Category: Queer Art

  • For Halloween, I Dressed Up As Myself

    For Halloween, I Dressed Up As Myself

    Growing up, I wanted to dress up as desirable. I wanted to trade in my straight eyelashes for curled ones and change my brown eyes to blue. I wanted to grow four inches in height and lose two around my waist. I yearned for wavy hair that framed my face instead of the stick-straight hair I was given. My eyes were wide enough to see, but not wide enough to be seen. I would have traded them in an instant. When I walked into a room, I wanted people to turn their heads to look at me. I wanted to hear it, the rustling of hair against shirt collars. I wanted the air to shift around me so that the music sounded a little clearer and the drinks tasted a little sweeter. All of this yearning and shapeshifting to be liked by boys. Boys who looked straight through me to get a better glimpse of my friends. Boys who made racist remarks about me as a joke, and friends who let it happen. I knew that the costume I wanted could never be bought online. In a world full of tricks, that was the biggest one of them all. 

    When Halloween rolled around, I was reminded that even on a day where anything was possible, I would never be able to be the one thing I really wanted: an equal. While I didn’t love the holiday, I knew an opportunity when I saw one. Without its quality of childlike wonder, it was a chance to flip expectations on their head. It was the one day a year when the impossible was possible. A nice girl could be a witch and a shy girl could be noticed.

    When I fell in love, things began to change. At last, I had caught the feeling I spent my whole life pursuing. The fog of self-loathing cleared, and I looked around, assessing the damage. I was alive, and other than 22 years of mental turmoil, remained mostly intact. I discovered that what made me undesirable was my environment, not me. And I discovered that the feeling I had when I looked at a pretty girl, the one I had almost convinced myself wasn’t real, was, in fact, the thing I had been wanting all along. With this newfound knowledge, I could start over as someone new, someone who dressed up as the character from their favorite childhood movie, for no reason other than for themselves. How strange and wonderful it was to put me first!

    Now, Halloween has taken on a new meaning. I no longer have to choose between pleasing others and pleasing myself, because the only person I care about is already next to me, holding my hand. Embracing my queerness helped me to accept many things, some more obvious than others, but I never imagined that a holiday that used to symbolize conformity could return to one of storybook characters and laughter.

  • Halloween Photography

    Halloween Photography

    Photography from Halloween 2024 in West Hollywood by Kidmin Bellin and Paul Kneitz

  • I Forgive You

    I Forgive You

    by Liv

    I forgive you

    For the hurt

    For the tears

    I forgive you

    Whether you want forgiveness

    Or not

    The words you spoke

    Echoing for years

    Deep inside

    I release them

    They belong to you

    Like they did before

    They hold power over me no longer

    And I relieve you of that power too

    Maybe you’ll understand

    Maybe you won’t

    But at last

    We are free

    Unbound

    From each other

  • Playing Dress Up

    Playing Dress Up

    I don’t remember a lot from my childhood. There’s no deeper reason like I’m trying to forget certain events or particular people–it’s not that serious; I simply have a bad memory. However, amongst the collection of things I do remember, like my old childhood best friend’s birthday and Greek alphabet song, are the consecutive Halloweens I spent dressing up as Sleeping Beauty. Everything about the holiday besides my costume is a blur and frankly unimportant. In my memory, it was all about the dress.

    Like many six-year-old girls, my favorite color was pink and this dress was my perfect shade. It had stretchy silk-like straps that looked like scrunchies attached to a tulle off-the-shoulder neckline that revealed my childish decolletage. In the middle sat a pendant with Sleeping Beauty herself. The sleeves were full length and ended at my wrists with a piping of gold stitching. The bodice held the most detail, with a v shape joining in the middle made with that same gold stitching, to create shape where there was none. Fleur de lis littered the top and bottom of the dress and shimmered in the light. I adored this dress, getting much more wear out of it than just once a year. I have a picture of me at six years old wearing it to the mall on a random Monday in August. At the time, I’m sure it was the color that lured me to it, but as I reflect now, it’s apparent that there was a part of me who loved it because I could finally be something that everyone else was. I wasn’t the adopted Asian girl with white parents, I was Sleeping Beauty. I had blond hair and fair skin and a prince who would do anything for me. I may have looked different but my dreams were the same. 

    Eventually, I grew up and the dress was passed on to someone else, and I was still chasing that feeling of belonging. Growing up in a small town meant that I was among only a handful of other Asians. As a whole, I was met with kindness, but to exist meant to stick out, and so I did my best to exist quietly. I fell in with the right crowd: friends from well-known families in the community who were popular but kind, and smart but humble. I excelled in school enough to remain in step with my friends but not enough to be noticed. I participated in student government but ran for historian instead of president, and joined the cheer team, choosing the position that faced away from the audience instead of towards it. I didn’t come out as queer until I was 16, though I knew a lot earlier than that. I couldn’t stand being even more different than I already was, so I sacrificed my love for uniformity. This became my new costume, which I wore comfortably and without hesitation. I didn’t stand out at all, and that’s exactly what I wanted. What felt like a persona at the time became synonymous with who I was. Before I knew it I was floating through life content with being 70% happy, so long as on the outside it looked like I was 100%. I didn’t find that last 30% until I was 22 years old. When I first met my now-girlfriend, I couldn’t believe that life was meant to be this good. The way our lives intertwined so seamlessly made me believe that that’s how it should have been all along. As someone who lives their life with bated breath, I didn’t think I’d ever find someone who felt like fresh air.

    The costume I had eagerly worn to survive had become my skin. It was the good things now that felt like make-believe. I would come home from a day of holding hands and writing love notes and look in the mirror and see a stranger. She looked like me, but there was a quality about her that was different. She shimmered, like how heat radiates off of the pavement on a hot day and how the air almost looks like it’s vibrating. Patches of my old self would reappear in moments of vulnerability or anxiety, but as time went on I started to shed my old skin. 

    It took my whole life to get to this point, but it doesn’t feel like I’m playing dress-up anymore. I used to have to pretend to be someone else to feel like enough, but now there’s no one I’d rather be than myself. I still experience all the hard parts of life, like everyone else, but I can find comfort in knowing that trying to suppress who I am is no longer one of them.

  • Take It or Leave It

    Take It or Leave It

    by Jocelyn Diaz

    I’ve found myself dissociating more than usual. It’s been so hard for my brain to accept that I was in a different country last week, and now, I’m back in California. I went from speaking Spanish in Spain every day, teaching English to young kids, to saying “No, yeah, for sure, I appreciate you asking” when the barista at Peet’s Coffee asks if I want alternative milk. 

    The job search hasn’t exactly been confidence-building, with most companies not directly rejecting me, but simply not responding. I try to tell myself that maybe they’ve found someone already, and simply haven’t taken the advertisement down yet. Then I see the advertisement being reposted a few days later and struggle not to take it personally. Without homework assignments and with no job, I have so much time on my hands, like I’m on summer vacation but it’s January. And I don’t have those anymore anyway since I graduated last June. 

    Even worse, or maybe less ideal, is that I’m back in my hometown. I graduated college a year early for my age, so a lot of my conocidos are no longer on Christmas break and are starting their Winter Quarter. I still get scared that I’ll see someone from middle school or high school, but so far I’ve yet to encounter anyone. 

    I saw this TikTok saying that when you feel like you’re in a slump, you should try one new thing every day to switch up your routine. I sit in the Peet’s parking lot and lazily stir my iced matcha with oat milk because it’s not my new thing to get matcha, more like a reason to leave the house. As I drive away, I think about what will be my thing today, something that’s cheap or free, if that’s even possible. I don’t want to drive aimlessly without a plan because I don’t have the gas money to do so and decide to make my way back to the house when I notice a sign that says “TAKE A BOOK LEAVE A BOOK.” I do a loop around because I’m genuinely curious about what kind of books the general public decides to donate. Plus, I want to pick up something new to read, while I wait for my library card in the mail. 

    I see a lot of self-help books, some cookbooks, and the book 1984. I was half-expecting to see those cheesy romance books with a Fabio-looking man on the cover, holding a swooning woman with one hand. I kinda wanted to read one of those, just for the fun of it. But before I close the door to the little book nook shaped like a birdhouse, I see a cartoon girl on the cover of a book. At first glance, I think it’s a puberty book titled “TOTALLY ME!” Yet the figure of the girl with a short, yellow bob and chunky platform orange sandals is too familiar, and I suddenly remember the show I used to watch every night with my best friend Mimi, Lizzie McGuire. I was named after my grandmother Elizabeth, so I pretended that I was Lizzie, and she was Miranda because that was her name in real life too. On my eighth birthday, when my parents gave me a cat for my birthday, I named him Gordo. We had our version of the show, and it was beautiful and perfect. 

    Once the wave of nostalgia settles down and my judgment of whoever donated a Lizzie McGuire book, much less who wouldn’t want to take it home, I realize it’s a diary, not a book. I quickly skim through the leftover pages; the missing ones likely ripped out by the previous owner to maintain confidentiality. I imagine using the cover as a collage in my diary, which is good enough for me for my “something new.” 

    When I get home, I set up my desk with my collaging supplies and rip off the journal’s cover, which loosens its spine and causes a few pages to fall on my floor. I grab the last page of the pile and notice the imprint of words left behind by this mystery writer become more prominent through the light from my lamp. Luckily, I remember how popular invisible ink pens were in the early 2000s, as I hold the page closer to the lamp and can make out more words. And as invasive as it feels, I can’t stop reading.  

    Dear Diary, 

    We watched Lizzie McGuire, all night, again. JK! It was like 10 pm. Her bedtime was 8 pm but we wanted to keep watching TV, so anytime we heard footsteps, we turned down the TV and pretended to be asleep. It was so much fun! Lizzie keeps saying that Miranda is so beautiful. That she loves her crazy hair and style. I notice that her saying these words makes my stomach warm and fuzzy. IDK why. Lizzie is my BFF and I am hers. Like when I say my prayers every night, I always pray for her the most. Is this what God feels like when he thinks of me? Mom says that I’m God’s treasure. That I’m his favorite person. I know what he means. Lizzie is pretty, smart, and super cool. I love her sooo much. Don’t tell anyone Diary, but I think I like-like her. What am I going to do? 

    Love, Miranda 

    Tears well in my eyes. I always told her that Miranda was my first TV show character crush on a girl. My Miranda, or Mimi, as she has gone by since high school, had a crush on me when we were kids. I had no idea. Oh my god. Did I like her too? Oh my god. 

    I forget about the collage altogether, and, instead, scurry up to the attic and quickly rummage through box after box, not caring about the mess I’m making right now. 

    Eventually, my hands find the same diary as Mimi’s, as if there was a two-for-one diary discount at the store. I run back to my room to open the diary, leaving the attic worse than before. Again, pages are ripped out for some reason as I frantically scan each page under my lamp with no trace of invisible ink. Until I find one page. 

    Hi,

    Mom says that I need to try journaling for my anxiety. I don’t know why I feel so sad and scared all the time. Watching Lizzie McGuire with Miranda helps me. Just having her next to me makes me calmer. IDK if she knows but watching the show with her is my favorite part of the day. We both have bangs like Lizzie and Miranda, and one time her hair was sticking up like when you rub a balloon on your head. I tried to smooth it down with my hands and then my cheeks got warm so I drank water and looked in the mirror and my face was as red as a tomato. It was so weird. Miranda is my BFF and every time we have a sleepover I always tell her I love her just in case something happens. She always says it back. That makes me happy. Anyways, my hand hurts, and writing in a journal is stupid. And no, stupid isn’t a bad word. 

    – Lizzie 

    I trace over her writing in pen and send Mimi a picture of her diary entry without thinking about how out of the blue it is. Before I can figure out a follow-up text to the picture, she responds immediately.

    Surprise?

    I text her back a picture of my entry, also rewritten in dark ink.

    Surprise. 

  • An Accumulation of Poetry from Bethany Clark’s Original Book A 24 Year-Old Girl

    An Accumulation of Poetry from Bethany Clark’s Original Book A 24 Year-Old Girl

    One girl made me so upset. 

    Afraid. 

    Not of her, 

    But rather 

    The butterflies in my stomach. 

    The “it” girl. 

    Beautiful, funny, smart and kind. 

    Perfection in the flesh. 

    How could anyone ever love me 

    When they could have her? 

    “It’s okay for others, but I could never!” 

    This silent mantra subliminally messaged me constantly. 

    One day I realized I am worthy of the same grace I extend to others. 

    I want to kiss a woman. But not because I’m drunk, or want attention, but because I want to. Because I like her smile and the way she laughs. Because she gives me butterflies. I want to run my fingers through her hair and hold her hand, stay in bed until 11 on a Sunday and know how she takes her coffee. I want to exchange our hopes and dreams, have dinner with her mom and laugh at old baby pictures. 

    There she was in pixels 

    Illuminating in front of my eyes. 

    Oh there you are, 

    There’s the love of my life. 

    A note from the poet: 

    While writing these poems for my first book, A 24 Year-Old Girl, I was struggling with the aftermath of heartbreaks, the transition into adulthood, and you guessed it: my sexuality. My sexual identity was always something I questioned, but being that I had only ever dated cis, straight men, I never fully allowed myself the chance to explore as I was otherwise committed. Once I found myself single, and deep in the throws of self-improvement, queer discovery wasn’t far behind.

    I struggled for a long time with finding a label for my sexuality. I knew I wasn’t straight, but I felt as though I didn’t fit in any particular box. I suppose if you were to put a gun to my head I would say I’m pansexual, but the artist in me prefers the terms “queer” or “fluid.” Trying to define my sexuality ended up limiting the expression and exploration I needed to be out and proud. If I waited any longer to have the proper name for myself, I would be waiting forever. 

    To me, sexuality is a beautiful, complex, and fluid thing that cannot be described with a label. So I decided to stop trying to understand what I was, and embrace being a member of the community in some way, shape, or form even if I didn’t know how. Like I’ve always known, I am not straight, and at last, that is enough for me. 

    I have friends who love their labels of trans, lesbian, bisexual, etc. because it makes them feel seen or gives them an understanding of themselves; I applaud them! The main takeaway from my personal growth I want to share with you, reader, is to allow yourself a chance to breathe. 

    Remember, there are no rules, it truly is not that deep. There is no “right” way to discover yourself, and it is okay for you to belong to one community and one day find another that feels like home. We are multifaceted beings, constantly evolving and are “worthy of the same grace [we] extend to others.” 

    Peace & luv, 

    Bethany Clark

  • Reflection Piece

    Reflection Piece

    by Honor

    They tried so hard for you. Please keep trying. In 20 more years, you can start to finally see yourself and you will do anything to let that happen. You’re not disgusting. Not embarrassing. Not to be ashamed of.

    Please. Honor. You will make this happen. We won’t let our life pass us by.

    Please don’t let it, okay?

    Love, Honor