Tag: lgbtq

  • Yes, Emilia Pérez is as Bad as they Say

    Yes, Emilia Pérez is as Bad as they Say

    Rating: 1.5 out of 5.

    Emilia Pérez is a Spanish-language musical crime film about a Mexican notorious and ruthless cartel boss who discreetly undergoes gender affirmation surgery and fakes her death, leaving behind a wife, two children, and a life of crime. After recovering, she starts fresh as Emilia Pérez, and tries to live a moral life by founding a charity to help victims of the cartel. Despite this promising premise, the film offers little more than a sloppy characterization of a trans woman and a surface level depiction of the issues that it attempts to tackle.

    Initially, the film received critical acclaim upon its release, from receiving a standing ovation at the 2024 Cannes Film Festival to the various awards and nominations it has received from the Golden Globes and Academy Awards.

    Slowly but surely, as the buzz about the film grew, and as it reached more audiences, the reaction began to shift online. Audiences criticized the film’s depiction of Mexico from improperly representing the Mexican judicial system to awkwardly written Spanish lyrics. Audiences also criticized the film’s depiction of transness, showcasing a protagonist with an evil, violent, inner-masculine side that comes out when she’s angry. There is an entire song that her children sing about how Emilia smells like their father, the filmmakers seemingly unaware that Emilia, having taken hormones for years, would smell completely different. All of these criticisms could have easily been avoided with the smallest amount of research, which the director, Jacques Audiard openly confessed to doing none of, stating, “No, I didn’t study much. I kinda already knew what I had to understand.” As a result, the missed details expose Emilia Pérez for its laziness and insincere handling of sensitive issues. But the criticism didn’t end there; everything from its performances to its direction to its musical numbers began to receive mockery.

    In mid-January, the increasingly negative public perception of the film came to my attention when I came across a short clip on Instagram featuring the film’s “Vaginoplasty” sequence where Emilia’s lawyer meets with a doctor to discuss gender affirming surgery. The song features these inspired lyrics:

    Hello, very nice to meet you

    I’d like to know about sex change operation

    I see, I see, I see

    Man to woman or woman to man?

    Man to woman

    From penis

    to vagina

    The song continues with a doctor listing different gender affirmation operations while transgender patients undergo and recover from surgery and gawk at the camera.

    I didn’t know what was more shocking about “Vaginoplasty”: the silly lyrics or the unpleasant melody. The instrumentation is ugly, the singing is unimpressive, and the lyrics are blunt and graceless. I could hardly believe this was a real scene in Emilia Pérez, so I decided to see it for myself.

    Two hours and 10 minutes later, my confusion was even stronger. During the first 30 minutes, I was admittedly invested. The movie starts off from the perspective of Emilia’s lawyer, Rita, and learning about Emilia from this perspective adds a lot of mystery. It is easy to be sympathetic when she opens up about her gender dysphoria, but the film doesn’t let the audience forget she is still a dangerous person. When Rita is taking too long to find a doctor to perform the operations, Emilia has henchmen break into her apartment, threatening to kill her if she doesn’t hurry up. They allow Emilia to be complex and human. After she transitions, though, the film acts as though she has instantly been redeemed of any criticism, for both her past and present.

    As Emilia attempts to lead a new and moral life, I waited for the consequences of her past to catch up with her. They don’t. Instead, Emilia invites it all back herself. After four years, she starts to miss her children, so she pretends to be a long-lost cousin and orders her former wife and kids to move in with her. Surely, upon seeing how her “death” affected her wife and children, and after continuing to lie about her identity, Emilia will reflect or feel guilt over the trauma she’s been putting them through, right? No, instead, Emilia is just happy to have them around, wanting them to be as dependent on her as possible.

    Later on, when Emilia starts a nonprofit to help identify the bodies of cartel victims, I waited once again for her to reflect on her past as a vicious cartel boss. But she’s not interested in reflecting, and neither is the movie. The nonprofit is revealed to be funded by corrupt and dangerous donors, and though initially this hypocrisy is called out, Emilia doesn’t care, and the film never brings it up again. Emilia never acts remorseful, nor is she held accountable for her actions. Yet the movie’s finale presents her as a saint-like figure.

    This image released by PATHÉ FILMS via IMDB

    The problems don’t end there. Karla Sofía Gascón and Zoe Saldaña give decent performances, but the same cannot be said of Selena Gomez, who plays Emilia’s wife. At her best, she’s fine; at her worst, she appears like she doesn’t understand the words coming out of her mouth.

    While “Vaginoplasty” is by far the silliest and craziest musical number of the film, most of the songs suffer from underwhelming and occasionally awful vocal performances.

    In spite of all this, Emilia Pérez has already won four awards at the Golden Globes, including for Best Motion Picture – Musical or Comedy, and it has received 11 nominations at the Academy Awards.  I imagine that its various award wins and nominations will not be looked back at fondly.

    So yes, Emilia Pérez is as bad as they say. The movie is plagued by a lack of authenticity and it pretty much fails on every level: as a musical, a drama, and as an entertaining viewing experience.

  • 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

  • My Queer Reading List in 5 Books

    My Queer Reading List in 5 Books

    by Kath Miller

    Books have always been a tool for me to better understand myself and the world around me, but a sub-genre I have become increasingly interested in is queer literature. After several years of exploring the genre, there are 5 books in particular that stand out as important recommendations. And, except for one entry, they all have some sort of happy or satisfying conclusion that doesn’t result in too much queer suffering. So, allow me to walk you down a list of the 5 queer books that I think are worth your time.

    #5. Pulp by Robin Talley 

    Told in dual perspectives, Pulp by Robin Talley follows Janet Jones, an eighteen-year-old in 1955 who is coming to terms with her own queerness, and Abby Zimet, a modern-day teen whose senior project is 1950s lesbian pulp fiction. Abby is fascinated with one author in particular, Marion Love, and longs to track her down and find out who she really is. 

    This was a novel I picked up in the throes of the COVID-19 pandemic, but it has stuck with me after all this time due to the real pieces of history surrounding lesbian pulp fiction that permeates throughout the book, as well as an extensive list of published lesbian pulp fiction of the time that the author included in the index. While the book is written with a YA audience in mind, it is definitely worth picking up if you are at all curious about the subject matter. 

    #4. All the Young Men by Ruth Coker Burks

    All The Young Men is a devastating, informative, and hopeful memoir all at the same time.

    The subject of our story is Ruth Coker Burks, who in the midst of the AIDS crisis, went out of her way to house, feed, and befriend AIDS patients whose families had abandoned them, primarily in the Arkansas area. This memoir reveals the ugliest sides of humanity–families abandoning their sons due to their sexuality and the misinformation and inaction from the US government. However, it also reveals the good, as the relationships Coker Burns develops with these young men and her overwhelming kindness restores one’s faith in humanity a bit. I definitely recommend it for its examination of the AIDS crisis from a unique angle.

    #3. Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters

    Funnily enough, I discovered this book on an assigned reading list for one of the last classes I took in my undergraduate studies; I have such clear memories of sitting in my university’s library for hours and just tearing through the novel. It was one of those books I finished before its due date… that’s how good it was.

    This novel is set in Victorian London and follows Nan King, a young girl from Whitstable, Kent, who gets swept up in the male-impersonation music hall scene of that time upon meeting her idol Kitty Butler. This novel is particularly interesting with how it chooses to use the music hall space–creating a liminal space for the queer characters to exist without fear of violence from the public, which is an idea that continues on past the music hall chapters as well. Queer suffering not being the subject of this novel also makes it so refreshing as a reader, especially combined with the deconstruction of Victorian gender norms, making it a deeply gripping read. 

    #2. Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flagg

    Set in the late 1980s, Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe tells the story of Evelyn and Mrs. Threadgoode–a middle-aged housewife and an elderly woman living in the same retirement home as her mother-in-law. During each of Evelyn’s visits, Mrs. Threadgoode begins telling the story of another two women–Idgie and Ruth–who ran a barbecue restaurant in Whistle Stop, Alabama, back in the 1930s. 

    This book has always stood out to me as it was one of the first books I ever read that depicted a lesbian romance. That and it made me laugh, cry, and turn the pages at an alarming rate to follow the twists and turns of the plot. It’s a heartwarming read and a very wholesome exploration of relationships between women–platonic and romantic. You won’t regret it!

    #1 The Color Purple by Alice Walker

    The Color Purple was a book I had been urged to read for many a year before I finally purchased a copy and picked it up in the summer of 2023. My older sibling ultimately got me to read it.

    “It’s about lesbians who live together and make pants,” they said, and they have great taste so I gave it a chance. My only regret is that I did not read it sooner

    Winning the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1983, Alice Walker’s The Color Purple follows Celie, a poor Black girl living in rural Georgia in the 1900s. Celie’s story is one of horrific abuse that turns into one of self-discovery and empowerment. While the queer themes are not the central focus of this narrative, it is Celie’s relationship with Shug Avery that teaches her to love and value herself. This is my favorite book of all time and while it may not be as explicitly queer as the  other entries, I simply had to include it as a book I think every single person should read.

    Thus concludes my list of 5 queer books I think are worth reading. Seeing as how since the dawn of queer media, queer suffering has always been a low-hanging-fruit trope. Therefore, I was motivated to include books that showcase queer perseverance and strength. It is important to show queer readers of any age that hope and love can exist even in the face of tragedy. 

    I hope some of these entries made it onto your reading list and hopefully as I read more books in 2025, I will be able to expand upon this list with another! Thank you for reading. 

  • The First American Gay Novel That Nobody Knows About

    The First American Gay Novel That Nobody Knows About

    I recently discovered and read the 1889 melodrama often attributed as the first English-language gay novel, A Marriage Below Zero, written by Alan Dale. After finishing it, I was refreshed by its bold depiction of queer sexuality and baffled as to why it remains as obscure as it is.

    For 1889, the homosexuality in the story is surprisingly obvious. While a work like Oscar Wilde’s 1890 The Picture of Dorian Gray was very queer in terms of themes and symbols, here, it’s not subtext; it’s the foreground. The characters’ relationship and sexualities aren’t explicitly labeled, however, I imagine even readers of the time put two and two together. While that is all remarkable in itself, progressive subject matter alone does not equate quality. So is the book any good? Well, for the most part, yes.

    The story centers on Elsie, an unmarried, modern woman with little interest in men until she meets the charming and mysterious Arthur Ravener. He is intelligent and humorous and treats Elsie as an equal. The only downside: he spends all of his time with another man, Captain Dillington, whom Elsie immediately distrusts. Nonetheless, Arthur and Elsie continue to bond and he eventually proposes to her. They get married and set off to live in the Countryside together. Much to Elsie’s frustration, however, Arthur rushes off to London the very night of their honeymoon, and continues to abandon her every chance he gets in the following months. When she expresses her concerns, Arthur dismisses them, often gaslighting her into thinking his behavior is completely normal. Elsie loses her patience and takes matters into her own hands, finding out (if you haven’t already guessed) that he is having an affair with Dillington.

    The work is greatly enhanced by the cleverness and comedic nature of Dale’s writing. The first chapter, for example, opens with Elsie telling the reader: “No, I shall not weary you with a long account of my childhood, and all that sort of thing. When I read a story, I always skip the pages devoted to the juvenile days of the hero or heroine. They are generally insufferably uninteresting, or interesting only to the writer…” only to follow up with multiple pages dedicated to an account of her childhood. The book is written with a humor and sweetness that I found particularly engaging. I was completely hooked by this comedic introduction.

    While Dale triumphs as a writer, he ultimately does not demonstrate the same consistency as a storyteller. The novel suffers from poor pacing, especially during the middle chapters which drag on in a tedious pattern of Arthur doing something secretive and Elsie being suspicious. It is tiresome to read about the same frustration over and over again. While it must be more obvious to a reader in 2024 that Arthur is having an affair with Captain Dillington, I imagine even a reader in 1889 might have grown bored of the same repeating scenes. After all, affairs were not shocking in the 19th century, yet it takes Elsie a dreadfully long time to suspect one. Thankfully, when she does find out, the story picks up again, eventually catching Arthur in bed, naked, with Dillington.

    A Marriage Below Zero is an important book and it deserves more recognition. Many people are completely unaware that 19th century queer literature exists in the first place! Obscure novels like this have the power to paint a more authentic picture of the time they were released in. Though it is flawed, there is something so special about reading a novel from 135 years ago that features a gay relationship, even if it isn’t destined for a happy ending. The novel was controversial and written by a fairly unknown theater critic, so it makes sense that it wasn’t a major success upon its release. However, for its subject matter, it is a highly significant piece of work that should no longer be lost to history.