One step forward…

James Petty

Sport, it seems, is finally starting to come around to the fact that some people aren’t straight. It has taken quite a while and—apart froEBL-art729-gay-rugby-team-20130119193216256748-620x349m a few isolated and terribly admiral incidents, notably within rugby both here and in Wales—has been a long hard slog. And of course it still will be.

In both of Australia’s national sports, AFL and cricket (rugby being generally sequestered to Queensland) there are currently no openly gay players, even though Britain has both openly gay cricketers and football (soccer) players. Continue reading

Islamophobia/homophobia

Benjamin Riley

The violent protest on Saturday in Sydney’s CBD against an American-made film has disturbed me to an extent I wasn’t expecting.

The film, allegedly produced by a radical Coptic Christian and designed to provoke, has sparked extreme reactions around the world. An attack at the US diplomatic mission in Benghazi, Libya last week resulted in the deaths of four Americans.

It is a complex issue.

It appears the film was made specifically to incite violence, and many involved were deceived about its true nature and content. As such, a strong reaction by an already disenfranchised community is understandable.

That said, violence is not acceptable, and I find the incitements to violence depicted in the pictures from Saturday’s protest abhorrent. The most circulated photo showed a young child holding up a sign reading: ‘behead all those who insult the prophet’.

As a gay man and a member of a minority, I try to use my experiences of persecution to empathise with others undergoing similar persecution. I recognise anti-Muslim sentiment in Australia and try to relate to anyone who feels judged and harassed for who they are. I try to remember that as a white male in a wealthy, democratic country I have it pretty good.

But my automatic reaction in support of a protest by an oppressed group is tempered not just by the violence, actual and threatened, but by the knowledge that many fundamentalist Muslims, including perhaps the more radical protesters at the demonstrations in Sydney, are homophobic.

When we constantly hear stories coming out of countries with fundamentalist Muslim regimes of violence and other human rights abuses against LGBTI communities, it becomes difficult for me to separate my problems with Islamophobia and US military action in the Middle East from the extreme homophobia present in many Muslim communities.

Being a member of a persecuted minority may engender the kind of empathy needed to engage with the experiences of other minorities. But the conflict here between the understanding person I want to be and the person I am, fearful of Islamic homophobia, doesn’t have a clear path to a resolution.

When the tenuous moral high ground that comes from having a minority status conflicts with the tenuous moral high ground of identifying as a progressive leftie, I start to wonder if maybe this high horse I’m perched on isn’t as stable as I thought.

Is this better?

James Petty

As has already been said, and will be said again over the coming weeks, the Clementi/Ravi case is a two-fold tragedy. The death of Tyler Clementi was one of several highly publicised suicides that highlighted to America and the world the often silent destruction wrought as a result of homophobic abuse and bullying. The ‘It Gets Better’ project was a direct response to a ‘cluster’ of suicides, of which Clementi was one.

That, in the case of Clementi, there appears to be explicit, proximate and direct (read: chargeable) causal links between his suicide and the actions of his college roommate Dharun Ravi, is of cold comfort. Ravi has just been convicted of over 15 offences (including tampering with evidence, invasion of privacy, hindering prosecution and the hate-crime charge: ‘bias intimidation’), and faces up to 10 years imprisonment and possible deportation. 

Ravi used the webcam on his computer to watch and film, with a friend, Clementi kissing (though some sources claim it was a sexual encounter) a man in his dorm room. Ravi tweeted about it, sent texts about it to friends and planned to do it again—reportedly planning a ‘viewing party’ for himself and others. Clementi found out, reported it and about two days later, jumped off the George Washington Bridge.

Clementi’s motivations and state of mind are unlikely to become clear to us, his suicide note and the three word documents he left open on his computer have not been released to the public. Nor are we likely to gain much insight into Ravi’s actions and the motivations or beliefs that may have prompted them, the high-profile status of the case ensures that.

Regardless, it is clear Ravi is being made an example of—America could not, despite its best efforts for most of the time, ignore the fact that kids who either were or perceived to be gay were killing themselves, in droves. Ellen Degeneres’ response to the suicides provides a good indication of just how dire the situation was (and likely still is).

That Ravi’s life, whether he goes to prison or not, will be irrevocably changed because of his careless, callous and likely only mildly malicious actions, is a tragic end to a wretched tale. If crimes were punished solely on the intent of the perpetrator, Ravi would likely be a free man. Unfortunately for him America must wash its hands of this and be able to claim that justice was done. And we, in our blood lust, demand a pound of flesh, which must come from somewhere.

If Ravi had not been tried or a not-guilty verdict was reached, I would be outraged and baying for his blood, stung with injustice and bitter with resentment. There is already a lot of talk about whether Ravi should be charged with a hate-crime (hate and callousness are different things), and whether a carceral sentence is appropriate or ‘fair’.

Talk of fairness seems cheap and pinpointing blame on one man in order to achieve ‘justice’ is narrow and shortsighted. If a young kid finds a gun and, without knowing what it can do, kills someone, we don’t charge the child with murder. We seek out the various factors that allowed that situation to occur, that made it possible and then make decisions about blame, about responsibility.

We should do the same here. Ravi, in my opinion, was a kid with a gun and didn’t know what it was capable of. I’m not talking about social media or the internet, I’m talking about his (heterosexual) privilege—his egocentric and hubristic view that his actions would have no consequences, a belief validated in many ways by society. The belief that (gay) people haven’t been bullied and marginalised and that they aren’t sensitive, vulnerable and in need of privacy and respect is dangerous and harmful. These assumptions indicate either a severe narcissism or an utter lack of empathy for the experiences and existences of others.

It might be appealing to instill a single figure with these worrying traits and pariah him, though its far more likely that Clementi’s death and Ravi himself are each products of broader social and systemic trends. Dan Savage, in addressing the verdict, reminds us that Ravi’s actions were likely just the catalyst for Clementi—the accumulated bullying and homophobia that he likely suffered through most of his short life was the real killer, not the silly actions of one unthinking young man.

Tim Wilson makes a safe space.

Benjamin Riley

I noticed something strange on last Monday’s Q&A, the ABC’s weekly panel discussion show. Along with a couple of politicians, the panel for the episode included comedian Mikey Robins, and Tim Wilson, a director at the Institute for Public Affairs—a Melbourne-based neoliberal think tank with close ties to the Liberal Party.

Around ten minutes into the episode, panel members began discussing their personal role models—Wilson revealed that when he was a kid, he looked up to Indiana Jones. Robins joked that Wilson just liked “a cute guy with a whip”, which Wilson replied he wasn’t denying. The laughter of the audience prompted a follow up comment from Wilson about the appeal of Indiana Jones’ stubble, and subsequently Robins saying: “dig the hole deeper, son!”

I sat in front of my screen in discomfort at what I saw as the enacting of a familiar trope of Australian masculinity—one guy makes a comment that could be interpreted as “gay” and the other guy mocks him for it. Regardless of whether anyone involved is gay, these situations reduce gay identities to the status of an “other”, lesser masculinity that is unwanted and worthy of ridicule.

Later in the episode (around 45 minutes in if you’re interested) Wilson was discussing his positive relationship with his bank when Robins interjected, describing him as every bank teller’s pin-up. With a camp, limp-wristed wave of the hand, Wilson responded with a dismissive “bless”, and continued on.

In that moment, I felt as though Wilson had taken the opportunity to tell me (along with Robins) that he wouldn’t be that second guy in the masculinity farce. For me, and I hope for others, it was a clear and deliberate communication of Wilson’s sexual identity, shifting the show’s atmosphere from a paradigm of masculine hegemony to one of diversity. One where if you’re not okay with it, you’re a douchbag.

I recognise those moments when, confronted with homophobia, you have the choice to do nothing and be rendered complicit or to say something, which is pretty much always harder. While I might disagree with Tim Wilson’s politics, I respect him a great deal for doing something I thought was brave.

I’d like to think that after the show Robins apologised to Wilson, saying he didn’t know he was gay. And I’d like to think that Wilson replied that it didn’t matter—it was a shit thing to say regardless.

It probably didn’t happen. And who knows, I might have this all wrong. Maybe Robins and Wilson are best buds and this is how they always interact. For me the truth of that doesn’t matter either—thanks to Tim Wilson, by the end of last Monday’s episode Q&A was a safer place to be gay.

Time for what exactly?

JAMES

The other day a friend and I were discussing GetUp!’s It’s Time’ campaign, in particular the video that has been doing the Facebook and Twitter rounds for the last few weeks. My friend was describing how upon finding out the actor who plays ‘Paul’ in the video is straight, he felt a mild sense of betrayal. I had not heard this about the actor and immediately felt a similar twang.

My initial reaction to the video was much the same as anyone else’s—fuzzy warmth and heartfelt affect, a renewed sense of injustice about it all and a gentle erection. But as these effects subsided I was left with a vague sense of discord—there was something a bit off about it all and yet I could not deny the effectiveness of the ad (I have watched it again several times since).

In a way my reaction was a cognitive dissonance similar to what is referred to in robotics and 3D animation as ‘The Uncanny Valley’, a full explanation of which is here.  In short, the more advanced and lifelike attempts to replicate humanity in animation or robotics becomes, the more repugnant and alien we find each attempt.

The video’s chimerical replication of what it is like to be a gay man had the same effect on me; what I saw was undoubtedly a nice idea, but I recognised nothing of myself in its sheen of earthy respectability. Finding out the actor was straight merely compounded this odd sense of aversion.

Of course all advertising is false, exaggerated and idealistic in some sense—no brand of toilet cleaner or dishwasher tablets will make you as beautiful and happy as the people in the ad. But the reason this ad felt so dishonest and jarring was that it is essentially portraying a ‘better’ kind of gay. Of course, the ad isn’t necessarily meant for a gay audience, its purpose is to sell gay marriage to ‘the rest’ of society with only a minor view of re-politicising the issue for non-heterosexuals.

I guess a question worth asking (and one that I certainly don’t have an answer for) is in the quest for equality how far are we willing to assimilate and normalise for the cause? Does true equality require discarding an identity that was moulded and cast in a furnace of oppression, marginalisation and bigotry? And if so, what would that cost?

Surprise homophobia, lightning reflexes.

BENJAMIN

A couple of weeks ago my brother and I went for a drink to a bar in the city. It was a lovely, temperate evening, but with the bar’s balcony seating full we took a table inside.

A few minutes after sitting down an effeminate male bartender told us a table had become free on the balcony and that we could move outside if we wanted. Just as we sat down outside, one of two women vacating a table said loudly and derisively to the other in an English accent: “Let’s go to a non-gay bar next time.”

It wasn’t until they had disappeared inside that I realised what she had said. I glanced around the balcony to see a few other effeminate male patrons—whether or not they were gay is beside the point.

I found myself quite taken aback by how offended I was by the comment. It wasn’t that I had never been the object of homophobic sentiment to greater degrees that that. Rather, it happened in a trendy bar in the centre of Melbourne, in what I consider a safe space.

I mentioned the woman’s accent earlier because—albeit perhaps irrationally—it fed into my feeling of having been assaulted in a safe space by an intruder.

My brother offered to go and confront the woman, who we could see was still standing at the bar, paying the effeminate waiter for her drink. I declined his offer, but wished I was the kind of person who could do that—who could react immediately and stand up for myself.

A good friend of mine is amazing in those situations. I once saw him yell at a driver who didn’t give way at a pedestrian crossing and I felt inspired.

I guess part of why I find it hard is in situations involving homophobia it is rarely directed intentionally at me. I felt almost certain I had not contributed to woman’s perception of the bar.

But that’s just it. To be confronted is one thing, but to have an opt-out, to be able to not say anything, can be harder. It’s the “faggot” to your face versus the “that’s so gay” from a not-so-close friend.

Perhaps I can work on training myself to react faster by asking all my friends to say vaguely homophobic things in my vicinity at random intervals. That could be a good place to start.

Or maybe not. I’ll let you know how that pans out, and whether or not I do better next time.