a bra-less 70s feminist. “All of these girls come in different skin tones: black, brown or white. Plus, you can have a muff on the Vintage model if that’s what you want” (47). Lord suggests that sex bots entail a form of sexuality that is endlessly customisable, that allows people to have sex without baggage or complication: ”a lot of people will be happy to not have any more crap relationships with crap humans” (312). The commodification of sex and becoming-semiotic that Preciado has discussed becomes a way of overcoming the limitations—and indeed ethical responsibility—of human relationships. As Lord puts it, “what we offer is fantasy life, not real life” (46). That there is something monstrous about this sexuality is clear in the novel. We might think of Lord’s sex bots as monstrous in a number of ways—firstly, as problematising the boundaries between the sexes, secondly, the confluence between machinic and organic, and thirdly, the inability to distinguish between public and private. All of the bots are female, only made for a presumed heterosexual male audience. The bot’s proportions are exaggerated, with a “20-inch waist and 40-inch boobs” (91) while her legs are “slightly longer than they would be if she was human. This is fantasy, not nature, so you can have what you want” (37). Here it is normative heterosexual male desire, not queer or trans embodiment, that troubles the very boundaries of the human. The sex bot’s body exposes, in Judith Butler’s terms, the performativity of sex and gender disconnected from the limits of the corporeal, the intensification of normative expectations of heterosexual femininity in the sex industry beyond the boundaries of human possibility. “Will women be the first casualties of obsolescence in your brave new world?” asks one character (74), in a pointed critique of the very idea of “female” sex bots. As Preciado notes, in pornography, “sex is performance, which is to say that it is composed of public representations and processes of repetition that are socially and politically regulated” (268). And yet, there is something irreducibly virtual in this regime of “tele-techno-masturbation” (Preciado 266)—for how can a machine be any kind of sex, precisely? How can it have sex? The sex/gender of the “girls in action” is one fraught with the logic of the supplement (recall Derrida, after all, used the term to describe masturbation in Of Grammatology), an addition and replacement, in which the gender and sexuality of the bots is produced through their repetition of norms that are always exceeded and complicated by their performance by a non-human machine. This becomes apparent in a grotesque scene in which one of the sex bots malfunctions and starts saying things while folded up in a cloakroom like “OPEN MY LEGS, DADDY! WIDER!” (90), for which Lord apologises, and states that the bot is “sexually explicit when she is in Bedroom Mode” (91). Preciado has defined pornography as “sexuality transformed into public representation” (266), when the private becomes public. Lord’s sex bots mark the point in which sexuality has become semiotic, technologised, masturbatory. Preciado talks about “the capture of sex and sexuality by economy, the process by which sex becomes work” (274), a work primarily done by women. While Preciado celebrates this becoming-semiotic of sexuality in an accelerationist fashion, it is clear that Winterson has serious ambivalences about this posthuman turn of sexuality (indeed, her earlier book The Stone Gods (2007) is much more positive about the possibilities of cyborg sexuality). Though the posthuman offers possibilities for new forms of sexuality in Frankissstein just as it has for sex and gender, this brings with it the ever-present spectre of monstrosity, the abject disruption of humanist binaries. For Winterson, the power of new technologies that re-shape bodies, minds and desires is one that is profoundly fraught. While there is the pleasure of self-determination (as for Ry), and the potential to transcend human limits, there is also the possibility of new forms of de-humanisation. While Winterson’s early work like 1989’s Sexing the Cherry embraced the pleasures of monstrosity (McAvan), Frankissstein is ultimately more ambivalent about it, if resigned to its future. “I feel the like agony of mind of Victor Frankenstein; having created his monster, he cannot uncreate him. Time has no pity. Time cannot unhappen. What is done is done” (128). New forms of biological modification of the body, new forms of virtualised minds and sexuality, Winterson seems to suggest, are likely to proliferate whether we like it or not. “Nothing we do to the body is without consequences”, reflects Ry (310), suggesting that his body will always be at war with his mind. Just as Mary Shelley imagined Victor Frankenstein as a modern Prometheus, stealing fire from the gods, the posthuman attempts to overcome the limits of the human in a monstrous confluence of human and the bio-technical-semiotic. Though she stages this movement in interesting ways, Winterson is ultimately mostly pessimistic about the possible social consequences of the posthuman turn, if understanding of the desires that animate human attempts to reshape the self. But we need not conclude that posthuman monstrosity is entirely so problematic. Drawing on her work on quantum physics, Karen Barad has written that “matter is not the given, the unchangeable, the bare facts of nature. It is not inanimate, lifeless, eternal. Matter is an imaginative material exploration of non/being, creatively regenerative, an ongoing trans*/formation” (“TransMaterialities,” 411). Perhaps we might find new possibilities in the refiguration of matter, of hybrid forms, of unsanctioned coupling. Winterson has Mary Shelley ponder that “in childbirth there is no me/not me” (12)—a productive challenging of binaries that suggests monstrosity to be the very pre-condition of human life in itself. Perhaps what posthuman monsters expose is that the blurring of binaries happens on every level of matter, that the virtual and material are not as distinct from one another as we would like to think, and that the making and remaking of the self is an inherent part of being human. And that the monsters are not just the ones with bolts in their necks or sex bots or hormone injections in their veins—they are, now and always have been, all of us. References Barad, Karen. “Posthumanist Performativity: Toward an Understanding of How Matter Comes to Matter.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 28.3 (2003): 801-831. Barad, Karen. “TransMaterialities: Trans*/Matter/Realities and Queer Political Imaginings.” GLQ 2.2–3 (2015): 387-421. Butler, Judith. Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex.” Routledge, 1993. Braidotti, Rosi. The Posthuman. Cambridge and Malden, Polity, 2013. Derrida, Jacques. Of Grammatology. Trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak. Johns Hopkins Press, 1974. Halberstam, Judith (Jack). Skin Shows: Gothic Horror and the Technology of Monsters. Duke UP, 1995. Haraway, Donna. “The Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century.” Manifestly Haraway. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2016. 5-90. Haslett, Jane. “Winterson’s Fabulous Bodies.” Jeanette Winterson: A Contemporary Critical Guide. Ed. Sonya Andermahr. Continuum, 2007. 41-54. Mazurov, Nikita. “Monster/The Unhuman.” Posthuman Glossary. Eds. Rosi Braidotti and Maria Hlavajora. Bloomsbury, 2018. 261-264. McAvan, Emily. Jeanette Winterson and Religion. Bloomsbury, 2020. Moore, Lisa. “Teledildonics: Virtual Lesbians in Fiction of Jeanette Winterson.” Sexy Bodies: The Strange Carnalities of Feminism. Eds. Elizabeth Grosz and Elspeth Probyn. Routledge, 1995. 104-127. Preciado, Beatriz (Paul). Testo Junkie: Sex, Drugs and Biopolitics in the Pharmacopornographic Era. Trans. Bruce Benderson. The Feminist Press at CUNY, 2013. Preciado, Paul. Can the Monster Speak? A Report to an Academy of Psychoanalysts. Trans. Frank Wynne. Fitzcarraldo Editions, 2021. Serano, Julia. Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity. Seal, 2007. Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein: Or, Modern Prometheus. Oxford UP, 1969. Stryker, Susan. “My Words to Victor Frankenstein above the Village of Chamounix: Performing Transgender Rage.” The Transgender Studies Reader. Eds. Susan Stryker and Stephen Whittle. Routledge, 2006. 244-256. Winterson, Jeanette. Sexing the Cherry. Grove, 1989. ———. The Stone Gods. Penguin, 2007. ———. Frankissstein. Jonathan Cape, 2019.

As a former teacher and current researcher, I have personally heard as well as read about many different reasons why homosexuality, bisexuality, and, more generally, sexuality other than heterosexuality should not be discussed in the classroom. There is the argument that sexuality is the domain of the parent, not the teacher, and about the numerous religions that do not condone homo/bisexuality. I have read about teachers’ sense of discomfort with discussing sexuality and sexual orientation. Most frequently, I have come up against the argument that students are not certain of their sexual orientation until adulthood, that teaching about the range of sexualities might confuse ‘impressionable’ adolescents and that there are ‘no gay students in my class’ so such education is unnecessary. Contrary to this last point, research with same-sex attracted (SSA) adolescents has shown that they are first aware of their attractions to members of the same sex as early as 10 years of age (D’Augelli, Pilkington, and Hershberger) and begin to feel concrete about their sexual orientation between the ages of 14 and 16 years old (Rosario, et al.). As far as numbers of young people who are attracted to members of the same sex, recent research using random samples of secondary-school aged students has placed percentages between 2.5% (Garofalo, et al.) and 6.3% (Smith, Lindsay, and Rosenthal). However, as Savin-Williams points out, ‘the vast majority of youths who will eventually identify themselves as lesbian, bisexual or gay seldom embrace this socially ostracized label during adolescence…’, leading to speculation that reported percentages of SSA young people are actually conservative estimates rather than true figures (Savin-Williams 262). To date, no research has shown that adolescents have become homosexual because they were exposed to homosexuality as a topic within the school curriculum. In fact, it is quite the opposite, with many SSA students coming to terms with their homo/bisexuality despite it being pathologised within the curriculum and punishable by sanctioned victimisation within the school environment. The fact that heterosexuality is ‘policed’ and reinforced with the school context is not surprising. In his History of Sexuality, Volume 1, Foucault writes about sexuality as a locus of social control and points out that throughout history individual’s sexual thoughts, beliefs, and, ultimately, actions have been impacted by socially constructed sexual norms. Educational sociologists have taken this idea into the classroom, viewing heterosexuality as a part of the ‘hidden curriculum’, the social norms that students learn without them being part of the formal lesson (Plummer). In this sense, heterosexuality becomes part of students’ unspoken and assumed identity in the classroom and, because of socially sanctioned homophobia/heterosexism, being heterosexual becomes a form of cultural and social capital. In line with some teachers’ reluctance to discuss homo/bisexuality in the classroom are their attitudes toward homosexuality. A number of studies have highlighted the homophobic attitudes of pre-service teachers, primary and secondary school teachers, and counsellor trainees as well as their reluctance and discomfort with discussing homo/bisexuality in the classroom (Sears; Warwick, Aggleton, and Douglas; Barrett and McWhirter; Cahill and Adams). These negative attitudes can manifest themselves in a variety of ways detrimental to SSA students, from simply avoiding homosexual topics or issues to discussing these issues or topics in a negative manner. Recent research with same-sex attracted secondary school students spoke to this trend. When asked about ways in which homosexuality was discussed in the classroom, three main points were consistently raised: sexuality which is not heterosexuality is presented in a reduced form (i.e., male homosexuality); homosexuality is pathologised as either a mental illness or a precursor to infection; and, teachers exhibited prejudice against non-heterosexual sexualities that would not be tolerated in the instance of a racial or gender issue (Ellis and High, 221-2). Research in this area has also investigated the attitudes of secondary school students toward homosexuality, with results showing high levels of homophobia and strict gender role beliefs (Van de Ven; Price; Smith; Hillier; Thurlow); however, recent research has shown some improvement in students’ attitudes (Smith, et al.). Knowing what we know about the ways in which homosexuality is presented within the school setting (or in many cases simply not presented), coupled with the attitudes of the school community members toward homosexuality and gender roles, as reflective of societal norms, it is not surprising these sentiments manifest themselves in the form of victimisation for SSA students and students who are perceived to be SSA. While the ‘hidden curriculum’ reinforces heterosexuality as a covert form of victimisation, overt forms of victimisation of SSA students occur with alarming regularity. Research has highlighted stories of SSA students’ experiences of verbal and physical abuse, property damage, and social isolation within the school setting with a common theme being a lack of intervention on the part of the adult school staff (Jordan, Vaughan, and Woodworth; Flowers and Buston; Kosciw and Cullen). A good deal of research has positioned SSA young people as ‘at-risk’, using data which places heterosexual-identifying adolescents as a ‘control group’ and citing elevated drug and alcohol use, suicide attempts/ideation, and risky sexual practices among the population of SSA young people. This type of research problematises the SSA young people themselves, rather than the environments which they are subject to and the harassment they may be experiencing therein. A far smaller body of research has examined correlates of victimisation for SSA students, the results being exactly what one would expect. At-school victimisation of SSA students has been positively correlated with general risk outcomes such as negative mental health effects (D’Augelli, Pilkington and Hershberger; Rivers), drug and alcohol abuse, and suicide attempts (Bontempo and D’Augelli). Smaller still is the body of research that examines school-related outcomes for SSA students. Victimisation of these students has been positively correlated with their frequency of missed school days as a result of personal safety fears (Bontempo and D’Augelli) as well as their reported academic outcomes and educational aspirations (Kosciw). In light of the body of literature on how SSA students experience the school environment, a logical path seems to emerge. Societal norms surrounding sexuality contribute to adult school staff members’ attitudes toward homosexuality. These norms, coupled with the palpable attitudes of staff, effect the overall tenor of the school environment toward homosexuality which, in turn, contributes to students’ attitudes toward homosexuality. The sentiments of students and staff undoubtedly have a significant impact on how or if sexuality is discussed within the classroom, victimisation of SSA students, and whether or not this victimisation is punished or ignored by staff members. Consequently, victimisation of SSA students has been found to be correlated with both general risk outcomes as well as decreased academic outcomes. Clearly there is cause for concern. If SSA students are more likely to report decreased school outcomes and higher risk behaviours the more they report being victimised within the school setting, then the solution seems rather obvious – protect SSA students from incidences of at-school victimisation. Without doing so, schools are allowing an inequitable school experience for SSA students and students who are perceived to be SSA as well as breaching their classroom duty of care. That said, adolescents cannot be told simply to stop ‘teasing gay kids’. Instead, a school culture must be created wherein homophobia is not tolerated, and heterosexism is recognised as such and the power it has over individual’s thoughts and actions is brought to light. Towards that end, lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender topics, issues, and historical/prominent figures must be discussed in the classroom and the historical discrimination of SSA persons should be taught in the same way that racial/ethnic histories of discrimination are part of the curriculum. Through education, homophobia can begin to be viewed in the same way as racism and religious discrimination are viewed – as ignorant and entirely unacceptable. Perhaps this sounds like some gay utopian dream, but I believe that at a future date society will progress to this level and that education is fundamental to the process. By silencing sexualities, educators are marginalising and disenfranching a definite population of their SSA students, not to mention the effects this has on students who have SSA family members or friends. Teachers are uncomfortable discussing homosexuality in the classroom? I am uncomfortable with SSA students missing school because they are afraid, leaving school early because they do not feel that they belong, and reporting decreased marks and lowered aspirations for tertiary education. Silencing (homo)sexualities is a bad idea, not only for SSA persons but for any society which has illusions of being civilised, modernised, or unified. References Barrett, Kathleen, and Benedict McWhirter. “Counselor Trainees Perceptions of Clients Based on Client Sexual Orientation.” Counselor Education and Supervision 41.3 (2002): 219-30. Bontempo, Daniel, and Anthony D’Augelli. “Effects of at-School Vicitimization and Sexual Orientation on Lesbian, Gay, or Bisexual Youths’ Health Risk Behavior.” Journal of Adolescent Health 30 (2002): 364-74. Cahill, Betsy, and Eve Adams. “An Exploratory Study of Early Childhood Teachers’ Attitudes toward Gender Roles.” Sex Roles 36.7/8 (1997): 517-29. D’Augelli, Anthony, Neil Pilkington, and Scott Hershberger. “Incidence and Mental Health Impact of Sexual Orientation Victimization of Lesbian, Gay, and Bisexual Youths in High School.” School Psychology Quarterly 17.2 (2002): 148-160. Ellis, Viv, and Sue High. “Something More to Tell You: Gay, Lesbian or Bisexual Young People’s Experiences of Secondary Schooling.” British Educational Research Journal 30.2 (2004): 213-25. Flowers, Paul, and Kate Buston. “‘I Was Terrified of Being Different’: Exploring Gay Men’s Accounts of Growing Up in a Heterosexist Society.” Journal of Adolescence 24 (2001): 51-65. Foucault, Michel. The History of Sexuality, Volume 1: An Introduction. New York: Pantheon Books, 1978. Garofalo, Robert, et al. “The Association between Health Risk Behaviors and Sexual Orientation among a School-Based Sample of Adolescents.” Pediatrics 101.5 (1998): 895-903. Hillier, Lynne. “Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Unsure: The Rural Eleven Percent.” Health in Difference: Proceedings of the First National Lesbian, Gay, Transgender and Bisexual Health Conference, 3-5 October 1996. Ed. Anthony Smith. Sydney: Australian Centre for Lesbian and Gay Research, 1997. 90-94. Jordan, K, J Vaughan, and K Woodworth. “I Will Survive: Lesbian, Gay, and Bisexual Youths’ Experience of High School.” School Experiences of Gay and Lesbian Youth: The Invisible Minority. Ed. M Harris. Binghamton: The Harrington Park Press, 1997. Kosciw, J. The 2003 National School Climate Survey: The School-Related Experiences of Our Nation’s Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Youth. New York: GLSEN, 2004. Kosciw, J, and M Cullen. The 2001 National School Climate Survey: The School-Related Experiences of Our Nation’s, Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Youth. New York: GLSEN, 2002. Plummer, Ken. “Lesbian and Gay Youth in England.” Gay and Lesbian Youth. Ed. G Herdt. New York: Harrington Park Press, 1989. 195-216. Price, James. “High School Students’ Attitudes toward Homosexuality.” Journal of School Health 52 (1982): 469-74. Rivers, Ian. “Long-Term Consequences of Bullying.” Issues in Therapy with Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Clients. Ed. Dominic Davies. Vol. 3. Pink Therapy. Buckingham: Open UP, 2000. 146-59. Rosario, Margaret, et al. “The Psychosexual Development of Urban Lesbian, Gay, and Bisexual Youths.” Journal of Sex Research 33.2 (1996): 113-26. Savin-Williams, Ritch. “Verbal and Physical Abuse as Stressors in the Lives of Lesbian, Gay Male, and Bisexual Youths: Associations with School Problems, Running Away, Substance Abuse, Prostitution and Suicide.” Journal of Counseling and Clinical Psychology 62.2 (1994): 261-9. Sears, James. “Educators, Homosexuality and Homosexual Students: Are Personal Feelings Related to Professional Beliefs?” Coming out of the Classroom Closet. Ed. K Harbeck. New York: Harrington Park Press, 1992. Smith, Anthony, Jo Lindsay, and Doreen A. Rosenthal. “Same-Sex Attraction, Drug Injection and Binge Drinking among Australian Adolescents.” Australian and New Zealand Journal of Public Health 23.6 (1999): 643-46. Smith, Anthony, Jo Lindsay, and Doreen A. Rosenthal. Secondary Students and Sexual Health 2002: Results of the 3rd National Survey of Australian Secondary Students, Hiv/Aids and Sexual Health. Melbourne: Australian Research Centre in Sex, Health and Society, La Trobe University, 2003. Smith, George. “”The Ideology of ‘Fag’: The School Experience of Gay Students.” The Sociological Quarterly 39.2 (1998): 309-35. Thurlow, Crispin. “Naming the ‘Outsider Within’: Homophobic Pejoratives and the Verbal Abuse of Lesbian, Gay and Bisexual High-School Pupils.” Journal of Adolescence 24 (2001): 25-38. Van de Ven, Paul. “Comparisons among Homophobic Reactions of Undergraduates, High School Students, and Young Offenders.” Journal of Sex Research 31.2 (1994): 117-135. Warwick, Ian, Peter Aggleton, and Nicola Douglas. “Playing It Safe: Addressing the Emotional and Physical Health of Lesbian and Gay Pupils in the U.K.” Journal of Adolescence 24 (2001): 129-40. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Mikulsky, Jacqueline. "Silencing (Homo)Sexualities in School ... A Very Bad Idea." M/C Journal 8.1 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/06-mikulsky.php>. APA Style Mikulsky, J. (Feb. 2005) "Silencing (Homo)Sexualities in School ... A Very Bad Idea," M/C Journal, 8(1). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0502/06-mikulsky.php>.

General Surgery residencies have been perceived as unwelcoming to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ) applicants. Historically, applicants have been reluctant to reveal their LGBTQ status when interviewing for residency positions and LGBTQ surgery residents are more likely to consider leaving their residency. Despite the increased acceptance in society and calls for diversity by governing bodies, there is a perception that the field of surgery is lagging behind. In this article, we summarize the recent literature concerning LGBTQ status in surgery residencies and the impact it has on students and trainees. We then review the recent calls to action to remedy the identified shortcomings. We then share what has been done by our surgery residency, which has been successful in recruiting LGBTQ-identifying residents and summarize recommendation for moving forward.

Abstract Background Transgender and gender diverse (TGD) people face many obstacles in accessing health care, including discrimination, institutional bias, and clinician knowledge deficits. We developed a clinical skills and education module on gender-affirming care for pre-clinical medical students, in collaboration with a TGD-led civil society organisation. The module consisted of an educational session followed by preceptor-facilitated small group tutorials, led by TGD patient-educators (n = 22) who used their lived experience to explore medical history-taking and broader issues related to TGD healthcare with students (n = 199). This study aimed to explore the views of students and TGD patient-educators on the structure, delivery and impact of the module. Methods Analysis of responses of TGD patient-educators and students to the module (2020 and 2021), in post-intervention surveys using open-ended questions for TGD patient-educators (18 responses from 22 educators) and free text comments as part of a quantitative survey for medical students (89 responses). Results Responses from students and patient-educators to the session were highly positive. Students and patient-educators emphasised that the teaching session succeeded through elevating the centrality of shared experience and creating a safe space for learning and teaching. Safety was experienced by patient-educators through the recognition of their own expertise in a medical environment, while students reported a non-judgemental teaching space which allowed them to explore and redress recognised limitations in knowledge and skill. Patient-educators described their motivation to teach as being driven by a sense of responsibility to their community. Preceptor attitudes may function as a barrier to the effectiveness of this teaching, and further attention should be paid to supporting the education of clinical facilitators in TGD health. Conclusion The experiences of TGD patient-educators and medical students in this study suggest that this model of teaching could serve as a transferable template for TGD health and the inclusion of other historically marginalised groups in medical education.

AbstractIntroductionDespite a growing number of older lesbian, gay, bisexual transgender, and queer (LGBTQ) adults in the United States, education on care for this vulnerable population has historically been inadequate across all levels of training. This research assessed the extent of LGBTQ education in geriatric medicine fellowship curricula across the United States.MethodsWe designed a survey to anonymously collect information from geriatric medicine fellowship programs on LGBTQ curricular content. Eligible participants included all 160 fellowship directors on record with the American Geriatrics Society. The survey addressed demographics of the fellowship program, current state of inclusion of LGBTQ content in didactic curricula and in clinical settings, and other available training opportunities.ResultsOut of those contacted, 80 (50%) completed the survey. Of the programs surveyed, 60 (75%) were housed in internal medicine, 19 (24%) were in family medicine, and one was in their own department. Forty‐seven fellowships (59%) reported some formal didactic session (e.g., lecture or case based), with the majority of these programs (72%) featuring 1–2 h of formal instruction. Forty‐five programs (56%) reported offering no formal clinical experiences. There was less than 50% coverage for all surveyed topics in the required curriculum (range 46% for discrimination to 9% for gender affirming care). Time and lack of expertise were cited as the main barriers to content inclusion.ConclusionsCurricular content regarding care for LGBTQ older adults is inadequate in geriatric medicine fellowships. Faculty development of current educators and providing standardized guidelines and curricula are steps toward addressing this deficit.

Abstract Introduction Sexuality is complex and multifaceted, broadly composed of psychological, physiological, interpersonal, identity, and social/political phenomena. The term “sexuality” is used inconsistently in the literature, both in how it is defined by researchers and in how it is measured. Some researchers define sexuality in a narrow, heteronormative, and genital-focused way that negates the subjective experiences of individuals, in turn, affecting how the construct is measured (i.e., measuring sexual function exclusively, overlooking measures of pleasure, self-esteem, and satisfaction). This limited view of sexuality ignores many of the psychosocial and resilience factors that are integral to the construct and results in non-representative measurement tools, especially for equity-seeking groups (i.e., transgender and non-binary (TNB) or intersex individuals provided measures that presume binary anatomy). In order to develop more accurate measurement tools, a comprehensive and inclusive definition of sexuality is warranted. Objective This cross-sectional exploratory survey is the first to formally characterize and define sexuality by assessing how members of the public describe the construct through open-ended questions. Recruitment strategies were aimed towards equity-seeking groups (i.e., sexual and gender minorities, BIPOC, and consensual non-monogamous populations) to ensure the lived experiences of these diverse communities were represented in the definition. Methods A total of 456 individuals (Mage = 28.50, SD = 9.57) identifying as Man (N = 172), Woman (N = 191), Non-Binary (N = 72), Transgender (N = 43), Other (N = 13) were recruited for an online survey asking them to first define sexuality, and then to identify biological, behavioural, psychological, and social components of sexuality. Analyses included a thematic analysis of several open-ended questions. Results Results from a thematic analysis resulted in the following definition of sexuality; Sexuality is a multifaceted concept that is uniquely experienced and expressed. It encompasses a broad range of psychological, physiological, behavioural, and social elements which are experienced to varying degrees. Sexuality is primarily psychological, reflecting one’s emotions, mental state, attractions, desires, fantasies, and identity. Psychological elements of sexuality give meaning to and are expressed via physiological and behavioural elements including objective and subjective bodily reactions, various physical behaviours, and different types of sexual activity. Sexuality is also a social concept, reflected in people’s interactions, relationships, and connections to others. Sexuality is influenced by one’s society and culture, both historically and in present day. Specifically, experiences with norms, taboos, social scripts, and stigma influence one’s sexuality. Conclusions An inclusive definition of sexuality provided by the general public emphasized the importance of psychological components, as well as various physiological, behavioural, and social elements. This demonstrates that the subjective experiences of sexuality are integral to its definition. Therefore, our next step is to generate a comprehensive measure of sexuality that accounts for how diverse people feel about their sexuality. Disclosure No

The bodies of disordered women … offer themselves as an aggressively graphic text for the interpreter—a text that insists, actually demands, that it be read as a cultural statement, a statement about gender. (Bordo, 94)Violence is transgressive in fundamental ways. It erases boundaries, and imposes agency over others, or groups of others. The assumed social stance is to disapprove, morally and ethically, as a ‘good’ and ‘moral’ female subject. My current research has made me question the simplicity of this approach, to interrogate how aggression socialises power and how resistance to structural violence might look. I analyse three cultural practices to consider the social demarcations around aggression and gender, both within overt acts of violence and in less overt protocols. This research will focus on artistic practices as they offer unique embodied ways to “challenge our systems of representation and knowledge” (Szylak 2).The three creative works reviewed: the 2009 Swedish film the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, the work Becoming an Image by Canadian non-binary/transgender artist Cassils, and Gambit Lines, by artist Carolyn Craig, each contest gendered modes of normativity within the space of the Cultural Screen (Silverman). The character of Lisbeth Salander in Girl with the Dragon Tattoo subverts the aggressor female/femme fatale trope in Western cinema by confusing and expanding visual repertoires around aggression, while artists Cassils and Carolyn Craig re-draw how their biologically assigned female bodies perform power in the Cultural Screen by activating bodily feedback loops for the viewer’s gaze.The Aggressor ModeThe discussion of these three works will centre on the ‘female aggressor trope’, understood here as the static coda of visual practices of female power/aggression in the western gaze. This article considers how subverting such representations of aggression can trigger an “epistemic crisis that allows gender categories to change,” in particular in the way protocols of power are performed over female and trans subjectivities (Butler, Athletic 105). The tran/non-binary subject state in the work of Cassils is included in this discussion of the female aggressor trope as their work directly subverts the biological habitus of the female body, that is, the artist’s birth/biologically assigned gender (Bourdieu). The transgender state they perform – where the body is still visibly female but refusing its constraints - offers a radical framework to consider new aggressive stances for non-biologically male bodies.The Cultural Screen and Visual RepresentationsI consider that aggression, when performed through the mediated position of a creative visual practice (as a fictional site of becoming) can deconstruct the textual citations that form normative tropes in the Cultural Screen. The Screen, for this article, is considered asthe site at which the gaze is defined for a particular society, and is consequently responsible both for the way in which the inhabitants of that society experience the gaze’s effects, and for much of the seeming particularity of that society’s visual regime. (Silverman 135)The Screen functions as a suite of agreed metaphors that constitute a plane of ‘reality’ that defines how we perform the self (Goffman). It comprises bodily performance, our internal gaze (of self and other) and the visual artefacts a culture produces. Each of the three works discussed here purposely intervenes with this site of gender production within the Cultural Screen, by creating new visual artefacts that expand permissible aggressive repertoires for female assigned bodies. Deconstructing the Cultural ScreenThe history of images … can be read as a cultural history of the human body. (Belting 17)Cinematic representations play a key role in producing the visual primers that generate social ‘acts’. For this reason I examine the Swedish film Män Som Hatar Kvinnor (Men Who Hate Women, 2009), released as The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo for foreign audiences, as an example of an expanding range of female aggressor representations in film, and one of particular complexity in the way it expands on representational politics. I consider how specific scripting, dialogue and casting decisions in the lead female character of Lisbeth Salander (played by Noomi Rapace) serve to deconstruct the female aggressor trope (as criminal or sexual provocateur) to allow her character to engage in aggressive acts outside of the cliché of the deviant woman. This disrupts the fixity of assigned body protocols on the social grid to expand their gendered habitus (Bourdieu).Key semiotic relations in the film’s characterisation of Lisbeth prevent her performance of aggression from moving into the clichés of erotic or evil feminine typologies. Her character remains unfixed, moving between a continuous state of unfolding in response to necessity and desire. Here, she exhibits an agency usually denoting masculinity. This allows her violence a positive emancipatory affect, one that avoids the fixity of the representational tropes of the deviant woman or the femme fatale. Her character draws upon both tropes, but reformulates them into a postmodern hybridity, where aggression slips from its sexualised/deviant fetish state into an athletic political resistance. Signification is strategically confused as Lisbeth struts through the scaffolding of normalcy in her insurgent gender game. Her post-punk weaponised attire draws on the repertoire of super heroes, rock stars and bondage mistresses, without committing to any. The libidinal component of violence/aggression is not avoided, but acknowledged, both in its patriarchal formula and Lisbeth’s enactment of revenge as embodied pleasure.The visual representation of both lead actors is also of interest. Both Lisbeth and Mikael have visible acne scars. This small breach in aesthetic selection affects how we view and consume them as subjects and objects on the Screen. The standard social more for the appearance of male and female leads is to use faces modeled on ideas of symmetry and perfection. These tendencies draw upon the cultural legacies of physiognomy that linked moral character with attractiveness schedules and that continue to flourish in the Cultural Screen (Lavater; Principe and Langlois). This decision to feature faces with minor flaws appropriates the camera’s gaze to re-consider schedules of normalcy, in particular value and image index as they relate to gendered representations. This aesthetic erasure of the Western tradition of stereotyped representations permits transitional spaces to emerge within the binary onslaught. Technology is also appropriated in the film as a space for a performative ‘switching’ of the gender codes of fixity. In her role as undercover researcher, Lisbeth’s control of code gives her both a monetised agency and an informational agency. The way that she types takes on an almost aggressive assertion. Each stroke is active and purposeful, as she exerts control through her interface with digital space. This is made explicit early in the film when she appropriates the gaze of technology (a particularly male semiotic code) to extract agency from within the structural discourse of patriarchy itself. In this scene, she forces her guardian to watch footage of his own act of raping her. Here Lisbeth uses the apparatus of the gaze to re-inscribe it back over his body. This structural inversion of the devices of control is made even more explicit when Lisbeth then brands him with text. Here ‘writing on the body’ becomes manifest.The director also frames initial scenes of Lisbeth’s nude body in subtle ways that fracture the entrenched history of representations of women, where the female as object exists for the gaze of male desire (Berger). Initially all we see are her shoulders. They are powerful and she moves like a boxer, inhabiting space and flexing her sinew. When we do see her breasts, they are neutered from the dominant coda of the “breasted experience” (Young). Instead, they function as a necessary appendage that she acknowledges as part of the technology of her body, not as objectified male desire.These varied representational modes built within Lisbeth’s characterisation, inhabit and subvert the female aggressor trope (as deviant), to offer a more nuanced portrayal where the feminine is still worn, but as both a masquerade and an internal emancipatory dialogue. That is, the feminine is permitted to remain whilst the masculine (as aggressive code) is intertwined into non-binary relations of embodied agency. This fluidity refracts the male gaze from imposing spectatorial control via the gaze.Cassils The Canadian non-binary/transgender artist Cassils also uses the body as semiotic technology to deny submission to the dominant code of the Cultural Screen. They re-image the self with bodybuilding, diet and steroids to exit their biologically female structural discourse into a more fluid gendered state. This state remains transitive as their body is not surgically ‘reassigned ‘ back into normative codes (male or female assignations) but instead inhabits the trans pronoun of ‘they/their’. This challenges the Cultural Screen’s dependence on fixed binary states through which to allocate privilege. This visible reshaping also permits entry into more aggressive bodily protocols via the gaze (through the spectorial viewpoint of self and other).Cassils ruptures the restrictive habitus of female/trans subjectivity to enable more expansive gestures in the social sphere, and a more assertive bodily performance. This is achieved by appropriating the citational apparatus of male aggression via a visual reframing of its actions. Through daily repetitive athletic training Cassils activates the proprioceptive loops that inform their gendered schema and the presentation of self (Goffman). This training re-scripts their socially inscribed gender code with semiotically switched gender ‘acts’. This altered subjectivity is made visible for the viewer through performance to destablise the Screen of representation further via the observers’ gaze.In their work Becoming an Image (2012- current), Cassils performs against a nine hundred kilogram lump of clay for twenty minutes in complete darkness, fractured only by an intermittent camera flash that documents the action. This performance contests the social processes that formulate the subject as ‘image’. By using bodily force (aggressive power) against an inert lump of clay, Cassils enacts the frustration and affect that the disenfranchised Other feels from their own gender shaping (Bhaba). The images taken by the camera during this performance reflect a ferocious refusal, an animal intent, a state of battle. The marks and residues of their bodily ‘acts’ shape the clay in an endurance archive of resistance, where the body’s trace/print forms the material itself along with the semiotic residue of the violence against transgender and female bodies. In some ways, the body of Cassils and the body of clay confront each other through Cassils’s aggressive remolding of the material of social discourse itself.The complicity of photography in sustaining representational discourse is highlighted within Cassils’s work through the intertextual rupturing of the performance with the camera flash and through the title of the work. To Become an Image invokes the processes of the darkroom itself, where the photographer controls image development, whilst the aggressive flash reflects the snapshot of violence, where the gendered subject is ‘imaged’ (formulated and confined) without permission by the observer schedules of patriarchy. The flash also leaves a residual trace in the retinas of the viewer, a kind of image burn, perhaps chosen to mimic the fear, intrusion and coercion that normalcy’s violence impinges over Othered subjects. The artist converts these flash generated images into wallpaper that is installed into the gallery space, usually the day after the performance. Thus, Cassils’s corporeal space is re-inscribed onto the walls of the institutional archive of representations – to evoke both the domestic (wallpaper as home décor), the public domain (the white walls of institutional rhetoric) and the Cultural Screen.Carolyn Craig The work of Carolyn Craig also targets representations that substantiate the Cultural Screen. She uses performative modes in the studio to unravel her own subjective habitus, in particular targeting the codes that align female aggression with deviancy. Her work isolates the action of making a fist to re-inscribe how the aggression code is ‘read’ as embodied knowledge by women. Two key articles by Thomas Schubert that investigated how making a fist is perceived differently between genders (in terms of interiorised power) informed her research. Both studies found that when males make a fist they experience an enhanced sense of power, while women did not. In fact, in the studies, they experienced a slight decrease in their sense of comfort in the world (their embodied sense of agency). Schubert surmised this reflected gender-based protocols in relation to the permissible display of aggression, as “men are culturally less discouraged to use bodily force, which will frequently be associated with success and power gain [whilst women] are culturally discouraged from using bodily force” (Schubert 758). These studies suggest how anchored gestures of aggression are to male power schemas and their almost inaccessibility to women. When artists re-formulate such (existing) input algorithms by inserting new representations of female aggression into the Cultural Screen, they sever the display of aggression from the exclusive domain of the masculine. This circulates and incorporates a broader visual code that informs conceptual relations of power.Craig performs the fisting action in the studio to neuter this existing code using endurance, repetition and parody (fig. 1). Parody activates a Bakhtian space of Carnivalesque, a unique space in the western cultural tradition that permits transgressive inversions of gender, power and normativity (Hutcheon). By making and remaking a fist through an absurdist lens, the social scaffolding attached to the action (fear, anxiety, transgression) is diluted. Repetition and humour breaks down the existing code, and integrates new perceptual schema through the body itself. Parody becomes a space of slippage, one that is a precursor to a process of (re)constitution within the social screen, so that Craig can “produce representation” rather than be (re)presentation (Schneider 51). This transitory state of Carnivalesque produces new relational fields (both bodily and visual) that are then projected back into the Screen of normativity to further dislodge gender fixity. Figure 1: Carolyn Craig, Gambit Lines (Angles of Incidence #1), 2016. Etchings from performance on folded aluminium, 25.5 x 34 x 21cm. This nullifies the power of the static image of deviancy (the woman as specimen) and ferments leakages into broader representational fields. Craig’s fisting actions target the proprioceptive feedback loops that make women fear their own bodies’ potential of violence, that make us retreat from the citational acts of aggression. Her work tilts embodied retreat (as fear) through the distorted mimesis of parody to initiate a Deleuzian space of agentic potential (Deleuze and Guattari). This is re-inserted into the Cultural Screen as suites of etchings grounded in the representational politics, and historical genealogy of printed matter, to bring the historical conditions of formation of knowledge into review.Conclusion The aggressor trope as used within the works discussed, produces a more varied representational subject. This fosters subjectivities outside the restraints of normativity and its imposed gendered habitus. The performance of aggression by bodies not permissibly branded to script such acts forces static representations embedded through the Cultural Screen into “an unstable and troubled terrain, a crisis of knowledge, a situation of not-knowing”. This state of representational confusion leads to a “risking of gender itself … that exposes our knowledge about gender as tenuous, contested, and ungrounded in a thorough and productively disturbing sense” (Butler, Athletic 110). Tropes that define binary privilege, when dislodged in such a way, become accessible to fluidity or erasure. This allows more nuanced gender allocation to schedules of power.The Cultural Screen produces and projects the metaphors we live by and its relations to power are concrete (Johnson and Lakoff). Even small-scale incursions into masculine domains of agency (such as the visual display of aggression) have a direct correlation to the allocation of resources, both spatial, economic and subjective. The use of the visual can re-train the conceptual parameters of the cultural matrix to chip small ways forward to occupy space with our bodies and intellects, to assume more aggressive stances in public, to speak over people if I feel the need, and to be rewarded for such actions in a social context. I still feel unable to propose direct violence as a useful action but I do admit to having a small poster of Phoolan Devi in my home and my admiration for such women is deep.ReferencesBelting, Hans. An Anthropology of Images. Princeton, N.J: Princeton University Press, 2011.Berger, John. Ways of Seeing. London: Penguin, 2008.Bhaba, Homi. "The Other Question: Difference, Discrimination and the Discourse of Colonialism.” Out There: Marginalisation and Contemporary Cultures. Eds. Russell Ferguson and Trinh T. Minh-ha. Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1990. 71-89.Bordo, Susan. “The Body and the Reproduction of Femininity.” Writing on the Body: Female Embodiment and Feminist Theory. Eds. Katie Conboy et al. New York: Colombia UP, 1997. 90-110.Bourdieu, Pierre. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977.Butler, Judith. “Athletic Genders: Hyperbolic Instance and/or the Overcoming of Sexual Binarism.” Stanford Humanities Review 6 (1998): 103-111.———. “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory.” Theatre Journal (1988): 519–31.Cassils. Becoming an Image. ONE Archive, Los Angeles. Original performance. 2012.Craig, Carolyn. “Gambit Lines." The Deviant Woman. POP Gallery, Brisbane. 2016.Deleuze, Gilles, and Félix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1987.Girl with the Dragon Tattoo [Män Som Hatar Kvinnor]. Dir. Niels Arden Oplev. Stockholm: Yellowbird, 2009.Goffman, Erving. The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. London: Allen Lane, 1969.Hutcheon, Linda. A Theory of Parody: The Teachings of Twentieth-Century Art Forms. New York: Methuen, 1985.Johnson, Mark, and George Lakoff. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1980.Lavater, John Caspar. Essays in Physiognomy Designed to Promote the Knowledge and Love of Mankind. Vol. 1. London: Murray and Highley, 1789.Principe, Connor, and Judith Langlois. "Shifting the Prototype: Experience with Faces Influences Affective and Attractiveness Preferences." Social Cognition 30.1 (2012): 109-120.Schneider, Rebecca. The Explicit Body in Performance. New York: Routledge, 1997.Schubert, Thomas W., and Sander L. Koole. “The Embodied Self: Making a Fist Enhances Men’s Power-Related Self-Conceptions.” Journal of Experimental Social Psychology 45.4 (2009): 828–834.Schubert, Thomas W. “The Power in Your Hand: Gender Differences in Bodily Feedback from Making a Fist.” Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 30.6 (2004): 757–769.Silverman, Kaja. The Threshold of the Visible World. New York: Routledge, 1996.Szylak, Aneta. The Field Is to the Sky, Only Backwards. Brooklyn, NY: International Studio and Curatorial Program, 2013.Young, Iris Marion. “Breasted Experience: The Look and the Feeling.” On Female Body Experience. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005.

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash ABSTRACT COVID-19 highlighted a disproportionate impact upon marginalized communities that needs to be addressed. Specifically, a focus on equity rather than equality would better address and prevent the disparities seen in COVID-19. A distributive justice framework can provide this great benefit but will succeed only if the medical community engages in outreach, anti-racism measures, and listens to communities in need. INTRODUCTION COVID-19 disproportionately impacted communities of color and lower socioeconomic status, sparking political discussion about existing inequities in the US.[1] Some states amended their guidelines for allocating resources, including vaccines, to provide care for marginalized communities experiencing these inequities, but there has been no clear consensus on which guidelines states should amend or how they should be ethically grounded. In part, this is because traditional justice theories do not acknowledge the deep-seated institutional and interpersonal discrimination embedded in our medical system. Therefore, a revamped distributive justice approach that accounts for these shortcomings is needed to guide healthcare decision-making now and into the post-COVID era. BACKGROUND Three terms – health disparity, health inequities, and health equity – help frame the issue. A health disparity is defined as any difference between populations in terms of disease incidence or adverse health events, such as morbidity or mortality. In contrast, health inequities are health disparities due to avoidable systematic structures rooted in racial, social, and economic injustice.[2] For example, current data demonstrate that Black, Latino, Indigenous Americans, and those living in poverty suffer higher morbidity and mortality rates from COVID-19.[3] Finally, health equity is the opportunity for anyone to attain his or her full health potential without interference from systematic structures and factors that generate health inequities, including race, socioeconomic status, gender, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation, or geography.[4] ANALYSIS Health inequities for people of color with COVID-19 have led to critiques of states that do not account for race in their resource allocation guidelines.[5] For example, the Massachusetts Department of Public Health revised its COVID-19 guidelines regarding resource allocation to patients with the best chance of short-term survival.[6] Critics have argued that this change addresses neither preexisting structural inequities nor provider bias that may have led to comorbidities and increased vulnerability to COVID-19. By failing to address race specifically, they argue the policy will perpetuate poorer outcomes in already marginalized groups. As the inequities in COVID-19 outcomes continue to be uncovered and the data continue to prove that marginalized communities suffered disproportionately, we, as healthcare providers, must reconsider our role in addressing the injustices. Our actions must be ethically grounded in the concept of justice. l. Primary Theories of Justice The principle of justice in medical ethics relates to how we ought to treat people and allocate resources. Multiple theories have emerged to explain how justice should be implemented, with three of the most prominent being egalitarianism, utilitarianism, and distributive. This paper argues that distributive justice is the best framework for remedying past actions and enacting systemic changes that may persistently prevent injustices. An egalitarian approach to justice states all individuals are equal and, therefore, should have identical access to resources. In the allocation of resources, an egalitarian approach would support a strict distribution of equal value regardless of one’s attributes or characteristics. Putting this theory into practice would place a premium on guidelines based upon first-come, first-served basis or random selection.[7] However, the egalitarian approach taken in the UK continues to worsen health inequities due to institutional and structural discrimination.[8] A utilitarian approach to justice emphasizes maximizing overall benefits and achieving the greatest good for the greatest number of people. When resources are limited, the utilitarian principle historically guides decision-making. In contrast to the egalitarian focus on equal distribution, utilitarianism focuses on managing distributions to maximize numerical outcomes. During the COVID-19 pandemic, guidelines for allocating resources had utilitarian goals like saving the most lives, which may prioritize the youthful and those deemed productive in society, followed by the elderly and the very ill. It is important to reconsider using utilitarian approaches as the default in the post-COVID healthcare community. These approaches fail to address past inequity, sacrificing the marginalized in their emphasis on the greatest amount of good rather than the type of good. Finally, a distributive approach to justice mandates resources should be allocated in a manner that does not infringe individual liberties to those with the greatest need. Proposed by John Rawls in a Theory of Justice, this approach requires accounting for societal inequality, a factor absent from egalitarianism and utilitarianism.[9] Naomi Zack elaborates how distributive justice can be applied to healthcare, outlining why racism is a social determinant of health that must be acknowledged and addressed.[10] Until there are parallel health opportunities and better alignment of outcomes among different social and racial groups, the underlying systemic social and economic variables that are driving the disparities must be fixed. As a society and as healthcare providers, we should be striving to address the factors that perpetuate health inequities. While genetics and other variables influence health, the data show proportionately more exposure, more cases, and more deaths in the Black American and Hispanic populations. Preexisting conditions and general health disparities are signs of health inequity that increased vulnerability. Distributive justice as a theoretical and applied framework can be applied to preventable conditions that increase vulnerability and can justify systemic changes to prevent further bias in the medical community. During a pandemic, egalitarian and utilitarian approaches to justice are prioritized by policymakers and health systems. Yet, as COVID-19 has demonstrated, they further perpetuate the death and morbidity of populations that face discrimination. These outcomes are due to policies and guidelines that overall benefit white communities over communities of color. Historically, US policy that looks to distribute resources equally (focusing on equal access instead of outcomes), in a color-blind manner, has further perpetuated poor outcomes for marginalized communities.[11] ll. Historical and Ongoing Disparities Across socio-demographic groups, the medical system exacerbates historical and current inequities. Members of marginalized races,[12] women,[13] LGBTQ people,[14] and poor people[15] experience trauma caused by discrimination, marginalization, and failure to access high-quality public and private goods. Through the unequal treatment of marginalized communities, these historic traumas continue. In the US, people of color do not receive equal and fair medical treatment. A meta-analysis found that Hispanics and Black Americans were significantly undertreated for pain compared to their white counterparts over the last 20 years.[16] This is partly due to provider bias. Through interviewing medical trainees, a study by the National Academy of Science found that half of medical students and residents harbored racist beliefs such as “Black people’s nerve endings are less sensitive than white people’s” or “Black people’s skin is thicker than white people’s skin.”[17] More than 3,000 Indigenous American women were coerced, threatened, and deliberately misinformed to ensure cooperation in forced sterilization.[18] Hispanic people have less support in seeking medical care, in receiving culturally appropriate care, and they suffer from the medical community’s lack of resources to address language barriers.[19] In the US, patients of different sexes do not receive the same quality of healthcare. Despite having greater health needs, middle-aged and older women are more likely to have fewer hospital stays and fewer physician visits compared to men of similar demographics and health risk profiles.[20] In the field of critical care, women are less likely to be admitted to the ICU, less likely to receive interventions such as mechanical ventilation, and more likely to die compared to their male ICU counterparts.[21] In the US, patients of different socioeconomic statuses do not receive the same quality of healthcare. Low-income patients are more likely to have higher rates of infant mortality, chronic disease, and a shorter life span.[22] This is partly due to the insurance-based discrimination in the medical community.[23] One in three deaths of those experiencing homelessness could have been prevented by timely and effective medical care. An individual experiencing homelessness has a life expectancy that is decades shorter than that of the average American.[24] lll. Action Needed: Policy Reform While steps need to be taken to provide equitable care in the current pandemic, including the allocation of vaccines, they may not address the historical failures of health policy, hospital policy, and clinical care to eliminate bias and ensure equal treatment of patients. According to an applied distributive justice framework, inequities must be corrected. Rather than focusing primarily on fair resource allocation, medicine must be actively anti-racist, anti-sexist, anti-transphobic, and anti-discriminatory. Evidence has shown that the health inequities caused by COVID-19 are smaller in regions that have addressed racial wealth gaps through forms of reparations.[25] Distributive justice calls for making up for the past using tools of allocation as well as tools to remedy persistent problems. For example, Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, MA, began “Healing ARC,” a pilot initiative that involves acknowledgement, redress, and closure on an institutional level.[26] Acknowledgement entails informing patients about disparities at the hospital, claiming responsibility, and incorporating community ideas for redress. Redress involves a preferential admission option for Black and Hispanic patients to specialty services, especially cardiovascular services, rather than general medicine. Closure requires that community and patient stakeholders work together to ensure that a new system is in place that will continue to prioritize equity. Of note, redress could take the form of cash transfers, discounted or free care, taxes on nonprofit hospitals that exclude patients of color,[27] or race-explicit protocol changes (such as those being instituted by Brigham and Women’s Hospital that admit patients historically denied access to certain forms of medical care). In New York, for instance, the New York State Bar Association drafted the COVID-19 resolutions to ensure that emergency regulations and guidelines do not discriminate against communities of color, and even mandate that diverse patient populations be included in clinical trials.[28] Also, physicians must listen to individuals from marginalized communities to identify needs and ensure that community members take part in decision-making. The solution is not to simply build new health centers in communities of color, as this may lead to tiers of care. Rather, local communities should have a chance to impact existing hospital policy and should also use their political participation to further their healthcare interests. Distributive justice does not seek to disenfranchise groups that hold power in the system. It aims to transform the system so that those in power do not continue to obtain unfair benefits at the expense of others. The framework accounts for unjust historical oppression and current injustices in our system to provide equitable outcomes to all who access the system. In this vein, we can begin to address the flagrant disparities between communities that have always – and continue to – exist in healthcare today.[29] CONCLUSION As equality focuses on access, it currently fails to do justice. Instead of outcomes, it is time to focus on equity. A focus on equity rather than equality would better address and prevent the disparities seen in COVID-19. A distributive justice framework can gain traction in clinical decision-making guidelines and system-level reallocation of resources but will succeed only if the medical community engages in outreach, anti-racism measures, and listens to communities in need. There should be an emphasis on implementing a distributive justice framework that treats all patients equitably, accounts for historical harm, and focuses on transparency in allocation and public health decision-making. [1] APM Research Lab Staff. 2020. “The Color of Coronavirus: COVID-19 Deaths by Race and Ethnicity in the U.S.” APM Research Lab. https://www.apmresearchlab.org/covid/deaths-by-race. [2] Bharmal, N., K. P. Derose, M. Felician, and M. M. Weden. 2015. “Understanding the Upstream Social Determinants of Health.” California: RAND Corporation 1-18. https://www.rand.org/pubs/working_papers/WR1096.html. [3] Yancy, C. W. 2020. “COVID-19 and African Americans.” JAMA. 323 (19): 1891-2. https://doi.org/10.1001/jama.2020.6548; Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. 2020. “COVID-19 in Racial and Ethnic Health Disparities.” Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. https://www.cdc.gov/coronavirus/2019-ncov/community/health-equity/racial-ethnic-disparities/index.html. [4] Braveman, P., E. Arkin, T. Orleans, D. Proctor, and A. Plough. 2017. “What is Health Equity?” Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. https://www.rwjf.org/en/library/research/2017/05/what-is-health-equity-.html. [5] Bedinger, M. 2020 Apr 22. “After Uproar, Mass. Revises Guidelines on Who Gets an ICU Bed or Ventilator Amid COVID-19 Surge.” Wbur. https://www.wbur.org/commonhealth/2020/04/20/mass-guidelines-ventilator-covid-coronavirus; Wigglesworth, A. 2020 May 11. “Institutional Racism, Inequity Fuel High Minority Death Toll from Coronavirus, L.A. Officials Say.” Los Angeles Times. https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2020-05-11/institutional-racism-inequity-high-minority-death-toll-coronavirus. [6] Executive Office of Health and Human Services Department of Public Health. 2020 Oct 20. “Crises Standards of Care Planning and Guidance for the COVID-19 Pandemic.” Commonwealth of Massachusetts. https://www.mass.gov/doc/crisis-standards-of-care-planning-guidance-for-the-covid-19-pandemic. [7] Emanuel, E. J., G. Persad, R. Upshur, et al. 2020. “Fair Allocation of Scarce Medical Resources in the Time of Covid-19. New England Journal of Medicine 382: 2049-55. https://doi.org/10.1056/NEJMsb2005114. [8] Salway, S., G. Mir, D. Turner, G. T. Ellison, L. Carter, and K. Gerrish. 2016. “Obstacles to "Race Equality" in the English National Health Service: Insights from the Healthcare Commissioning Arena.” Social Science and Medicine 152: 102-110. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.socscimed.2016.01.031. [9] Rawls, J. A Theory of Justice (Revised Edition) (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1999). [10] Zack, N. Applicative Justice: A Pragmatic Empirical Approach to Racial Injustice (New York: The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, 2016). [11] Charatz-Litt, C. 1992. “A Chronicle of Racism: The Effects of the White Medical Community on Black Health.” Journal of the National Medical Association 84 (8): 717-25. http://hdl.handle.net/10822/857182. [12] Washington, H. A. Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present (New York: Doubleday, 2006). [13] d'Oliveira, A. F., S. G. Diniz, and L. B. Schraiber. 2002. “Violence Against Women in Health-care Institutions: An Emerging Problem.” Lancet. 359 (9318): 1681-5. https://doi.org/10.1016/S0140-6736(02)08592-6. [14] Hafeez, H., M. Zeshan, M. A. Tahir, N. Jahan, and S. Naveed. 2017. “Health Care Disparities Among Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Youth: A Literature Review. Cureus 9 (4): e1184. https://doi.org/10.7759/cureus.1184; Drescher, J., A. Schwartz, F. Casoy, et al. 2016. “The Growing Regulation of Conversion Therapy.” Journal of Medical Regulation 102 (2): 7-12. https://doi.org/10.30770/2572-1852-102.2.7; Stroumsa, D. 2014. “The State of Transgender Health Care: Policy, Law, and Medical Frameworks.” American Journal of Public Health. 104 (3): e31-8. https://doi.org/10.2105/AJPH.2013.301789. [15] Stepanikova, I., and G. R. Oates. 2017. “Perceived Discrimination and Privilege in Health Care: The Role of Socioeconomic Status and Race.” American Journal of Preventative Medicine. 52 (1s1): S86-s94. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.amepre.2016.09.024; Swartz, K. “Health Care for the Poor: For Whom, What Care, and Whose Responsibility?” In Cancian, M., and S. Danziger (Eds.). Changing Poverty, Changing Policies (New York: Russell Sage Foundation Press, 2009), 69-74. [16] Meghani, S. H., E. Byun, and R. M. Gallagher. 2012. “Time to Take Stock: A Meta-analysis and Systematic Review of Analgesic Treatment Disparities for Pain in the United States.” Pain Medicine 13 (2): 150-74. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1526-4637.2011.01310.x; Williams, D. R., and T. D. Rucker. 2000. “Understanding and Addressing Racial Disparities in Health Care.” Health Care Financing Review 21 (4): 75-90. https://scholar.harvard.edu/davidrwilliams/dwilliam/publications/understanding-and-addressing-racial-disparities-health. [17] Hoffman, K. M., S. Trawalter, J. R. Axt, and M. N. Oliver. 2016. “Racial Bias in Pain assessment and treatment recommendations, and false beliefs about biological Differences Between Blacks and Whites.” PNAS 113 (16): 4296-4301. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1516047113. [18] Pacheco, C. M., S. M. Daley, T. Brown, M. Filipp, K. A. Greiner, and C. M. Daley. 2013. “Moving Forward: Breaking the Cycle of Mistrust Between American Indians and Researchers.” American Journal of Public Health. 103 (12): 2152-9. https://doi.org/10.2105/AJPH.2013.301480. [19] Velasco-Mondragon, E., A. Jimenez, A. G. Palladino-Davis, D. Davis, and J. A. Escamilla-Cejudo. 2016. “Hispanic Health in the USA: A Scoping Review of the Literature.” Public Health Reviews 37:31. https://doi.org/10.1186/s40985-016-0043-2. [20] Cameron, K. A., J. Song, L. M. Manheim, and D. D. Dunlop. 2010. “Gender Disparities in Health and Healthcare Use Among Older Adults.” Journal of Women’s Health (Larchmt) 19 (9): 1643-50. https://doi.org/10.1089/jwh.2009.1701. [21] Bierman, A. S. 2007. “Sex Matters: Gender Disparities in Quality and Outcomes of Care. Canadian Medical Association Journal 177 (12): 1520-1. https://doi.org/10.1503/cmaj.071541; Fowler, R. A., S. Sabur, P. Li, et al. 2007. “Sex-and Age-based Differences in the Delivery and Outcomes of Critical Care. Canadian Medical Association Journal 177 (12): 1513-9. https://doi.org/10.1503/cmaj.071112. [22] McLaughlin, D. K., and C. S. Stokes. 2002. “Income Inequality and Mortality in US Counties: Does Minority Racial Concentration Matter?” American Journal of Public Health 92 (1): 99-104. https://doi.org/.10.2105/ajph.92.1.99; Shea, S., J. Lima, A. Diez-Roux, N. W. Jorgensen, and R. L. McClelland. 2016. “Socioeconomic Status and Poor Health Outcome at 10 years of Follow-up in the Multi-ethnic Study of Atherosclerosis.” PLoS One 11 (11): e0165651. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0165651. [23] Han, X., K. T. Call, J. K. Pintor, G. Alarcon-Espinoza, and A. B. Simon. 2015. “Reports of Insurance-based Discrimination in Health care and its Association with Access to Care.” American Journal of Public Health 105 Suppl 3 (Suppl 3): S517-25. https://doi.org/10.2105/AJPH.2015.302668. [24] Aldridge, R. W., D. Menezes, D. Lewer, et al. 2019. “Causes of Death Among Homeless People: A Population-based Cross-sectional Study of Linked Hospitalization and Mortality Data in England.” Wellcome Open Research 4:49. https://doi.org/10.12688/wellcomeopenres.15151.1. [25] Richardson, E. T., M. M. Malik, W. A. Darity Jr., et al. 2021. “Reparations for Black American Descendants of Persons Enslaved in the U.S. and their Potential Impact on SARS-CoV-2 Transmission.” Social Science and Medicine 276: 113741. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.socscimed.2021.113741. [26] Wispelwey, B., and M. Morse. 2021. “An Antiracist Agenda for Medicine.” Boston Review. http://bostonreview.net/science-nature-race/bram-wispelwey-michelle-morse-antiracist-agenda-medicine. [27] Johnson, S. F., A. Ojo, and H. J. Warraich. 2021. “Academic Health Centers’ Antiracism Strategies Must Extend to their Business Practices.” Annals of Internal Medicine 174 (2): 254-5. https://doi.org/10.7326/M20-6203; Golub, M., N. Calman, C. Ruddock, et al. 2011. “A Community Mobilizes to End Medical Apartheid.” Progress in Community Health Partnerships: Research, Education, and Action 5 (3): 317-25. https://doi.org/10.1353/cpr.2011.0041. [28] New York State Bar Association. 2020. “New York State Bar Association House of Delegates: Revised COVID-19 Resolutions.” https://nysba.org/app/uploads/2020/10/Final-Health-Law-Section-COVID-19-Resolutions_10-8-20-1-1.pdf. [29] Egede, L. E. 2006. “Race, Ethnicity, Culture, and Disparities in Health Care.” Journal of General Internal Medicine 21 (6): 667-669. https://doi.org/10.1111%2Fj.1525-1497.2006.0512.x

Background There is substantial corroborating evidence that orthopaedic surgery has historically been the least diverse of all medical and surgical specialties in terms of race, ethnicity, and sex. Growing recognition of this deficit and the benefits of a diverse healthcare workforce has motivated policy changes to improve diversity. To measure progress with these efforts, it is important to understand the existing representation of sexual and gender minorities among orthopaedic professionals. Questions/purposes (1) What proportion of American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons (AAOS) members reported their identity as a sexual or gender minority? (2) What demographic factors are associated with the self-reporting of one’s sexual orientation and gender identity? Methods The AAOS published the updated membership questionnaire in January 2022 to collect information from new and existing society members regarding age and race or ethnicity and newly added categories of gender identity, sexual orientation, and pronouns. The questionnaire was updated with input from a committee of orthopaedic surgeons and researchers to ensure face validity. The AAOS provided a deidentified dataset that included the variables of interest: membership type, gender identity, sexual orientation, pronouns, age, race, and ethnicity. Of 35,427 active AAOS members, 47% (16,652) updated their membership questionnaire. To answer our first study question, we calculated the prevalence of participants who self-reported as lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, or another sexual or gender minority identity (LGBTQ+) and other demographic characteristics of the 16,652 respondents. Categorical demographic data are described using frequencies and proportions. Median and IQR were used to describe the central tendency and variability. To answer our second study question, we conducted a stratified analysis to compare demographic characteristics between those who self-reported LGBTQ+ identity and those who did not. Visual methods (quantile-quantile plots) and statistical tests (Kolmogorov-Smirnov and Shapiro Wilk) confirmed that the age of AAOS member was not normally distributed. Therefore, a Kruskal Wallis test was used to determine the statistical associations between age and self-reported LGBTQ+ status. Chi-square tests were used to determine bivariate statistical associations between categorical demographic characteristics and self-reported LGBTQ+ status. A multivariable logistic regression model was developed to identify the independent demographic characteristics associated with respondents who self-reported LGBTQ+ identity. Further stratified analyses were not conducted to protect the anonymity of AAOS members. An alpha level of 5% was established a priori to define statistical significance. Results Overall, 3% (109 of 3679) and fewer than 1% (3 of 16,182) of the AAOS members (surgeons, clinicians, allied healthcare providers, and researchers) who updated their membership profiles reported identifying as a sexual (lesbian, gay, bisexual, queer) or gender minority (nonbinary or transgender), respectively. No individual self-identified as transgender. Five percent (33 of 603) of women and 3% (80 of 3042) of men self-identified as a sexual minority (such as lesbian, gay, bisexual, or queer). AAOS members who self-identified as LGBTQ+ were younger (OR 0.99 [95% confidence interval (CI) 0.98 to 0.99]; p < 0.001), less likely to self-identify as women (OR 0.86 [95% CI 0.767 to 0.954]; p < 0.001), less likely to be underrepresented in medicine (OR 0.49 [95% CI 0.405 to 0.599]; p < 0.001), and less likely to be an emeritus or honorary member (OR 0.75 [95% CI 0.641 to 0.883]; p < 0.003). Conclusion The proportion of self-reported LGBTQ+ AAOS members is lower than the 7% of the general US population. The greater proportion of younger AAOS members reporting this information suggests progress in the pursuit of a more-diverse field. Clinical Relevance The study findings support standardized collection of sexual orientation and gender identity data to better identify and address diversity gaps. As orthopaedic surgery continues to transform to reflect the diversity of musculoskeletal patients, all orthopaedic professionals (surgeons, clinicians, allied healthcare providers, and researchers), regardless of their identities, are essential in the mission to provide equitable and informed orthopaedic care. Sexual and gender minority individuals may serve as important mentors to the next generations of orthopaedic professionals; individuals from nonminority groups should serve as important allies in achieving this goal.

Fig. 1: Photo by Miguel Orós, from unsplash.comFeminism has stalled at the bedroom door. In the post-#metoo era, more than ever, we need intimate civil rights in our relationships to counter the worrisome prevailing trends: Intimate partner violence. Interpersonal abuse. Date rape. Sexual harassment. Online harassment. Bullying. Rage. Sexual Assault. Abusive relationships. Revenge porn. There’s a lot of damage done when we get up close and personal. In the 21st century, we have come far in terms of equality and respect between the genders, so there’s a lot to celebrate. We also note that the Australian government has stepped in recently with the theme ‘Keeping Australians safe and secure’, by pledging $78 million to combat domestic violence, much of which takes place behind closed doors (Morrison 2019). Herein lies the issue: while governments legislate to protect victims of domestic violence — out of the public eye, private behaviours cannot be closely monitored, and the lack of social enforcement of these laws threatens the safety of intimate relationships. Rather, individuals are left to their own devices. We outline here a guideline for intimate civility, an individually-embraced code of conduct that could guide interpersonal dynamics within the intimate space of relationships. Civility does not traditionally ‘belong’ in our most intimate relationships. Rather, it’s been presumed, even idealised, that intimacy in our personal lives transcends the need for public values to govern relationships between/among men and women (i.e., that romantic love is all you need). Civility developed as a public, gendered concept. Historically, a man’s home – and indeed, his partner – became his dominion, promoting hegemonic constructions of masculinity, and values that reflect competition, conquest, entitlement and ownership. Moreover, intimate relationships located in the private domain can also be considered for/by both men and women a retreat, a bastion against, or excluded from the controls and demands of the public or ‘polis’ - thus from the public requirement for civility, further enabling its breakdown. The feminist political theorist Carole Pateman situated this historical separation as an inheritance of Hegel’s double dilemma: first, a class division between civil society and the state (between the economic man/woman, or private enterprise and public power) and second, a patriarchal division between the private family (and intimate relationships) and civil society/the state. The private location, she argues, is “an association constituted by ties of love, blood … subjection and particularity” rather than the public sphere, “an association of free and equal individuals” (225). In Hegel’s dilemma, personal liberty is a dualism, only constructed in relation to a governed, public (patriarchal) state. Alternately, Carter depicts civility as a shared moral good, where civility arises not only because of concern over consequences, but also demonstrates our intrinsic moral obligation to respect people in general. This approach subsequently challenges our freedom to carry out private, uncivil acts within a truly civil society.Challenges to Gender EthicsHow can we respond to this challenge in gender ethics? Intimate civility is a term coined by Elizabeth Reid Boyd and Abigail Bray. It came out of their discussions proposing “a new poetics of romance” which called for rewritten codes of interpersonal conduct, an “entente cordiale; a cordial truce to end the sex wars”. Reid Boyd and Bray go further:Politeness is personal and political. We reclaim courtesy as applied sexual and social ethics, an interpersonal, intimate ethics, respectful and tolerant of difference. Gender ethics must be addressed, for they have global social and cultural ramifications that we should not underestimate. (xx)As researchers, we started to explore the idea of intimate civility in interpersonal violence, developing an analysis using social construction and attachment theory simultaneously. In defining the term, we soon realised the concept had wider applications that could change how we think about our most intimate relationships – and how we behave in them. Conceptualising intimate civility involves imagining rights and responsibilities within the private sphere, whether or not loving, familial and natural. Intimate civility can operate through an individually embraced code of conduct to guide interpersonal dynamics within the intimate space of relationships.Gringart, Grobbelaar, and Bender explored the concept of intimate civility by investigating women’s perspectives on what may harmonise their intimate relationships. Women’s most basic desires included safety, equality and respect in the bedroom. In other words, intimate civility is an enactment of human-rights, the embodiment of regard for another human being, insofar as it is a form of ensuring physical and mental integrity, life, safety and protection of all beings. Thus, if intimate civility existed as a core facet of each individual’s self-concept, the manifestation of intimate partner violence ideally would not occur. Rage, from an intimate civility perspective, rips through any civil response and generates misconduct towards another. When we hold respect for others as equal moral beings, civility is key to contain conflicts, which prevents the escalation of disagreements into rage. Intimate civility proposes that civility becomes the baseline behaviour that would be reciprocated between two individuals within the private domain of intimate relationships. Following this notion, intimate civility is the foremost casualty in many relationships characterised by intimate partner violence. The current criminalisation of intimate partner violence leaves unexplored the previously privatised property of the relational – including the inheritance of centuries of control of women’s bodies and sexuality – and how far, in this domain, notions of civility might liberate and/or oppress. The feminist philosopher Luce Irigaray argues that these kinds of ‘sexuate rights’ must apply to both men and women and the reality of their needs and desires. Equality, she argued, could not be achieved without a rewriting of the rights and obligations of each sex, qua different, in social rights and obligations (Yan).Synonyms for intimacy include, amongst others, closeness, attachment, togetherness, warmth, mutual affection, familiarity and privacy. Indirectly, sexual relations are also often synonymous with intimate relationships. However, sex is not intimacy, as both sex and intimacy both exist without the other. Bowlby proposed that throughout our lives we are attentive to the responsiveness and the availability of those that we are attached to, and suggested that “intimate attachments to other human beings are the hub around which a person’s life revolves, not only when he is an infant or a toddler, but throughout his adolescence and his years of maturity as well, and on into old age” (442). Although love is not by nature reciprocal, in intimacy we seek reciprocity – to love one another at the same time in a shared form of commitment. Kierkegaard hypothesised that genuine love is witnessed by one continuing to love another after their death as it obviates any doubt that the beloved was loved and was not merely instrumental (Soble).Intimate Civility as a Starting PointCivility includes qualities such as trust, duty, morality, sacrifice, self-restraint, respect, and fairness; a common standard allowing individuals to work, live and associate together. Intimacy encourages caring, loyalty, empathy, honesty, and self-knowledge. Thus, intimate civility should begin with those closest to us; being civil in our most intimate relationships. It advocates the genuine use of terms of endearment, not terms of abuse. We can only develop qualities such as morality and empathy, crucial for intimate relationships, if we have experienced secure, intimate relationships. Individuals reared in homes devoid of intimate civility will be challenged to identify and promote the interest or wellbeing of their intimate counterparts, and have to seek outside help to learn these skills: it is a learnt behaviour, both at an interpersonal and societal level. Individuals whose parents were insensitive to their childhood needs, and were unable to perceive, interpret and respond appropriately to their subtle communications, signals, wishes and mood will be flailing in this interpersonal skill (Holmes and Slade). Similarly, the individual’s inclusion in a civil society will only be achieved if their surrounding environment promotes and values virtues such as compassion, fairness and cooperation. This may be a challenging task. We envisage intimate civility as a starting point. It provides a focus to discuss and explore civil rights, obligations and responsibilities, between and among women and men in their personal relationships. As stated above, intimate civility begins with one's relationship with oneself and the closest relationships in the home, and hopefully reaches outwards to all kinds of relationships, including same sex, transgender, and other roles within non-specific gender assignment. Therefore, exploring the concept of intimate civility has applications in personal therapy, family counselling centres and relationship counselling environments, or schools in sexual education, or in universities promoting student safety. For example, the 2019 “Change the Course” report was recently released to augment Universities Australia’s 2016 campaign that raised awareness on sexual assault on campus. While it is still under development, we envision that intimate civility decalogue outlined here could become a checklist to assist in promoting awareness regarding abuse of power and gender roles. A recent example of cultural reframing of gender and power in intimate relationships is the Australian Government’s 2018 Respect campaign against gender violence. These recent campaigns promote awareness that intimate civility is integrated with a more functional society.These campaigns, as the images demonstrate, aim at quantifying connections between interactions on an intimate scale in individual lives, and their impacts in shaping civil society in the arena of gender violence. They highlight the elasticity of the bonds between intimate life and civil society and our collective responsibility as citizens for reworking both the gendered and personal civility. Fig. 2: Photo by Tyler Nix: Hands Spelling Out LOVE, from unsplash.comThe Decalogue of Intimate Civility Overall, police reports of domestic violence are heavily skewed towards male on female, but this is not always the case. The Australian government recently reported that “1 in 6 Australian women and 1 in 16 men have been subjected, since the age of 15, to physical and/or sexual violence by a current or previous cohabiting partner” (Australian Institutes of Health and Welfare). Rather than reiterating the numbers, we envisage the decalogue (below) as a checklist of concepts designed to discuss and explore rights, obligations and responsibilities, between and among both partners in their intimate relationships. As such, this decalogue forms a basis for conversation. Intimate civility involves a relationship with these ten qualities, with ourselves, and each other.1) Intimate civility is personal and political. Conceptualising intimate civility involves imagining rights and responsibilities within the private sphere. It is not an impingement on individual liberty or privacy but a guarantor of it. Civil society requires us not to defend private infringements of inter-personal respect. Private behaviours are both intimate in their performance and the springboard for social norms. In Geoffrey Rush’s recent defamation case his defence relied not on denying claims he repeatedly touched his fellow actor’s genitalia during their stage performance in a specific scene, despite her requests to him that he stop, but rather on how newspaper reporting of her statements made him out to be a “sexual pervert”, reflecting the complex link between this ‘private’ interaction between two people and its very public exposé (Wells). 2) Intimate civility is an enactment of a civil right, insofar as it is a form of ensuring physical and mental integrity, life, safety and protection. Intimate civility should begin with those closest to us. An example of this ethic at work is the widening scope of criminalisation of intimate partner abuse to include all forms of abusive interactions between people. Stalking and the pre-cursors to physical violence such as controlling behaviours, online bullying or any actions used to instil fear or insecurity in a partner, are accorded legal sanctions. 3) Intimate civility is polite. Politeness is more than manners. It relates to our public codes of conduct, to behaviours and laws befitting every civilian of the ‘polis’. It includes the many acts of politeness that are required behind closed doors and the recognition that this is the place from which public civility emerges. For example, the modern parent may hope that what they sanction as “polite” behaviour between siblings at home might then become generalised by the child into their public habits and later moral expectations as adults. In an ideal society, the micro-politics of family life become the blueprint for moral development for adult expectations about personal conduct in intimate and public life.4) Intimate civility is equitable. It follows Luce Irigaray’s call for ‘sexuate rights’ designed to apply to men and women and the reality of their needs and desires, in a rewriting of the social rights and obligations of each sex (Yan and Irigaray). Intimate civility extends this notion of rights to include all those involved in personal relations. This principle is alive within systemic family therapy which assumes that while not all members of the family system are always able to exert equal impacts or influence, they each in principle are interdependent participants influencing the system as a whole (Dallos and Draper). 5) Intimate civility is dialectical. The separation of intimacy and civility in Western society and thought is itself a dualism that rests upon other dualisms: public/private, constructed/natural, male/female, rational/emotional, civil/criminal, individual/social, victim/oppressor. Romantic love is not a natural state or concept, and does not help us to develop safe governance in the world of intimate relationships. Instead, we envisage intimate civility – and our relationships – as dynamic, dialectical, discursive and interactive, above and beyond dualism. Just as individuals do not assume that consent for sexual activity negotiated in one partnership under a set of particular conditions, is consent to sexual activity in all partnerships in any conditions. So, dialectics of intimate civility raises the expectation that what occurs in interpersonal relationships is worked out incrementally, between people over time and particular to their situation and experiences. 6) Intimate civility is humane. It can be situated in what Julia Kristeva refers to as the new humanism, emerging (and much needed) today. “This new humanism, interaction with others – all the others – socially marginalised, racially discriminated, politically, sexually, biologically or psychically persecuted others” (Kristeva, 2016: 64) is only possible if we immerse ourselves in the imaginary, in the experience of ‘the other’. Intimate civility takes on a global meaning when human rights action groups such as Amnesty International address the concerns of individuals to make a social difference. Such organisations develop globally-based digital platforms for interested individuals to become active about shared social concerns, understanding that the new humanism ethic works within and between individuals and can be harnessed for change.7) Intimate civility is empathic. It invites us to create not-yet-said, not-yet-imagined relationships. The creative space for intimate civility is not bound by gender, race or sexuality – only by our imaginations. “The great instrument of moral good is the imagination,” wrote the poet Shelley in 1840. Moral imagination (Reid Boyd) helps us to create better ways of being. It is a form of empathy that encourages us to be kinder and more loving to ourselves and each other, when we imagine how others might feel. The use of empathic imagination for real world relational benefits is common in traditional therapeutic practices, such as mindfulness, that encourages those struggling with self compassion to imagine the presence of a kind friend or ally to support them at times of hardship. 8) Intimate civility is respectful. Intimate civility is the foremost casualty in many relationships characterised by forms of abuse and intimate partner violence. “Respect”, wrote Simone Weil, “is due to the human being as such, and is not a matter of degree” (171). In the intimate civility ethic this quality of respect accorded as a right of beings is mutual, including ourselves with the other. When respect is eroded, much is lost. Respect arises from empathy through attuned listening. The RESPECT! Campaign originating from the Futures without Violence organisation assumes healthy relationships begin with listening between people. They promote the understanding that the core foundation of human wellbeing is relational, requiring inter-personal understanding and respect.9) Intimate civility is a form of highest regard. When we regard another we truly see them. To hold someone in high regard is to esteem them, to hold them above others, not putting them on a pedestal, or insisting they are superior, but to value them for who they are. To be esteemed for our interior, for our character, rather than what we display or what we own. It connects with the humanistic psychological concept of unconditional positive regard. The highest regard holds each other in arms and in mind. It is to see/look at, to have consideration for, and to pay attention to, recently epitomised by the campaign against human trafficking, “Can You See Me?” (Human Trafficking), whose purpose is to foster public awareness of the non-verbal signs and signals between individuals that indicate human trafficking may be taking place. In essence, teaching communal awareness towards the victimisation of individuals. 10) Intimate civility is intergenerational. We can only develop qualities such as morality and empathy, crucial for intimate relationships, if we have experienced (or imagined) intimate relationships where these qualities exist. Individuals reared in homes devoid of intimate civility could be challenged to identify and promote the interest or wellbeing of their intimate counterparts; it is a learnt behaviour, both at an interpersonal and societal level. Childhood developmental trauma research (Spinazzola and Ford) reminds us that the interaction of experiences, relational interactions, contexts and even our genetic amkeup makes individuals both vulnerable to repeating the behaviour of past generations. However, treatment of the condition and surrounding individuals with people in their intimate world who have different life experiences and personal histories, i.e., those who have acquired respectful relationship habits, can have a positive impact on the individuals’ capacity to change their learned negative behaviours. In conclusion, the work on intimate civility as a potential concept to alleviate rage in human relationships has hardly begun. The decalogue provides a checklist that indicates the necessity of ‘intersectionality’ — where the concepts of intimate civility connect to many points within the public/private and personal/political domains. Any analysis of intimacy must reach further than prepositions tied to social construction and attachment theory (Fonagy), to include current understandings of trauma and inter-generational violence and the way these influence people’s ability to act in healthy and balanced interpersonal relationships. While not condoning violent acts, locating the challenges to intimate civility on both personal and societal levels may leverage a compassionate view of those caught up in interpersonal violence. The human condition demands that we continue the struggle to meet the challenges of intimate civility in our personal actions with others as well as the need to replicate civil behaviour throughout all societies. ReferencesBowlby, John. Attachment and Loss. Vol. 3. New York: Basic Books, 1980.Carter, Stephen. Civility: Manners, Morals and the Etiquette of Democracy. New York: Basic Books, 1998.Dallos, Rudi, and Ros Draper. An Introduction to Family Therapy: Systemic Theory and Practice. 2nd ed. Open University Press: Berkshire, 2005.Australian Institutes of Health and Welfare, Australian Government. Family, Domestic and Sexual Violence in Australia. 2018. 6 Feb. 2019 <https://www.aihw.gov.au/reports/domestic-violence/family-domestic-sexual-violence-in-australia-2018/contents/summary>. Fonagy, Peter. Attachment Theory and Psychoanalysis. New York: Other Press, 2001.Gringart, Eyal, Madalena Grobbelaar, and Alise Bender. Intimate Civility: The Perceptions and Experiences of Women on Harmonising Intimate Relationships. Honours thesis, 2018.Holmes, Jeremy, and Arietta Slade. Attachment in Therapeutic Practice. Los Angeles: Sage, 2018. Human Trafficking, Jan. 2019. 14 Feb. 2019 <https://www.a21.org/content/can-you-see-me/gnsqqg?permcode=gnsqqg&site=true>.Kristeva, Julia. Teresa My Love: An Imagined Life of the Saint of Avila. New York: Columbia UP, 2016.Morrison, Scott. “National Press Club Address.” 11 Feb. 2019. 26 Feb. 2019 <https://www.pm.gov.au/media/national-press-club-address-our-plan-keeping-australians-safe-and-secure>.Pateman, Carole. “The Patriarchal Welfare State.” Defining Women: Social Institutions and Gender Divisions. Eds. Linda McDowell and Rosemary Pringle. London: Polity Press, 1994. 223-45.Reid Boyd, Elizabeth. “How Creativity Can Help Us Cultivate Moral Imagination.” The Conversation, 30 Jan. 2019. 11 Feb. 2019 <http://theconversation.com/how-creativity-can-help-us-cultivate-moral-imagination-101968>.Reid Boyd, Elizabeth, and Abigail Bray. Ladies and Gentlemen: Sex, Love and 21st Century Courtesy. Unpublished book proposal, 2005.Commonwealth of Australia. Respect Campaign. 2018, 9 Jan. 2019 <http://www.respect.gov.au/the-campaign/campaign-materials/>.Shelley, Percy Bysshe. A Defence of Poetry. London: Ginn and Company, 1840.Soble, Alan. Philosophy of Sex and Love. St Paul, MN: Paragon House, 1998.Weil, Simone. Waiting on God. London: Fontana Collins, 1968.Wells, Jamelle. “Geoffrey Rush, Erin Norvill and the Daily Telegraph: The Stakes Are High in This Defamation Trial.” ABC News 12 Nov. 2018. 23 Feb. 2019 <http://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-11-10/geoffrey-rush-defamation-trial-a-drama-with-final-act-to-come/10483944>.Yan, Liu, and Luce Irigaray. “Feminism, Sexuate Rights and the Ethics of Sexual Difference: An Interview with Luce Irigaray.” Foreign Literature Studies (2010): 1-9.

Ubiquitous in airports, border checkpoints, and other securitised spaces throughout the world, full-body imaging scanners claim to read bodies in order to identify if they pose security threats. Millimetre-wave body imaging machines—the most common type of body scanner—display to the operating security agent a screen with a generic body outline. If an anomaly is found or if an individual does not align with the machine’s understanding of an “average” body, a small box is highlighted and placed around the “problem” area, prompting further inspection in the form of pat-downs or questioning. In this complex security regime governed by such biometric, body-based technologies, it could be argued that nonalignment with bodily normativity as well as an attendant failure to reveal oneself—to become “transparent” (Hall 295)—marks a body as dangerous. As these algorithmic technologies become more pervasive, so too does the imperative to critically examine their purported neutrality and operative logic of revelation and readability.Biometric technologies are marketed as excavators of truth, with their optic potency claiming to demask masquerading bodies. Failure and bias are, however, an inescapable aspect of such technologies that work with narrow parameters of human morphology. Indeed, surveillance technologies have been taken to task for their inherent racial and gender biases (Browne; Pugliese). Facial recognition has, for example, been critiqued for its inability to read darker skin tones (Buolamwini and Gebru), while body scanners have been shown to target transgender bodies (Keyes; Magnet and Rodgers; Quinan). Critical security studies scholar Shoshana Magnet argues that error is endemic to the technological functioning of biometrics, particularly since they operate according to the faulty notion that bodies are “stable” and unchanging repositories of information that can be reified into code (Magnet 2).Although body scanners are presented as being able to reliably expose concealed weapons, they are riddled with incompetencies that misidentify and over-select certain demographics as suspect. Full-body scanners have, for example, caused considerable difficulties for transgender travellers, breast cancer patients, and people who use prosthetics, such as artificial limbs, colonoscopy bags, binders, or prosthetic genitalia (Clarkson; Quinan; Spalding). While it is not in the scope of this article to detail the workings of body imaging technologies and their inconsistencies, a growing body of scholarship has substantiated the claim that these machines unfairly impact those identifying as transgender and non-binary (see, e.g., Beauchamp; Currah and Mulqueen; Magnet and Rogers; Sjoberg). Moreover, they are constructed according to a logic of binary gender: before each person enters the scanner, transportation security officers must make a quick assessment of their gender/sex by pressing either a blue (corresponding to “male”) or pink (corresponding to “female”) button. In this sense, biometric, computerised security systems control and monitor the boundaries between male and female.The ability to “reveal” oneself is henceforth predicated on having a body free of “abnormalities” and fitting neatly into one of the two sex categorisations that the machine demands. Transgender and gender-nonconforming individuals, particularly those who do not have a binary gender presentation or whose presentation does not correspond to the sex marker in their documentation, also face difficulties if the machine flags anomalies (Quinan and Bresser). Drawing on a Foucauldian analysis of power as productive, Toby Beauchamp similarly illustrates how surveillance technologies not only identify but also create and reshape the figure of the dangerous subject in relation to normative configurations of gender, race, and able-bodiedness. By mobilizing narratives of concealment and disguise, heightened security measures frame gender nonconformity as dangerous (Beauchamp, Going Stealth). Although national and supranational authorities market biometric scanning technologies as scientifically neutral and exact methods of identification and verification and as an infallible solution to security risks, such tools of surveillance are clearly shaped by preconceptions and prejudgements about race, gender, and bodily normativity. Not only are they encoded with “prototypical whiteness” (Browne) but they are also built on “grossly stereotypical” configurations of gender (Clarkson).Amongst this increasingly securitised landscape, creative forms of artistic resistance can offer up a means of subverting discriminatory policing and surveillance practices by posing alternate visualisations that reveal and challenge their supposed objectivity. In his 2018 audio-video artwork installation entitled SANCTUM, UK-based American artist Zach Blas delves into how biometric technologies, like those described above, both reveal and (re)shape ontology by utilising the affectual resonance of sexual submission. Evoking the contradictory notions of oppression and pleasure, Blas describes SANCTUM as “a mystical environment that perverts sex dungeons with the apparatuses and procedures of airport body scans, biometric analysis, and predictive policing” (see full description at https://zachblas.info/works/sanctum/).Depicting generic mannequins that stand in for the digitalised rendering of the human forms that pass through body scanners, the installation transports the scanners out of the airport and into a queer environment that collapses sex, security, and weaponry; an environment that is “at once a prison-house of algorithmic capture, a sex dungeon with no genitals, a weapons factory, and a temple to security.” This artistic reframing gestures towards full-body scanning technology’s germination in the military, prisons, and other disciplinary systems, highlighting how its development and use has originated from punitive—rather than protective—contexts.In what follows, we adopt a methodological approach that applies visual analysis and close reading to scrutinise a selection of scenes from SANCTUM that underscore the sadomasochistic power inherent in surveillance technologies. Analysing visual and aural elements of the artistic intervention allows us to complicate the relationship between transparency and recognition and to problematise the dynamic of mandatory complicity and revelation that body scanners warrant. In contrast to a discourse of visibility that characterises algorithmically driven surveillance technology, Blas suggests opacity as a resistance strategy to biometrics' standardisation of identity. Taking an approach informed by critical security studies and queer theory, we also argue that SANCTUM highlights the violence inherent to the practice of reducing the body to a flat, inert surface that purports to align with some sort of “core” identity, a notion that contradicts feminist and queer approaches to identity and corporeality as fluid and changing. In close reading this artistic installation alongside emerging scholarship on the discriminatory effects of biometric technology, this article aims to highlight the potential of art to queer the supposed objectivity and neutrality of biometric surveillance and to critically challenge normative logics of revelation and readability.Corporeal Fetishism and Body HorrorThroughout both his artistic practice and scholarly work, Blas has been critical of the above narrative of biometrics as objective extractors of information. Rather than looking to dominant forms of representation as a means for recognition and social change, Blas’s work asks that we strive for creative techniques that precisely queer biometric and legal systems in order to make oneself unaccounted for. For him, “transparency, visibility, and representation to the state should be used tactically, they are never the end goal for a transformative politics but are, ultimately, a trap” (Blas and Gaboury 158). While we would simultaneously argue that invisibility is itself a privilege that is unevenly distributed, his creative work attempts to refuse a politics of visibility and to embrace an “informatic opacity” that is attuned to differences in bodies and identities (Blas).In particular, Blas’s artistic interventions titled Facial Weaponization Suite (2011-14) and Face Cages (2013-16) protest against biometric recognition and the inequalities that these technologies propagate by making masks and wearable metal objects that cannot be detected as human faces. This artistic-activist project contests biometric facial recognition and their attendant inequalities by, as detailed on the artist’s website,making ‘collective masks’ in workshops that are modelled from the aggregated facial data of participants, resulting in amorphous masks that cannot be detected as human faces by biometric facial recognition technologies. The masks are used for public interventions and performances.One mask explores blackness and the racist implications that undergird biometric technologies’ inability to detect dark skin. Meanwhile another mask, which he calls the “Fag Face Mask”, points to the heteronormative underpinnings of facial recognition. Created from the aggregated facial data of queer men, this amorphous pink mask implicitly references—and contests—scientific studies that have attempted to link the identification of sexual orientation through rapid facial recognition techniques.Building on this body of creative work that has advocated for opacity as a tool of social and political transformation, SANCTUM resists the revelatory impulses of biometric technology by turning to the use and abuse of full-body imaging. The installation opens with a shot of a large, dark industrial space. At the far end of a red, spotlighted corridor, a black mask flickers on a screen. A shimmering, oscillating sound reverberates—the opening bars of a techno track—that breaks down in rhythm while the mask evaporates into a cloud of smoke. The camera swivels, and a white figure—the generic mannequin of the body scanner screen—is pummelled by invisible forces as if in a wind tunnel. These ghostly silhouettes appear and reappear in different positions, with some being whipped and others stretched and penetrated by a steel anal hook. Rather than conjuring a traditional horror trope of the body’s terrifying, bloody interior, SANCTUM evokes a new kind of feared and fetishized trope that is endemic to the current era of surveillance capitalism: the abstracted body, standardised and datafied, created through the supposedly objective and efficient gaze of AI-driven machinery.Resting on the floor in front of the ominous animated mask are neon fragments arranged in an occultist formation—hands or half a face. By breaking the body down into component parts— “from retina to fingerprints”—biometric technologies “purport to make individual bodies endlessly replicable, segmentable and transmissible in the transnational spaces of global capital” (Magnet 8). The notion that bodies can be seamlessly turned into blueprints extracted from biological and cultural contexts has been described by Donna Haraway as “corporeal fetishism” (Haraway, Modest). In the context of SANCTUM, Blas illustrates the dangers of mistaking a model for a “concrete entity” (Haraway, “Situated” 147). Indeed, the digital cartography of the generic mannequin becomes no longer a mode of representation but instead a technoscientific truth.Several scenes in SANCTUM also illustrate a process whereby substances are extracted from the mannequins and used as tools to enact violence. In one such instance, a silver webbing is generated over a kneeling figure. Upon closer inspection, this geometric structure, which is reminiscent of Blas’s earlier Face Cages project, is a replication of the triangulated patterns produced by facial recognition software in its mapping of distance between eyes, nose, and mouth. In the next scene, this “map” breaks apart into singular shapes that float and transform into a metallic whip, before eventually reconstituting themselves as a penetrative douche hose that causes the mannequin to spasm and vomit a pixelated liquid. Its secretions levitate and become the webbing, and then the sequence begins anew.In another scene, a mannequin is held upside-down and force-fed a bubbling liquid that is being pumped through tubes from its arms, legs, and stomach. These depictions visualise Magnet’s argument that biometric renderings of bodies are understood not to be “tropic” or “historically specific” but are instead presented as “plumbing individual depths in order to extract core identity” (5). In this sense, this visual representation calls to mind biometrics’ reification of body and identity, obfuscating what Haraway would describe as the “situatedness of knowledge”. Blas’s work, however, forces a critique of these very systems, as the materials extracted from the bodies of the mannequins in SANCTUM allude to how biometric cartographies drawn from travellers are utilised to justify detainment. These security technologies employ what Magnet has referred to as “surveillant scopophilia,” that is, new ways and forms of looking at the human body “disassembled into component parts while simultaneously working to assuage individual anxieties about safety and security through the promise of surveillance” (17). The transparent body—the body that can submit and reveal itself—is ironically represented by the distinctly genderless translucent mannequins. Although the generic mannequins are seemingly blank slates, the installation simultaneously forces a conversation about the ways in which biometrics draw upon and perpetuate assumptions about gender, race, and sexuality.Biometric SubjugationOn her 2016 critically acclaimed album HOPELESSNESS, openly transgender singer, composer, and visual artist Anohni performs a deviant subjectivity that highlights the above dynamics that mark the contemporary surveillance discourse. To an imagined “daddy” technocrat, she sings:Watch me… I know you love me'Cause you're always watching me'Case I'm involved in evil'Case I'm involved in terrorism'Case I'm involved in child molestersEvoking a queer sexual frisson, Anohni describes how, as a trans woman, she is hyper-visible to state institutions. She narrates a voyeuristic relation where trans bodies are policed as threats to public safety rather than protected from systemic discrimination. Through the seemingly benevolent “daddy” character and the play on ‘cause (i.e., because) and ‘case (i.e., in case), she highlights how gender-nonconforming individuals are predictively surveilled and assumed to already be guilty. Reflecting on daddy-boy sexual paradigms, Jack Halberstam reads the “sideways” relations of queer practices as an enactment of “rupture as substitution” to create a new project that “holds on to vestiges of the old but distorts” (226). Upending power and control, queer art has the capacity to both reveal and undermine hegemonic structures while simultaneously allowing for the distortion of the old to create something new.Employing the sublimatory relations of bondage, discipline, sadism, and masochism (BDSM), Blas’s queer installation similarly creates a sideways representation that re-orientates the logic of the biometric scanners, thereby unveiling the always already sexualised relations of scrutiny and interrogation as well as the submissive complicity they demand. Replacing the airport environment with a dark and foreboding mise-en-scène allows Blas to focus on capture rather than mobility, highlighting the ways in which border checkpoints (including those instantiated by the airport) encourage free travel for some while foreclosing movement for others. Building on Sara Ahmed’s “phenomenology of being stopped”, Magnet considers what happens when we turn our gaze to those “who fail to pass the checkpoint” (107). In SANCTUM, the same actions are played out again and again on spectral beings who are trapped in various states: they shudder in cages, are chained to the floor, or are projected against the parameters of mounted screens. One ghostly figure, for instance, lies pinned down by metallic grappling hooks, arms raised above the head in a recognisable stance of surrender, conjuring up the now-familiar image of a traveller standing in the cylindrical scanner machine, waiting to be screened. In portraying this extended moment of immobility, Blas lays bare the deep contradictions in the rhetoric of “freedom of movement” that underlies such spaces.On a global level, media reporting, scientific studies, and policy documents proclaim that biometrics are essential to ensuring personal safety and national security. Within the public imagination, these technologies become seductive because of their marked ability to identify terrorist attackers—to reveal threatening bodies—thereby appealing to the anxious citizen’s fear of the disguised suicide bomber. Yet for marginalised identities prefigured as criminal or deceptive—including transgender and black and brown bodies—the inability to perform such acts of revelation via submission to screening can result in humiliation and further discrimination, public shaming, and even tortuous inquiry – acts that are played out in SANCTUM.Masked GenitalsFeminist surveillance studies scholar Rachel Hall has referred to the impetus for revelation in the post-9/11 era as a desire for a universal “aesthetics of transparency” in which the world and the body is turned inside-out so that there are no longer “secrets or interiors … in which terrorists or terrorist threats might find refuge” (127). Hall takes up the case study of Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab (infamously known as “the Underwear Bomber”) who attempted to detonate plastic explosives hidden in his underwear while onboard a flight from Amsterdam to Detroit on 25 December 2009. Hall argues that this event signified a coalescence of fears surrounding bodies of colour, genitalia, and terrorism. News reports following the incident stated that Abdulmutallab tucked his penis to make room for the explosive, thereby “queer[ing] the aspiring terrorist by indirectly referencing his willingness … to make room for a substitute phallus” (Hall 289). Overtly manifested in the Underwear Bomber incident is also a desire to voyeuristically expose a hidden, threatening interiority, which is inherently implicated with anxieties surrounding gender deviance. Beauchamp elaborates on how gender deviance and transgression have coalesced with terrorism, which was exemplified in the wake of the 9/11 attacks when the United States Department of Homeland Security issued a memo that male terrorists “may dress as females in order to discourage scrutiny” (“Artful” 359). Although this advisory did not explicitly reference transgender populations, it linked “deviant” gender presentation—to which we could also add Abdulmutallab’s tucking of his penis—with threats to national security (Beauchamp, Going Stealth). This also calls to mind a broader discussion of the ways in which genitalia feature in the screening process. Prior to the introduction of millimetre-wave body scanning technology, the most common form of scanner used was the backscatter imaging machine, which displayed “naked” body images of each passenger to the security agent. Due to privacy concerns, these machines were replaced by the scanners currently in place which use a generic outline of a passenger (exemplified in SANCTUM) to detect possible threats.It is here worth returning to Blas’s installation, as it also implicitly critiques the security protocols that attempt to reveal genitalia as both threatening and as evidence of an inner truth about a body. At one moment in the installation a bayonet-like object pierces the blank crotch of the mannequin, shattering it into holographic fragments. The apparent genderlessness of the mannequins is contrasted with these graphic sexual acts. The penetrating metallic instrument that breaks into the loin of the mannequin, combined with the camera shot that slowly zooms in on this action, draws attention to a surveillant fascination with genitalia and revelation. As Nicholas L. Clarkson documents in his analysis of airport security protocols governing prostheses, including limbs and packies (silicone penis prostheses), genitals are a central component of the screening process. While it is stipulated that physical searches should not require travellers to remove items of clothing, such as underwear, or to expose their genitals to staff for inspection, prosthetics are routinely screened and examined. This practice can create tensions for trans or disabled passengers with prosthetics in so-called “sensitive” areas, particularly as guidelines for security measures are often implemented by airport staff who are not properly trained in transgender-sensitive protocols.ConclusionAccording to media technologies scholar Jeremy Packer, “rather than being treated as one to be protected from an exterior force and one’s self, the citizen is now treated as an always potential threat, a becoming bomb” (382). Although this technological policing impacts all who are subjected to security regimes (which is to say, everyone), this amalgamation of body and bomb has exacerbated the ways in which bodies socially coded as threatening or deceptive are targeted by security and surveillance regimes. Nonetheless, others have argued that the use of invasive forms of surveillance can be justified by the state as an exchange: that citizens should willingly give up their right to privacy in exchange for safety (Monahan 1). Rather than subscribing to this paradigm, Blas’ SANCTUM critiques the violence of mandatory complicity in this “trade-off” narrative. Because their operationalisation rests on normative notions of embodiment that are governed by preconceptions around gender, race, sexuality and ability, surveillance systems demand that bodies become transparent. This disproportionally affects those whose bodies do not match norms, with trans and queer bodies often becoming unreadable (Kafer and Grinberg). The shadowy realm of SANCTUM illustrates this tension between biometric revelation and resistance, but also suggests that opacity may be a tool of transformation in the face of such discriminatory violations that are built into surveillance.ReferencesAhmed, Sara. “A Phenomenology of Whiteness.” Feminist Theory 8.2 (2007): 149–68.Beauchamp, Toby. “Artful Concealment and Strategic Visibility: Transgender Bodies and U.S. State Surveillance after 9/11.” Surveillance & Society 6.4 (2009): 356–66.———. Going Stealth: Transgender Politics and U.S. Surveillance Practices. 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Durham: Duke UP, 2011.Magnet, Shoshana, and Tara Rodgers. “Stripping for the State: Whole Body Imaging Technologies and the Surveillance of Othered Bodies.” Feminist Media Studies 12.1 (2012): 101–18.Monahan, Torin. Surveillance and Security: Technological Politics and Power in Everyday Life. New York: Routledge, 2006.Packer, Jeremy. “Becoming Bombs: Mobilizing Mobility in the War of Terror.” Cultural Studies 10.5 (2006): 378-99.Pugliese, Joseph. “In Silico Race and the Heteronomy of Biometric Proxies: Biometrics in the Context of Civilian Life, Border Security and Counter-Terrorism Laws.” Australian Feminist Law Journal 23 (2005): 1-32.Pugliese, Joseph. Biometrics: Bodies, Technologies, Biopolitics New York: Routledge, 2010.Quinan, C.L. “Gender (In)securities: Surveillance and Transgender Bodies in a Post-9/11 Era of Neoliberalism.” Eds. Stef Wittendorp and Matthias Leese. Security/Mobility: Politics of Movement. 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IntroductionJohn Berger provides a compelling analysis in Ways of Seeing on how we’ve been socialized through centuries of art to see women as objects and men as subjects. This way of seeing men and women is more than aesthetic choices but in fact shapes our ideologies of gender. As Berger asserts: “The art of the past no longer exists as it once did… In its place there is a language of images. What matters now is who uses that language for what purpose” (33).What happens when there are no historical images that represent your identity? How do others learn to see you? How do you learn to represent yourself? This article addresses the challenges that bisexuals face in constructing and contending with media representations of non-normative sexualities. As Berger suggests: “A people or class which is cut off from its own past is far less free to choose and to act as a people or class than one that has been able to situate itself in history” (33). This article seeks to apply Berger’s core concepts in Ways of Seeing studying representations of bisexuality in mainstream media. How bisexuality is represented, and therefore observed, shapes what can ultimately be culturally understood and recognized.This article explores how bisexuals use digital media to construct self-representations and brand a bisexual identity. Bisexual representations are particularly relevant to study as they are often rendered invisible by the cultural hegemony of monosexuality. Cultural norms ideologically shape the intelligibility of representation; bisexuality is often misinterpreted when read within the dominant binaries of heterosexuality and homosexuality in Western European culture. This work addresses how users adapt visual, textual, and hyperlinked information in online spaces to create representations that can be culturally recognized. Users want to be seen as bisexuals. The research for this article examined online social spaces created by and for bisexuals between 2013-2015, as well as mainstream media addressing bisexuality or bisexual characters. The social spaces studied included national and regional websites for bisexual organizations, blogs dedicated to bisexual issues and topics, and public bisexual groups on Facebook and Tumblr. Participant observation and semiotic analysis was employed to analyze how bisexual representation was discussed and performed. Learning to See Bisexuality Bisexuality is often constructed within the domain of medical and psychological classification systems as a sexual identity situated between one polarity or the other: between desiring men or desiring women as sexual partners or between being gay or being straight in sexual orientation, as most widely put forth by Alfred Kinsey in the 1950s (Kinsey et al., 1948; e.g., Blumstein, 1977; Diamond, 1993; Weinberg, 1995). This popularly held conception has a particular history that serves to reinforce the normative categories of heterosexuality and monosexuality.This history does not reflect bisexual’s accounts of their own experiences of what it means to be bisexual. Bisexuals in the spaces I study express their sexuality as fluid both in terms of gender (objects of desire do not have to identify as only male or female) as well as in terms of the lifespan (desire based on sex or gender does not have remain consistent throughout one’s life). As one participant remarked: “I think of bisexual as a different orientation from both homosexuals (who orient exclusively towards same-sex romance/sexuality) and heterosexuals (who orient exclusively toward opposite-sex romance/sexuality). Bisexuals seem to think about the world in a different way: a world of ‘AND’ rather than a world of ‘OR’.” Or as another participant noted: “I saw video a couple of months ago that described ‘bi’ as being attracted to ‘same and different sexed people.’ I considered my internal debate settled at that point. Yes, it is binary, but only in the broadest sense.”This data from my research is congruent with data from much larger studies that examined longitudinal psycho-social development of bisexual identities (Klein, 1978; Barker, 2007; Diamond, 2008). Individuals’ narratives of a more “fluid” identity suggest an emphasis at the individual level less about fluctuating between “two” possible types of sexual partners than about a dynamic, complex desire within a coherent self. Nevertheless, popular constructions of bisexuality in media continue to emphasize it within hegemonic monosexual ideologies.Heterosexual relationships are overwhelmingly the most dominant relationship type portrayed in media, and the second most portrayed relationship is homosexuality, or a serial monogamy towards only one gender. This pairing is not only conveying the dominant hegemonic norms of heterosexuality (and most often paired with serial monogamy as well), but it is equally and powerfully reproducing the hegemonic ideal of monosexuality. Monosexuality is the romantic or sexual attraction to members of one sex or gender group only. A monosexual person may identify as either heterosexual or homosexual, the key element being that their sexual or romantic attraction remains consistently directed towards one sex or gender group. In this way, we have all been socialized since childhood to value not only monogamy but monosexuality as well. However, current research on sexuality suggests that self-identified bisexuals are the largest group among non-heterosexuals. In 2011, Dr. Gary Gates, Research Director of the Williams Institute at UCLA School of Law, analyzed data collected from nine national health surveys from the USA, United Kindgdom, Canada, Australia and Norway to provide the most comprehensive statistics available to date on how many people self-identify as lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender. While the population percentage of LGBT people varied by country, the ratio of lesbian, gay and bisexuals among LGBT people remained consistent, with self-identified bisexuals accounting for 40-60% of all LGBT populations regardless of country. This data is significant for challenging the popular assumption that bisexuals are a small minority among non-heterosexuals; indeed, this data indicates that non-monosexuals represent half of all non-heterosexuals. Yet we have learned to recognize monosexuality as dominant, normal and naturalized, even within LGBT representations. Conversely, we struggle to even recognize relationships that fall outside of this hegemonic norm. In essence, we lack ways of seeing bisexuals, pansexuals, omnisexuals, asexuals, and all queer-identified individuals who do not conform to monosexuality. We quite literally have not learned to see them, or—worse yet—learned how to not see them.Bisexual representations are particularly relevant to study as they are often rendered invisible in cultures that practice monogamy paired with hegemonic monosexuality. Members of bisexual spaces desire to achieve recognition but struggle to overcome bisexual erasure in their daily lives.Misrepresention: The Triad in Popular MediaWhen bisexuality is portrayed in media it is most commonly portrayed in a disingenuous manner where the bisexual is portrayed as being torn between potential lovers, on a pathway from straight to gay, or as a serial liar and cheater who cannot remain monogamous due to overwhelming attractions. Representations of bisexuals in media are infrequent, but those that are available too often follow these inaccurate stereotypes. By far the most common convention for representing bisexuality in visual media is the use of the triad: three people convey the (mis)representation of bisexuality as a sexuality in the “middle” of heterosexuality and homosexuality. For the purpose of this article, data analysis will be limited to print magazines for the sake of length and clarity.The 2014 New York Times Magazine article “The Scientific Quest to Prove Bisexuality Exists” (Denizet-Lewis) addresses the controversial nature of bisexuality. The cover image depicts a close-up of a man’s face, separated into two halves: in one half, a woman is nuzzled up to the man’s cheek, and the other half a man is nuzzled up to his ear. Presumably the man is bisexual and therefore split into two parts: his heterosexual self and his homosexual self. This visual depiction of bisexuality reifies the notion that bisexuals are torn between two polar desires and experience equal and concurrent attraction to more than one partner simultaneously. Furthermore, the triad represented in this way suggests that the essential bisexual is having simultaneous liaisons with heterosexual and homosexual partners.Within the convention of the triad there is also a sub-genre closely connected with hypersexualization and the male gaze. In these cases, the triad is commonly presented in varying states of undress and/or in a bed. An article in The Guardian from 11 April 2014 with the headline: “Make up your mind! The science behind bisexuality” (Browne) includes an image with three attractive young people in bed together. A man is sitting up between two sleeping women and smoking a cigarette – the cigarette connotes post-coital sexual activity, as does the smirk on his face. This may have been a suitable image if the article had been about having a threesome, but the headline—and the article—are attempting to explain the science behind bisexuality. Furthermore, while the image is intended to illustrate an article on bisexuality, the image is fundamentally misleading. The women in the image are asleep and to the side and the man is awake and in the middle. He is the central figure – it is a picture of him. So who is the bisexual in the image? What is the image attempting to do? It seems that the goal is to titillate, to excite, and to satisfy a particularly heterosexual fantasy rather than to discuss bisexuality. This hypersexualization once again references the mistaken idea (or heterosexual male fantasy) that bisexuality is only expressed through simultaneous sex acts.Many of these examples are salacious but they occur with surprising regularity in the mainstream media. On 17 February 2016, the American Association of Retired Persons posted an article to the front page of their website titled “Am I Discovering I'm Bisexual?” (Schwartz, 2016). In the accompanying image at the top of the article, we see three people sitting on a park bench – two men on either side of a woman. The image is taken from behind the bench so we see their backs and ostensibly they do not see us, the viewer. The man on the left is kissing the woman in the center while also holding hands behind the back of the bench with the man sitting on her other side. The man on the right is looking away from the couple kissing, suggesting he is not directly included in their intimate activity. Furthermore, the two men are holding hands behind the bench, which could also be code for behind the woman’s back, suggesting infidelity to the dyad and depicting some form of duplicity. This triad reinforces the trope of the bisexual as promiscuous and untrustworthy.Images such as these are common and range from the more inoffensive to the salacious. The resulting implications are that bisexuals are torn between their internal hetero and homo desires, require simultaneous partners, and are untrustworthy partners. Notably, in all these images it is never clear exactly which individuals are bisexual. Are all three members of the triad bisexual? While this is a possible read, the dominant discourse leads us to believe that one of person in the triad is the bisexual while the others adhere to more dominant sexualities.Participants in my research were acutely aware of these media representations and expressed frequent negative reactions to the implications of the triad. Each article contained numerous online comments expressing frustration with the use of “threesomes.” As one commentator stated: “Without a threesome, we’re invisible. It’s messed up. I always imagine a t-shirt with 3 couples stick figure like: girl + girl, girl + boy, and boy + boy. and it says “6 bisexuals.” What is made clear in many user comments is that the mainstream social scripts used to portray bisexuality are clearly at odds with the ways in which bisexuals choose to describe or portray themselves. Seeing through CapitalismOne of the significant conclusions of this research was the ways in which the misrepresentation of bisexuality results in many individuals feeling underrepresented or made invisible within mainstream media. The most salient themes to emerge from this research is participants’ affective struggle with feeling "invisible.” The frequency of discourse specific to invisibility is significant, as well as its expressed negatively associated experiences and feelings. The public sharing of those reactions among individuals, and the ensuing discourse that emerges from those interactions, include imagining what visibility “looks” like (its semiotic markers and what would make those markers “successful” for visibility), and the articulation of “solutions” to counter perceived invisibility. Notably, participants often express the desire for visibility in terms of commodification. As one participant posted, “their [sic] is no style for bi, there is no voice tone, unless I'm wearing my shirt, how is anyone to know?” Another participant explicated, “I wish there was a look. I wish I could get up every day and put on the clothes and jewelry that identified me to the world when I stepped out of my apartment. I wish I was as visible on the street as I am on facebook.” This longing for a culturally recognizable bisexual identity is articulated as a desire for a market commodification of “bisexual.” But a commodified identity may be a misguided desire. As Berger warns: “Publicity is not merely an assembly of competing messages: it is a language in itself which is always being used to make the same general purpose… It proposes to each of us that we transform ourselves, or our lives, by buying something more” (131). Consumerism—and its bedfellow—marketing, aim to sell the fantasy of a future self whereby the consumer transforms themselves through material objects, not transforming the culture to accept them. Berger further elicits that marketing essentially convinces us that we are not whole the way we are and sells us the idea of a wholeness achieved through consumerism (134). Following Berger’s argument, this desire for a commodified identity, while genuine, may fundamentally undermine the autonomy bisexuals currently have insomuch as without a corporate brand, bisexual representations are more culturally malleable and therefore potentially more inclusive to the real diversity of bisexual identified people.However, Berger also rightly noted that “publicity is the culture of the consumer society. It propagates through images that society’s belief in itself” (139). Without any publicity, bisexuals are not wrong to feel invisible in a consumer culture. And yet “publicity turns consumption into a substitute for democracy. The choice of what one eats (or wears or drives) takes the place of significant political choice” (149). A commodified identity will not likely usher in meaningful political change in a culture where bisexuals experience worse mental health and discrimination outcomes than lesbian and gay people (LGBT Advisory Committee, 2011). Bisexuals Online: New Ways of SeeingThe Internet, which was touted early as a space of great potential for anonymity and exploration where visibility can be masked, here becomes the place where bisexuals try to make the perceived invisible ‘visible.’ Digital technologies and spaces provide particularly useful environments for participants of online bisexual spaces to negotiate issues of invisibility as participants construct visible identities through daily posts, threads, videos, and discourse in which bisexuality is discursively and visually imagined, produced, articulated, defended, and desired. But most importantly these digital technologies provide bisexuals with opportunities to counter misrepresentations in mainstream media. In the frequent example of intimate partners in the physical world rendering a bisexual’s identity invisible, participants of these online communities grapple with the seeming paradox of one’s offline self as the avatar and one’s online self as more fully integrated, represented, and recognized. One participant expressed this experience, remarking:I feel I'm more out online that offline. That's because, in the offline world there's the whole ''social assumptions'' issue. My co-workers, friends, etc, know I have a boyfriend, wich [sic] equals ''straight'' for most ppl out there. So, I'll out myself when the occasion comes (talking abt smn I used to date, the LGBT youth group I used to belong to, or usually just abt some girl I find attractive) and usually ppl are not surprised. Whereas online, my pic at Facebook (and Orkut) is a Bisexual Pride icon. I follow Bi groups on Twitter. I'm a member of bi groups. So, online it's spelled out, while offline ppl usually think me having a bf means I'm straight.The I Am Visible (IAV) campaign is just one example of an organized response to the perceived erasure of bisexuals in mainstream culture. Launched in January 2011 by Adrienne McCue (nee Williams), the executive director of the Bi Social Network, a non-profit organization aimed at bringing awareness to representations of bisexuality in media. The campaign was hosted on bisocialnetwork.com, with the goal to “stop biphobia and bi-erasure in our community, media, news, and entertainment,” Prior to going live, IAV implemented a six-month lead-up advertising campaign across multiple online bisexual forums, making it the most publicized new venture during the period of my study. IAV hosted user-generated videos and posters that followed the vernacular of coming out and provided emotional support for listeners who may be struggling with their identity in a world largely hostile to bisexuality. Perceived invisibility was the central theme of IAV, which was the most salient theme for every bisexual group I studied online.Perhaps the most notable video and still image series to come out of IAV were those including Emmy nominated Scottish actor Alan Cumming. Cumming, a long-time Broadway thespian and acclaimed film actor, openly identifies as bisexual and has criticized ‘gaystream’ outlets on more than one occasion for intentionally mislabeling him as ‘gay.’ As such, Alan Cumming is one of the most prominently celebrated bisexual celebrities during the time of my study. While there are numerous famous out gays and lesbians in the media industry who have lent their celebrity status to endorse LGBT political messages—such as Ellen DeGeneres, Elton John, and Neil Patrick Harris, to name a few—there have been notably fewer celebrities supporting bisexual specific causes. Therefore, Cummings involvement with IAV was significant for many bisexuals. His star status was perceived as contributing legitimacy to bisexuality and increasing cultural visibility for bisexuals.These campaigns to become more visible are based in the need to counteract the false media narrative, which is, in a sense, to educate the wider society as to what bisexuality is not. The campaigns are an attempt to repair the false messages which have been “learnt” and replace them with more accurate representations. The Internet provides bisexual activists with a tool with which they can work to correct the skewed media image of themselves. Additionally, the Internet has also become a place where bisexuals can more easily represent themselves through a wide variety of semiotic markers in ways which would be difficult or unacceptable offline. In these ways, the Internet has become a key device in bisexual activism and while it is important not to uncritically praise the technology it plays an important role in enabling correct representation. ReferencesBarker, Meg. "Heteronormativity and the Exclusion of Bisexuality in Psychology." Out in Psychology: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans, and Queer Perspectives. Eds. Victoria Clarke and Elizabeth Peel. Chichester: Wiley, 2007. 86–118.Berger, John. Ways of Seeing. London: Penguin Books, 1972.Blumstein, Phillip W., and Pepper Schwartz. “Bisexuality: Some Social Psychological Issues.” Journal of Social Issues 33.2 (1977): 30–45.Browne, Tania. “Make Up Your Mind! The Science behind Bisexuality.” The Guardian 11 Apr. 2014.Denizet-Lewis, Benoit. "The Scientific Quest to Prove Bisexuality Exists." New York Times 20 Mar. 2014.Diamond, Lisa. Sexual Fluidity: Understanding Women's Love and Desire. Harvard UP, 2008.Diamond, Milton. “Homosexuality and Bisexuality in Different Populations.” Archives of Sexual Behavior 22.4 (1993): 291-310.Gates, Gary J. How Many People Are Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender? Williams Institute, UCLA School of Law, 2011.Kinsey, Alfred, et al. Sexual Behavior in the Human Female. Philadelphia: Saunders, 1953.Klein, Fitz. The Bisexual Option. London: Routledge, 1978.Leland, J. “Not Gay, Not Straight: A New Sexuality Emerges.” Newsweek 17 July 1995: 44–50.Schwartz, P. “Am I Discovering I Am Bisexual?” AARP (2016). 20 Mar. 2016 <http://aarp.org/home-family/sex-intimacy/info-2016/discovering-bisexual-schwartz.html>.

Introduction People across all cultures and stages of life have an innate need to create, as demonstrated by the practice of craft-making. Crafting combines skilled handwork and intellectual creativity to produce functional or artistic items. It has been handed down through generations and encompasses a wide range of activities, including knitting, crocheting, quilting, woodwork, and carving. Historically, crafting has been integral to societal development, serving both functional and aesthetic purposes, but it also represents a tangible connection to people’s cultural heritage and often reflects the customs and values of a community. Since the turn of the millennium there has been a notable resurgence in textile crafts that can be attributed to a growing desire for personal expression and a return to hands-on, sustainable practices in a digitally dominated era. Research has shown that a lot of practiced knitting is now not only a meaningful leisure activity for various demographic groups (Myllys; Rosner and Ryokai) but also associated with feelings of empowerment (Myzelev). Furthermore, several studies have underscored its profound impact on health, well-being, and overall quality of life (Adey; Fields; Mayne). While traditionally seen as a predominantly feminine craft, researchers such as Beyer, Desmarais, and Morneau have studied the masculine perspective of knitting. Contemporary reasons for knitting can be categorised into three broad areas: personal motivations, group effects (knitting with others), and altruism (knitting for others; Rusiñol-Rodríguez et al.). Unlike many crafting projects that are bound to specific locations and tools, knitting offers the flexibility of a portable work in progress, allowing hobbyists to knit virtually anywhere at any time (Rosner and Ryokai). Traditionally, knitting communities, often organised around projects and events, were found in public spaces like cafes and libraries (Price). In addition, in recent years, there has been a noticeable shift towards knitting festivals and meet-ups (Orton-Johnson) that offer knitters opportunities to gather at events centred on yarn, fibres, and all things related to them (Gajjala; Orton-Johnson). Knitting in Online Communities It is quite common for virtual networks and environments facilitated by technological advancement to become an integral part of modern knitting practice (Myllys). A number of online communities focussed on knitting have emerged on content-sharing platforms such blogs, podcasts, YouTube vlogs, Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok (Orton-Johnson). Modern technology allows knitting to expand beyond the realm of material creation into an experience that can involve photography and blogging (Orton-Johnson) or sharing information with the recipient of the knitted item as the project progresses (Rosner and Ryokai). The first English-language knitting podcasts were published in late 2005 as audio recordings that listeners could download (Bell). Video-format knitting podcasts have been available on YouTube since 2010, with the first episode in Finland appearing in autumn 2015. Today, YouTube offers a wide range of communication possibilities to content creators who frequently encourage their audience to engage with them (Frobenius). On YouTube, podcasts often delve into the daily intricacies of an individual’s life, hobby, or lifestyle, enabling the creation of personalised content that resonates with others with similar interests (Rodríguez and Levido). Engaging with knitting podcasts, whether by watching episodes or creating them, can be viewed as the contemporary equivalent of traditional knitting gatherings (e.g., Shen and Cage). These podcasts not only allow viewers to interact through comments and video responses but also enable content creators to attract and cultivate a community of like-minded enthusiasts (Gauntlett). Through various publishing platforms and Websites, knitters can share information about their own projects, make collaborative plans with others, enhance their skills, and be creative contributors to their communities (Rosner and Ryokai). That kind of online community plays a significant role in exchanging knitters’ perceptions of self-esteem and fostering meaningful social connections that offer support and empowerment. The diverse social communication that emerges out of and occurs alongside the hobby might even facilitate the formation of life-long friendships (Mayne). This was significant, for example, during the COVID-19 pandemic, when crafting found new digital forms, and crafts were also learned through digital communication platforms in both hobby activities and in school education (Kouhia). On the other hand, transferring knitting practices from their historical, geographical, and cultural histories can lead to a loss of rich, contextual knowledge, as these practices are deeply intertwined with the traditions, stories, and skills passed down through generations and might not be fully conveyed in online spaces (e.g., Robertson and Vinebaum). Knitting podcasts have been studied in terms of the benefits and drawbacks they provide their viewers. Gregg explored the impact of knitting podcasts on their viewers’ knitting and video-watching motivation and found a clear connection between knitting motivation and video consumption: the social interaction on YouTube and the inspiration offered by podcasters drove viewers to knit more. Furthermore, several studies have identified video watching as not only motivating but also potentially addictive, making it a time-consuming activity (Balakrishnan and Griffiths; Chiang and Hsiao; Gauntlett). This study aims to elucidate the characteristics associated with the typical Finnish knitting podcast and its production. For this, a single research question was posed: What are the key characteristics of Finnish knitting podcasts? The data was collected from a survey distributed in Facebook and Ravelry groups themed around knitting podcasts. All 19 respondents were female knitting podcasters, whom we refer to with pseudonyms (H1–H19) throughout this article. The data were analysed using theory-driven content analysis (Hsieh and Shannon). We delve into the research findings from the perspective of individual empowerment, knitting skills development, and online community. Knitting Podcasting as Individual Strength According to our data, producing knitting podcasts can be an empowering hobby that enables individual development in both skills and identity. Knitting podcasters felt that during the hobby they gained self-confidence and that their knowledge of their strengths had grown. They better understood their potential and developed not only tangible skills but also their mental capacity through the hobby. Knitting podcaster H13 mentioned that her self-esteem was strengthened by the positive feedback her recordings received. On the other hand, H18 highlighted that by recording her knitting podcasts, she felt that she had made like-minded friends: “recording is quite therapeutic for me, as I don’t really have live friends to chat with about knitting or anything else”. Upon starting their knitting podcasts, knitters often felt that their expectations were soon met. Podcasters could express their identity by producing content that reflected their own lives and by showcasing their knitting to others. They also found that they could bring joy to others with the content they produced and had the opportunity to share their passion for knitting with like-minded individuals. By watching other knitting podcasts, hobbyists found topics that they could address in their own podcasts. Individual self-expression conveyed personal values, which is possible in such a setting. H3 highlighted how wonderful it was to find individuals whose style matched her own and how much fun it was to follow podcasters with completely different styles: I have gotten so many ideas from others! Many patterns might go unnoticed, but when you see them on a “live” model, you might find knits that suit you. It’s also wonderful to find individuals whose style matches mine. It’s also fun to follow those whose style doesn’t match – I often get inspiration from them too. Both similarities and differences can thus motivate individuals, simultaneously influencing the development of each person’s distinctive taste and style. Showcasing One’s Skills and Learning from Others Based on the survey, making knitting podcasts allows enthusiasts to learn new things, show off their skills, and celebrate their personal growth with others. The podcasters felt they had gained confidence during the whole process of producing knitting podcasts. The knitting podcast community was described as a welcoming and uplifting place, where everyone is always keen to help others. Perhaps the most tangible benefit of the knitting podcast hobby was mentioned by a podcaster who, after starting to create podcasts, became so passionate about video editing that she now regularly uses that skill in her professional life. Creating a knitting podcast was motivated by the desire to produce diverse content, share one’s own creations, and inspire others to try recently developed materials or knitting techniques. For example, H6 described her motivation as follows: the opportunity to speak and share information about a hobby that’s important to me. ... I get to share my passion for crafts. Additionally, [there are] viewers’ comments on the videos and a few live meetings. Especially when someone says my videos inspired them or helped them try something new, it motivates me to continue making videos. Feedback and positive comments from viewers about their own ideas encouraged podcasters to continue with the hobby and engage in discussions. Enthusiasts mentioned being delighted when someone commented on being inspired by the topic of a knitting podcast or perhaps used the videos to try something new and to learn. H3 was particularly pleased by this: “it’s wonderful to hear when people say they got inspired by something I did”. In the present study, we observed that among knitting podcasters, dedication manifests itself in the all-encompassing nature of the hobby: someone who produces knitting podcasts is also likely to watch podcasts made by others. Indeed, enthusiasts said that watching other knitting podcasts is an integral part of the hobby. Many respondents reported often (n = 13) or sometimes (n = 6) watching other knitting podcasts. Knitting podcasters knit extensively so they have content for their podcasts, and while knitting they often watch other knitting podcasts, partly to enjoy virtual knitting companionship and partly for inspiration. H9 described the importance of watching knitting podcasts for themselves as follows: “knitting is a solitary activity, but when you watch podcasts, you always have knitting company”. Some enthusiasts mentioned simply enjoying watching other knitting podcasts because they found that activity pleasant and interesting. By watching others’ knitting podcasts, enthusiasts stayed informed about current topics, such as ongoing collaborative activities, new releases, and fashion trends. They felt they had learned new things about knitting and related topics, such as patterns, yarns, tools, and techniques. From other knitting podcasts, the podcasters also reported gaining peer support for their crafting, especially when they felt the need for it. All those who created knitting podcasts were inspired to start their own hobby after watching podcasts made by others, which is typically an integral part of the knitting podcast hobby. Viewers often seek knitting companionship alongside their own projects and inspiration from new content. Every knitting podcast has its own publishing timeline, influenced by the different stages of knitting projects, other information to share (for example, related to upcoming events), and the constraints of podcasters’ personal lives. Some (five respondents) highlighted that the pressure to publish and unmet goals within the hobby diminished their motivation for podcasting. These pressures arose from a lack of time or the hobby becoming routine. H12 describes the situation as follows: podcasting takes a tremendous amount of time, and after doing it for several years, the process begins to repeat itself and turns into a routine in the wrong way. I also don't feel that making unedited videos is my thing, so these factors together first diminished my enthusiasm and then I think I quietly stopped altogether (though I haven't announced it anywhere). It felt like podcasting took more from me than it gave. Community as a Key Point Our study’s findings show that knitting podcasting serves as a way to connect, make friends, and share individual skills and knowledge. Those who make and watch knitting podcasts form an online community where everyone can find a sense of belonging. In this study, knitters initially hoped to experience a sense of belonging to a community before starting their hobby, as they wanted to share their passion with others. Nearly all enthusiasts emphasised the importance of social relationships in their decision to start a knitting podcast; they wanted to connect and interact with fellow knitting podcasters and knitters who watch knitting podcasts. Indeed, starting the hobby brought a wealth of positive and motivating experiences, which encouraged the participants to continue. Through podcasting, female podcasters were able to strengthen their social networks and positively influence one another while participating in traditional crafting skills and adding their interpretations to them. Many knitting podcasters felt they had achieved meaningful milestones during their podcasting journey, foremost among which were matters related to social life, such as making friends and being heard. While knitting podcasts are often created alone, at its best it can be a hobby that involves a great deal of social interaction with others. Enthusiasts felt that the knitting podcast hobby allowed them to be seen and even become the centre of attention on their own terms. These women reported having achieved a status in the community through their hobby that enabled them to positively influence those around them. Almost all respondents saw the sense of community and/or finding knitting friends and acquaintances as the most significant reason for publishing knitting podcasts: Community and the friendships I’ve formed through making my podcast and watching others. (H12) Knitting meet-ups and related events; encountering other knitting enthusiasts both in comments and in real life. (H14) Sharing their own creations emerged as a major motivator among enthusiasts: some felt that their other close friends were not as interested in listening to hobby-related details as they were eager to share them. Podcasters saw knitting podcasts as an opportunity to share even the smallest details of their own work with an enthusiastic audience: “engaging and interacting with people. I’ve gotten to know new people who are interested in the same things. Receiving feedback and personal growth” (H8). Knitting podcasters were very dedicated to their hobby and strove to engage in life activities in a way that brought joy and contentment. Doing so was experienced as inspiring, productive, and captivating. Knitting podcasters feel that they gained benefits from their hobby and derived joy and pride from their achievements. One enthusiast (H14) stated that the hobby was important to her because it gave her an opportunity to talk with others and share information. H19 echoed this sentiment, saying that the hobby provides “an opportunity to bring something good to people and to oneself”. Conclusion The present study has revealed that knitting podcasts can be a highly motivating hobby for female podcasters, driven by factors like empowerment and self-confidence, skill enhancement, and recognition (e.g., Myzelev). The respondents in this study had experienced similar feelings and meanings in their hobby, that Seo and Jung and Kennedy, for example, reported in their studies. Most developed their knitting and recording and editing skills through their podcast hobby. When starting out, podcasters might begin with simple accessories, and they end up showcasing large, complex, and technically challenging garments. It is part of the excitement of the hobby: learning new things oneself and realising that others also want to learn through the posts one creates. There is a culture associated with the hobby that revolves around collective activities, such as group knitting sessions and organised joint initiatives; it emerged from mutual excitement about something and the desire to work together as a community (e.g., Feger; Mayne; Törhönen et al.). It is precisely the collective nature of the hobby that meant the most to the respondents of this study. According to the study, communities built around knitting podcasts are formed based on collaborative interests and passions, facilitating a sense of belonging and mutual support among members. Podcast creators and viewers were seen as knitting friends, becoming an essential part of these women’s lives, sometimes even beyond the Internet (e.g. Mayne). It particularly highlights how women use the Internet to navigate and foster these communities, leveraging digital platforms not only to share knowledge and skills but also to create spaces for empowerment, collaboration, and social interaction. Furthermore, online communities provided women with unique opportunities to connect, learn, and grow together, transcending geographical boundaries. However, for some, this sense of community and the pressure to post led to excessive stress in everyday life. This resulted in having anxiety about meeting everyone’s expectations and often made the motivation to create more content disappear. This research has raised but not answered questions regarding the role of masculinity in knitting hobbies and related podcasts, as it focusses exclusively on podcasts produced by women, suggesting a potential area for future research. Additionally, exploring the experiences of crafters in physical local crafting groups would offer valuable insights. References Adey, Kate. “Understanding Why Women Knit: Finding Creativity and ‘Flow.’” Textile: Cloth and Culture 16.1 (2018): 84–97. <https://doi.org/10.1080/14759756.2017.1362748>. Balakrishnan, Janarthanan, and Mark Griffiths. “Social Media Addiction: What Is the Role of Content in YouTube?” Journal of Behavioral Addictions 6.3 (2017): 364–77. <https://doi.org/10.1556/2006.6.2017.058>. Bell, Rhonda. “Knitting Podcasts: The Online Audio Knitting Revolution.” Knitty Magazine 2006. 22 Aug. 2022 https://knitty.com/ISSUEsummer06/FEATpodcasts.html>. 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Historically, the Barbie doll has embodied all things stereotypically feminine, ranging from fashion trends to societal roles, and reflected the contemporary image of “the perfect woman”. However, beneath the surface of Barbie’s seemingly innocent portrayal of femininity lies a complex web of societal expectations and norms, and the toy’s potential for instilling such norms within young girls. This function of the doll ties into Judith Butler’s concept of gender performativity, in which gender is masked as a pre-existing condition while being a construct constantly produced and reproduced by society (“Performative Acts” 522). Moreover, the various caretaking-centred roles of Barbie dolls and their frequent portrayal alongside Ken dolls reinforce performativity with the use of heteronormativity, subtly implying that a woman’s fulfilment is connected to her ability to attract and maintain a heterosexual partnership, as well as her role within a heteronormative family structure, which reinforces the socially cultivated idea that femininity is inherently linked to heterosexual desire (Butler “Performative Acts” 524). Consequently, the Barbie doll serves as both a reflection and a reinforcement of societal expectations surrounding femininity, highlighting the intricacies of gender performance, compulsory heterosexuality, and the construction of identity within modern culture. Greta Gerwig’s Barbie (2023), however, tries to divorce the doll from the unachievable standard of a “perfect woman” and instead to use it as a tool for rethinking what constitutes femininity and what it means to be a woman in the contemporary world. The film offers a subversive take on Barbie’s cultural significance, portraying her as a symbol of empowerment and self-discovery rather than a narrow representation of the idealised idea of femininity. Through the narrative of the film, Greta Gerwig attempts to challenge traditional gender norms and explore the complexities of identity, inviting a rethinking of the societal status quo. This article aims to answer, through analysis of the film’s various themes connected to gender and feminism, whether Gerwig’s Barbie succeeds at redefining the doll and making it a feminist symbol of empowerment. The analysis consists of three main sections that examine the themes most crucial for answering this question. The first section, centred around gender performativity, will discuss the cultural symbolism and significance of the doll as well as analyse the portrayal of the Barbies in Barbieland. In the second section, the focus is on deconstructing the connection between femininity, performativity, and heteronormativity in the film, and link these concepts to the film’s take on choice feminism. The last section examines the storyline’s potential in depicting identity outside of performativity and compulsory heterosexuality and analyse the film’s take on empowerment through the resistance to the stereotypical construct of femininity. Building upon this analysis, it is suggested that while Barbie attempts to break down conventional gender norms, deconstruct the stereotypical perception of femininity, and transform the doll into a tool for women’s empowerment, its endeavour is, at times, superficial, and inadvertently perpetuates the very constructs it tries to undermine. To Be a Barbie Is to Perform To analyse the film’s take on the transformation of the role of Barbie, it is essential to establish the link between the doll and the concept of gender performativity. Throughout the toy’s history, Barbie dolls have embodied specific roles or professions, examples of which include President Barbie, Doctor Barbie, Journalist Barbie, and numerous others. These representations aim to show young girls the diverse societal roles available to them, serving as symbols of the empowering slogan used by Mattel for the promotion of the doll, “you can be anything”, a message also central to Gerwig’s Barbie. However, the dolls simultaneously carry a set of predetermined characteristics, mostly connected to their appearance, that include the clothes they wear, the accompanying accessories, the shape of their body, or the colour of their skin. Each one of these characteristics reflects the contemporary standard of what a woman in a particular position is imagined to look like, connecting to a phenomenon described by Glenda MacNaughton where toys such as Barbie are used as powerful tools to instil gender roles and sexism in girls during childhood (22). The 1993 Doctor Barbie is an example of a toy that aims to discreetly reinforce stereotypically feminine performance. While, at first glance, the doll conveys the message that a doctor’s career is within every girl’s reach, the accessories, which include a baby, baby bottle, and rattle, and the writing on the box, which says “everything you need for taking care of baby!”, clearly define what type of doctor the girl is supposed to become, and connect to the gender stereotypes that define the role of women as mothers and “natural” caretakers. Additionally, even though Barbie does not have a child of her own, nearly all Doctor Barbies, including those who are not meant to be paediatricians, such as the more recent 2015 Eye Doctor Barbie, are equipped with a child and a set of child-related accessories. With their childcare-centred purpose and their immaculate, conventionally attractive appearance, the Doctor Barbie dolls perpetuate what Stephanie Coontz, building on Betty Friedan’s concept of the feminine mystique, calls the “new feminine mystiques”. Particularly, they uphold the “supermom mystique”, in which women are not only reduced to their role as caretakers but are also expected to be perfect at it, while simultaneously remaining attractive and professionally active (170), creating unachievable standards of femininity. The example of the Doctor Barbies shows how the doll can convey the stereotypical, socially desired, and often unachievable image of womanhood hidden behind illusory female empowerment. As a result, by playing with the Barbie dolls, girls learn how to perform femininity through an object that is in itself an embodiment of the stereotypical, idealised performance of femininity, creating the circle that reinstates the societal status quo. Greta Gerwig’s film tries to, and at least partially does, undermine this notion. The Barbies in Barbieland can be considered to be very diverse, representing different races, ethnicities, and body types, as well as including transgender and disabled individuals. The dolls are also excellent at an extremely wide range of social roles and jobs and create an ideal society – a feminist utopia. While initially appearing as a progressive departure from stereotypical depictions of idealised femininity, this portrayal is not free from underlying issues. One significant concern is the less obvious, but still present, assumption that femininity is synonymous with a certain set of universal characteristics that all women possess. “This makes me emotional and I’m expressing it. I have no difficulty holding both logic and feeling at the same time”, says the lawyer Barbie in her speech, emphasising the socially accepted idea that women are naturally more capable of expressing their emotions and that such a quality is desirable for them (Kachel et al. 10). Some qualities that the movie intertwines with femininity are connected to the aforementioned “natural” caretaker characteristics that stereotypically make women less prone to conflict and more successful at building and protecting a united community, playing into the stereotype described by Prime, Carter, and Welbourne where women “take care” and perform emotional labour, and men “take charge” by acting individualistically and in a way that asserts their power over others (32), a notion especially visible in the final act of the film, when Barbies unite to end the rule of Kens. While the film’s portrayal of feminine qualities might appear to be positive, when engaging in feminist criticism through the lens of gender performativity theory, the very assumption that these characteristics are universal and innate to every woman can be considered incorrect and a product of the phenomenon of performativity, in which gender is neither an internal, pre-existing condition nor a reflection of an individual choice, but rather a set of “acts” required by society that fulfil various, constantly produced and reproduced social norms (Butler “Performative Acts” 526). Therefore, there are no universally feminine qualities because femininity as such is a social construct, a performance, not an innate condition. The seemingly positive qualities assigned to Barbies in the utopian Barbieland are a product of this very performance and perpetuate the view that certain elements of femininity are shared by all women because of their gender, undermining the film’s feminist message. The deconstruction of the mechanism of performativity is also crucial for answering the question of whether or not Barbie’s portrayal of a “feminist utopia” can be helpful for the feminist fight and has the power to challenge the societal status quo. According to Butler, to truly undermine patriarchal structures of oppression and constructs such as compulsory heterosexuality, performativity and the mechanisms sustaining it has to be fully unmasked (Gender Trouble 180). This can be achieved through the re-examination and questioning of the very core of each social performance of the so-called “true” femininity, even when the image of it and the characteristics connected to it are perceived as vastly positive, something at which Barbie fails when it comes to its portrayal of the different characters. The film, therefore, risks reproducing the phenomenon described by Veronica Hollinger, in which the critiques of gender norms and societal status quo inadvertently reinstate them (25). While discussing the characters of the utopian Barbieland and the film’s potential to challenge gender norms, it is also crucial to analyse the case of the Barbie who visibly does not conform to gender performativity – the Weird Barbie. Weird Barbie is unique in many ways, from her messy, short haircut through her unconventional clothing and makeup to her unusual behaviour. The way she looks and acts does not fit within the acceptable social norms of femininity, and consequently she is ostracised and removed from the community. Referring to her looks and place within Barbieland, Stereotypical Barbie comments: “either you’re brainwashed or you’re weird and ugly, there is no in-between”, highlighting the connection between societal indoctrination into widely embraced, often gender-related, norms of behaviour and appearance, and the perception and treatment of an individual as an “other” within society. The portrayal of how Weird Barbie is treated by other Barbies strongly connects to Butler’s idea of discrete genders, which are sets of often subconscious societal beliefs and expectations that allow for the categorisation of individuals into binary genders. While discrete genders enable survival in society and humanise its members, they simultaneously have punitive consequences for those who do not conform to the stereotypical ways of gender performance (Gender Trouble 178). Weird Barbie’s nonconformity, even though central to the story, is still punished. She is never considered a true part of society, is feared by others, and is treated as a freak. This highlights that in Barbieland, correct and incorrect ways to perform gender exist, undermining the image of a feminist utopia and revealing that despite the veneer of empowerment, gender performativity has a significant influence on the characters living in Barbieland. Choice Feminism and the Consequences of Gender Performativity When Stereotypical Barbie comes back to Barbieland, or rather, at that point in the story, Kendom, she realises all her fellow Barbies have seemingly lost their minds. They gave up all of their significant roles and decided to serve the Kens instead, embracing patriarchy. This storyline breaks up with the perfect image of the feminist utopia and allows the movie to become, to a certain extent, self-reflexive. The Barbies, who never had to fight for their rights and only knew how to perform their roles in a “vacuum” of a perfectly matriarchal society, have no defence against the destructive influence of patriarchy. Their identities are shown as deeply performative. Before Barbieland’s transformation into Kendom, they were too preoccupied with performing their assigned roles to ever question why they performed them or whether they wanted to perform them; as a result, when different roles are assigned to them based on the newly introduced patriarchal system, they accept them without any hesitation. This particular plot line can be interpreted as a criticism of choice feminism, the least political and most palatable form of feminism that only provides an illusion of empowerment through choice and exists as a response to common criticism of feminism as too radical (Ferguson 248). Despite having the freedom to resist the new order, the Barbies momentarily conform to a clearly oppressive set of social norms, seemingly out of their own free will. Such a portrayal satirises and exaggerates choice feminism to underline the complex issues connected to its philosophy. This storyline provides very relevant social commentary, especially in the current era of the rise of the so-called tradwife trend and glamorisation of the housewife lifestyle, and in addition to criticising the premise of choice feminism exposes the potential pitfalls of uncritical acceptance of traditional gender roles and the superficial empowerment that comes with them. As Stereotypical Barbie delves deeper into the new reality of Kendom, she confronts another pervasive force shaping the lives of the inhabitants – compulsory heterosexuality. In the new reality, heteronormativity reigns supreme, dictating not only romantic relationships but also societal norms and expectations. Stereotypical Barbie observes how her fellow Barbies, once successful and self-confident, give up their jobs and houses and willingly conform to the narrow confines of compulsory heterosexuality, prioritising relationships with Kens above all else and accepting them as patriarchal rulers whom they need to obey. This limiting, degrading power of compulsory heterosexuality is described by Adrienne Rich, who explains that societal pressure to conform to this concept pervades every aspect of life, from academic discourse to personal relationships, influences all interactions, and affects every label assigned within society, confining many women to a prescribed script and preventing them from exploring their true identities beyond societal norms (657). The film connects to this premise and satirises compulsory heterosexuality by portraying it as a “brainwashing” practice that makes Barbies forget everything about their true identities and purposes and deconstructs the intertwining of heterosexuality with femininity through the perspective of Stereotypical Barbie, who witnesses the disastrous effects of compulsory heterosexuality from an outside perspective. Consequently, the film succeeds at exposing the performative nature of heterosexuality and reveals how it can stifle authentic expression and impose rigid binaries on women’s identities and desires. Stereotypical Barbie and Feminist Empowerment Stereotypical Barbie’s journey to finding her identity and purpose is perhaps the most important theme of the movie, and one that offers the most direct commentary on performativity. Stereotypical Barbie does not have an assigned role; she is a blank slate, which is a double-edged sword. On one hand, she is free to decide who she wants to be; on the other hand, she has no sense of purpose and struggles to find her place in the world. Throughout the film, Stereotypical Barbie learns that the real experience of girlhood and womanhood and her perception of femininity are vastly different. She sees the self-contradictory notion of women “always doing it wrong”, and the issue of never being able to fit within the unachievable standards. This observation deeply resonates with the aforementioned concept of “the new feminine mystiques” in which the societal expectations imposed on women require them, for example, to be sexy, yet not “too sexy”, to avoid being labelled as promiscuous, or to focus on their families and be fully committed to their role as mothers, but still have successful careers (Coontz 170), shedding light on the pressures women face. Additionally, Barbie’s experience with the unattainable, idealised image of womanhood and the internal conflict she goes through, realising she does not want to perform Barbieland’s “perfect” version of femininity, also connect to the concept of liveable life described by Wendy Gay Pearson. Pearson juxtaposes the societal pressure to conform to the accepted norms of gender performance, and the equating of such conformism with survival, with a sense of identity and personhood, claiming that “a normative conception of gender can undo one’s personhood, undermining the capacity to persevere in a liveable life” (76). For the main character, engaging in the same activities as other Barbies and adhering to performativity caused depression and a lack of a sense of self, making her life unliveable. “Do you guys ever think about dying?”, she asks, interrupting a joyful party, visibly shocking other Barbies, and giving voice to the “irrepressible thoughts of death” she has been experiencing as a result of the dissonance between how she is supposed to act and feel and how she truly does. Stereotypical Barbie’s life, however, becomes liveable and her personhood is fully affirmed when at the end of the film, she decides to give up her role and place in Barbieland and becomes a “real person”, equating the rejection of performativity with agency and empowerment, and underlining that there is no one universal experience of womanhood. The answer to the question of whether Stereotypical Barbie resists compulsory heterosexuality along with performativity, however, remains unclear. The character initially strongly rejects conforming to compulsory heterosexuality by rejecting Ken; therefore, at first glance, a normative, heterosexual romantic relationship does not define her. However, simultaneously, heterosexuality plays a discreet yet crucial role in the film. It is because of Ken’s actions that Barbie manages to discover her identity and go through the journey of finding her purpose. Ken is the driving force of the plot; if it were not for him, Barbie would not have many of her moments of reflection on femininity and womanhood. Finally, Barbieland is saved because the Barbies, led by Stereotypical Barbie, decide to perform heterosexuality in a weaponised way and use it as a tool of power over Kens. The film’s ending and Barbie’s apology for not appreciating Ken enough even further complicate the commentary on compulsory heterosexuality. While she rejects Ken romantically, she admits that Kens are crucial to society and that Barbies could not live happily without them. The struggle of the film to take a clear, more radical stance against compulsory heterosexuality again connects to the idea of Hollinger that the critiques of the societal status quo are often tainted by compulsory heterosexuality and reinstate the very social norms they try to challenge (25). By its avoidance of adopting a more radical position, the film inadvertently conforms to aspects of compulsory heterosexuality and reproduces the heteronormative, patriarchal norms that it simultaneously tries to criticise. Conclusions While Greta Gerwig’s Barbie attempts to deconstruct patriarchy and undermine the constructs that sustain it, such as gender performativity and compulsory heterosexuality, its efforts often remain superficial. The film’s portrayal of Barbies in Barbieland partially succeeds at transforming the symbolism of the doll and detaching it from the most stereotypical image of femininity, but does not fully free the doll from preconceived notions surrounding gender. Similarly, the main character’s journey, although a transformative exploration of womanhood that leads her to the discovery of feminism as a tool of both personal and common empowerment, is still limited and tainted by the stereotypical, normative conception of gender. Consequently, some of the constructs and polarities that the movie tries to undermine are instead reinforced by it. Despite its shortcomings, however, the film succeeds at providing a satirical lens for re-examining some of the deeply ingrained elements of the societal status quo and is not completely unsuccessful at redefining the doll as a feminist symbol. References Butler, Judith. “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory.” Theatre Journal 40.4 (1988): 519. ———. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge, 1989. Coontz, Stephanie. A Strange Stirring: The Feminine Mystique and American Women at the Dawn of the 1960s. Basic Books, 2012. Ferguson, Michaele L. “Choice Feminism and the Fear of Politics.” Perspectives on Politics 8.1 (2010): 247–253. Gerwig, Greta. Barbie. Warner Bros, 2023. Hollinger, Veronica. “(Re)reading Queerly: Science Fiction, Feminism, and the Defamiliarization of Gender.” Science Fiction Studies 26.1 (1999): 23–40. Kachel, Sven, Melanie C. Steffens, and Claudia Niedlich. “Traditional Masculinity and Femininity: Validation of a New Scale Assessing Gender Roles.” Frontiers in Psychology 7 (2016). MacNaughton, Glenda. “Is Barbie to Blame? Reconsidering How Children Learn Gender.” Australasian Journal of Early Childhood 21.4 (1996): 18–24. Pearson, Wendy Gay. “Towards a Queer Genealogy of SF.” Queer Universes (2010): 72–100. Prime, Jeanine L., Nancy M. Carter, and Theresa M. Welbourne. “Women ‘Take Care,’ Men ‘Take Charge’: Managers’ Stereotypic Perceptions of Women and Men Leaders.” The Psychologist-Manager Journal 12.1 (2009): 25–49. Rich, Adrienne. “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence.” Signs 5.4 (1980): 631–660.

Introduction For some time now there has been a strong critical framework that identifies a significant shift in the politics of homosexuality in the Anglo-oriented West over the last fifteen to twenty years. In this article I draw on this framework to describe the current moment in the Australian cultural politics of homosexuality. I focus on the issue of same-sex marriage as a key indicator of the currently emerging era. I then turn to two Australian texts about marriage that were produced in “the period before” this time, with the aim of recovering what has been partially lost from current formations of GLBT politics and from available memories of the past. Critical Histories Lisa Duggan’s term “the new homonormativity” is the frame that has gained widest currency among writers who point to the incorporation of certain versions of homosexuality into the neo-liberal (U.S.) mainstream. She identifies a sexual politics that “does not contest dominant heteronormative assumptions and institutions, but upholds and sustains them, while promising the possibility of a demobilized gay constituency and a privatized, depoliticized gay culture anchored in domesticity and consumption” (50). More recently, writing of the period inaugurated by the so-called “war on terror” and following Duggan, Jasbir Puar has introduced the term “homonationalism” to refer to “a collusion between homosexuality and American nationalism that is generated both by national rhetorics of patriotic inclusion and by gay and queer subjects themselves” (39). Damien Riggs adds the claims of Indigenous peoples in ongoing colonial contexts to the ground from which contemporary GLBT political claims can be critiqued. He concludes that while “queer people” will need to continue to struggle for rights, it is likely that cultural intelligibility “as a subject of the nation” will be extended only to those “who are established through the language of the nation (i.e., one that is founded upon the denial of colonial violence)” (97). Most writers who follow these kinds of critical analyses refer to the discursive place of homosexual couples and families, specifically marriage. For Duggan it was the increasing focus on “full gay access to marriage and military service” that defined homonormativity (50). Puar allows for a diversity of meanings of same-sex marriage, but claims that for many it is “a demand for reinstatement of white privileges and rights—rights of property and inheritance in particular” (29; see also Riggs 66–70). Of course not all authors locate the political focus on same-sex marriage and its effects as a conservative affair. British scholar Jeffrey Weeks stresses what “we” have gained and celebrates the rise of the discourse of human rights in relation to sexuality. “The very ordinariness of recognized same-sex unions in a culture which until recently cast homosexuality into secret corners and dark whispers is surely the most extraordinary achievement of all” (198), he writes. Australian historian Graham Willett takes a similar approach in his assessment of recent Australian history. Noting the near achievement of “the legal equality agenda for gay people” (“Homos” 187), he notes that “the gay and lesbian movement went on reshaping Australian values and culture and society through the Howard years” (193). In his account it did this in spite of, and untainted by, the dominance of Howard's values and programs. The Howard period was “littered with episodes of insult and discrimination … [as the] government tried to stem the tide of gay, lesbian and transgender rights that had been flowing so strongly since 1969”, Willett writes (188). My own analysis of the Howard years acknowledges the significant progress made in law reform relating to same-sex couples and lesbian and gay parents but draws attention to its mutual constitution with the dominance of the white, patriarchal, neo-liberal and neo-conservative ideologies which dominated social and political life (2013 forthcoming). I argue that the costs of reform, fought for predominantly by white and middle class lesbians and gay men deploying homonormative discourses, included the creation of new identities—single lesbians and gays whose identity did not fit mainstream notions, non-monogamous couples and bad mothers—which were positioned on the illegitimate side of the newly enfranchised. Further the success of the reforms marginalised critical perspectives that are, for many, necessary tools for survival in socially conservative neoliberal times. Same-Sex Marriage in Australia The focus on same-sex marriage in the Australian context was initiated in April 2004 by then Prime Minister Howard. An election was looming and two same-sex couples were seeking recognition of their Canadian marriages through the courts. With little warning, Howard announced that he would amend the Federal Marriage Act to specify that marriage could only take place between a man and a woman. His amendment also prevented the recognition of same-sex marriages undertaken overseas. Legislation was rushed through the parliament in August of that year. In response, Australian Marriage Equality was formed in 2004 and remains at the centre of the GLBT movement. Since that time political rallies in support of marriage equality have been held regularly and the issue has become the key vehicle through which gay politics is understood. Australians across the board increasingly support same-sex marriage (over 60% in 2012) and a growing majority of gay and lesbian people would marry if they could (54% in 2010) (AME). Carol Johnson et al. note that while there are some critiques, most GLBT people see marriage “as a major equality issue” (Johnson, Maddison and Partridge 37). The degree to which Howard’s move changed the terrain of GLBT politics cannot be underestimated. The idea and practice of (non-legal) homosexual marriage in Australia is not new. And some individuals, publicly and privately, were calling for legal marriage for same-sex couples before 2004 (e.g. Baird, “Kerryn and Jackie”). But before 2004 legal marriage did not inspire great interest among GLBT people nor have great support among them. Only weeks before Howard’s announcement, Victorian legal academic and co-convenor of the Victorian Gay & Lesbian Rights Lobby Miranda Stewart concluded an article about same-sex relationship law reform in Victoria with a call to “begin the debate about gay marriage” (80, emphasis added). She noted that the growing number of Australian couples married overseas would influence thinking about marriage in Australia. She also asked “do we really want to be part of that ‘old edifice’ of marriage?” (80). Late in 2003 the co-convenors of the NSW Gay and Lesbian Rights Lobby declared that “many members of our community are not interested in marriage” and argued that there were more pressing, and more practical, issues for the Lobby to be focused on (Cerise and McGrory 5). In 2001 Jenni Millbank and Wayne Morgan, two leading legal academics and activists in the arena of same-sex relationship politics in Australia, wrote that “The notion of ‘same-sex marriage’ is quite alien to Australia” (Millbank and Morgan, 295). They pointed to the then legal recognition of heterosexual de facto relationships as the specific context in Australia, which meant that marriage was not viewed as "paradigmatic" (296). In 1998 a community consultation conducted by the Equal Opportunity Commission in Victoria found that “legalising marriage for same-sex couples did not enjoy broad based support from either the community at large or the gay and lesbian community” (Stewart 76). Alongside this general lack of interest in marriage, from the early-mid 1990s gay and lesbian rights groups in each state and territory began to think about, if not campaign for, law reform to give same-sex couples the same entitlements as heterosexual de facto couples. The eventual campaigns differed from state to state, and included moments of high profile public activity, but were in the main low key affairs that met with broadly sympathetic responses from state and territory ALP governments (Millbank). The previous reforms in every state that accorded heterosexual de facto couples near equality with married couples meant that gay and lesbian couples in Australia could gain most of the privileges available to heterosexual couples without having to encroach on the sacred territory (and federal domain) of marriage. In 2004 when Howard announced his marriage bill only South Australia had not reformed its law. Notwithstanding these reforms, there were matters relating to lesbian and gay parenting that remained in need of reform in nearly every jurisdiction. Further, Howard’s aggressive move in 2004 had been preceded by his dogged refusal to consider any federal legislation to remove discrimination. But in 2008 the new Rudd government enacted legislation to remove all discrimination against same-sex couples in federal law, with marriage and (ironically) the lack of anti-discrimination legislation on the grounds of sexuality the exceptions, and at the time of writing most states have made or will soon implement the reforms that give full lesbian and gay parenting rights. In his comprehensive account of gay politics from the 1950s onwards, published in 2000, Graham Willett does not mention marriage at all, and deals with the moves to recognise same-sex relationships in one sixteen line paragraph (Living 249). Willett’s book concludes with the decriminalisation of sex between men across every state of Australia. It was written just as the demand for relationship reform was becoming the central issue of GLBT politics. In this sense, the book marks the end of one era of homosexual politics and the beginning of the next which, after 2004, became organised around the desire for marriage. This understanding of the recent gay past has become common sense. In a recent article in the Adelaide gay paper blaze a young male journalist wrote of the time since the early 1970s that “the gay rights movement has shifted from the issue of decriminalising homosexuality nationwide to now lobbying for full equal rights for gay people” (Dunkin 3). While this (reductive and male-focused) characterisation is not the only one possible, I simply note that this view of past and future progress has wide currency. The shift of attention in this period to the demand for marriage is an intensification and narrowing of political focus in a period of almost universal turn by state and federal governments to neoliberalism and an uneven turn to neo-conservatism, directions which have detrimental effects on the lives of many people already marginalised by discourses of sexuality, race, class, gender, migration status, (dis)ability and so on. While the shift to the focus on marriage from 2004 might be understood as the logical final step in gaining equal status for gay and lesbian relationships (albeit one with little enthusiasm from the GLBT political communities before 2004), the initiation of this shift by Prime Minister Howard, with little preparatory debate in the LGBT political communities, meant that the issue emerged onto the Australian political agenda in terms defined by the (neo)conservative side of politics. Further, it is an example of identity politics which, as Lisa Duggan has observed in the US case, is “increasingly divorced from any critique of global capitalism” and settles for “a stripped-down equality, paradoxically imagined as compatible with persistent overall inequality” (xx). Brides before Marriage In the last part of this article I turn to two texts produced early in 1994—an activist document and an ephemeral performance during the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras parade. If we point only to the end of the era of (de)criminalisation, then the year 1997, when the last state, Tasmania, decriminalised male homosex, marks the shift from one era of the regulation of homosexuality to another. But 1994 bore the seeds of the new era too. Of course attempts to identify a single year as the border between one era and the next are rhetorical devices. But some significant events in 1994 make it a year of note. The Australian films Priscilla: Queen of the Desert and The Sum of Us were both released in 1994, marking particular Australian contributions to the growing presence of gay and lesbian characters in Western popular culture (e.g. Hamer and Budge). 1994 was the UN International Year of the Family (IYF) and the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras chose the theme “We are Family” and published endorsement from both Prime Minister Keating and the federal opposition leader John Hewson in their program. In 1994 the ACT became the first Australian jurisdiction to pass legislation that recognised the rights and entitlements of same-sex couples, albeit in a very limited and preliminary form (Millbank 29). The NSW Gay and Lesbian Rights Lobby's (GLRL) 1994 discussion paper, The Bride Wore Pink, can be pinpointed as the formal start to community-based activism for the legal recognition of same-sex relationships. It was a revision of an earlier version that had been the basis for discussion among (largely inner Sydney) gay and lesbian communities where there had been lively debate and dissent (Zetlein, Lesbian Bodies 48–57). The 1994 version recommended that the NSW government amend the existing definition of de facto in various pieces of legislation to include lesbian and gay relationships and close non-cohabiting interdependent relationships as well. This was judged to be politically feasible. In 1999 NSW became the first state to implement wide ranging reforms of this nature although these were narrower than called for by the GLRL, “including lesser number of Acts amended and narrower application and definition of the non-couple category” (Millbank 10). My concern here is not with the politics that preceded or followed the 1994 version of The Bride, but with the document itself. Notwithstanding its status for some as a document of limited political vision, The Bride bore clear traces of the feminist and liberationist thinking, the experiences of the AIDS crisis in Sydney, and the disagreements about relationships within lesbian and gay communities that characterised the milieu from which it emerged. Marriage was clearly rejected, for reasons of political impossibility but also in light of a list of criticisms of its implication in patriarchal hierarchies of relationship value (31–2). Feminist analysis of relationships was apparent throughout the consideration of pros and cons of different legislative options. Conflict and differences of opinion were evident. So was humour. The proliferation of lesbian and gay commitment ceremonies was listed as both a pro and a con of marriage. On the one hand "just think about the prezzies” (31); on the other, “what will you wear” (32). As well as recommending change to the definition of de facto, The Bride recommended the allocation of state funds to consider “the appropriateness or otherwise of bestowing entitlements on the basis of relationships,” “the focusing on monogamy, exclusivity and blood relations” and the need for broader definitions of “relationships” in state legislation (3). In a gesture towards a political agenda beyond narrowly defined lesbian and gay interests, The Bride also recommended that “the lesbian and gay community join together with other groups to lobby for the removal of the cohabitation rule in the Social Security Act 1991” (federal legislation) (34). This measure would mean that the payment of benefits and pensions would not be judged in the basis of a person’s relationship status. While these radical recommendations may not have been energetically pursued by the GLRL, their presence in The Bride records their currency at the time. The other text I wish to excavate from 1994 is the “flotilla of lesbian brides” in the 1994 Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. These lesbians later appeared in the April 1994 issue of Sydney lesbian magazine Lesbians on the Loose, and they have a public afterlife in a photo by Sydney photographer C Moore Hardy held in the City of Sydney archives (City of Sydney). The group of between a dozen and twenty lesbians (it is hard to tell from the photos) was dressed in waist-to-ankle tulle skirts, white bras and white top hats. Many wore black boots. Unshaven underarm hair is clearly visible. Many wore long necklaces around their necks and the magazine photo makes clear that one bride has a black whip tucked into the band of her skirt. In an article about lesbians and legal recognition of their relationships published in 1995, Sarah Zetlein referred to the brides as “chicks in white satin” (“Chicks”). This chick was a figure that refused the binary distinction between being inside and outside the law, which Zetlein argued characterised thinking about the then emerging possibilities of the legal recognition of lesbian (and gay) relationships. Zetlein wrote that “the chick in white satin”: Represents a politics which moves beyond the concerns of one’s own identity and demands for inclusion to exclusion to a radical reconceptualisation of social relations. She de(con)structs and (re) constructs. … The chick in white satin’s resistance often lies in her exposure and manipulation of her regulation. It is not so much a matter of saying ‘no’ to marriage outright, or arguing only for a ‘piecemeal’ approach to legal relationship regulation, or lobbying for de facto inclusion as was recommended by The Bride Wore Pink, but perverting the understanding of what these legally-sanctioned sexual, social and economic relationships mean, hence undermining their shaky straight foundations.(“Chicks” 56–57) Looking back to 1994 from a time nearly twenty years later when (straight) lesbian brides are celebrated by GLBT culture, incorporated into the mainstream and constitute a market al.ready anticipated by “the wedding industrial complex” (Ingraham), the “flotilla of lesbian brides” can be read as a prescient queer negotiation of their time. It would be a mistake to read the brides only in terms of a nascent interest in legally endorsed same-sex marriage. In my own limited experience, some lesbians have always had a thing for dressing up in wedding garb—as brides or bridesmaids. The lesbian brides marching group gave expression to this desire in queer ways. The brides were not paired into couples. Zetlein writes that “the chick in white satin … [has] a veritable posse of her girlfriends with her (and they are all the brides)” (“Chicks” 63, original emphasis). Their costumes were recognisably bridal but also recognisably parodic and subverting; white but hardly innocent; the tulle and bras were feminine but the top hats were accessories conventionally worn by the groom and his men; the underarm hair a sign of feminist body politics. The whip signalled the lesbian underground sexual culture that flourished in Sydney in the early 1990s (O’Sullivan). The black boots were both lesbian street fashion and sensible shoes for marching! Conclusion It would be incorrect to say that GLBT politics and lesbian and gay couples who desire legal marriage in post-2004 Australia bear no trace of the history of ambivalence, critique and parody of marriage and weddings that have come before. The multiple voices in the 2011 collection of “Australian perspectives on same-sex marriage” (Marsh) put the lie to this claim. But in a climate where our radical pasts are repeatedly forgotten and lesbian and gay couples increasingly desire legal marriage, the political argument is hell-bent on inclusion in the mainstream. There seems to be little interest in a dance around the margins of inclusion/exclusion. I add my voice to the concern with the near exclusive focus on marriage and the terms on which it is sought. It is not a liberationist politics to which I have returned in recalling The Bride Wore Pink and the lesbian brides of the 1994 Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, but rather an attention to the differences in the diverse collective histories of non-heterosexual politics. The examples I elaborate are hardly cases of radical difference. But even these instances might remind us that “we” have never been on a single road to equality: there may be incommensurable differences between “us” as much as commonalities. They also remind that desires for inclusion and recognition by the state should be leavened with a strong dose of laughter as well as with critical political analysis. References Australian Marriage Equality (AME). “Public Opinion Nationally.” 22 Oct. 2012. ‹http://www.australianmarriageequality.com/wp/who-supports-equality/a-majority-of-australians-support-marriage-equality/›. Baird, Barbara. “The Politics of Homosexuality in Howard's Australia.” Acts of Love and Lust: Sexuality in Australia from 1945-2010. Eds. Lisa Featherstone, Rebecca Jennings and Robert Reynolds. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Press, 2013 (forthcoming). —. “‘Kerryn and Jackie’: Thinking Historically about Lesbian Marriages.” Australian Historical Studies 126 (2005): 253–271. Butler, Judith. “Is Kinship Always Already Heterosexual?” Differences 13.1 (2002): 14–44. Cerise, Somali, and Rob McGrory. “Why Marriage Is Not a Priority.” Sydney Star Observer 28 Aug. 2003: 5. City of Sydney Archives [061\061352] (C. Moore Hardy Collection). ‹http://www.dictionaryofsydney.org//image/40440?zoom_highlight=c+moore+hardy›. Duggan Lisa. The Twilight of Equality?: Neoliberalism, Cultural politics, and the Attack on Democracy. Boston: Beacon Press, 2003. Dunkin, Alex. “Hunter to Speak at Dr Duncan Memorial.” blaze 290 (August 2012): 3. Hamer, Diane, and Belinda Budege, Eds. The Good Bad And The Gorgeous: Popular Culture's Romance With Lesbianism. London: Pandora, 1994. Ingraham, Chrys. White Weddings: Romancing Heterosexuality in Popular Culture, 2nd ed. New York: Routledge, 2008. Johnson, Carol, and Sarah Maddison, and Emma Partridge. “Australia: Parties, Federalism and Rights Agendas.” The Lesbian and Gay Movement and the State. Ed. Manon Tremblay, David Paternotte and Carol Johnson. Surrey: Ashgate, 2011. 27–42. Lesbian and Gay Legal Rights Service. The Bride Wore Pink, 2nd ed. Sydney: GLRL, 1994. Marsh, Victor, ed. Speak Now: Australian Perspectives on Same-Sex Marriage. Melbourne: Clouds of Mgaellan, 2011. Millbank Jenni, “Recognition of Lesbian and Gay Families in Australian Law—Part one: Couples.” Federal Law Review 34 (2006): 1–44Millbank, Jenni, and Wayne Morgan. “Let Them Eat Cake and Ice Cream: Wanting Something ‘More’ from the Relationship Recognition Menu.” Legal Recognition of Same-Sex Partnerships: A Study of National, European and International Law. Ed. Robert Wintermute and Mads Andenaes. Portland: Hart Publishing, 2001. 295–316. O'Sullivan Kimberley. “Dangerous Desire: Lesbianism as Sex or Politics.” Ed. Jill Julius Matthews. Sex in Public: Australian Sexual Cultures Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1997. 120–23. Puar, Jasbir K. Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times. Durham: Duke UP, 2007 Stewart, Miranda, “It’s a Queer Thing: Campaigning for Equality and Social Justice for Lesbians and Gay Men”. Alternative Law Journal 29.2 (April 2004): 75–80. Walker, Kristen. “The Same-Sex Marriage Debate in Australia.” The International Journal of Human Rights 11.1–2 (2007): 109–130. Weeks, Jeffrey. The World We Have Won: The Remaking of Erotic and Intimate Life. Abindgdon: Routledge, 2007. Willett, Graham. Living Out Loud: A History of Gay and Lesbian Activism in Australia. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2000. Willett, Graham. “Howard and the Homos.” Social Movement Studies 9.2 (2010): 187–199. Zetlein, Sarah. Lesbian Bodies Before the Law: Intimate Relations and Regulatory Fictions. Honours Thesis, University of Adelaide, 1994. —. “Lesbian Bodies before the Law: Chicks in White Satin.” Australian Feminist Law Journal 5 (1995): 48–63.

Introduction Discourses of queer youth suicide regularly represent non-heterosexual young men as vulnerable and as victims who are inherently without strategies for coping with adversity (qv. Rasmussen; Marshall; Driver 3). Alternatively, queer youth are sometimes marked as fundamentally resilient, as avid users of tools of resilience and community such as the internet (Smith & Gray 74; Wexler et al. 566; Hillier & Harrison; Bryson & McIntosh). In the latter approach, protective factors are typically presented as specific to queer youth (e.g., Russell 10), therefore also minoritising and essentialising resilience. Both approaches ignore the diversity of queer young lives and the capacity for a subject to be both vulnerable and resilient—concepts which need to be unpacked if we are to further our understanding of minority lives. Significantly, both approaches also ignore the fact that growing up occurs in a series of transitions, cultural encounters and circumstantial changes. Queer (LGBT) youth are neither all victims and vulnerable, nor are they all self-reliant and resilient. Recent research has indicated that non-heterosexual youth continue to have a higher rate of suicide and self-harm (Cover, Queer Youth Suicide), although this is by no means indicative that vast numbers of LGBTI require support, intervention or preventative measures throughout all aspects of the transition into adult life. This article has two objectives, both of which are best addressed together in order to come at an understanding as how best to frame approaches to queer youth suicide as an ongoing social concern. Firstly, to ask what human, psychological and subjective ‘resilience’ might be said to mean in the context of public discourses of queer youth suicidality, and secondly to ask what a concept of ‘resilience’ does for queer youth identity in terms of relationality. Neither objective, of course, can be met alone in a short article—the purpose here is to open thinking on the topic in ways that question normative assumptions about the conditions of queer youth in the context of liveable lives and the positioning of resilience as reliant on normative accounts of identity. The article begins with a brief overview of the different uses of resilience in the context of broad social representations of queer youth. It goes on to discuss the It Gets Better video site which aimed to produce resilience among predominantly bullied queer youth by ‘imparting hope’. Some remarks on the relationship between identity, sexuality, sociality and resilience will conclude. Resilience and the Queer Youth Subject Developed by Crawford Holling in the 1970s, the concept of resilience was used to describe the capacity of a system to “absorb change and disturbance and still maintain the same relationships between populations or state variables” (Holling 14). In terms of ecology and the physical sciences, the notion of resilience operates within an assumption that future events will not be known but will be unexpected, thereby requiring a capacity to accommodate those events whatever form they take (21). When later used in the psychological sciences, the term resilience likewise assumes disruption and uncertainty in lived experience, requiring a resilient subject to be capable in both learning and adaptation. In the context of queer youth, resilience, then, can be applied to mean an adaptation to new situations which exacerbate vulnerability to suicidality for those who are positioned to seek escape from intolerable emotional pain or the perception of life as unliveable (Cover, Queer Youth Suicide 10, 148). Resilience in this use presumes that, for example, bullying has a detrimental causal relationship with suicidality when it newly occurs if the subject does not have the capacity to adapt and incorporate it into everyday life. Bullying, however, is generally related to suicide only by virtue of its ongoingness rather than it being a sudden shift in social relations. Striking about much of the discourse of resilience in the psychological sciences is that the concept of resilience presumes a unitary subject who is a subject prior to relationality and sociality (e.g. Leipold & Greve; Singh et al.; Smith & Gray). Resilience is thus seen as a capacity to cope with adversity as if adversity arises prior to the subject rather than being a form of relationality that conditions the subject. In that context, the queer youth subject is understood in essentialist terms, whereby sexual subjectivity is represented simultaneously as both a norm and abnormal, and is a factor of subjectivity that is understood to pre-exist sociality. That is, the queer youth subject is queer before relationality with others, thereby before the kinds of relationalities that might demand resilience. An alternative is to understand queer youth not as vulnerable because they are queer, but as subjects constituted in the (inequitably distributed) precarity of corporeal life in sociality, and thereby already formed in (inequitably distributed) resilience to the sorts of shifts, changes and adversities that shift one from an experience of vulnerability to an experience of a life that is unliveable (Butler, Precarious Life; Frames of War). Approaching queer youth suicide from a perspective not of risk but through the simultaneous fostering and critique of resilience opens the possibility of providing solutions that aid younger persons to resist suicidality as a flight from intolerable pain without articulating the self as inviolable and thereby losing the ethical value of the recognition of vulnerability. The question, then, is whether such critique can be found in sites of resilience discourse in relation to queer youth. Queer Youth and It Gets Better The video blogging site It Gets Better (http://www.itgetsbetter.org) was begun by columnist Dan Savage in response to a spate of reported queer student suicides in September/October 2010 in the United States. The site hosts more than a thousand video contributions, many from queer adults who seek to provide hope for younger persons by showing that queer adulthood is markedly different from the experiences of harassment, bullying, loneliness or surveillance experienced by queer youth in school and family environments. This is among the first widely-available communicative media form to address directly queer youth on issues related to suicide, and the first to draw on lived experiences as a means by which to provide resources for queer youth resilience. The fact that these experiences are related through video-logs (vlogs) provides the texts with a greater sense of authenticity and a framework which often addresses youth directly on the topic of suicidality (Cover, Queer Youth Suicide). Savage’s intention was to produce resilience in queer youth by imparting ‘hope for young people facing harassment’ and to create ‘a personal way for supporters everywhere to tell LGBT youth that … it does indeed get better’ (http://www.itgetsbetter.org/pages/about-it-gets-better-project/). Hope, in this context, is represented as the core attribute of queer youth resilience. The tag-line of the site is: Many LGBT youth can’t picture what their lives might be like as openly gay adults. They can’t imagine a future for themselves. So let’s show them what our lives are like, let’s show them what the future may hold in store for them (http://www.itgetsbetter.org/). Hope for the future is frequently presented as hope for an end to school days. In the primary video of the site, Dan Savage’s partner Terry describes his school experiences: My school was pretty miserable … I was picked on mercilessly in school. People were really cruel to me. I was bullied a lot. Beat up, thrown against walls and lockers and windows; stuffed into bathroom stalls. . . . Honestly, things got better the day I left highschool. I didn’t see the bullies every day, I didn’t see the people who harassed me every day, I didn’t have to see the school administrators who would do nothing about it every day. Life instantly got better (http://www.itgetsbetter.org/pages/about-it-gets-better-project/) Such comments present a picture of school life in which the institutional norms of secondary schools that depend so heavily on surveillance, discriminative norms, economies of secrecy and disclosure permit bullying and ostracisation to flourish and become, then, the site of hopelessness in what to many appears at the time as a period of never-ending permanency. Indeed, teen-aged life has often been figured in geographic terms as a kind of hopeless banishment from the realities that are yet to come: Eve Sedgwick referred to that period as ‘that long Babylonian exile known as queer childhood’ (4). The emphatic focus on the institutional environment of highschool rather than family, rural towns, closetedness, religious discourse or feelings of isolation is remarkably important in changing the contemporary way in which the social situation of queer youth suicide has been depicted. The discourse of the It Gets Better project and contributions makes ‘school’ its object—a site that demands resilience of its queer students as the remedy to the detrimental effects of bullying. Here, however, resilience is not depicted as adaptability but the strength to tolerate and, effectively, ‘wait out’, a bullying environment. The focus on bullying that frames the dialogue on queer youth suicide and youth resilience in the It Gets Better videos is the product of a mid-2000s shift in focus to the effects of bullying on LGBT youth in place of critiques of heterosexism, sexual identity, coming out and physical violence (Fodero), regularly depicting bullying as directly causal of suicide (Kim & Leventhal 151; Espelage & Swearer 157; Hegna & Wichstrøm 35). Bullying, in these representations, is articulated as that which is, on the one hand, preventable through punitive institutional policies and, on the other, as an ineradicable fact of living through school years. It is, in the latter depiction, that experience for which younger LGBT persons must manage their own resistance. In depicting school as the site of anti-queer bullying, the It Gets Better project represents queer youth as losing hope of escape from the intolerable pain of bullying in its persistence and repetition. However, the site’s purpose is to show that escape from the school environment to what is regularly depicted as a neoliberal, white and affluent representation of queer adulthood, founded on conservative coupledom (Cover, “Object(ives) of Desire”), careers, urban living, and relative wealth—depictions somewhat different from the reality of diverse queer lives. The shift from the school-bullying in queer youth to the liberal stability of queer adulthood is figured in the It Gets Better discourse as not only possible but as that which should be anticipated. It is in that anticipation that resilience is articulated in a way which calls upon queer youth to manage their own resiliency by having or performing hopefulness. Representing hope as the performative element in queer youth resilience has precedence as a suicide prevention strategy. Hopelessness is a key factor in much of the contemporary academic discussion of suicide risk in general and is often used as a predictor for recognising suicidal behaviour (Battin 13), although it is also particularly associated with suicidality and queer teenagers. Hopelessness is usually understood as despair or desperateness, the lack of expectation of a situation or goal one desires or feels one should desire. For Holden and colleagues, hopelessness is counter to social desirability, which is understood as the capacity to describe oneself in terms by which society judges a person as legitimate or desirable (Holden, Mendonca & Serin 500). Psychological and psychiatric measurement techniques frequently rely on Aaron T. Beck’s Hopelessness Scale, which utilises a twenty-question true/false survey designed to measure feelings about the future, expectation and self-motivation in adults over the age of seventeen years as a predictor of suicidal behaviour. Beck and colleagues attempted to provide an objective measurement for hopelessness rather than leave it treated as a diffuse and vague state of feeling in patients with depression. The tool asks a series of questions, most about the future, presenting a score on whether or not the answers given were true or false. Questions include: ‘I might as well give up because I can’t make things better for myself’; ‘I can’t imagine what my life would be like in ten years’; ‘My future seems dark to me’; and ‘All I can see ahead of me is unpleasantness rather than pleasantness’. Responding true to these indicates hopelessness. Responding false to some of the following also indicates hopelessness: ‘I can look forward to more good times than bad times’; and ‘When things are going badly, I am helped by knowing they can’t stay that way forever’ (Beck). While these questions and the scale are not used uncritically, the relationship between the discursive construction through the questions of what constitutes hopelessness and the aims of the It Gets Better videos are notably comparable. The objective, then, of the videos is to provide evidence and, perhaps, instil hope that would allow such questions to be answered differently, particularly to be able to give a true response to the last question above. Hallway Allies liaison support group, which operates across university campuses and high schools to prevent bullying, stated in this representative way in the introduction to their video contribution: ‘Remember to keep your head up, highschool doesn’t last forever’ (http://www.itgetsbetter.org/video /entry/5wwozgwyruy/). Or, as Rebecca in the introductory statement of another video contribution put it: You may be feeling like this pain will last forever, like you have no control, it’s dark, oppressive and feels like there is no end. I know – I get it. but I promise … hang in there and you’ll find it … Wait – you’ll see – it gets better! (http://www.itgetsbetter.org/video/entry/wxymqzw3oqy/). As can be seen, such video examples respond to a discourse of hopelessness aligned with the framework exemplified by Beck’s scale, prompting queer youth audiences of these videos to imagine a future for themselves, to understand hope in temporal terms of future wellbeing, and to know that the future does not necessarily hold the same kinds of unpleasantness as experienced in the everyday high school environment. Sexual Identity, Resilience and the Normative Lifecycle In the It Gets Better framework, resilience is produced in the knowledge of a queer life that is linear and patterned through stages in relation to institutional forms of belonging (and non-belonging). That is, a queer life is represented as one which undergoes the hardship of being bullied in school, of leaving that institutional environment for a queer adulthood that is built on a myth of safety, pleasure, success and a distinctive break from the environment of the past (as if the psyche or the self is re-produced anew in a phase of a queer lifecycle). Working within a queer theoretical and cultural understanding of identity, sexual subjectivity can be understood as constituted in social and cultural formations. Overturning the previously-held liberal notion of power as the power which represses sex and sexualities, Foucault’s History of Sexuality provided queer theory with an argument in which power, as deployed through discourse and discursive formations, produces the coherent sexual subject. This occurs historically and only in specific periods. In Foucault’s analysis, homosexual identities become conceivable in the Nineteenth Century as a result of specific juridical, medical and criminal discourses (85). From a Foucauldian perspective, there is no subject driven by an inner psyche or a pre-determined desire (as in psychoanalysis). Instead, such subjectivity occurs in and through the power/knowledge network of discourse as it writes or scripts the subject into subjectivity. Canonical queer theorist Judith Butler has been central in extending Foucault’s analysis in ways which are pragmatic for understanding queer youth in the context of growing up and transitioning into adulthood. Her theory of performativity has usefully complexified the ways in which we can understand sexual identity and allowed us to overcome the core assumption in much queer youth research that heterosexual and homosexual identities are natural, mutually-exclusive and innate; instead, allowing us to focus on how the process of subject formation for youth is implicated in the tensions and pressures of a range of cultural, social, organisational and communicative encounters and engagements. Butler projects the most useful post-structuralist discussion of subjectivity by suggesting that the subject is constituted by repetitive performances in terms of the structure of signification that produces retroactively the illusion of an inner subjective core (Butler, Gender Trouble 143). Queer identity becomes a normative ideal rather than a descriptive feature of experience, and is the resultant effect of regimentary discursive practices (16, 18). The non-heterosexual subject, then, is performatively constituted by the very ‘expressions’ that are formed as recognisable identity performances in the context, here, of a set of lifecycle expectations built through a vulnerable queer childhood, being bullied, attaining hope, leaving school and fruition in queer adulthood. Resilience, in the It Gets Better discourse, then, is seen to be produced in understanding the stages of a normative queer life. An issue emerges for how queer youth suicide is understood within this particular formation that posits non-heterosexuality as the problematic source of suicidality emerges in the assumption that the vulnerability to suicidal behaviours for queer youth is the result singularly of sexuality, rather than looking to the fact that sexuality is one facet of identity – an important and sometimes fraught one for adolescents in general – located within a complex of other formations of identity and selfhood. This is part of what Diana Fuss has identified as the “synecdochical tendency to see only one part of a subject’s identity (usually the most visible part) and to make that part stand for the whole” (116). This ignores the opportunity to think through the conditions of queer youth in terms of the interaction between different facets of identity (such as gender and ethnicity, but also personal experience), different contexts in which identity is performed and different institutional settings that vary in response and valuation of non-normative aspects of subjectivity, thereby allowing a vulnerability not to be an attribute of being a queer youth, but to be understood as produced across a nuanced and complex array of factors. While the very concept of resilience invokes both an individualisation of the subject and a disciplinary regime of pastoral care (Foucault, Abnormal), queer youth in the It Gets Better discourse of hope are depicted multiply as: Inherently vulnerable and lacking resilience as a result of an essentialist notion of sexual orientation.Constituted in a relationality within a schooling environment that is conditioned by bullying as the primary expression of diverse socialityFinding resilience only through a self-managed and self-articulated expression of ‘hope’ that is to be produced in the knowledge that there is an ‘escape’ from a school environment. What the discourse of that which we might refer to as “resilient hopefulness” does is represent queer youth reductively as inherently non-resilient. It ignores the multiple expressions of sexual identity, the capacity to respond to suicidality through a critique of normative sexual subjectivity, and the capabilities of queer youth to develop meaningful relationships across all sexual possibilities that are, themselves, forms of resilience or at least mitigations of vulnerability. At the same time, “resilient hopefulness” is produced within a context in which a normative sociality of bullying culture is expressed as timeless and unchangeable (rather than historical and institutional), thereby requiring queer younger persons to undertake the task of managing vulnerability, risk, resilience and identity as an individualised responsibility outside of communities of care. Whether the presentation of a normative lifecycle is genuinely a preventative measure for queer youth suicidality is that which suicidologists and practitioners must test, although one might argue at this stage that resilience is better produced through a broader appeal to social diversity rather than the regimentation of a queer life that must ‘wait in hope’ for a liveability that may never come. References Battin, Margaret Pabst. Ethical Issues in Suicide. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1995. Beck, Aaron T., Arlene Weissman, Larry Trexler, and David Lester. “The Measurement of Pessimism: The Hopelessness Scale” Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 42.6 (1974): 861–865. Bryson, Mary K., and Lori B. MacIntosh. “Can We Play ‘Fun Gay’?: Disjuncture and Difference, and the Precarious Mobilities of Millennial Queer Youth Narratives.” International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education 23.1 (2010): 101-124. Butler, Judith. 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The History of Sexuality: An Introduction. Trans. Robert Hurley. London: Penguin, 1990. Foucault, Michel. Abnormal: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1974–1975. Eds. Valerio Marchetti and Antonella Salmoni. Trans. Graham Burchell. New York: Picador, 2004. Fuss, Diana. Essentially Speaking: Feminism, Nature & Difference. New York and London: Routledge, 1989. Hegna, Kristinn, and Lars Wichstrøm. “Suicide Attempts among Norwegian Gay, Lesbian and Bisexual Youths: General and Specific Risk Factors.” Acta Sociologica 50.1 (2007): 21–37. Hillier, Lynne, and Lyn Harrison. “Building Realities Less Limited than Their Own: Young People Practising Same-Sex Attraction on the Internet.” Sexualities 10.1 (2007): 82-100. Holden, Ronald R., James C. Mendonca and Ralph C. Serin. “Suicide, Hopelessness, and social desirability: A Test of an Interactive Model.” Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology 57.4 (1989): 500–504. Holling, C. S. “Resilience and Stabity of Ecological Systems.” Annual Review of Ecology and Systematics 4 (1973): 1-23. Kim, Young Shin, and Bennett Leventhal. “Bullying and Suicide. A Review.” International Journal of Adolescent Medical Health 20.2 (2008): 133–154. Leipold, Bernhard, and Werner Greve. “Resilience: A Conceptual Bridge between Coping and Development.” European Psychologist 14.1 (2009): 40-50. Marshall, Daniel. “Popular Culture, the ‘Victim’ Trope and Queer Youth Analytics.” International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education 23.1 (2010): 65-86. Rasmussen, Mary Lou. Becoming Subjects: Sexualities and Secondary Schooling. New York: Routledge, 2006. Russell, Stephen T. “Beyond Risk: Resilience in the Lives of Sexual Minority Youth.” Journal of Gay & Lesbian Issues in Education 2.3 (2005): 5-18. Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. “Queer Performativity: Henry James’s The Art of the Novel.” GLQ 1.1 (1993): 1–14. Singh, Anneliese A., Danica G. Hays, and Larel S. Watson. “Strength in the Face of Adversity: Resilience Strategies of Transgender Individuals.” Journal of Counseling & Development 89.1 (2011): 20-27. Smith, Mark. S., and Susan W. Gray. “The Courage to Challenge: A New Measure of Hardiness in LGBT Adults.” Journal of Gay & Lesbian Social Services 21.1 (2009): 73-89. Wexler, Lisa Marin, Gloria DiFluvio, and Tracey K. Burke. “Resilience and Marginalized Youth: Making a Case for Personal and Collective Meaning-Making as Part of Resilience Research in Public Health.” Social Science & Medicine 69.4 (2009): 565-570.

Introduction Mentors play a role in real life, just as they do in fiction. They also feature in reality television, which sits somewhere between the two. In fiction, mentors contribute to the narrative arc by providing guidance and assistance (Vogler 12) to a mentee in his or her life or professional pursuits. These exchanges are usually characterized by reciprocity, the need for mutual recognition (Gadamer 353) and involve some kind of moral question. They dramatise the possibilities of mentoring in reality, to provide us with a greater understanding of the world, and our human interaction within it. Reality television offers a different perspective. Like drama it uses the plot device of a mentor character to heighten the story arc, but instead of focusing on knowledge-based portrayals (Gadamer 112) of the mentor and mentee, the emphasis is instead on the mentee’s quest for ascension. In attempting to transcend their unknownness (Boorstin) contestants aim to penetrate an exclusive creative class (Florida). Populated by celebrity chefs, businessmen, entertainers, fashionistas, models, socialites and talent judges (to name a few), this class seemingly adds authenticity to ‘competitions’ and other formats. While the mentor’s role, on the surface, is to provide divine knowledge and facilitate the journey, a different agenda is evident in the ways carefully scripted (Booth) dialogue heightens the drama through effusive praise (New York Daily News) and “tactless” (Woodward), humiliating (Hirschorn; Winant 69; Woodward) and cruel sentiments. From a screen narrative point of view, this takes reality television as ‘storytelling’ (Aggarwal; Day; Hirschorn; “Reality Writer”; Rupel; Stradal) into very different territory. The contrived and later edited (Crouch; Papacharissi and Mendelson 367) communication between mentor and mentee not only renders the relationship disingenuous, it compounds the primary ethical concerns of associated Schadenfreude (Balasubramanian, Forstie and van den Scott 434; Cartwright), and the severe financial inequality (Andrejevic) underpinning a multi-billion dollar industry (Hamilton). As upward mobility and instability continue to be ubiquitously portrayed in 21st century reality entertainment under neoliberalism (Sender 4; Winant 67), it is with increasing frequency that we are seeing the systematic reinvention of the once significant cultural and historical role of the mentor. Mentor as Fictional Archetype and Communicator of ThemesDepictions of mentors can be found across the Western art canon. From the mythological characters of Telemachus’ Athena and Achilles’ Chiron, to King Arthur’s Merlin, Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother, Jim Hawkins’ Long John Silver, Frodo’s Gandalf, Batman’s Alfred and Marty McFly’s Doc Emmett Brown (among many more), the dramatic energy of the teacher, expert or supernatural aid (Vogler 39) has been timelessly powerful. Heroes, typically, engage with a mentor as part of their journey. Mentor types range extensively, from those who provide motivation, inspiration, training or gifts (Vogler), to those who may be dark or malevolent, or have fallen from grace (such as Michael Douglas’ Gordon Gekko in Wall Street 1987, or the ex-tribute Haymitch in The Hunger Games, 2012). A good drama usually complicates the relationship in some way, exploring initial reluctance from either party, or instances of tragedy (Vogler 11, 44) which may prevent the relationship achieving its potential. The intriguing twist of a fallen or malevolent mentor additionally invites the audience to morally analyze the ways the hero responds to what the mentor provides, and to question what our teachers or superiors tell us. In television particularly, long running series such as Mad Men have shown how a mentoring relationship can change over time, where “non-rational” characters (Buzzanell and D’Enbeau 707) do not necessarily maintain reciprocity or equality (703) but become subject to intimate, ambivalent and erotic aspects.As the mentor in fiction has deep cultural roots for audiences today, it is no wonder they are used, in a variety of archetypal capacities, in reality television. The dark Simon Cowell (of Pop Idol, American Idol, Britain’s Got Talent, America’s Got Talent and The X-Factor series) and the ‘villainous’ (Byrnes) Michelin-starred Marco Pierre White (Hell’s Kitchen, The Chopping Block, Marco Pierre White’s Kitchen Wars, MasterChef Australia, New Zealand, South Africa) provide reality writers with much needed antagonism (Rupel, Stradal). Those who have fallen from grace, or allowed their personal lives to play out in tabloid sagas such as Britney Spears (Marikar), or Caitlyn Jenner (Bissinger) provide different sources of conflict and intrigue. They are then counterbalanced with or repackaged as the good mentor. Examples of the nurturer who shows "compassion and empathy" include American Idol’s Paula Abdul (Marche), or the supportive Jennifer Hawkins in Next Top Model (Thompson). These distinctive characters help audiences to understand the ‘reality’ as a story (Crouch; Rupel; Stradal). But when we consider the great mentors of screen fiction, it becomes clear how reality television has changed the nature of story. The Karate Kid I (1984) and Good Will Hunting (1998) are two examples where mentoring is almost the exclusive focus, and where the experience of the characters differs greatly. In both films an initially reluctant mentor becomes deeply involved in the mentee’s project. They act as a special companion to the hero in the face of isolation, and, significantly, reveal a tragedy of their own, providing a nexus through which the mentee can access a deeper kind of truth. Not only are they flawed and ordinary people (they are not celebrities within the imagined worlds of the stories) who the mentee must challenge and learn to truly respect, they are “effecting and important” (Maslin) in reminding audiences of those hidden idiosyncrasies that open the barriers to friendship. Mentors in these stories, and many others, communicate themes of class, culture, talent, jealousy, love and loss which inform ideas about the ethical treatment of the ‘other’ (Gadamer). They ultimately prove pivotal to self worth, human confidence and growth. Very little of this thematic substance survives in reality television (see comparison of plots and contrasting modes of human engagement in the example of The Office and Dirty Jobs, Winant 70). Archetypally identifiable as they may be, mean judges and empathetic supermodels as characters are concerned mostly with the embodiment of perfection. They are flawless, untouchable and indeed most powerful when human welfare is at stake, and when the mentee before them faces isolation (see promise to a future ‘Rihanna’, X-Factor USA, Season 2, Episode 1 and Tyra Banks’ Next Top Model tirade at a contestant who had not lived up to her potential, West). If connecting with a mentor in fiction has long signified the importance of understanding of the past, of handing down tradition (Gadamer 354), and of our fascination with the elder, wiser other, then we can see a fundamental shift in narrative representation of mentors in reality television stories. In the past, as we have opened our hearts to such characters, as a facilitator to or companion of the hero, we have rehearsed a sacred respect for the knowledge and fulfillment mentors can provide. In reality television the ‘drama’ may evoke a fleeting rush of excitement at the hero’s success or failure, but the reality belies a pronounced distancing between mentor and mentee. The Creative Class: An Aspirational ParadigmThemes of ascension and potential fulfillment are also central to modern creativity discourse (Runco; Runco 672; United Nations). Seen as the driving force of the 21st century, creativity is now understood as much more than art, capable of bringing economic prosperity (United Nations) and social cohesion to its acme (United Nations xxiii). At the upper end of creative practice, is what Florida called “the creative class: a fast growing, highly educated, and well-paid segment of the workforce” (on whose expertise corporate profits depend), in industries ranging “from technology to entertainment, journalism to finance, high-end manufacturing to the arts” (Florida). Their common ethos is centered on individuality, diversity, and merit; eclipsing previous systems focused on ‘shopping’ and theme park consumerism and social conservatism (Eisinger). While doubts have since been raised about the size (Eisinger) and financial practices (Krätke 838) of the creative class (particularly in America), from an entertainment perspective at least, the class can be seen in full action. Extending to rich housewives, celebrity teen mothers and even eccentric duck hunters and swamp people, the creative class has caught up to the more traditional ‘star’ actor or music artist, and is increasingly marketable within world’s most sought after and expensive media spaces. Often reality celebrities make their mark for being the most outrageous, the cruelest (Peyser), or the weirdest (Gallagher; Peyser) personalities in the spotlight. Aspiring to the creative class thus, is a very public affair in television. Willing participants scamper for positions on shows, particularly those with long running, heavyweight titles such as Big Brother, The Bachelor, Survivor and the Idol series (Hill 35). The better known formats provide high visibility, with the opportunity to perform in front of millions around the globe (Frere-Jones, Day). Tapping into the deeply ingrained upward-mobility rhetoric of America, and of Western society, shows are aided in large part by 24-hour news, social media, the proliferation of celebrity gossip and the successful correlation between pop culture and an entertainment-style democratic ideal. As some have noted, dramatized reality is closely tied to the rise of individualization, and trans-national capitalism (Darling-Wolf 127). Its creative dynamism indeed delivers multi-lateral benefits: audiences believe the road to fame and fortune is always just within reach, consumerism thrives, and, politically, themes of liberty, egalitarianism and freedom ‘provide a cushioning comfort’ (Peyser; Pinter) from the domestic and international ills that would otherwise dispel such optimism. As the trials and tests within the reality genre heighten the seriousness of, and excitement about ascending toward the creative elite, show creators reproduce the same upward-mobility themed narrative across formats all over the world. The artifice is further supported by the festival-like (Grodin 46) symbology of the live audience, mass viewership and the online voting community, which in economic terms, speaks to the creative power of the material. Whether through careful manipulation of extra media space, ‘game strategy’, or other devices, those who break through are even more idolized for the achievement of metamorphosing into a creative hero. For the creative elite however, who wins ‘doesn’t matter much’. Vertical integration is the priority, where the process of making contestants famous is as lucrative as the profits they will earn thereafter; it’s a form of “one-stop shopping” as the makers of Idol put it according to Frere-Jones. Furthermore, as Florida’s measures and indicators suggested, the geographically mobile new creative class is driven by lifestyle values, recreation, participatory culture and diversity. Reality shows are the embodiment this idea of creativity, taking us beyond stale police procedural dramas (Hirschorn) and racially typecast family sitcoms, into a world of possibility. From a social equality perspective, while there has been a notable rise in gay and transgender visibility (Gamson) and stories about lower socio-economic groups – fast food workers and machinists for example – are told in a way they never were before, the extent to which shows actually unhinge traditional power structures is, as scholars have noted (Andrejevic and Colby 197; Schroeder) open to question. As boundaries are nonetheless crossed in the age of neoliberal creativity, the aspirational paradigm of joining a new elite in real life is as potent as ever. Reality Television’s Mentors: How to Understand Their ‘Role’Reality television narratives rely heavily on the juxtaposition between celebrity glamour and comfort, and financial instability. As mentees put it ‘all on the line’, storylines about personal suffering are hyped and molded for maximum emotional impact. In the best case scenarios mentors such as Caitlyn Jenner will help a trans mentee discover their true self by directing them in a celebrity-style photo shoot (see episode featuring Caitlyn and Zeam, Logo TV 2015). In more extreme cases the focus will be on an adopted contestant’s hopes that his birth mother will hear him sing (The X Factor USA, Season 2, Episode 11 Part 1), or on a postal clerk’s fear that elimination will mean she has to go back “to selling stamps” (The X Factor US - Season 2 Episode 11 Part 2). In the entrepreneurship format, as Woodward pointed out, it is not ‘help’ that mentees are given, but condescension. “I have to tell you, my friend, that this is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. You don’t have a clue about how to set up a business or market a product,” Woodward noted as the feedback given by one elite businessman on The Shark Tank (Woodward). “This is a five million dollar contract and I have to know that you can go the distance” (The X Factor US – Season 2 Episode 11, Part 1) Britney Spears warned to a thirteen-year-old contestant before accepting her as part of her team. In each instance the fictitious premise of being either an ‘enabler’ or destroyer of dreams is replayed and slightly adapted for ongoing consumer interest. This lack of shared experience and mutual recognition in reality television also highlights the overt, yet rarely analyzed focus on the wealth of mentors as contrasted with their unstable mentees. In the respective cases of The X Factor and I Am Cait, one of the wealthiest moguls in entertainment, Cowell, reportedly contracts mentors for up to $15 million per season (Nair); Jenner’s performance in I Am Cait was also set to significantly boost the Kardashian empire (reportedly already worth $300 million, Pavia). In both series, significant screen time has been dedicated to showing the mentors in luxurious beachside houses, where mentees may visit. Despite the important social messages embedded in Caitlyn’s story (which no doubt nourishes the Kardashian family’s generally more ersatz material), the question, from a moral point of view becomes: would these mentors still interact with that particular mentee without the money? Regardless, reality participants insist they are fulfilling their dreams when they appear. Despite the preplanning, possibility of distress (Australia Network News; Bleasby) and even suicide (Schuster), as well as the ferocity of opinion surrounding shows (Marche) the parade of a type of ‘road of trials’ (Vogler 189) is enough to keep a huge fan base interested, and hungry for their turn to experience the fortune of being touched by the creative elite; or in narrative terms, a supernatural aid. ConclusionThe key differences between reality television and artistic narrative portrayals of mentors can be found in the use of archetypes for narrative conflict and resolution, in the ways themes are explored and the ways dialogue is put to use, and in the focus on and visibility of material wealth (Frere-Jones; Peyser). These differences highlight the political, cultural and social implications of exchanging stories about potential fulfillment, for stories about ascension to the creative class. Rather than being based on genuine reciprocity, and understanding of human issues, reality shows create drama around the desperation to penetrate the inner sanctum of celebrity fame and fortune. In fiction we see themes based on becoming famous, on gender transformation, and wealth acquisition, such as in the films and series Almost Famous (2000), The Bill Silvers Show (1955-1959), Filthy Rich (1982-1983), and Tootsie (1982), but these stories at least attempt to address a moral question. Critically, in an artistic - rather than commercial context – the actors (who may play mentees) are not at risk of exploitation (Australia Network News; Bleasby; Crouch). Where actors are paid and recognized creatively for their contribution to an artistic work (Rupel), the mentee in reality television has no involvement in the ways action may be set up for maximum voyeuristic enjoyment, or manipulated to enhance scandalous and salacious content which will return show and media profits (“Reality Show Fights”; Skeggs and Wood 64). The emphasis, ironically, from a reality production point of view, is wholly on making the audience believe (Papacharissi and Mendelson 367) that the content is realistic. 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