On soaking and being a little troll
I opened up my laptop to find an empty Pages document rear its ugly head first thing (I refuse to buy Microsoft Word for some unclear but deeply felt reason). I found myself literally staring at the blank page before me. I turned to look at my window—it was dirty. I would not open it because I do not want Natasha Bedingfield to have this much prophetic power over me. I will not release my inhibition. I will not feel the rain on my skin.
My plants by the window are a little dry though, and I need to be more careful with them. Many years ago a roommate at the time inherited a pitiful looking Christmas cactus. It was my job to revive it. On the advice of someone more skilled than me, I soaked the soil. “More than you think you need to, until it starts absorbing water again.” It survived and started regrowing itself. I think about this sometimes, about what it means to be given enough to revive oneself.
I wrote a sassy satirical post on Instagram the other day calling out classism in the gay community. I wrote about a mythical place called Honchoislandpineskonos, and JFC it really got to some people. And I wonder if these inaccessible gay getaways, for all of their blatant shortcomings and problems, are a way for some gay people to soak, to revive, to regrow. “This is where I discovered my queerness.” I think that’s great. I also think there is nothing radical about spaces that are exclusionary around class, and I think class (and its deep intersections with race and disability and gender and and and) is one of the few spaces so many f-slurs overlook in the name of their perceived soaking.
Calling out how spaces that are seen as “magical” are still sustaining themselves through active exclusion is jarring for those who find them meaningful. And I wonder how often what appears “reviving” is actually just comfort and privilege, places where we can get away with not being held accountable, where we can hang onto the myth that being queer is radical enough to not have to fight for anything else. Throw in being an artist and all of the capitalist, elitist shit that can entail, and the delusion often grows. Throw in the nuance that queer people do need safe places, and it is gets murkier still.
A quick Google search shows that the suicide rate among LGBTQ+ people in the last year hovers at over 40%. An increase in anti-LGBTQ legislation; transphobia; murders of gay and trans people in cities all over the country, including liberal havens like NYC; prove that queer people need soaking more now than ever. We need healthcare and protection and housing and security and opportunities and community. We don’t need infighting. But we still need accountability, for the oppressive systems we uphold within our own communities--classism being one of them.
I often ask people online what they do and how much they make. People respond, quite willingly. I’ve also asked if talking about class is uncomfortable. Many people say yes. It’s hard to have a good time at an esteemed gay destination when you have to reflect on the fact that most people are paying in the thousands to stay there for a few days. It’s hard to not kill the vibe by talking about who isn’t around. I imagine some people revel in the fact that a certain class of people isn’t around. I cannot imagine how I could soak and regrow in places like that.
This does not discredit real community that comes out of these spaces. I get it. But it makes my skin crawl to think about the amount of vile classism that also exists in those same “sacred” spaces. And even more so that so many people turn a blind eye to it.
“I struggle too, I’m also broke, etc., etc.” Getting people to recognize their privileges, as I also recognize many of my own, is hard. It feels like an important thing to do, to infuse into my practices, not for clout, but because it feels necessary. Too often the people I know who have resources shy away from discussing it, owning it, reconciling it, and being willing to reflect on it. Heirs have told me they are broke (by what standards?). The delusion is real. The delulu is trululu.
Working in development, a large part of my work the past few years has been to try to get people to care, to think of giving back as a responsibility, to reflect on what it means to have resources. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. To ask people to commit to giving $100 a month when you make 6 figures feels insulting to those who give that on much smaller budgets. Why don’t you give? Why don’t you commit? Do you? Could you do more? I ask myself these things on $60k a year. To artists, to trusted organizations, to houseless neighbors, to places that allow for soaking, how do we give back to our communities or whatever you want to call them?
I don’t have answers, but I do have rage. And sometimes the rage is best channeled through yassified photos and satirical call outs. Sometimes it needs to be more direct, sometimes it doesn’t.
There is no pure way to exist in this world when the systems at play are so poisoned. I applaud everyone who is able to make it through the day without screaming (and applaud you even when you do scream because you're still here, henny). And I wish more of the LGBTQ (pronounced ELJEEBEETEAQUA) community more opportunities to soak, whatever that means regardless of means.
I actually have some fun news to share soon that will allow me to create a more robust version of the surveying I’ve been doing around class. I’m looking forward to sharing more soon. Now I have become watch this space, destroyer of big things happening soon. The rest? It’s unwritten, honey.
LYLAS TTYS
Here's the post that got me shit btw xo