Earlier this week, The Nib (support The Nib!) reran a comic from 2019 about queer separatism. It’s a lovely little piece by Archie Bongiovanni, one that offers a (very brief) overview of the historical dream of an all gay city, told through the story of Fred Schoonmaker and Alfred Parkinson’s ill-fated attempt to create a gay refuge called Stonewall Park.
But while I was reading the comic, something struck me as a little odd. Throughout the piece, Bongiovanni repeatedly refers to “LGBTQ people.” “LGBTQ people have always wanted a place to fuck, fall in love, cultivate friendships, and be ourselves,” declares panel 3. That, of course, is an unquestionable fact. But in panel 6, things start to get a little bit weird. “LGBTQ people [emphasis mine] have often dreamed of establishing separatist spaces,” it begins, before going on to quote the Gay Liberation Front’s Carl Wittman, who talks up a proposed “Stonewall Nation” thusly: “It’d result in a gay government, a gay civil service… the world’s first gay university… the world’s first museum of gay arts, sciences, and history…” [emphases mine once again]
Do you see where I’m going with this?
It is nice to imagine gay separatism as some haven for all queers, and yet the reality is more fraught. It is interesting to note that Bongiovanni’s comic doesn’t mention any of the successful — and in some cases, still active — lesbian separatist communities (Alabama’s Alapine Village being one example) which, if not fully fledged queer cities, are still year round refuges providing a semblance of the solace that Schoonmaker and Parkinson sought. Interesting, though not particularly surprising: lesbian separatist communities have a tendency to be, well, TERFy, which kind of gives up the game. It is one thing to fantasize about a separatist utopia, but actually putting it into practice forces you to draw lines around who belongs and who does not, lines that can feel uncomfortably exclusionary. (Something tells me that had Stonewall Park or Stonewall Nation become reality, they would have ultimately been deemed… problematic… for one reason or another.)
Obviously my bisexuality shapes my views here. It’s unclear to me what Stonewall Park’s views on bisexuals were (a cursory search reveals only mentions of gays and lesbians with regards to the planned utopia), but lesbian communes tend not to be fans. Modern separatist projects — Bongiovanni mentions Idyll Dandy Arts and A-Camp — are more likely to really mean LGBTQ when they say it, yet even here, there’s an unspoken issue (or would be, if the separatism were intended to be full-time, which it rarely is): what, exactly, do you do about the bisexuals in cross-sex relationships?
I think there is a fantasy that some folks have where you can separate the queers from the straights and the bis will just date queers of all different genders. And certainly, that is a set up that appeals to many bisexuals, and I support them in their pursuit of sex and romance. But what of the bisexuals who want to date straight people? What of the bisexuals who, for whatever reason, fall for straight people, are attracted to straight people, enjoy the attention of straight people? Are we somehow less marginalized, less bisexual, less in need of a safe space because of who we fuck?
There was a thread that went viral this past summer, right at the beginning of Pride month: “Bi women with straight boyfriends who feel like you as a couple aren’t welcome in queer spaces, I would simply encourage you to have a cooler boyfriend,” it began, before going on to note that many bi girls have absolutely rad boyfriends and if you want in to the queer Pride party you should bring an interesting boyfriend or only come by yourself.
There’s a lot to unpack in that thread — and I would be remiss if I did not note the way a “queer space” has somehow shifted from a literal safe haven where gay men and lesbians could be safe from homophobia to … a party that you must be this cool to attend — but the central theme I want to hone in on is the way it envisions bisexuals (in this case bi women specifically) not as people but as parts of a relationship, and more specifically as potential pollutants threatening to contaminate the space*. Queer separatism hinges on the notion of queer people as separate, distinct from straight people. When bi people threaten to blow up the border wall, it’s not seen as a part of our queer identity. It is seen as a security threat.
Bi people, it’s assumed, have a choice in who we date, and if we choose wrong, we are threatening the sanctity of a queer space. Never mind that monosexual queers frequently pick partners who are losers at best and abusers at worst: by picking bad straight people to date, bis are committing a far greater sin. And yet: bi people are sometimes at our most vulnerable, the most in need of community and support and specifically queer community and support when we are in heterosexual relationships. And yet it is at this moment when we are often most on the outs from “queer community.”
I think what I am trying to get at here is, well, what is the dream of a queer separatist community truly about? Is it about safety and community, about having a place to be free and fully seen as you are? Or is it about inverting the hierarchy created by straight society and putting yourself on top? Because if it’s the former… I think you do have to reckon with the fact that bi people, and even bi people with heterosexual partners, are often incredibly vulnerable and in need of community, and that bi people often cannot function in any separatist society — that the very nature of separatism serves to bisect our identities, to cleave us from a part of ourselves. And if it’s the latter, well… I mean that just sounds boring, sorry, so you can exclude me all you want.
* There is a long, long history of bisexual people being positioned as potential contaminants and vectors of disease by both straight people and queer people, topic for a future newsletter!