Transformative Works and Cultures, No. 24, special issue, Queer

Female Fandom (June 15, 2017)

Editorial

Eve Ng & Julie Levin Russo, Envisioning queer female fandom

Theory

Eve Ng, Tit-Bits, New Journalism, and early Sherlock Holmes fandom

Rukmini Pande & Swati Moitra, Authorship and authenticity in Sherlock Holmes pastiches

Praxis

Jing (Jamie) Zhao, Queerly imagining Super Girl in an alternate world: The fannish worlding in

FSCN femslash romance

Ria Narai, Female-centered fan fiction as homoaffection in fan communities

Faithe Day & Aymar Jean Christian, Locating black queer TV: Fans, producers, and networked

publics on YouTube

Kelsey Cameron, Constructing queer female cyberspace: The L Word fandom and

Autostraddle.com

Multimedia

Julie Levin Russo, Femslash goggles: Fan vids with commentary by creators

Symposium

Mel Stanfil , Where the femslashers are: Media on the lesbian continuum

Lucy Irene Baker, The surface of women

Erica Friedman, On defining yuri

Elaine Han Lin, Unseen international music idol femslash

Tanya D. Zuk, Coming out on Grey's Anatomy: Industry scandal, constructing a lesbian story line, and fan action

Victoria Serafini, Bisexual erasure in queer sci-fi "utopias"

Sandra Strauch, Once Upon a Time in queer fandom

Review

Al ison McCracken, By any media necessary: The new youth activism, by Henry Jenkins et al.

Alice Marwick, Girls' feminist blogging in a postfeminist age, by Jessalyn Keller Nicolle Lamerichs, International perspectives on shojo and shojo manga, edited by Masami Toku

Transformative Works and Cultures (TWC), ISSN 1941-2258, is an online-only Gold Open Access publication of the nonprofit

Organization for Transformative Works. TWC is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0

Unported License. Download date: August 15, 2017. For citation, please refer to the most recent version of articles at TWC.

Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Editorial

Envisioning queer female fandom

Eve Ng

Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, United States

Julie Levin Russo

The Evergreen State Col ege, Olympia, Washington, United States

[0.1] Abstract— Editorial for "Queer female fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24 (June 15, 2017).

[0.2] Keywords— Fandom history; Femslash; Lesbian representation

Ng, Eve, and Julie Levin Russo. 2017. "Envisioning Queer Female Fandom" [editorial]. In

"Queer Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue,

Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24. http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.1168.

1. Origins

[1.1] Imagine early March 2015. Julie was teaching science fiction and watching a lot of

Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries (ABC [Australia], 2012–15). Eve was still enjoying Person of Interest (CBS, 2011–16) and The 100 (CW, 2014–), not knowing the bloodshed that was to come. Somewhere in the ever flowing tide of social media, a fan of femslash (femalefemale

couples) tweeted about feeling ignored and erased by the field of fan studies. Fans have had

a complicated, ambivalent, often conflicted relationship to the academic study of their texts

and communities. That history was part of the impetus for this very journal, as a flagship

project of a fan advocacy organization. But femslashers, at least since the era of Xena:

Warrior Princess (Renaissance Pictures, 1995–2001) fandom on the Web, have been perhaps

uniquely attentive to the public face of their activities.

[1.2] [1997] A member of the newsgroup alt.tv.xena compiled answers to

frequently asked questions (FAQ) about lesbian subtext on Xena: Warrior Princess

and put it up at the new fan site Xenite.org. In response to frequent harassment by

homophobic skeptics, Xena/Gabrielle 'shippers offered "proof" in the form of

"interviews with the cast and crew" of the program wherein they "flatly stated…that

they put subtextual scenes and dialogue in the shows intentionally"

(https://web.archive.org/web/20051031202026/http://www.xenite.org/faqs/subtext.html).

[1.3] In defining the topic of this issue as "queer female fandom," we acknowledge that

femslash has been paradigmatically tied to a broader concern with the representation of

gender and sexuality and its social impact. It may be this general tendency among online

communities around queer female media (however textual or subtextual) that can inspire tracking of academic research as a particular form of representation. This special issue,

coming to fruition more than 2 years later, is for the author of that 2015 tweet—for

femslashers and those passionate about fictional femalefemale couples who have felt that

their identities and practices are marginalized. There's a certain ambiguity to the term "queer female fandom," which is sometimes used in reference to predominantly female communities

engaged in queer activities such as male slash. Here, we recenter queer women as the object

of fannish cathexis.

[1.4] Certainly there are exclusions embedded in the terms "queer," "female," and even

"fandom" that risk flattening the discourses and demographics at hand. We don't wish to

reinforce gender binaries, identity politics, tacit whiteness, Western dominance, or audience

hierarchies. These limitations are addressed to some degree by the range of essays in this

special issue, and the credit for that goes to the authors who have entrusted their work to

this collection. In offering "queer female fandom" as an aspirational frame for new

scholarship, we aimed to give form and cohesion to an underpopulated gap in the matrix

spanning fan studies, LGBT media studies, online community studies, and production or

industry studies (insofar as it is concerned with LGBT markets and creators).

[1.5] While there is substantial research encompassing lesbians and queer women in many

of these areas—including queer representation and spectatorship, queer community

formations and erotic networks in the digital era, market forces directed at LGBT consumers

and corollary opportunities for independent media producers—fan communities around queer

female characters and relationships, and their creative practices, have gotten comparatively

little attention. If femslash anchors this topic for us, it is a genre that can have fluid

boundaries, and we hope to define a field of inquiry without being overly prescriptive of its

contours.

[1.6] [2015] "As mainstream representation and online platforms have evolved,

fan practices around femalefemale couples are becoming increasingly vibrant and

visible, and a proliferation of explicitly lesbian or bisexual characters in film and

television has captivated fans and researchers alike. This work points the way to a

productive investigation of the turbulent boundaries between canon and subtext,

between femslash and slash communities, between erotic and political

interventions, and between different methodological approaches to queer female

audiences (broadly conceived)—boundaries that femslash itself troubles" (TWC,

"Queer Female Fandom" call for papers).

[1.7] In terms of origins—when invited to collectively generate a historical lineage of queer

female fandom at the second TGIFemslash convention (April 2017), literary reference points

went back over 100 years (finally landing at Sappho) and media to Hollywood film from the

1930s onward. In a chapter in the 1998 volume Theorizing Fandom, Green, Jenkins, and

Jenkins chronicle discussions about "female slash" that predates the Web. Writers in their apas (amateur press associations, a collaborative postal zine exchange) wrestled with the

queer politics of male slash and with its exclusion of women:

[1.8] [1992] "As an experiment last week, I gathered all of the female slash I had into one pile (largely Blake's 7 [BBC/BBC One, 1978–81], since it has more

strong females than the rest of slash fandom's favorite shows put together…) and

read it all one after another. I realized that my distance from the material is

different in female slash." —Sandy Hereld (18)

[1.9] [1990] "A thought occurs to me about the unfortunate lack of female slash

stories. The majority of slash is based on characters who have a preexisting,

strongly emotional relationship in the show where they appear: a lot of slash is

expansion on something to be seen in the show (as the slash fan sees it). Female

characters, even if you can find more than one in a given show, are unlikely to

have an intense, highlighted friendship with each other." —Barbara Tennison (20)

[1.10] These fans' diagnosis underscores the watershed embodied by the 1995 premiere of

Xena, an epic fantasy series centered on the intimate relationship between two female

heroines. This historical moment happened to converge with a critical mass of new online

communications tools (initially Usenet groups that had transitioned to email lists,

complemented by static Web sites, Web rings, and chat rooms) to engender the first

contemporary femslashcentric fan community. Notable femslash subcommunities also

existed in major ongoing fandoms, like Star Trek (NBC, 1966–69), around this time, and

other points of origin such as Buffy the Vampire Slayer (WB/UPN, 1997–2003) followed soon

after. The crystallization of femslash as a unique subculture is thus intertwined with

transitions in both old and new media.

[1.11] Because these firstgeneration platforms were topically defined, however, there was

limited permeability or movement across media texts. This relative autonomy is evidenced by

a proliferation of terms for F/F (femslash, femmeslash, or girlslash; subtext fic, altfic [from

"alternative"], or saffic [a pun on Sappho]). With the rise of social blogging platform

LiveJournal as a home base for media fan cultures beginning around 2001, an environment

with more porous boundaries between fandoms (and between fan activity and other domains

of life) developed, laying the groundwork for femslash to become a unifying investment that

transcends any particular show or couple.

[1.12] [December 1, 2005] With the inaugural post of the LiveJournal

community femslash_today (http://femslashtoday.livejournal.com/644.html), fandom gained a centralized archival consciousness of the contours of F/F at large.

A collaborative team posted lists of new fan works and other links of interest almost

daily through 2013 (and sporadically up until the present).

[1.13] The coalescence of femslash as a metafandom unto itself may have paradoxically

contributed to a bird'seye view of its marginality. As we might glean from the primacy of

slash as the unmarked term (denoting samesex couples in general and malemale couples in

particular), F/F remains underrepresented not only in scholarly research but also arguably in

fandom overall (compared to M/M and also to het [heterosexual] and gen [nonsexual] fiction

and art). Femslash fans often frame their experience in this way, as was the case at the

"Where's the F/F?" panel at the May 2015 WisCon feminist science fiction convention in Madison, Wisconsin. The conversation took as a jumpingoff point detailed statistics,

compiled by destinationtoast, on fan fiction posted at Archive of Our Own (AO3;

https://archiveofourown.org/).

[1.14] [February 2016] According to ToastyStats, "F/F as a whole is strongly on

the rise," with about 60K fan works produced in 2015, but it still makes up only 9

percent of the total works on AO3 (up from the previous year, but dwarfed by M/M

at 50 percent) (https://archiveofourown.org/works/6045463).

[1.15] Of course, it's possible that AO3 isn't the site of femslashers' most active

participation—destinationtoast notes that popular archives FanFiction.net and Wattpad (not

to mention social network platform Tumblr) are impossible to profile as accurately because

they have no femslash category, and authors use a wide variety of tags to identify content.

Presuming that femslash does lag behind other genres, the abridged history above suggests

that contributing factors may include its late blooming within media fandom and the dearth of

significant female relationships in popular media. (This deficit has been gradually

decreasing.) Participants at the WisCon panel also cited internalized or systemic sexism as a

potential barrier, and the LGBTQ tradition of separatism or "safe space" as a factor that may make femslash less visible.

[1.16] Whatever the demographic realities, however, we resist the narrative of scarcity as a

framework for understanding femslash. It is the foundation of a vibrant online community

that deserves to be considered on its own terms. In today's Tumblr era, the consolidation of

queer female fandom as an overarching modality has catalyzed a renewed efflorescence of

beloved 'ships from the past two decades (like Xena/Gabrielle). Fans (many of them youth)

are engaging with the genre's history and collectively extending a critical awareness of its

imbrication with the history of queer female representation. As lesbian story lines became

incrementally more common in mainstream media (television, film, video games, comics, and

so on), these scintillating objects were seamlessly integrated with ongoing fan communities

and practices while also reshaping the terms and discourses of a femslash worldview.

2. Savior, slayer, soldier, spy

Figure 1. "Non na throu daun gon ai" ("No one fights for me"). LGBTthemed fan art of Lexa

by papurrcat, March 2016 (http://papurrcat.tumblr.com/post/141117599892/formyfriends

andfollowerstheworldhearsyou). [ View larger image .]

[2.1] Queer female fandom is making a splash. In the first half of 2016, lesbian or bisexual

characters were killed off on several popular television programs, culminating in the dramatic

murder of rival commander Lexa on The 100 just after she consummates her romance with

the heroine, Clarke. In response, enraged fans leveled criticism and demands not just at the

show's writers and producers but at the representational system that puts queer women

perpetually in the crosshairs. This outcry that originated in fandom led to articles condemning

the "Bury Your Gays" trope (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BuryYourGays) in

cultural news outlets like the Washington Post (Butler 2016), Wired (Watercutter 2016), AV

Club (McNutt 2016), Variety (Ryan 2016), the Hollywood Reporter (Stanhope 2016), and Vox (Framke 2016). Many of these journalists emphasized fans' direct interaction with The 100

show runner Jason Rothenberg and producer/writer Javier GrilloMarxuach, and, in a broader

sense, the industry's growing responsibility to understand and respect slash fans'

expectations. Male slashers have made similar interventions, for example regarding

characters Derek and Stiles on the show Teen Wolf (MTV, 2011–), but they are less typical

and arguably less effective than instances from femslash communities. The fusion that

femslash presumes between fans and characters in terms of sexual and gender identities

affords it this powerful platform for literal campaigns of resistance to heteronormative

structures.

[2.2] [2016] "LGBT Fans Deserve Better is a movement aiming to educate people

on the importance of positive LGBT representation in the media. This website's goal

is to provide information, statistics and resources to enable media creators,

production staff, critics and viewers to learn about the history of representation,

the tropes encountered and the current state of representation on TV…The tipping

point was the unnecessary death of Lexa, a lesbian character on The 100, killed by

a stray bullet, by her fatherfigure, immediately after reuniting with her love

interest. Lesbians are not unfamiliar with dying—and dying violently—in the

media…Storytellers can do better, and we want creators and viewers alike to

commit to demanding better" (http://lgbtfansdeservebetter.com/about/).

[2.3] To agitate for their interests as lovers of queer women, fans have collectively

developed both brash guerrilla tactics like rapidresponse Twitter storms and sophisticated

forms of critique, which increasingly generate enough impact to gain mainstream attention.

Glee (Fox, 2009–15) was a proving ground for direct action; as one chronicler notes about

the Brittany and Santana (Brittana) relationship, it "was born out of one throwaway line

about two featured extras and a group of women's yearning to see themselves on TV. It was

fandom willing a pairing into canon. And fandom's reason? Queer women deserve

representation. The cry for representation wasn't new, but Glee fans had, at the time,

unprecedented access to the creators of their show" (Cranz 2016). And yet this teleology of

visibility could happily coexist with the celebration of subtextual pairings like Quinn Fabray

and Rachel Berry, the winners of E! Online's TV's Top Couple poll in 2012 (where they

triumphed over Brittana and popular male slash couple Dean and Castiel). Although television

isn't ultimately a democratic medium, femslash fans were flexing their collective influence in

ways understood as going beyond a bit of tabloid fun.

[2.4] [February 14, 2012] "The fans for 'Faberry' (Fabray/Berry) as they call

themselves, set a new record high for page turns on E! Online for any single post in

the entire history of the website. Umm…yeah, we are just as stunned as you. Also,

we did an investigation into this voting and it showed no signs of false play among

'Faberry' fans: Just a group of hardcore, dedicated shippers who organized massvoting times (all hours of the night), and obviously took this thing very seriously.

Now, I know what many of you who casually watch Glee are thinking: What the

what?! Are Rachel and Quinn even a couple? And wait a minute, aren't they

straight? Why yes, yes they are, as far as we know. But the 'Faberry' fans believe

these two belong together" (http://eonline.com/news/294212/tvstopcouple

tournamentandthewinneris).

[2.5] Similarly, "save our show" campaigns have been a fixture of media fandom for

decades and are frequently remarked on as a baseline example of fan activism. Nowhere

more than femslash is it evident that such finite demands can be strategically linked to

broader political concerns. Despite existing largely on Tumblr, the Warehouse 13 (SyFy,

2009–14) Bering & Wells fandom ('shipping the characters of Myka Bering and Helena G.

Wells) was exceptionally organized, as demonstrated by their extensive and witty incharacter manual for new fans (http://absedarian.tumblr.com/post/47643571393/). One researcher modeled this network using data visualization to help understand "how new

information travels through a small community, who were able to learn new information

about their favorite shipping couple" (Krisi 2013). The information at issue was a remark by

actress Jaime Murray (Helena G. Wells) about her disagreement with the program's executive

producer, Jack Kenny, over the status of the Bering & Wells 'ship (she and costar Joanne

Kelly [Myka Bering] were in favor of its canonicity). Said informally by Murray in an

autograph line, this comment was recorded and posted to YouTube, then transcribed and

circulated on Tumblr. Krisi concluded that "the nodes in this particular network are socially

aware and active, they are ready to forward the message…Many of the users additionally

started blogging only parts of the gifs, or created their own art about the quote from

Murray." When the program's ratings lagged in season 4, these "socially aware and active"

fans mounted an extremely wellinformed and professional campaign to renew that hinged on

gathering quantitative data, generating qualitative engagement, and leveraging the morass

of television metrics in the digital era. Although the official materials strategically

deemphasized femslash, members of the Bering & Wells network were the primary

organizers.

Figure 2. "Artifact" record for fan survey. Courtesy of Renew Warehouse 13

(http://renewwarehouse13.com/). [ View larger image.]

[2.6] "Renew Warehouse 13"'s victory was bittersweet, as the show's fifth season was only six episodes and concluded with an authoritarian gesture toward Myka's heterosexuality

(ironic, given that Kenny is a gay man). Still, by placing mainstream portrayals, independent

media, and transformative works in dialogue, femslash communities have been leaders in

positioning themselves as a critical counterpublic with an investment in shifting the dominant

terms of representation. This stance was an organic outgrowth of fan activity precisely

because of the privileged correspondence between being queer women and transforming

queer female characters, which animates an imperative to see oneself reflected on screen.

[2.7] [2014] "I couldn't find enough lesbians in the media who actually got the

girl and came out on top and didn't kill themselves, but on the Internet, femslash

was giving me more than just a queer character who made it to the end of the

story. Femslash characters got to thrive and survive and have messy beautiful love.

I finally saw the happy endings I didn't know I was allowed to have…[F]emslash is

written by those whose identities and personal narratives are reflected in the

stories themselves…One of the great frustrations of LGBTQ media is the fact that so

little of our representations end up coming from LGBTQidentified creators, and

thus we see inaccurate portrayals with limited diversity. Femslash exists because

we were sick of being told we didn't exist, so we wrote ourselves into their stories."

—Kate (http://autostraddle.com/femslashcansavetheworldifweletit246684/)

[2.8] Since the early days of online femslash, as Maris (2016) observed within Xena

fandom, the themes of fans' transformative works of fiction and art have been tied to an

activist engagement with entertainment media. It is important not to erase the very real

presence of men and straight women in femslash communities, not to mention people with trans* and nonbinary gender identities. Nonetheless, while there are many barriers to

producing good data on a large scale, qualitative scholarship (Hanmer 2014; Ng 2008),

informal surveys, community selfdefinition, and our informal observations suggest that it is

accurate to say that an overwhelming majority of active participants in femslash fandom

identify as lesbian, bisexual, and/or queer women. This collective sensibility has been

determining for the ways a reflexive awareness of femslash in relation to fan culture and

media culture has translated into public modes of address and assembly.

[2.9] [International Day of Femslash, beginning July 2008] "The online

femslash community is set to celebrate the…annual International Day of Femslash;

an opportunity to raise its head high and proclaim to the world its delight in all

things femslash…For too many years, femslash has been treated as the distant

cousin to the het and slash king and queen of fandom, so this is our opportunity to

demonstrate to ourselves, as much as anyone else, that we are a force to be

reckoned with" (http://femslashday.com/?page_id=24). This organization has run

corresponding virtual fan conventions using chat rooms.

[2.10] [TGIFemslash, beginning February 2016] "TGIF/F is a multifandom,

femslash convention designed to build connections, encourage discussion, and

celebrate the media and characters we love…We celebrate many different kinds of

relationships between women, whether officially established onscreen or celebrated

by fans through subtext. Together, our voices demonstrate a true demand for

femslash representation in media. And best of all, the community we build creates

lifelong relationships and a true sense of belonging" (http://tgifemslash.com).

[2.11] [ClexaCon, beginning March 2017] "ClexaCon provides a platform to

build community, bringing together a diverse group of LGBTQ fans and content

creators from around the world….ClexaCon aims to empower media creators to

produce and distribute more positive LGBTQ content, providing educational

resources for the community to aid in the push for better representation. ClexaCon

will strive to lay the foundation for improved visibility within the media while

encouraging more LGBTQ women to participate in creating the stories they desire"

(http://clexacon.com/vision).

[2.12] Following fandom's language, the "queer" of this issue is closely allied with the

identitarian formation LGBTQ*, and it carries with it the idea that gender and sexuality are

crucial categories of being, that they can be transparently visible as essential categories in

the media, and that identity and visibility are profoundly linked for individuals and for society.

Queer theory has a stake in troubling these assumptions because of the hierarchies and

ideologies they leave undisturbed—the unified subject, the monogamous couple, binary

gender, whiteness, and capitalist aspirations, to name a few. We need the oppositional mode

of queerness, but if we're interested in resistance and what it means to fans, the politics of

visibility is a popular phenomenon that we should not discount. By contrast, though, if we

infer that femslash equates only to an identitybased call for and investment in portrayals of

queer women, then we might overlook an important dimension of these transformative

communities that is not reducible to a politics of visibility. Even if queer female fandom has

repeatedly talked back to mass media in these terms, demanding explicitly lesbian characters

and relationships on screen from Xena to the present day, they are still also engaged in

slashing—a creative intervention in these characters and relationships before and beyond

their explicit visibility. This special issue surveys and straddles the tensions percolating

through femslash in the current moment, when its online fan communities can claim a

historical consciousness and are poised to impact our larger mediascape in unprecedented

ways.

3. Previously on: Existing literature

[3.1] In an era of complex interchanges across rapidly changing digital platforms, media

aesthetics, labor systems, and individual and collective viewing practices, it is more difficult

than ever to say definitively how and where positive LGBTQ* images appear. The same could

be said of queer female fan communities, which are becoming interwoven with the

increasingly diffuse proliferation of online fan activities. Popular femslash followings of

couples on programs like Grey's Anatomy (ABC, 2005–), Lost Girl (Showcase, 2010–15), Once Upon a Time (ABC, 2011–), and Person of Interest have significant intersections with groups favoring male slash, het fan fiction, or other fan works based on those shows,

occupying many of the same online platforms. In some instances an explicit lesbian couple

coexisted with subtextual favorites (as in the aforementioned Brittana and Faberry 'ships on

Glee), just as onscreen heterosexual couples have always jockeyed with fans' queer pairings for attention. Thus, even delineating queer female fandom as an object of study—whether a

particular mode of visibility or a particular online community—is increasingly (and excitingly)

complicated.

[3.2] The particular inflection of women's engagement with televised women, the

underrepresentation of female characters in the mass media, and the unique interpretive

strategies involved in investing in femslash pairings point to specificities of queer female

fandom that warrant sustained analysis within the field of fan studies. A few scholars have

considered femslash directly (not merely as an aside in articles on male slash), particularly in

relation to Xena: Warrior Princess (Jones 2000a, 2000b, 2002; Hanmer 2003, 2014;

Hamming 2001) and other major fandoms (Isaksson 2009, 2010 on Buffy; Jones 2013 on

The XFiles [Ten Thirteen Productions/20th Television/20th Century Fox Television, 1993–

2002]; Kapurch 2015 on Disney). This body of work tends to foreground fan fiction as an axis

that connects us with fans' community structures, or fans' engagement with media texts, or

both. Today, research on femslash is gaining momentum and has included analysis of the

discourses fans use to define and circumscribe the boundaries of their activities and

communities (Stanfill 2013; Gonzales 2015). The contested relationship between fans and

commercial television creators is a newer avenue of inquiry. The multiplication and

fragmentation of film and television audiences mean that the industry is courting queer fans

in ways that it previously had not, and queer fans have a corresponding capacity to impact

and referee the industry via social media.

[3.3] Meanwhile, with the flowering of explicitly queer characters and narratives in popular

culture, much of the film and media research has turned to analyzing the terms of these

portrayals and their reception by fans looking for affirmation and visibility. Rebecca Beirne

([2007] 2012) opens her introduction to the anthology Televising Queer Women by

reiterating calls "over the years [by] the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender

communities…[for] fairer and more accurate representation of LGBT people on television" (1),

and the included essays bear out this emphasis (with a particular focus on The L Word

[Showtime, 2004–9]). There has been some scholarship on fan communities surrounding

lesbian media, such as Candace Moore's (2009) ethnography of The L Word viewing parties

and Maria San Filippo's (2015) framing of AfterEllen (http://www.afterellen.com/) as a site of

vernacular media criticism. Femslash fans occupy a particularly delicate corner of this nexus

of issues because of their partial overlap with traditions drawn simultaneously from creative

fandom, LGBTQ fandom, gay civil rights, and independent media.

Figure 3. Lesbian pulp novel cover featuring Janeway and Seven of Nine from Star Trek:

Voyager (UPN, 1995–2001). No. 6, "I Prefer Girls," by Tenderware (2000). The artist altered an existing cover painting by Robert Maguire (1963). [View larger image .]

[3.4] Perspectives on lesbian fan formations are further developed in the film and media

studies literature, which centers on screen texts and spectatorship. Alexander Doty authored

some of the foundational theory on subtext and queer reading strategies, including chapters

on Dorothy and the Wicked Witch (2000) and Laverne and Shirley (1993) as lesbianinflected

relationships. In Uninvited, Patricia White (1999) explores the imbrication of Hays Code–era Hollywood cinema with queer female eroticism, writing that visual systems and "stars,

costuming, reception, source material, and authorship can all introduce traces of a lesbian

historical presence that the narratives of the films exclude" (xvii). Lynne Joyrich (2001) offers a similar perspective on television in "Epistemology of the Console," which maps the

medium's various tactics for simultaneously showing and hiding queerness (a precursor to

debates about queerbaiting), culminating with the coming out of both Ellen DeGeneres and

her sitcom character, Ellen Morgan, in 1997 ( Ellen, ABC, 1994–98). Such scholars have

analyzed with great nuance the irreducibly queer language of mass media, but they rarely

examine practices or texts produced by queer or slash fans, and consequently they have

figured little in fan studies approaches to the topic (though Mel Stanfill's essay in this issue

builds upon Doty).

[3.5] There is a substantive body of research about queer online communities that could

also intersect an understanding of femslash, and scholars of mass media have chronicled the

history of LGBT representation and the emergence of a gay and lesbian market as a target

demographic. Overall, we can see that academic work on phenomena contiguous to femslash

has been on a divergent path from typical studies of male slash. As the next section outlines,

this queer female fandom issue of Transformative Works and Cultures enters this lacuna from

a fan studies perspective, offering an unprecedented collection of scholarship centered on

femslash communities and practices. Nonetheless, its focus moves fluidly between slash

traditions and these other lenses and sites for understanding queer female representation

and spectatorship. Collectively, the essays invite consideration of how to frame femslash

fandoms, scrutinize the contours of their emergence and evolution, and demonstrate a range

of media texts and analytical tools that highlight the theoretical and political stakes of

demarginalizing this research. 2017 is perhaps the ideal historical conjuncture for taking on

this task.

4. Up next 1: Femslash histories

[4.1] Several of the essays in this issue provide historical accounts of queer female

fandoms, a valuable endeavor both because these histories may be little known outside of

relatively small circles and because collectively they point to how shifts in fan cultures are

embedded in broader contexts of media production and representation.

[4.2] Ng historically contextualizes queerbaiting discourses, discussing how femslash fans

responded to textual and paratextual suggestions about the possibility of a canonical F/F

romance on Xena: Warrior Princess as compared to recent shows such as Rizzoli & Isles (TNT, 2010–16) and The 100. Whereas 15 to 20 years ago Xena/Gabrielle was mostly

understood as subtext because fans did not generally expect that a canonical samesex

romance could be depicted on the show, contemporary conditions of LGBTQ representation

have contributed to higher expectations of canonical queer depictions.

[4.3] In femslash fandom, Grey's Anatomy has become best known for the Callie/Arizona relationship, but Zuk discusses how the major F/F relationship that preceded that, between

Callie Torres and Erica Hahn, came about through collaboration between the show's writers

and GLAAD after Isaiah Washinton's use of homophobic language on set and its ensuing

fallout. Zuk's account also provides a reminder of how fans have moved through different

online spaces: before Tumblr, it was LiveJournal that hosted the bulk of fan interactions,

which was where many Callie/Erica fans interacted.

[4.4] Cameron discusses the genesis and evolution of the Web site Autostraddle

(https://www.autostraddle.com/), tracing the trajectories of two key founding members,

Riese and Laneia, and how their fan practices, beginning around The L Word, built up the

online community of site writers and visitors that became Autostraddle. More than simply the

history of a single Web site, Cameron's analysis demonstrates how fandom around a single

media text can productively proliferate in ways that eventually depart significantly from their

origins.

[4.5] Finally, Friedman discusses multiple lines of cultural and political development in

Japan that led to the genre now known as yuri, involving commercial manga publishers, the

mid20thcentury womencentric "S" movement, smaller manga presses and selfpublished

doujinshi works, and the increase of female and in some cases lesbian manga artists in the

1970s.

5. Up next 2: Framing queer female fandoms and the F/F continuum

[5.1] The authors within also provide several perspectives on how to approach the study of

queer female fandoms. What, if any, lines are to be drawn between close female friendships

and queer female relationships, and what are the implications for subtext versus canon?

[5.2] Stanfill argues for extending Doty's (1993) queer readings of womencentered sitcoms

such as Laverne & Shirley (ABC, 1976–83) or The Mary Tyler Moore Show (CBS, 1970–77) to all genres, proposing that those programs "that center on or are driven by a relationship

between women are structurally lesbian media, and that to locate structurally lesbian media

after the Internet is to locate femslash fandoms" (¶2). Stanfill is careful to clarify that the claim is not that "the characters in these shows really are lesbians…nor that their interactions really are intended to be perceived as sexual, nor that these relationships really are queer

representation" (¶3), but that a range of F/F intimacy comprises the category of structurally

lesbian media.

[5.3] In this vein, Narai's essay examines the genre of fan fiction that the author labels

homoaffection fic, which explores relationship dynamics between women that are not

primarily sexual. In a way, this genre moves in a reverse direction to most femslash fic,

which seeks to make romantic and sexual connections between female characters explicit

where they are not on the canonical program. In contrast, homoaffection fic highlights

emotional and physical intimacy that falls on the "lesbian continuum" that was first proposed by Adrienne Rich and that Stanfill applies to media.

[5.4] There are interesting resonances between Stanfill's and Narai's essays and Friedman's on the Japanese manga yuri genre, which currently encompasses texts differentially aimed at

male readers, lesbians, and a more general female audience, and which features narratives

ranging from romantic girls' love to explicitly lesbian. As Friedman notes, the yuri fandom has taken the term to mean "any narrative of love (romantic, sexual, intimate or not) between

women" (¶5.1), but the different kinds of yuri stories can be partly traced back to different historical origins.

[5.5] Ng also addresses the scope of femslash fandoms in considering how queerbaiting

discourses have evolved in the last few years. Whereas queerbaiting previously applied only

to depictions of samesex intimacy that did not become canonically romantic or sexual, the

term has become increasingly understood to refer to any instances where what is delivered

on screen fails to match viewer expectations of queer story lines if those expectations have

been intentionally fueled by those on the creative or marketing teams. As such, the "slash"

part of "femslash" no longer implies noncanonicity.

[5.6] In another discussion about canonical queer depictions, Serafini highlights the

problematic erasures of bisexuality in science fiction shows— Orphan Black (Space/BBC

America, 2013–), The 100, Wynonna Earp (CHCHDT/Syfy, 2016–)—which are partially

attributable to writers imagining their worlds as labelfree utopias, even though the "lesbian"

label or identity is more clearly claimed on those same shows.

6. Up next 3: The scope of queer female fandoms

[6.1] This issue also provides insight into further definitional questions. Who are femslash

fans, what are they fans of, and how can we describe and theorize their practices? Baker's

essay explores the usually unrecognized diversity of gender identities among fans by

surveying readers of "gendercreative" works (¶1) (including in this category fiction that swaps the gender of characters or features a variety of bodily transformations). A sizable

minority of respondents selfidentified in a range of ways that were genderqueer, gender

neutral, or "womanadjacent" (¶6) rather than simply as women, and Baker urges

researchers to attend to the "shattered surface" (¶5) of standardized terms.

[6.2] As for the fandoms discussed in the essays, the majority center on shows that air or

aired on North American television networks: Once Upon a Time, Grey's Anatomy, Orphan

Black, Rizzoli & Isles, Star Trek: Voyager (UPN, 1995–2001), Wynonna Earp, The L Word, The 100, and Xena: Warrior Princess. However, Zhao's essay about the fandoms around performers on the Chinese music idol show Super Girl (Hunan Satellite TV, 2004–6) and Lin's

on those around Kpop and Jpop musicians offer an important nonWestern perspective. In

addition, Day and Christian's discussion of independent Web series featuring queer black

female characters addresses fandoms associated with smallerscale productions.

[6.3] Beyond the sexual continuum, queer female fandoms manifest a range of approaches

to femalefemale relationships. In an essay on fan vidding that includes 11 examples of such

works, Russo notes that the collection goes "beyond conventional romance to explore

unrequited love, power dynamics, antagonism, casual sex, and other ambiguities" (¶1.8). In this vein, Pande and Moitra in this issue point out that many "fans invested in queer female

relationships" are drawn to pairings with "antagonist/collaborator dynamics" "that do not necessarily express affectionate intimacy," such as Buffy and Faith on Buffy the Vampire

Slayer, and Emma and Regina on Once Upon a Time (¶2.8). Similarly, Strauch discusses how Once Upon a Time fics build on Regina's canonical personal history and tensions in Emma and

Regina's canonical relationship to explore issues of consent, power play, and BDSM dynamics.

[6.4] Yet fandom has always consisted of spaces where normative discourses are not

challenged, and this holds true of queer female fandoms as well. Thus, Pande and Moitra also

argue that problematic treatments of race and ethnicity on Once Upon a Time have often

been ignored or downplayed by fans, even as a small number of Swan Queen fics do address

the topic of Regina's Latina identity in complex ways.

[6.5] This significant critique leads us toward essays that highlight less commonly discussed

fan formations and propose new ways of theorizing them. Russo offers us an innovative

metaphor for conceptualizing the practices and effects of femslash vidding, suggesting that

we think of these as akin to augmented reality (AR) headsets, which "augment their source

with a layer of interpretation that wouldn't be visible to the naked eye" (¶1.3). And while

alternative universe scenarios are well known in the fan fictional world, Zhao links their

deployment in fics featuring contemporary Chinese characters to the writers' aspirations for

bypassing current strictures on lesbian life in China. In another account of fandoms

negotiating reallife inequities, Day and Christian propose that black queer fans' practices of

"quaring" and shared recognition "undergird the reading practices that viewers bring to performances of black queer and femme identities in indie TV" when these representations

are wrought through "the paradoxical invisibility and hypervisibility of blackness and

queerness" (¶2.3).

[6.6] The issue's three book reviews further extend the possible dialogues around queer

female fandom. Although the reviewed volumes do not center on femslash or lesbian fan

activity, each considers phenomena that might inform our understanding of some of its

facets: shojo (girls') manga (Lamerichs), feminist blogging by teens (Marwick), and youth

activism online (McCracken).

7. Continuing questions and future directions

[7.1] Despite the descriptive and theoretical range of these essays, more research in these

areas would be valuable and timely. Queer female fan communities oriented around sources

other than major North American television programs—including the full range of television,

Web series, film, music, and other forms of media and performers—especially call for further

examination. On a broader level, a key goal of this special issue is to continue to interrogate

how we define and approach fan studies. We have argued that the distinctiveness of femslash

deserves its own focus, but it is important to consider how research terms, including this one,

bring their own histories, assumptions, and exclusions. In particular, work on the Global

North remains quantitatively dominant in studies of queer female fandom, but it should not

therefore overdetermine future topics and debates in the field.

Figure 4. Fan artist Yu Yong's rendition of China's Super Girl super couple, titled "Happy New

Year." Posted on Tieba Baidu (http://tieba.baidu.com ), February 17, 2007. [View larger

image.]

[7.2] Queer female fandoms are especially striking in the ways they continue to negotiate

shifting production/consumption landscapes, both within and beyond national borders, and

could be featured more prominently in convergence and industry studies. Besides being a

space for fan communities, how will social media impact other elements of fandom,

particularly interactions between viewers and producers—for example, in the aftermath of

commitments to the Lexa Pledge (Stanhope 2016)? The rise of streaming programming and

other online content also affects queer female media, and crowdfunding has become

significant for independent projects that wouldn't otherwise find financing. In addition to the

Web series discussed by Day and Christian, Carmilla (VerveGirl/KindaTV, 2014–16) has been

a great success among femslashers. How will queer female fandoms shape and be shaped by

these ongoing changes?

[7.3] We have commented above on how femslash fandoms manifest forms of political

agency. Even as we are wary, as scholars, about claiming fan practices as subversive, the

relationship of fan cultures to dominant systems of power remains a key question. For

example, one currently contentious issue within feminist spheres that also has resonances

throughout queer female fandoms is TERF (transexclusionary radical feminism) versus transinclusive feminism debates. How do discourses within femslash spaces about such topics in relation to media texts and beyond reflect and reinforce as well as challenge and transform

broader cultural politics?

[7.4] Many of the questions that occupy us in this issue are taken up in sophisticated ways

within fan communities themselves. As scholarfans (Doty's preferred term), we are invited

to negotiate our multiple positions as critical scholars of both the media texts we love and the

fandoms in which we participate. In Eve's experience of the inaugural ClexaCon and Julie's

experience of the first and second annual TGIFemslash cons, these sites of both critique and

appreciation—where identities of academic and fan, content creator and viewer variously intersect—are, at their best, generative of intellectual and creative engagement that

continues to energize our inquiries. We hope that some of the same synergies will emerge

through this issue's traverse of queer female fandoms.

8. Acknowledgments

[8.1] It has been our great pleasure and privilege to work on this special issue of TWC, and

it is not possible to properly acknowledge the depth of appreciation we feel toward the many

people who have helped make it possible. They have suffered hard deadlines, late nights, and

short due dates. As always, we thank the authors in this issue, whose original work makes

TWC possible; the peer reviewers, who freely provide their time and expertise; the editorial

team members, whose engagement with and solicitation of material is so valuable; and the

production team members, who transform rough manuscripts into publishable documents.

We would especially like to express our gratitude to journal editors Kristina Busse and Karen

Hellekson, with whom we had numerous fruitful exchanges about the details of the issue.

[8.2] The following people worked on TWC No. 24 in an editorial capacity: Julie Levin Russo

and Eve Ng (guest editors); Kristina Busse and Karen Hellekson (editors); Cameron Salisbury

and Francesca Coppa (Symposium); and Louisa Stein and Katie Morrissey (Review).

[8.3] The following people worked on TWC No. 24 in a production capacity: Rrain Prior

(production editor); Beth Friedman, Shoshanna Green, and Christine Mains (copyeditors);

Claire P. Baker, Sarah New, Rebecca Sentance, and Gabriel Simm (layout); and Amanda

Retartha, Latina Vidolova and Rachel P. Kreiter (proofreaders).

[8.4] TWC thanks the board of the Organization for Transformative Works. OTW provides

financial support and server space to TWC but is not involved in any way in the content of the

journal, which is editorially independent.

[8.5] TWC thanks all its board members, whose names appear on TWC's masthead, as well

as the additional peer reviewers who provided service for TWC No. 24: Tonje Andersen,

Hongwei Bao, Judith Fathallah, Julia Himberg, Melanie Kohnen, and Maria San Filippo.

9. Bibliography

[9.1] In addition to the references from this introduction, we have included further

literature on femslash and queer female fan communities below. As a bibliography, this

section compiles commonly cited scholarship, drawing on citations from the authors in this

special issue.

Beirne, Rebecca, ed. (2007) 2012. Televising Queer Women: A Reader. 2nd ed. London:

Palgrave Macmillan.

Boese, Christine. 1997. "The Ballad of the Internet Nutball: Chaining Rhetorical Visions from the Margins of the Margins to the Mainstream in the Xenaverse." PhD diss., Rensselaer

Polytechnic Institute. http://nutball.com/dissertation.

Butler, Bethonie. 2016. "TV Keeps Killing Off Lesbian Characters. The Fans of One Show Have

Revolted." Washington Post, April 4. http://washingtonpost.com/news/artsand

entertainment/wp/2016/04/04/tvkeepskillingofflesbiancharactersthefansofoneshow

haverevolted/.

Collier, Noelle R., Christine A. Lumadue, and H. Ray Wooten. 2009. " Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Xena: Warrior Princess: Reception of the Texts by a Sample of Lesbian Fans and Web

Site Users." Journal of Homosexuality 56 (5): 575–609.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/00918360903005253.

Cranz, Alex. 2016. "The History of Femslash, the Tiny Fandom That's Taking Over the

Universe." io9, April 8. http://io9.gizmodo.com/thehistoryoffemslashthetinyfandom

thatstakingo1765143690.

Doty, Alexander. 1993. Making Things Perfectly Queer: Interpreting Mass Culture.

Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Doty, Alexander. 2000. Flaming Classics: Queering the Film Canon. New York: Routledge.

Framke, Caroline. 2016. "Queer Women Have Been Killed on Television for Decades. Now The

100' s Fans Are Fighting Back." Vox, March 25. http://vox.com/2016/3/25/11302564/lesbian

deathstelevisiontrope.

Gonzalez, Victoria M. 2016. "Swan Queen, Shipping, and Boundary Regulation in Fandom."

Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 22. http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2016.0669.

Green, Shoshanna, Cynthia Jenkins, and Henry Jenkins. 1998. "'Normal Female Interest in

Men Bonking': Selections from The Terra Nostra Underground and Strange Bedfellows. " In Theorizing Fandom, edited by Cheryl Harris and Allison Alexander, 9–38. New York: Hampton

Press.

Hamming, Jeanne E. 2001. "Whatever Turns You On: BecomingLesbian and the Production

of Desire in the Xenaverse." Genders 34. http://www.whoosh.org/news/cache/011101

genders.html.

Hanmer, Rosalind. 2003. "Lesbian Subtext Talk: Experiences of the Internet Chat."

International Journal of Sociology and Social Policy 23 (5): 80–106.

Hanmer, Rosalind. 2014. "'Xenasubtexttalk': The Impact on the Lesbian Fan Community

through Its Online Reading and Writing of Lesbian Fan Fiction in Relation to the Television

Series Xena: Warrior Princess. " Feminist Media Studies 14 (4): 608–22.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/14680777.2012.754778.

Helford, Elyce Rae. 2000. "Feminism, Queer Studies, and the Sexual Politics of Xena: Warrior Princess. " In Fantasy Girls: Gender in the New Universe of Science Fiction and Fantasy Television, edited by Elyce Rae Helford, 135–62. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield.

Isaksson, Malin. 2009. "Buffy/Faith Adult Femslash: Queer Porn with a Plot." Slayage 7 (4).

http://whedonstudies.tv/volume71.html.

Isaksson, Malin. 2010. "The Erotics of Pain: BDSM Femslash Fan Fiction." In Making Sense of Pain: Critical and Interdisciplinary Perspectives, 203–10. Oxford, UK: InterDisciplinary Press.

Jones, Bethan. 2013. "Mulder/Scully versus the GWoman and the Fowl One." In Fic: Why

Fanfiction Is Taking Over the World, edited by Anne Jamison, 122–29. Dallas: Smart Pop.

Jones, Sara Gwenllian. 2000a. "Histories, Fictions, and Xena: Warrior Princess. " Television and New Media 1 (4): 403–18. http://dx.doi.org/10.1177/152747640000100403.

Jones, Sara Gwenllian. 2000b. "Starring Lucy Lawless?" Continuum 14 (1): 9–22.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/713657674.

Jones, Sara Gwenllian. 2002. "The Sex Lives of Cult Television Characters." Screen 43 (1):

79–90. http://dx.doi.org/10.1093/screen/43.1.79.

Joyrich, Lynne. 2001. "Epistemology of the Console." Critical Inquiry 27 (3): 439–67.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1086/449016.

Kapurch, Katie. 2015. "Rapunzel Loves Merida: Melodramatic Expressions of Lesbian Girlhood

and Teen Romance in Tangled, Brave, and Femslash." Journal of Lesbian Studies 19 (4):

436–45. http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/10894160.2015.1057079.

Krisi. 2013. "Information Flow Analysis of a Small Community." Blank Chapters, March 19.

http://blankchapters.com/2013/03/19/informationflowanalysisofasmallcommunity/.

Lamerichs, Nicolle. 2012. "The Mediation of Fandom in Karin Giphart's Maak me blij. "

Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 11. http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2012.0407.

Lothian, Alexis, Kristina Busse, and Robin Anne Reid. 2007. "'Yearning Void and Infinite

Potential': Online Slash Fandom as Queer Female Space." English Language Notes 45 (2): 103–11.

Maris, Elena. 2016. "Hacking Xena: Technological Innovation and Queer Influence in the

Production of Mainstream Television." Critical Studies in Media Communication 33 (1): 123–

37. http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/15295036.2015.1129063.

Marwick, Alice, Mary L. Gray, and Mike Ananny. 2003. "'Dolphins Are Just Gay Sharks': Glee

and the Queer Case of Transmedia as Text and Object." Television and New Media 14 (6):

627–47.

Maser, Verena. 2013. "Beautiful and Innocent, Female SameSex Intimacy in the Japanese Yuri Genre." PhD diss., Universität Trier.

McNutt, Myles. 2016. "When Fan Engagement Goes Wrong: The 100, Shameless, and the

Unsustainable Dynamics of Social TV." AV Club, April 11. http://avclub.com/article/whenfan

engagementgoeswrong234346.

Moore, Candace. 2009. "Liminal Places and Spaces: Public/Private Considerations." In

Production Studies: Cultural Studies of Media Industries, edited by Vicki Mayer, Miranda

Banks, and John Caldwell, 125–39. New York: Routledge.

Ng, Eve. 2008. "Reading the Romance of Fan Cultural Production: Music Videos of a

Television Lesbian Couple." Popular Communication 6 (2): 103–21.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/15405700701746525.

Russo, Julie Levin. 2009. "Sex Detectives: Law & Order: SVU's Fans, Critics, and Characters Investigate Lesbian Desire." Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 3.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2009.0155.

Russo, Julie Levin. 2013. "Textual Orientation: Female Fandom Online." In The Routledge Companion to Media and Gender, edited by Cynthia Carter, Linda Steiner, and Lisa

McLaughlin, 450–60. New York: Routledge.

Russo, Julie Levin. Forthcoming. "From Subtext to Queerbaiting: The History and Politics of

Femslash." In The Routledge Companion to Media Fandom, edited by Melissa Click and

Suzanne Scott. New York: Routledge.

Ryan, Maureen. 2016. "What TV Can Learn from The 100 Mess." Variety, March 14.

http://variety.com/2016/tv/opinion/the100lexajasonrothenberg1201729110/.

San Filippo, Maria. 2015. "Before and After AfterEllen: Online Queer Cinephile Communities

as Critical Counterpublics." In Film Criticism in the Digital Age, edited by Mattias Frey and Cecilia Sayad, 117–36. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press.

Stanfill, Mel. 2013. "'They're Losers, but I Know Better': IntraFandom Stereotyping and the

Normalization of the Fan Subject." Critical Studies in Media Communication 30 (2): 117–34.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/15295036.2012.755053.

Stanhope, Kate. 2016. "Bury Your Gays: TV Writers Tackle Trope, the Lexa Pledge and Offer

Advice to Showrunners." Hollywood Reporter, June 11. http://hollywoodreporter.com/live

feed/buryyourgaysatxfestival901800.

Wakefield, Sarah R. 2001. "'Your Sister in St. Scully': An Electronic Community of Female

Fans of The XFiles. " Journal of Popular Film and Television 29 (3): 130–37.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/01956050109601018.

Watercutter, Angela. "It's Harder to Kill Off Gay Characters When They're Trending." Wired,

April 14. http://wired.com/2016/04/tvlgbtqcharacterssocialmediaburyyourgays/.

White, Patricia. 1999. Uninvited: Classical Hollywood Cinema and Lesbian Representability.

Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

Yang, Ling, and Hongwei Bao. 2012. "Queerly Intimate: Friends, Fans, and Affective

Communication in a Super Girl Fan Fiction Community." Cultural Studies 26 (6): 842–71.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/09502386.2012.679286.

Yeung, Stephanie M. 2014. "YouTube as De Facto Lesbian Archive: Global Fandom, Online

Viewership and Vulnerability." In "Television Connectivity," edited by Taylor Nygaard, special issue, Spectator 34 (2): 43–51.

Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Theory

Between text, paratext, and context: Queerbaiting and the

contemporary media landscape

Eve Ng

Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, United States

[0.1] Abstract— I discuss the concept of queerbaiting as emergent from viewer

readings of both textual and paratextual content at a particular juncture of LGBT

media representation. While fan works as paratexts have attracted attention for

their queered readings and narratives, there has been little scholarly consideration

of how official paratexts that suggest or address queer readings, particularly

promotional material and public commentary from producers, inform viewer

engagement with media texts, and how they interact with contemporary conditions

of media production and LGBT content. Examining F/F pairings from two television

shows, Rizzoli & Isles (TNT, 2010–16) and The 100 (CW, 2014–), I propose a model that incorporates text, paratext, and the context of LGBT representation to account

for how both noncanonical and canonically queer narratives can exemplify

queerbaiting discourses, as well as where queer subtextual readings are positioned

in this interpretative space. In addition, I highlight the historical contingency of

queerbaiting in terms of shifts in producer/viewer interactions and the character of

LGBT narratives in reshaping the contestation of media meaning making.

[0.2] Keywords— Fan activism; Intertextuality; Paratext; Queer representation

Ng, Eve. 2017. "Queerbaiting and the Contemporary Media Landscape in Rizzoli &

Isles and The 100. " In "Queer Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.917.

1. Introduction

[1.1] In the last few years, the pairings of Jane and Maura on Rizzoli & Isles (TNT,

2010–16) and Clarke and Lexa on The 100 (CW, 2014–) have contended for favorite

F/F couple or favorite television couple on sites such as AfterEllen and Zimbio (note 1).

Yet they have also been commonly cited as examples of queerbaiting, a charge that

has grown louder against various shows and has been addressed on both mainstream

and LGBToriented sites (Bridges 2016; Gennis 2014; K. 2013; Langfelder 2016; Rose

2013).

[1.2] I use the term queerbaiting to refer to situations where those officially

associated with a media text court viewers interested in LGBT narratives—or become

aware of such viewers—and encourage their interest in the media text without the text ever definitively confirming the nonheterosexuality of the relevant characters.

However, I approach its application to Clarke/Lexa, a pairing of two canonically queer

women, not as an incorrect or overly broad use of an already defined term, but as

evidence of a conceptual motility that invites further consideration.

[1.3] While there has been much discussion about the significance of

producer/viewer engagement to fan cultures (Shefrin 2004; Jenkins 2006; Stein

2015), as well as fanqueered readings and writings of mainstream media (Bacon

Smith 1992; Hellekson and Busse 2006; Jenkins 1992), I identify queerbaiting as a

phenomenon emerging from the increased significance of media paratexts (Gray

2010), especially promotional content and producer commentary, and what I call

queer contextuality, referring to how both the current and previous landscapes of

LGBT media narratives inform evaluations of particular texts. The analytical model I

propose is applicable not just to both Rizzoli & Isles (R&I) and The 100; it outlines a more general space of textual and paratextual interpretation that can account for the

historical contingencies productive of both queer subtext and queerbaiting (note 2).

[1.4] In what they both do and do not challenge as queer enough, queerbaiting

discourses can be read for broader tensions between more and less progressive

energies in fan cultures. Still, as viewer critique, they represent a politically significant

moment in a longer tradition of fan activism for LGBT story lines as early as Star Trek

(NBC, 1966–67) (Tulloch and Jenkins 1995) and in media content worlds more

generally (Brough and Shresthova 2012). Furthermore, queerbaiting discourses

address the character of producer/viewer interactions, and for queer female narratives

in particular, serve as a touchstone for greater mainstream recognition of the

subordinate status of sexual minorities and women in both representational and reallife contexts.

2. Reading intertextually: Paratextuality and queer contextuality

[2.1] The complexity of reading texts has been a cornerstone of both fan studies and

queer media studies: despite authorial intentions, multiple readings are available, and

the character of televisual texts makes them particularly open to interpretation.

Following Stuart Hall's (1973) Encoding/Decoding, Fiske's (1987) influential model

distinguished between preferred readings, which are intended by the producer, and

alternative or resistant readings, where audiences read against the grain.

[2.2] While queer readings have not traditionally been the preferred readings of

mainstream media, the subordinate status of such noncanonical interpretations has

been challenged from two angles. First, in his analysis of popular media, Doty (1993)

rejected a hierarchical ordering of readings, arguing against considering queer

interpretations as simply " subtextual, subcultural, alternative readings, or pathetic and delusional attempts to see something that isn't there" (xii). Instead, he

maintained, they should be seen as always present elements of putatively "straight"

narratives of popular culture. Because of this, Doty's work is part of queer studies

approaches pointing to how the queer is constitutive of, rather than simply marginal

to, the heteronormative (Butler 1990, 1993). Second, despite the availability of queer

interpretative challenges, scholars have argued for the importance of viewers having

canonically LGBT representations rather than being confined to excavating queerly

resistant readings (Jenkins 1995; Gross 2001). As I will demonstrate, both of these

threads entwine in discourses on queerbaiting.

[2.3] In terms of the mechanics of reading texts, Fiske (1987) identified three codes

that structure meaning—reality, representation, and ideology. "Reality" is constructed

through shared sociocultural understandings of what is signified by physical

appearance and by verbal and nonverbal communication; visual and auditory aspects

conveyed by technical elements (e.g., camera work, lighting, sound, and music)

compose the representational level; and a third, more complex level of ideological

coding (for concepts such as "individualism," "capitalism," and "patriarchy") is organized from the other two types of code. Textual polysemy often involves

interpretative contradictions, where one reading implies narrative facts that are

incompatible with those of another reading. However, contradictory readings emerge

not simply through properties of a text itself, but through additional content that

viewers bring to their readings; this is the phenomenon of intertextuality.

[2.4] In media studies, intertextuality often refers to viewers drawing on other texts

of the same kind; reading the rebooted Battlestar Galactica (SyFy, 2004–9), for

example, by referencing the original series, other scifi shows (such as Star Trek), and

so on. However, as Gray (2010) discussed, media texts are also associated with

various paratexts both from official sources, including prequel and sequel films, studio

promotional materials, tiein toys and games, and deleted scenes and producer

commentary on DVD and Bluray releases, and from fanproduced texts.

[2.5] Gray did not consider in any detail producers' commentary about their texts, a

genre that I call producer paratext. Its impact has increased with the growth of social

media and the move of entertainment conventions such as ComicCon into

mainstream culture. However, Gray noted that official paratexts do not always

communicate a uniform message, in part because promotional content is the purview

of marketers rather than producers. Another kind of official paratext (not mentioned

by Gray) is the gag reels commonly included on DVD sets, which constitute a hybrid

product of the marketing and creative teams; although the reels are put together by

the studio, actors are aware that what they are filmed doing on set may end up on

those reels, and this content is therefore also a channel through which producers

communicate with viewers. Such a range of sources for official paratexts makes them

—like texts—polysemous.

[2.6] Media paratexts make up a transmedia environment in which both producer

and consumer participate (Jenkins 2006), examples of which have been identified for

various shows, such as Heroes (NBC, 2006–10) (Mann 2009), Lost (ABC, 2004–10)

(Mann 2010), and Glee (Fox, 2009–15) (Marwick, Gray, and Ananny 2014; Stork

2014). Producer involvement with viewers derives in part from the greater

precariousness of television production in a postnetwork era of audience fragmentation

(Lotz 2007), and the proliferation of "quality" scripted programming (Carr 2014;

Leopold 2013) is also an impetus for producers to heighten the appeal and profile of

their shows through paratextual engagement.

[2.7] Queerbaiting discourses highlight the fact that such engagement around queer

content or readings has implications specific to viewer experiences of LGBT media

narratives more generally, which make up what I have labeled queer contextuality.

There are two elements in counterpoint. On the one hand, there are now

unprecedented numbers of LGBT characters across network, cable, and streaming sites

(GLAAD 2015), reflecting the pursuit of niche audiences. In the 1990s, gay and lesbian

narrative elements were initially targeted at affluent, predominantly white, and

progressive straight viewers attracted to programming that they saw as hip and edgy

(Becker 2006), but the industry also began explicitly courting LGBT viewers. For

example, Sender (2007) discussed how the cable channel Bravo began "dualcasting" in

the early 2000s, seeking to attract a mix of straight women and gay men, and

Himberg (2014) argued that the use of lesbian content reflects current network

strategies of "multicasting" to appeal to an even broader mix of audiences. On the

other hand, there are still few shows with queer female characters as leads, and there

remains a cumulative representational deficit across the time period that many

viewers have been consuming media. In addition, a disproportionate number of queer

characters continue to meet untimely ends (Riese 2016), a residue of the Hays Code's

stipulation that homosexuality could be depicted only in an unappealing or negative

fashion (Russo 1987). Queer contextuality, then, informs how viewers assess (1) the

validity of reading queerness in a text, (2) the political and economic feasibility

(particularly in regard to studio and network financial considerations) of having a

canonical LGBT narrative, and (3) the quality of the canonical LGBT narratives that are

produced.

[2.8] Queerbaiting is the outcome of increased paratextual discourse about LGBT

content at a specific moment of queer contextuality. We might be tempted to reserve

the term, in the sense that I use it, for media texts that fail to have canonically queer

characters despite textual and paratextual content that suggests the possibility.

However, doing so would not explain why The 100, with a canonical F/F couple, has

also been widely cited as an example of queerbaiting. The crucial element is not a lack

of canonicity, but how satisfactorily queerness plays out in the canonical text relative

to viewer expectations that emerge from the reading of multiple texts and paratexts

and that take account of queer contextuality. That is, queerbaiting's referents expand

because the text–paratext–queer contextuality matrix changes over time, although its

structure remains the same.

[2.9] I represent these elements in figures 1 through 4, which provide a

diagrammatic way to map out different media texts relative to each other, and to

situate queerbaiting in relation to other interpretative possibilities. The figures do not

imply that a text can be definitively classified as queerbaiting or not; indeed, what

counts as queerbaiting is often contested (note 3). What the model presents is a schema for how a particular text comes to be seen as queerbaiting by at least some

viewers. The vertical axis represents viewer expectations of canonical queer content,

while the horizontal axis represents textual content on a spectrum from subtextual to

canonical (figure 1).

Figure 1. Text–paratext–queer contextuality matrix, basic elements A. [View larger

image.]

[2.10] Intertextual readings of textual content and paratextual content inform viewer

expectations of canonical queer content (figure 2). In turn, intertextual readings are

informed by queer contextuality, and queer contextuality also informs viewer

expectations of canonical queer content independent of any one media text, as well as

assessments of the quality of canonical queer content (figure 3).

Figure 2. Text–paratext–queer contextuality matrix, basic elements B. [View larger

image.]

Figure 3. Text–paratext–queer contextuality matrix, basic elements C. [View larger

image.]

[2.11] Figure 4 additionally labels three different spaces: the realm of queerbaiting

(shaded red), where viewers have high expectations for quality canonical queer

content, but consider the quality of the actual queer content to be low; desired queer

representation (shaded green), where the quality of canonical queer content matches

viewers' high expectations; and queer subtext (shaded blue), where queer content is

only suggested, not canon, but viewer expectations of having canonical queer content

are low. I return to these diagrams after examining the examples from R&I and The

100, but first, provide a snapshot of the shift in viewer practices from reading

subtextually to identifying queerbaiting that underscores the historicity of

queerbaiting's emergence.

Figure 4. Text–paratext–queer contextuality matrix, with queer subtext, queerbaiting,

and desired queer representation areas situated. [View larger image .]

3. From subtextuality to queerbaiting

[3.1] While media producers have never prevented viewers from reading against the

grain, the norm used to be not to acknowledge, let alone encourage, queer

interpretations of canonically heterosexual characters and narratives. Breaking from

this, Xena: Warrior Princess (USA Networks and syndication, 1995–2001) was one of

the earliest mainstream programs where content strongly suggestive of samesex

romantic or sexual interest, between Xena and her companion Gabrielle, was both

intentionally included and publicly acknowledged by producers (Maris 2016). Although

it aired well before the concept of queerbaiting that I use here emerged, Xena was

also read intertextually, which included taking account of the canonical text, official

paratexts, and queer contextuality.

[3.2] In a 1996 interview, executive producer Liz Friedman noted, "We opened up [a

season 2 episode] with the two of them fishing naked, and we're about to have a

Halloween episode that will certainly have some nice moments for our queer fans, a

little lesbian vampire show" (Friedman 1996). Lucy Lawless (Xena) also commented

suggestively in another interview that Xena's fantasy vacation would be "a biennial

sailing trip to Lesbos" (B. 2003). Such comments occurred in the context of both Xena

and Gabrielle having occasional male love interests, and a sizable audience segment

who preferred Xena to be romantically paired with the god Ares. While the protagonist

of Ellen DeGeneres's sitcom Ellen (ABC, 1994–98) had come out in a fourthseason

episode, the show ended the next season, and there were no other US shows with

queer female leads. Despite dissatisfaction about the continuous "will they/won't they"

tease, then, a large proportion of Xena/Gabrielle fans accepted that subtext was as far

as Xena the show could go, and fanfiction would be the domain for explicitly romantic

narratives (Hanmer 2014).

[3.3] A decade or two later, a number of shows are being referenced as examples of

queerbaiting, although the concept has only begun to attract indepth academic

analyses, primarily of male/male pairings. As Collier (2015) and Fathallah (2015)

discuss, the canonical text of Sherlock (BBC and PBS, 2010–), which has a large

"Johnlock" (John Watson/Sherlock Holmes) fandom, has included various nods to

Watson and Holmes as a couple, including other characters assuming that they are

together romantically and interactions between the two suggestive of attraction or

flirtation. One episode shows Holmes about to kiss another male character, Moriarty,

before revealing that the moment was being imagined by a female fan. Collier (2015)

identifies the show as an example of queerbaiting primarily because of such textual

elements, even as show producers have sought to shut down Johnlock readings. In

contrast, while Fathallah (2015) recognizes that various scenes could be seen as

queerbaiting, she argues that the text still provides "queer disruption" by offering

comments by Watson or Holmes that "can be read as ruptures in the performance of heterosexual masculinity" (491), as well as through the campy villainry of Moriarty,

whose initial reading by Sherlock as gay and later narrative establishment as straight

provide "a 'hauntology' of queerness" (492).

[3.4] Collier (2015) also discusses Supernatural (WB and CW, 2005–), many fans of

which favor the M/M pairing of Dean and Castiel (Destiel), as an example of

queerbaiting. As in Sherlock, there are many textual elements that invite viewers to

read the characters' relationship as romantic, including each one's importance to the

other, scenes of emotional intensity and physical intimacy, and the failure of both to

deny that they are a couple when other characters assume it. Furthermore, the

Supernatural creative team has supported fans' queer readings in producer paratexts

on social media, in interviews, and at fan conventions, albeit only to a degree. Collier

describes how producers of both shows seek to assert ultimate control of the

narrative, whether through episode content or through public interactions with fans.

[3.5] Collier's work aside, there has been little discussion of producer paratexts and

queerbaiting; in fact, besides Gray (2010), most discussions about the significance of

media paratexts concern those that are fanproduced, although not all explicitly

theorize them as paratextual (those that do include Fathallah 2016; Leavenworth

2015). Nordin (2015) notes, without exploring further, that fan discourses of

queerbaiting sometimes reference official paratexts such as trailers and promos, which

are read as a promise of what the text could deliver.

[3.6] Cavalcante's (2013) analysis of TransAmerica (2005) does not address

queerbaiting, but is pertinent in discussing how paratexts do "double work." He

examines how the film's reviews, posters, and DVD commentary sought to corral

readings about LGBT subjectivity, a phenomenon that has also been noted for other

films, such as Fight Club (1999) (Brookey and Westerfelhaus 2002) and Brokeback

Mountain (2005) (Cooper and Pease 2008). However, Cavalcante argues that despite

an intent for "paratextual domestication" to "subordinate transgender themes and

advance certain reductive tropes and stereotypes," the paratexts also "invite wider

cultural conversations about sexuality and gender, and include transgender individuals

within the national family" (88).

[3.7] Neither textual nor paratextual content alone can determine the meanings of

media texts, but these accounts illustrate the significance of paratexts for reading

texts. That is, the queerly polysemous is not simply a matter of textual character—the

queerness that Doty (1993) and others have argued inheres in popular texts—or of

reception—the ability of viewers (including scholars) to read queerly. Rather, text,

paratext, and queer contextuality are all at play, and it is their specific configurations

that determine how queerbaiting discourses arise for any particular show, as I

illustrate in analyses of R&I and The 100.

4. Methodology

[4.1] I discuss textual and paratextual material in R&I and The 100 that has been

particularly important for romantic readings of Jane/Maura and Clarke/Lexa. For the

textual content of R&I, Fiske (1987) provides a useful model for outlining relevant

codings of the characters' appearance and communication, technical filmic

conventions, and ideological codings of family and intimacy. Televisual semiotic

conventions are also relevant to Clarke and Lexa's scenes on The 100, but since their

relationship was canonical and viewers therefore did not need to read a romantic bond

through the usual "subtextual" methods, I primarily outline the key narrative

developments.

[4.2] With both shows having a large amount of paratextual content, I focus on

material that is most pertinent to queerbaiting discourses. These include producer

paratexts from show runners, writers, and actors that are representative of their

comments about the relationships in question (note 4). For R&I, I also discuss promotional paratexts for upcoming seasons and segments from the DVD blooper

reels.

5. Textual content: Rizzoli & Isles

[5.1] Rizzoli & Isles, coproduced by Warner Horizon Studios, Hurdler Productions,

and Ostar Entertainment, premiered on Time Warner's TNT network in 2010, and

wrapped its final, seventh season in 2016. Jane Rizzoli, a homicide detective, and

Maura Isles, chief medical examiner for Massachusetts, work together in a Boston

police department. Jane's mother and brothers are often present, while Maura is not

usually shown to have her own familial unit independent of Jane and her family.

Already friends when the show begins, both women have had several male love

interests since season 1, but there is a variety of textual content supporting a

romantic reading of their relationship.

[5.2] The contrast between the two characters' appearance and demeanor evokes a

butch/femme dynamic, especially combined with Jane's repeatedly protecting Maura

from danger. Jane, a tomboy from childhood, favors pants, Tshirt, and blazer, while

Maura is typically clad in conventionally feminine fashion. Furthermore, the show has

acknowledged both that Jane might be seen as a lesbian (in 1.02, an angry

interviewee calls her a "a skinny greaseball dyke detective") and that people may

assume or believe Jane and Maura to be a couple (1.06, 2.03, 5.04). The two have

discussed the possibility of being attracted to women (1.06), and Jane has asked

Maura, somewhat jokingly, to confirm that she is not attracted to her (2.03). They

have frequently expressed physical and verbal affection and had emotionally revealing

conversations, on two occasions while lying on a bed together (1.01, 3.08).

[5.3] As for technical elements, multiple scenes have been framed, lit, and scored to

code emotional and physical intimacy between Jane and Maura. For example, in 1.09,

as the two sit inclined toward each other on a park bench having an emotionally

intense conversation, there are closeups of their faces, as well as of Jane's hand

caressing Maura's knee, and the score marks the interaction as emotional and

intimate.

[5.4] In terms of ideological codings for family and intimacy, Jane's mother, who

lives in Maura's guesthouse, interacts with Maura like she is another daughter. Jane is

also often over at Maura's, although Jane's family members are often present as well.

These scenes of domesticity therefore have some similarity to depictions of married

couples, although the family dynamic also undercuts a romantic connection that is

more readily available in scenes with just Jane and Maura. A significant narrative

parallel occurs in a plotline involving serial killer Charles Hoyt, whose modus operandi

is to restrain the man of a heterosexual couple and force him to watch Hoyt assault

and murder the woman before also being killed. Hoyt's treatment of Jane and Maura

significantly mirrors this; he threatens to rape Maura when she interviews him in 1.08,

while his main goal regarding Jane is to kill her, and after he escapes in 2.10 and

captures the two women, he attempts to kill Maura while forcing Jane, who is

restrained, to watch.

6. Textual content: The 100

[6.1] The 100, coproduced by CBS Television Studios, Warner Bros. Television, and

Alloy Entertainment, premiered on the CW network in 2014, with season 3 airing in

2016. In a postnuclear apocalyptic world, Clarke Griffin, the lead character, heads a

group, the "Arkers," who establish a settlement called Arkadia, while Lexa is the

commander of the "Grounders," with whom the Arkers find themselves in conflict at

the beginning of the show. The narrative suggests that Clarke would be categorized as

bisexual and Lexa as a lesbian in modern identity parlance, although these terms are

not used onscreen.

[6.2] Clarke and Lexa meet in the middle of season 2 while negotiating a truce

between their two forces. The two grow closer after agreeing to fight a common

enemy, during which Lexa tells Clarke about her last lover, a woman who is now dead.

Over several episodes, Clarke and Lexa share scenes of emotional intensity and

physical proximity. Ultimately Lexa initiates a kiss, which Clarke reciprocates briefly before apologizing that she is not yet ready to be with anyone. They part ways at the

end of season 2 after Lexa makes a tactical decision to abandon Clarke and their

military alliance. As season 3 opens, Lexa has Clarke brought to the city of Polis, from

which Lexa now rules, for Clarke's protection. Initially furious at Lexa, Clarke rebuilds

her personal and professional bonds with her over the next episodes as they work

together again.

[6.3] In 3.07, Lexa invites Clarke to stay in Polis as her guest despite a new

injunction that no Arkers be permitted within Grounder territory, but Clarke reluctantly

decides that she must return to Arkadia to deal with problems there. When she goes to

say goodbye to Lexa, they kiss and make love for the first time. After Clarke returns to

her room, one of Lexa's advisers, opposed to her closeness to Clarke, shoots at Clarke,

but when Lexa rushes into the room, his bullet strikes her instead, and Lexa dies with

Clarke trying in vain to save her.

7. Paratextual content: Rizzoli & Isles

[7.1] As I noted earlier, paratexts are subject to multiple interpretations since they

come from more than one source; additionally, the same person may say different

things at different times or be intentionally ambiguous. Therefore, I cite the content

below not as evidence of the "true" intentions of producers, but as key paratexts that

have been read alongside textual content in discussions about queerbaiting.

[7.2] R&I producers have commented that they did not intend to depict sexual

tension between Jane and Maura, and stated or strongly implied that the pairing would

never become romantic, but they have also revealed an intent to encourage the hopes

of Jane/Maura (or "Rizzles") fans. Janet Tamaro, show runner for seasons 1 through 4,

noted that "the lesbian theory endlessly amuses me, and it amuses the cast," but

"Rizzoli and Isles have been heterosexual from the first episode" (Hochman 2011).

Executive producer Jan Nash stated that the two are no more than "each other's best

friends" (Bendix 2014), and was quoted in TV Guide as saying that Jane/Maura was

"not something that will be in the cards," in a paragraphlong quotation captioned "No Rizzles…ever." However, that part of his comment was soon deleted, and the

subheading changed to "No Rizzles this season?" (Eng 2015) (note 5). Although

neither the change to the text nor the reasons for it were acknowledged, a likely

reason is that the original article too categorically shot down any chance of a

Jane/Maura relationship, so the text was edited to make it more ambiguous.

[7.3] Angie Harmon (Jane) and Sasha Alexander (Maura) have also stated that they

see the relationship between their characters as only friendship, although they

recognize their onscreen chemistry and understand why viewers imagine them as a

couple (Snarker 2012). Still, Alexander has suggested that Maura might be open to

samesex encounters, commenting that "if Jane were open to it, I think Maura would

absolutely experiment because she's just a little bit more openminded" (Anderson

Minshall 2012). Furthermore, Harmon acknowledged that the show has intentionally

included lesbian innuendo: "Sometimes we'll do a take for that demo…I'll brush by

[Maura's] blouse or maybe linger for a moment" (Hochman 2013).

[7.4] The awareness of "that demo" (i.e., the lesbian demographic) is also evident in

gag reels, which show Harmon and Alexander playing with explicitly romantic tropes.

An outtake of the park bench scene I described earlier zooms in on Harmon and

Alexander caressing each other's thighs, and then shows Harmon leaning in as if Jane

is about to kiss Maura, before she is stopped by a giggling Alexander. The season 1

gag reel also includes an outtake of another emotionally charged scene, in which

Harmon ad libs, "Kiss me," and Alexander leans toward her, eyes closed and lips

puckered, responding, "Just kiss me." Outtakes like these offer almosttextual

possibilities for the episodes, since they are so close to what is seen on the show.

Thus, while being dissonant with actual episodes, these paratexts are nods to fan

wishes in teasing what canon could in theory look like. In addition, in the season 3 gag

reel, Harmon fakes a kiss with Alexander, and then, striking a couple of suggestive

poses with her, turns to the camera and asks sultrily, "Like that? Like this?," again

pointing to the actors' awareness of viewer desire to see Jane and Maura together.

[7.5] Paratexts from TNT's marketing have also been suggestive, hinting repeatedly

—though not exclusively—at a romantic interest between Jane and Maura. In a season

2 promotion (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lNfU0wez4mY), Harmon comments

that "[Maura]'s funny, and annoying, and they [Jane and Maura] fight," and the clip

then cuts to Maura saying, "That's a sign of sexual frustration!" Another season 2

promo (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=czKCM3GSsHw) shows Jane and Maura at a speeddating event, having no luck connecting with a string of men and finally

ending up at a table together. Jane remarks, "We should do this again sometime,"

Maura agrees, and the two toast to that as the voiceover says, "Rizzoli and Isles—a

perfect match." In a season 3 promo (https://www.youtube.com/watch?

v=CZweX1vZNo4), a tight shot of Jane and Maura huddled together is followed by a

voiceover comment by Jane that "opposites attract" during a slowmotion shot of the

two staring at each other while walking, and then more clips of Jane and Maura

interacting affectionately. A season 4 poster shows the two handcuffed together with

the tagline "Bound for Life." And for season 5, one promo

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZIXfDHHltrE) intercuts the text "Behind every great woman is another great woman" with footage extracted from 1.06, when Maura

tells Jane that various women thought that Jane was hot in her (fake lesbian) dating

profile, and Jane responds, "I might flip for that!"; from 2.03, when Jane asks Maura,

"You don't want to sleep with me…do you?"; from 5.04, when Maura tells some men

that Jane is a lesbian to stop them from hitting on her; and from 2.13, when Jane and

Maura snuggle as Jane discourages a man from pursuing Maura by saying, "Yes, we

are still…together."

8. Paratextual content: The 100

[8.1] Whereas the paratexts for R&I pertinent to queerbaiting discourses suggested a

romantic relationship that remained noncanonical, those for The 100 involved

producers courting viewers invested in seeing a F/F relationship, and Clarke/Lexa fans

in particular, through several strategies (Ryan 2016b; http://wedeservedbetter.com/).

[8.2] From late season 2 onward, producers and writers highlighted the

distinctiveness of The 100' s treatment of samesex relationships. After Clarke and

Lexa first kissed in season 2, The 100 was written up by several outlets for its "brave,"

"progressive," and "groundbreaking" approach to sexuality (Murphy 2015; Peitzman 2016; MacDonald 2016), and in retweeting the links, show runner Jason Rothenberg

also reiterated these descriptors. Javier GrilloMarxuach, one of the show's writers

(credited with the episode in which Lexa was killed), also tweeted before season 3

began that viewers looking for a "truly progressive approach to LGBT relationships"

should try watching The 100.

[8.3] Producers were also encouraging when responding to fan questions about Lexa

and her relationship with Clarke. Since Alicia DebnamCarey (Lexa) was not a series

regular, there were fears that Lexa might be killed off even in season 2, and many

fans who tweeted the creative team about this noted that death was a common fate

for television lesbians. One early reassurance came in March 2015, after Lexa's

betrayal of her alliance with Clarke had aired; Layne Morgan, a personal assistant on

the show, tweeted that while "half the Internet" was crying that "Clexa [Clarke/Lexa]

is dead," she was thinking, "Clexa has begun," and Kim Shumway, a show writer,

replied "Yes" to this tweet. Another example came in December 2015, when a fan

asked whether there was "hope for Clexa," and Rothenberg tweeted back, "Always."

[8.4] Twitter communication from the creative team also strongly suggested that

Lexa would live through season 3. In January 2016, Rothenberg tweeted that they

were shooting the season 3 finale in downtown Vancouver; "Come say hi!" Answering

the invitation, fans took and circulated photographs of Eliza Taylor (Clarke) and

DebnamCarey filming together. Another cast member, Henry Ian Cusick, also tweeted

that he was with both Taylor and DebnamCarey on set during the finale's filming. In

addition, Rothenberg did advance promotion for episode 3.07 on the lesbian

entertainment site AfterEllen, which was granted an advance screener and an

exclusive interview (Valerie Anne 2016); the coverage was clearly intended to

generate excitement rather than apprehension.

[8.5] More generally, the producers have expressed support for LGBT issues and

viewers. For instance, Rothenberg tweeted a behindthescenes photo of Taylor and

DebnamCarey with rainbowcolored candy (with his comment being "and yes, they

chose RAINBOWS"), and writers retweeted a ClexaForMe Twitter tag that trended in

December 2015, which was used to share positive comments about the Clarke/Lexa

story line, as well as the importance of media representations showing that LGBT

characters could be normal, strong, and happy, and of LGBT issues more broadly.

9. Discussion

[9.1] Intertextuality is central to the interpretation of media texts, which, as Gray

(2010) commented, involves a "complex hall of paratextual and intertextual mirrors

through which meaning and reception must pass" (119). The particular development

of queerbaiting is due to changes in the (para)texts that are read intertextually, and

the queer contextuality of when they are read.

[9.2] Figure 5 maps out R&I and The 100, as well as Xena: Warrior Princess, in the representation of interpretative space I presented in section 2, showing how it

accommodates both current differences between shows and changes over time. R&I is

similar in various respects to previously discussed examples of queerbaiting, such as

Sherlock and Supernatural: heightened expectations for a Jane/Maura pairing

developed from intertextual reading of texts and paratexts, but the consistent lack of

definitive canonicity located the show for many viewers in the realm of queerbaiting.

For The 100 prior to Lexa's death in 3.07, viewer expectations for canonical queer

content were also high, because of both textual and paratextual content, and since

viewers considered its content high quality, the show fell in the realm of desired queer

representation. After Lexa's death, viewers assessed the show's content poorly,

shifting the show into the domain of queerbaiting. For Xena, viewer expectations of

Xena/Gabrielle becoming canon were relatively low, partly because there were fewer

official paratexts suggesting this possibility, and partly because industry constraints of

the time pointed to the low likelihood of such an outcome. The Xena/Gabrielle

relationship therefore fell, like samesex pairings for many shows, into a realm of

queerly subtextual readings, although, were this incarnation of Xena to air today, it

would likely be accused of queerbaiting (note 6).

Figure 5. Text–paratext–queer contextuality matrix, with examples of show

mappings. XWP indicates Xena: Warrior Princess; R&I, Rizzoli & Isles; and W13,

Warehouse 13. The 100 is divided into the show before and after episode 3.07. [View

larger image.]

[9.3] The complexity of reading meaning in texts has long been acknowledged; it is

complex also in paratexts. As I noted earlier, Cavalcante (2013) argues that official

paratexts could not fully circumscribe TransAmerica's capacity to trouble normative

discourses of gender and sexuality. In the case of queerbaiting, it is not so much that

paratexts do double work, but that paratextual claims to authoritative textual meaning

cannot escape becoming part of the matrix of interpretation, being read intertextually

with the text (and other paratexts) rather than superseding them. Therefore, once a

show is seen as queerbaiting for not making a queer narrative canon, producer denials

that such a narrative will ever occur cannot extract the text from the queerbaiting

discourse. In any case, the many sources and widely varying contents of paratexts

make it impossible to pin down any single "official" message. This is especially true of

R&I.

[9.4] For R&I, the most relevant official paratexts were promotional content and

interviews about the Jane/Maura relationship, while The 100 exemplifies paratextual

engagement through social media. However, both these sets of paratexts are

indicative and constitutive of the normalization of LGBT visibility in mainstream media.

In 2009, it was noteworthy that actor Stephanie March coyly declined to shoot down

the possibility that her Law and Order: SVU (NBC, 1999–) character was in love with

another woman (Warn 2009), although neither did the creative team explicitly court

this pairing's fandom through extensive paratextual commentary. In comparison,

multiple R&I promotional paratexts suggested a romantic connection between Jane

and Maura, and producers and actors were asked repeatedly about it, while The 100,

like various other shows now airing, has explicitly sought LGBT viewers by highlighting

the Clarke/Lexa relationship and the show's approach to sexuality more generally.

[9.5] R&I and The 100 also underscore two crucial sides of queer contextuality: what

recent and current LGBT narratives suggest is now viable on mainstream media, and

how past and existing deficiencies constitute a context of representational deficits that

viewers see as requiring improvement. R&I aired on TNT, a basic cable network, and although it is no longer unheard of for cable shows to have queer lead characters, TNT

has had no such programming. Since R&I was consistently among TNT's highestrated

scripted programming (Futon Critic 2010), many viewers recognized that neither the

show runners nor the network had any financial incentive to change the depiction of

Jane and Maura's relationship. In any case, R&I was susceptible to queerbaiting

charges whether a canonical Jane/Maura relationship was economically feasible or not.

If it was not feasible, then the suggestions were fully misleading; if it was, then the

producers were guilty of teasing a narrative they failed to deliver.

[9.6] For The 100, queer contextuality is multilayered. At one level, the show

exemplifies recent improvements in queer female representation on US television,

particularly with its female lead having a multiseason female love interest. However,

as many have noted, Lexa's fate was strikingly similar to that of another lesbian

character, Tara, on a 2002 Buffy the Vampire Slayer (WB and UPN, 1997–2003)

episode: both were killed right after reuniting romantically with another woman and

having their first onscreen love scenes, and each died of a bullet meant for another

character rather than for a meaningful or heroic reason. It is true that, within the story

world of The 100, Lexa's killer did not object to her love for Clarke because of Clarke's

gender, but nonetheless the narrative link between lesbian sex and happiness on the

one hand and death on the other reproduced a longstanding trope of LGBT

representation. An unprecedented level of viewer discussion produced many accounts

situating Lexa's death in the longer history of "Bury Your Gays," including a

collaborative cataloguing of lesbian character deaths that began with 65 and now

stands at 181 (as of June 12, 2017) (Riese 2016).

[9.7] Developments in official paratexts and queer contextuality are deeply

intertwined: the official encouragement of queer fandoms demonstrated by R&I and

The 100 has occurred in current contexts of LGBT media representation, while

paratextual content is interpreted in the light of queer contextuality. However, viewer

response to Lexa's death on The 100 may constitute something of a watershed for

producer engagement with viewers about LGBT story lines or readings, with calls by

viewers and critics not just for improvements in the treatment of LGBT narratives, but

also for new discussions on the ethics of how producers appeal to fans, particularly

those who are sexual or racial minorities (Roth 2016; Ryan 2016b). Queer

contextuality, then, reflects and constitutes not only changes in media representation,

but also recent increases in attention to sociopolitical inequality. The queerbaiting

discourse has also broadened into commentary linking a recent string of deaths of

female and minority characters to the underrepresentation of these groups among

content producers (Ryan 2016a), while a viewer initiative to raise money for the

Trevor Project, which serves LGBT youth in crisis, in honor of Lexa connects those

criticizing The 100 for queerbaiting with other fan endeavors for social justice beyond the media domain (Hinck 2012; Jenkins 2012; Lopez 2011).

[9.8] Such phenomena do not mean that queerbaiting critiques are informed only by

progressive energies; the fact that in such critiques a text is deemed queer enough

only when two characters are in a canonically romantic relationship tends to obscure

other nonnormative modes of being and relating. For all the male love interests on R&I

, Jane and Maura's emotional primacy to each other constitutes a homosocial intimacy

that the dominant binaries of heterosexual/homosexual and romantic/platonic

evacuate from the actual diversity of human relations (Sedgwick 1990). Their

relationship and those of many other samesex pairs who are not romantically

involved in their canon texts can be read as instantiating intimacy outside of the

normatively kinned family unit or couple, in forms such as romantic friendships

(Faderman 1981), chosen family among lesbians and gays (Weston 1991), and other

queered familial configurations (Halberstam 2011). Conversely, canonical LGBT

characters and relationships can be problematically normative, as on shows including

Ellen (ABC, 1994–98) (Dow 2001), Will and Grace (NBC, 1998–2006) (Battles and

HiltonMorrow 2002), and The L Word (Showtime, 2004–9) (Chambers 2006), and

fans are often invested in LGBT narratives that reinforce mainstream discourses about

gender and relationships (Ng 2008; Russo 2013; Scodari 2003).

[9.9] However, the purpose of my analysis has not been to evaluate the legitimacy of

queerbaiting claims either on the basis of the availability of queer readings of the texts

as they stand or on the basis of textual and paratextual "evidence." Rather, the

examples I discussed highlight the necessity of considering multiple phenomena to

account for the development of queerbaiting discourses, which in turn highlight

changes in producer/viewer interactions around queer readings that both reflect and

constitute conditions of LGBT representation and industry production more broadly.

10. Conclusion

[10.1] While initial accusations of queerbaiting were aimed only at texts that failed to

deliver unequivocally canonical LGBT narratives, changes in queer contextuality and

the increased prominence of official paratexts that comment on or allude to queer

readings have expanded queerbaiting's scope. These developments highlight the

historical contingency of queerbaiting as emergent from intertextual readings of

textual content and producer/viewer interactions during a particular period of LGBT

media representation—queer contextuality—that inform viewer expectations, which

now extend to canonical LGBT narratives.

[10.2] R&I epitomizes how many shows become embroiled in discussions of

queerbaiting; despite denials of the possibility by a show runner and some actors,

multiple official paratexts teased a Jane/Maura romance that was reinforced by some

textual content, even as such a reading was also textually contradicted. For The 100,

with Clarke and Lexa a canonical pairing, the key articulations between text and

paratext are the creative team's courtship and encouragement of LGBT viewers and

Clarke/Lexa fans, counterposed to the narrative characteristics of Lexa's death.

Although the specific textual and paratextual elements are different, the same general

matrix of text–paratext–queer contextuality that I presented is active in both shows.

[10.3] Viewer demands for particular kinds of canonical narratives reflect a shift

away from satisfaction with solely subtextual readings, long a creative mainstay for

queer fandoms. However, alternative readings are not simply supplanted by canon,

particularly since the scope of fan works always exceeds the quantity and variety of

stories and possibilities that a canonical text can depict. As Figure 3 above diagrams,

productive interpretative space outside of queerbaiting discourses remains for queer

subtext that "hold[s] value and pleasure outside the mass media's limited repertoire"

(Russo 2013, 458), even though that may not be the domain in which fans would

prefer to see the forms of canonical representation they are pushing for.

[10.4] Another alternative for viewers dissatisfied with mainstream LGBT narratives

is independent productions, including Webbased series that depict a greater range of

gender, sexual, and racial diversity (Christian 2012, 2014). Still, even in an era of

declining linear television audiences, viewership for US network and cable

programming indicates the enduring economic and representational significance of

popular media, for which they can be expected to attract continued fan attention and

critique.

[10.5] Queerbaiting discourse constitutes increased viewer vocalness about both

representation and how producers engage with viewers over it, exposing one of the

front lines in conflicts over media texts and their meanings, as well as highlighting how

current conditions of LGBT representation—which are significantly broader, along

several dimensions, than they were a decade or two ago—remain shadowed by deficits

both historical and contemporary.

11. Notes

1. In AfterEllen's femslash poll, Jane and Maura were runnersup in 2012 and won in

2013. In Zimbio's Best TV Couple poll, Jane and Maura were in the quarterfinal round

in 2013 and the main draw in 2014–15, and Clarke and Lexa were runnersup in 2015

and winners in 2016.

2. The model is not intended to be genderspecific, but because my focus here is on

queer female representation, I do not discuss it in relation to the distinctive character

of M/M relationships and their fandoms (Busse and Lothian, forthcoming). The model

could in theory also be applied to transgender representations, but I have not seen

examples of these discussed within queerbaiting discourses.

3. See, for example, fan disagreements over whether Once Upon a Time (ABC, 2011–) is queerbaiting in its depiction of the relationship between Emma and Regina

(ouatqueerantisq 2014).

4. I reviewed the Twitter accounts of key producers and drew from multiple other

sources, including producer Tumblr posts, press interviews, and public commentary at

fan conventions reliably recorded or reported.

5. The original article was entitled "5 Things to Expect on Rizzoli & Isles Season 6 (and 1 Thing That Won't Happen)," and the relevant paragraph began, "Yes, Nash is aware

of the rabid JaneandMaura'shipping. No, it's not gonna happen" and quoted Nash as

saying, "The people who see the show a certain way and want it to be that, we're

grateful that they love the show as much as they do, but that's not something that will

be in the cards, and that's really all I'm gonna say about it." The edited article was

retitled "5 Things to Expect on Rizzoli & Isles Season 6 (and 1 Thing That Probably Won't Happen)," "No, it's not gonna happen" was deleted from the first quotation, and

"but that's not something that will be in the cards" was deleted from the second.

6. NBC announced in August 2015 that it is exploring a Xena reboot, and Javier Grillo

Marxuach, who at the time was tapped to be executive producer, acknowledged

contemporary differences in LGBT representation in commenting that "there is no

reason to bring back Xena if it is not there for the purpose of fully exploring a

relationship that could only be shown subtextually…in the 1990s" (GrilloMarxuach

2016).

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Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Theory

"Yes, the Evil Queen is Latina!": Racial dynamics of online femslash

fandoms

Rukmini Pande

University of Western Australia, Perth, Australia

Swati Moitra

Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi, India

[0.1] Abstract— Online media or participatory fandom has long been theorized as a

unique creative and communicative space for women. Further, scholarly work has

highlighted the possibility of it functioning as a space that is conducive to the

articulation of queerness—both through transformative work and participant identity.

However, this theorization has failed to account for the differential operations of

these spaces when they are forced to deal with issues of race and racism. This essay

argues that this is a significant blind spot as fannish spaces cannot but negotiate

with the multiple loci of privilege and intersectional concerns that underpin their

functioning. It therefore proposes a significant intervention in the study of the same,

drawing our attention to the historically queer and oftsidelined fannish spaces of

femslash fandoms. This analysis seeks to locate the ways in which such queer

spaces grapple with critiques of misogyny and homophobia in popular cultural texts

and online spaces, as well as the problematics of race and racial identity within such

spaces, focusing on the queer fan community built around the relationship of Regina

Mills and Emma Swan, eponymously known as Swan Queen, in the television show

Once Upon a Time (2011–).

[0.2] Keywords— Fan community; Fan fiction; Intersectionality; Queerness; Race;

TV

Pande, Rukmini and Swati Moitra. 2017. "Racial dynamics of online femslash

fandoms." In "Queer Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng,

special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.908.

1. Introduction

[1.1] Fans of popular cultural media texts in 2017 occupy a somewhat unique

position. On one hand, studios now battle for eyeballs in an everexpanding globalized

marketplace, and their efforts at currying fan favor now encapsulate activities once

considered weird or derided for their links to fannish subcultures. Glitzy fan

conventions encourage cosplay and cosplayers; fan fic is solicited and fan art contests

are a matter of routine. There has been, over the last 10 years, a significant

mainstreaming of certain aspects of fan culture. As numerous academic studies have

pointed out (Jenkins, Ford, and Green 2013; Booth 2015), a key role in this process

has been played by the proliferation of fannish activity on the Internet, particularly the

rise of social media platforms like LiveJournal, Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter. As

content creators and marketers have been able to listen in to fans like never before,

fans have also been granted unprecedented access to talk back to the creators,

leading to a fourth wall that is more porous than ever. This newly acquired cultural

capital and leverage is not, however, distributed equitably, and access to it remains

highly determined by other aspects of individual fan identity—most crucially, race,

gender, and sexuality.

[1.2] Fan studies in 2017 is also at a crossroads of sorts. Exciting new possibilities of

research have opened up in numerous directions, encompassing everything from

fandom tourism to the evolving mechanics of transmedia storytelling. It is,

nonetheless, crucial to draw attention to some of its recurring blind spots, particularly

in relation to race. Stanfill (2011) examines racial dynamics in media fandom

communities, but does so with a focus on the power relations between white male fans

and the mainstream that sees them as an aberration and as possibly misdoing

whiteness. While interesting, this discussion does not engage with nonwhite fans and

their positions within fandom visàvis white fans who might misdo whiteness but

nonetheless retain considerable privilege. Rebecca Wanzo's (2015) crucial intervention

has underlined the whiteness of the very genealogy of the field, with studies of African

American fandom in particular having been overlooked in theorizations about USbased fan cultures. This is a very significant critique, which we would like to extend to engage with nonwhite fans who participate in media fandom communities as conceived

of within mainstream fan studies. Warner's (2015) work on the black female audiences

of Scandal and Johnson's (2015) examination of misogynoir and antiblackness in The

Walking Dead fandom are also recent notable interventions in the field.

[1.3] While theorists (Busse 2013; Stanfill 2013) have pointed to the role that

gender and, to an extent, sexuality, play in the fashioning of the ideal fan for the

marketers of popular cultural texts, little attention has been paid to the ways in which

this paradigm is also heavily racialized. For instance, the oftcriticized fanboy/girl

binary, with the fangirl characterized as irrational, hysterical, and ultimately

unprofitable (Flegel 2015), is certainly a valid analysis, but it remains a partial one,

bypassing completely, for example, the differential treatment that nonwhite fanboys

and fangirls receive in fannish spaces. Similarly, when it comes to sexuality, there has

been a consistent focus on the ways in which queerness has been expressed, both

within fan texts and fan communities; extant studies have focused on male slash

communities for the most part (Lothian, Busse, and Reid 2003). However, these

examinations ignore or erase the role that race plays in these fan communities and

their production. Because they do not speak to or of nonwhite fans, their analyses of subversion, resistance, and cooption do not have the weight they might have with a

less parochial, more intersectional approach.

[1.4] This absence of attention to race in fan studies is ironic, because these debates

have never been more hotly discussed and contested in fandom spaces than they have

been in recent years, particularly after the controversial series of events and

discussions that constituted RaceFail '09 (note 1). This is particularly true of the social media platform Tumblr (Hillman, Procyk, and Neustaedter 2014). Although scholars

have noted that social media platforms have changed the way online spaces and

interactions function, there is as yet little work on Tumblr, which is a major site of fan

online activity in the present day (Nosko, Wood, and Molema 2010; Carstensen 2011).

Tumblr offers us evidence of just how interconnected and fluid media fandom spaces

have become, disrupting the accepted sectioning off that fan studies has itself partially

enabled in its divisions of, for example, studies along genres of male slash, het, and

femslash. Likewise, because it is a particularly friendly site for women, queer people,

people of color, and progressives, it has become a space in which social justice politics

and fan activity intersect. This is not to argue that there is nothing to be gained by

focusing our attention on specific aspects of fan production—this essay is very much in

that tradition—but to fully address the current social media scenario, we must also

look at fan sites as complex continuums, rather than as completely different watertight

compartments. We must bring intersectionality (Crenshaw 1991; Bobo 1995; hooks

2009; Rodríguez 2003) into the heart of our analyses of fandom spaces—not just as

part of a list at the beginning of papers and presentations to show an awareness of

these aspects of identity, but with the same weight as gender and sexuality.

[1.5] Thus, this essay offers an intersectional intervention in fan studies by focusing

attention on the historically queer and oftsidelined spaces of femslash fandoms. We

seek to locate the ways in which such queer fans grapple with critiques of misogyny

and homophobia in popular cultural texts and online spaces, both in relation to and in

conjunction with the problematics of race and racial identity, and thereby address this

existing lacuna in contemporary fan studies. We will locate this discussion within a

consideration of existing scholarship on femslash and its relationship to other genres of

media fandom activity. Following that, we will also consider the ways in which race has

been engaged within certain key femslash fandoms in order to historicize our

understanding of the same. Our particular case study is the queer fan community built

around the racialized relationship of the characters Regina Mills and Emma Swan,

eponymously known as Swan Queen, in the television show Once Upon a Time

(2011–). We will focus on the vociferous fannish debates centering around the

claiming of Regina Mills (or the Evil Queen) as Latina, and the complex negotiations in

Swan Queen fan works that seek to foreground the Evil Queen's Latina identity in

opposition to the purported colorblindness of the source text.

2. Examining the ghettoization of femslash

[2.1] Fan studies over the years has seen a remarkable degree of multidisciplinarity

—almost too much of it, some have claimed (Hellekson 2009)—in terms of the

methodological approaches to the analysis of fan activity, drawing from fields as

diverse as anthropology, communications studies, music studies, Internet studies, and

so on. However, much of this work tends to approach Western media fandom in

particular with an implicit understanding that its dividing lines fall quite neatly along

the generic divisions of het, male slash, and femslash. These divisions are broadly

ordered in terms of gender and sexuality. Significant academic focus has been devoted

to the study of those fan communities wherein there is a perceived shocking disruption

of accepted correlations between what fans are and what they ship. This has resulted

in an inordinate focus on male slash fandoms as initially they were seen to be

constituted of straight female fans. The foundational texts of the field (Russ 1985;

Penley 1991; Lamb and Veith 1986) saw these fans as subversive because they were

disrupting patriarchal discourses regarding what they were meant to find desirable in

their fannish practices. While this almost allpervasive formulation of male slash

fandoms has been questioned significantly in recent times—multiple surveys

(Melannen 2010; Centrumlumina 2013) now attest to the fact that male slash fandoms

also have a high representation of queer women along a broad spectrum of identity

articulations—the inherent subversiveness of these fandoms remains a dominant

strand in theorization about them (Driscoll 1996; Busse 2005).

[2.2] Conversely, femslash fandoms and texts are often somehow seen as inherently

less disruptive to patriarchal strictures, as lesbian sexual performance in particular is

argued to be produced almost overwhelmingly for the straight male porn viewer

(Smyth 1990). This particular charge is mirrored by the oftheard accusations that

many women in the realm of popular culture pretend to be queer in order to titillate

male viewers. Recent academic analyses, such as that of Russo's (2013), examines

the problematics of negotiating a mode of queer female intimacy that resists this cooptation as something that femslash communities have to deal with, particularly when the texts they focus on are popular ones that engage a wide audience. These concerns

have also informed other existing studies on femslash fandoms, such as those that

focused on the relationship between the characters of Samantha Fraser and Janet

Carter in the prolific Stargate SG1 (1997–2007) fandom (Millward and Dodd 2016).

[2.3] One effect of the almost ghettoization of genres has been that femslash has

largely remained a footnote to most studies on fan culture. For one, femslash fandoms

are continually held as less popular than those accruing around het and male slash

pairings, though this assumption is increasingly disputed (note 2). More pertinent to this essay, however, is the fact that this erasure has also been animated by the

aforementioned focus with tracing those aspects of fan activity that have crossed

conventionally accepted gender and sexuality correlations. Since femslash fandoms

have been assumed to be dominated by queer women from their inception, there has

been very little impetus to examine the motives for their engagement in such

activities. However, with the convergence of fan activity on shared platforms like

Twitter and Tumblr, fans now have noticeably different entry points into a particular

fannish universe. In actual fannish practice, particularly with the convergence of

fannish activity on shared platforms like Twitter and Tumblr, there has been a

noticeable engagement of fans with differing entry points into the common fannish

universe. This has led to a significant disruption of longaccepted narratives about

what has constituted visible or significant fan activity. For example, a lengthy feature

on fan fic by the online magazine Vulture included a section captioned, "A Fanfiction

Syllabus: Ten Classics That Cover the History, Breadth, and Depth of the Form, with

Original CustomDesigned Covers." The section did indeed list some excellent

examples of fan fic; however, the texts chosen remained dominated by cisgender

white men, and no femslash text made an appearance on the list at all. This erasure

was hotly contested by both femslashers and nonwhite fans, who underlined how this

selective mythmaking and historiography about what is considered noteworthy about

fan texts perpetuates and reinscribes erasures and biases within fan communities

(allofthefeelings 2015).

[2.4] Shades of these arguments are also reflected in some other recent meditations

on the place of femslash within fandom communities. These arise from the

diversification of knowledge about the makeup of male slash communities, and seek to

interrogate why queer women choose not to write about queer female relationships.

Most of these arguments revolve around the freedom that female writers find in

writing queer male bodies. Writing queer male bodies, it is argued, allows female

writers to distance themselves from the effects of misogyny and rape culture that

writing about female characters forces them to face head on. Additionally, in terms of

more pornographic writing, it is more conducive to erotic fantasy to imagine a body

that is wholly other, thus freeing the imagined experience and allowing for heightened

physical responses that are unmoored from actual experience (Rachel A 2015). While

these arguments all have some validity, they continue to remain stable only when a

singular axis of difference is considered—that of gender. The almost total domination

of white male bodies forming the focus of well over 60 years of documented male

slash writing (drawing primarily from Englishlanguage media texts) points to the fact

that some male bodies are clearly too much the other to form the object of fantasy or

escape.

[2.5] These are highly problematic positions, especially when they seem to lead to a conclusion that the most subversive thing queer women can do in fandom spaces is

write about white male homosexual relationships. Our understanding of what makes

up subversion, resistance, and cooption in fan practices therefore needs further

interrogation, especially from an intersectional standpoint. In this essay, we refer to

intersectionality in the light of Kimberlé Crenshaw's (1991) powerful formulation of the

complex layering of discrimination that black women in particular have historically

faced. This formulation has been adopted across disciplines to underline the need for

multifaceted approaches to analyses of various issues that take into account race,

ethnicity, class, gender, sexuality, and disability, among other aspects of identity. In

the particular case of fandom, a failure to adopt such a position leads to the

unquestioning elevation of white queer relationships over those which include

nonwhite characters, even in the contemporary reality of USbased popular cultural

texts wherein interracial relationships are still a rarity. One example of this was the

backlash against the canon relationship of the characters of Spock and Nyota Uhura in

the Star Trek reboot movie released in 2009. As a text hailed to be the originator of

male slash fandom activity, the new Star Trek movie was eagerly awaited by many

fans, and the chemistry between the characters of Kirk and Spock made them rapidly

into the fandom juggernaut. However, this also led to considerable amount of racism

and misogyny directed at Uhura within fan fic and meta, especially from the fans of

the Kirk and Spock pairing. As many black fans argued, for the canon to pair Uhura

with one of the film's heroes was in fact a very unusual and subversive act, as black

women are seldom depicted as romantic leads (Scodari 2012). For fannish spaces to

try and erase that, often in extremely toxic ways, and then try to argue that this had

been done in the name of pushing for greater queer representation is obviously a

highly dubious and effectively racist position (peripeteia 2009). While this particular

example has been drawn from a male slash versus het formulation, femslash fandoms

have often been guilty of these blind spots as well, as will be discussed in more detail

the next section of this essay. To reiterate, this is a problem that affects all fandom

spaces and should be examined as such.

[2.6] The notion of what constitutes subversiveness, therefore, needs to be further

interrogated from multiple perspectives, including the variegation of dynamics found in

femslash fandoms. For instance, Russo (2013) argues that,

[2.7] male slash implies a particular mode of reading that interfaces with

the mass media's codes for representing masculinity: because affectionate

gestures between men are taboo, onscreen instances of intimate male–male

relationships appear charged with romance and eroticism. In the rarer cases

where two female characters have a close relationship, their attachment may

be expressed more freely but thus read less clearly as homoerotic. (458)

[2.8] This lens is certainly accurate in terms of some male slash pairings that have garnered fan attention, but it is equally true that there are other dynamics (such as

that of sworn enemies) that do not necessarily express affectionate intimacy and have

also garnered massive followings. Similarly, fans invested in queer female

relationships are drawn to a wide range of relationship dynamics. Isaksson's (2009)

analysis of the BDSMheavy fan fic written for the pairing of the characters of Buffy

Summers and Faith in the cult television show Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003)

offers one such example. Both women were vampire slayers and were portrayed as

frequently shifting between being collaborators and antagonists. Their clashes were

read by many fans as explicitly erotic, and related violent power dynamics were

frequently explored in fan fic about them. Isaksson notes, "The sexual pleasures of

violence and pain are frequently thematized in femslash featuring the two Slayers,

which challenges the gender coding of violent sexuality in the canon as well as in

Buffyverse kinkfic" (22). Swan Queen, which forms our case study in this essay, had

similar antagonist/collaborator dynamics in the first season of Once Upon a Time, and

was interpreted as similarly erotically charged by femslash fans. It would therefore not

be inaccurate to affirm that femslash fandoms do engage with multiple dynamics

between female characters and, in doing so, expand the ambit of what could be

considered homoerotic and subversive expressions of queer female desire.

3. Negotiating race in femslash juggernauts

[3.1] Before moving to our specific case study, it is necessary to locate that

discussion within a broader consideration of how femslash fandoms other than Swan

Queen have engaged (or not) with race. Considering the limited scope of this essay,

we will focus on three fandoms that have had a considerable impact on the growth of

femslash communities at different points in time—(1) Xena: Warrior Princess (1995–

2001), as Xena is the starting point of most discussions of femslash, and it remains

central to conceptualizations about what the act of shipping two women together

based on textual cues (overt or subtextual) has signified since then; (2) Glee (2009–

15), since it remains a watershed moment in terms of queer representation on

mainstream television, and the pairing of Brittany and Santana is significant for this

essay's analysis for its depiction of an interracial queer relationship and its

interpretation by fandom; and (3) The Legend of Korra (2012–14), an animated series

set in a fictionalized Asianinspired universe, since it allows us to examine the specific

(sometimes problematic) ways in which fandom has depicted both Korra and Asami as

nonwhite characters.

[3.2] While femslash fan works have existed since the time of printed fanzines, the

online communities formed around the ship of Xena/Gabrielle ( Xena: Warrior Princess)

were the first ones to attract the attention of fan scholars (Helford 2000, Jones 2000).

Jones characterizes the Xena femslashers as lesbian and bisexual women who "identify themselves among history's lost tribes—the colonized, the terrorized, the outcast, the

dispossessed" (405). Additionally, Jones claims that with their queer reworkings of the

text, fans "rethink history itself and, in particular, its inscriptions of marginalized

identities" (406). The language of this analysis is troubling, as it leans heavily toward

equating all femslashers with historically oppressed cultures and communities that face

the brunt of appropriation and colonization within the text of Xena itself. For instance,

in the highly problematic India arc in season 4, the show's rethinking of history results

in egregious orientalism and exoticization, while also facilitating white saviorism. By

ignoring the real, historical intersections of power in the reworking of myth and history

in the show and focusing purely on the available queer readings of the text (focusing

on two white female characters), both fans and academics allow for only a single axis

of identity around which to base ideas of subversion and resistance. This trajectory of

research has also been replicated in more recent studies of Xena's queer fandom

(Hanmer 2014). As pointed out earlier, this is by no means unique to femslash

fandoms, but it does set up a troubling precedent in terms of their framing and,

specifically, in their loaded choice of terms.

[3.3] Following on from this, much has been written about the profound effect Ryan

Murphy's Glee has had on the way queerness, especially teen queerness, is depicted

on US television screens. While much of the analysis has focused on the characters of

Kurt and Blaine, the pairing of Brittany and Santana (known as Brittana) has also been

seen as pivotal (Jacobs 2014; Hobson 2015). Brittana was not originally part of the

plan for the show's writers, who decided to turn a throwaway injoke into a character

arc only after fans advocated for it vociferously. As actress Naya Rivera (who played

Santana) remarked, "Who knows if the writers would have taken that relationship so

seriously if there hadn't been such an outpouring for them to get together" (Ito 2011).

This level of response certainly points to the fact that femslashers made up a very

significant part of Glee fandom and also marked one of the first times in which a

television show responded to demands of fans in context of a nonheterosexual

relationship (note 3).

[3.4] Given the attention the show and its fans have received, it is surprising that

there has not been much indepth analysis of the fan fic produced around it. Ellison's

(2013) examination of the Glee kink meme brings up some extremely interesting data

on how various kinks were conceptualized in that shared fannish space, showing once

again the interconnectedness of these genres. While not the primary focus of this

essay, Ellison's detailing of certain femslashspecific kinks, such as the frequency of

girl!penis, also points to a much greater variegation in how queer female sexuality is

being conceptualized in these spaces than has been explored so far in fan studies.

Ellison, however, does not focus on racial dynamics, and neither is this remarked upon

in other fancentric analyses of the show (Marwick, Gray, and Ananny 2014). While

Santana's queer Latina identity has been analyzed within the narrative of the show,

these studies do not focus on fan texts (Phelps 2014; MolinaGuzmán 2013).

[3.5] In order to investigate how fan authors in the Brittana fandom negotiated with

Santana's racial and ethnic identity (or if they did so at all), we examined a series of

interviews that were conducted by Tumblr user ohthatswanky of seven highprofile

fan fic writers in 2012 (ohthatswanky 2012). In each of the interviews, the authors

were asked about their preferred writing styles, their favorite aspect of the pairing,

and how they research their stories. It is intriguing that while there is mention of

researching specific aspects of music, costumes, setting, and so on that are

incorporated into various story ideas, there is almost no mention of researching

Santana's background or positioning within these narratives. Out of the seven writers,

only one, referred to as JJ and who writes as themostrandomfandom, mentions

considering the intersections of Santana's identity as part of her isolation within "a

group of outcasts." In the specific alternate universe (AU) fan fic referenced in the

interview, The Knife Thrower's Daughter, Santana's experience of being racially coded

is central to her introduction into the narrative, as she is considered a possibly exotic

addition to a circus ensemble. After speculating on her possible ethnicities, the circus

manager, Mr. Adams, decides that it would be best for her to have a "favorable

nationality" and asks if she can "feign an accent."

[3.6] "Pardon?" Santana asks, confused as to whether Mr. Adams would

prefer her to have an accent or not. Her whole body flutters with nerves. She

feels her pulse pick up in neck and bites her lip. "I'm afraid I don't

understand."

[3.7] "Nobody wants an Americanborn fortuneteller," Mr. Adams says

bluntly. He scrutinizes Santana a second longer and then repeats, very

calmly, "Can you or can you not feign an accent?"

[3.8] Santana searches inside herself, wondering if she can. She's never

pretended such a thing before. She thinks of her grandmother, of her

rounded tsounds and wide vowels and nods gingerly. "Yes, I believe I can,"

she says, mimicking her grandmother's accent, putting lifts and flares into

her words that she's never used before while speaking English.

[3.9] In her own ears, it's a poor imitation to the beautiful cursive of her

grandmother's speech, but the attempt seems to satisfy Mr. Adams

nonetheless.

[3.10] "Very good," he says staunchly. "The country folk won't know the difference between Spanish and Italian anyhow. You sound exotic. You can

pass."

[3.11] Pass. (themostrandomfandom 2012)

[3.12] Clearly then, while not an overt concern in much of the fan writing and

analysis around the pairing, some writers were well aware of the nuanced nature of

Santana's experience of queerness and isolation. It is also interesting to note that Glee

debuted in 2009, the same year as RaceFail '09. In many ways, this event, though not

engaged with at the same level in all fandom spaces, marked a watershed in the ways

in which debates around these issues were framed. While fans who point out the

overwhelming whiteness and UScentrism of fan spaces and texts still face backlash,

there has been a definite shift in the ways these categories are approached.

[3.13] This aspect can be further interrogated through a brief analysis of the fan

activity around the critically acclaimed animated series The Legend of Korra. Korra is a unique text in a number of ways, but most significantly for this essay, it is set in a

completely nonwhite world (note 4). The character of Korra initially seems to be

interested primarily in Mako, even dating him, but by the end of the show is quite

clearly romantically involved with Asami (amusingly also Mako's exgirlfriend). While

not made absolutely explicit in the main text of the show, its cocreator Bryan

Konietzko confirmed the pairing on his blog immediately after the finale aired

(Konietzko 2014). Korrasami occupies a unique space as one of the only popular

nonwhite couples occupying a primary position in an Englishlanguage fandom (het,

male slash, or femslash) and thus their interpretation in fan texts becomes key in this

analysis. As a largely Tumblrbased fandom, the pairing has produced a large amount

of fan art, wherein there is a troubling trend of colorism in the depiction of the

canonically darkerskinned Korra and the fairer Asami. In many cases, Korra's skin is

lightened by fan artists, either consciously or unconsciously. In other cases, especially

those that imagine the pairing in AUs, Asami is often whitewashed with her cultural

specificity erased.

[3.14] This can be a problem both of artstyle and of setting. Fan artists often remix

narrative worlds from different source texts to produce images set in AU's. This can

have troubling effects if there is an erasure of specific racial/cultural/ethnic contexts.

In our survey of artwork for the pairing, we came across numerous examples that

placed Korra and Asami into the universe of the Disney version of Tarzan. This is a

problematic choice because apart from the fact that the Tarzan story itself is deeply

racist, the darkerskinned Korra was consistently cast in the role of the uncivilized

brute who must be tamed by Asami—who was inevitably cast in the role of Jane. While

such positioning may well be unintentional on the part of fan artists, it nonetheless

reinforces, implicitly and explicitly, racist stereotypes and narratives. We have chosen not to use specific examples of fan art here so as not to single out individual fans, but

it is important to note this trend—along with documented racism in practices like

cosplay—in order to see this as an issue that affects all aspects of fan activity (Eddy

2013; Gooden 2016). Fan art has so far mainly been studied as important in terms of

youth educational activities, and as such would also benefit from an intersectional lens

(Manifold 2009; Zaremba 2015).

[3.15] It is in these contexts of erasure, awareness, and misrepresentation that we

locate our case study of Swan Queen fandom. Along with Glee and The Legend of

Korra, it stands among the most popular presentday femslash fandoms that feature

at least one character of color (Curious 2015). Swan Queen, as another post–RaceFail

'09 fandom, has had to negotiate with the source text's problematic handling of both

its queer subtext and its racial dynamics, as well as engage with the fandom's often

virulent ship wars and address its own blind spots when it comes to race and ethnicity.

Our analysis will trace how some fans, often identifying as fans of color, have

attempted to reinscribe race as a constitutive element in their metareadings of the

source text and in fan works. Given the source text's marked instances of egregious

racefail, these moments of intervention within popular fan works that assert the need

to claim Regina Mills as a Latina and represent her as such become charged with

meaning on the dual axes of race and queerness.

4. Once upon a problematic show

[4.1] Once Upon a Time, produced by Adam Horowitz and Eddie Kitsis, is a fantasy

drama that aspires to be a modern take on fairytales familiarized by the Grimm

Brothers and, more importantly, Disney, which owns the rights to most of the show's

characters. The show's premise has, at its very heart, a nonheteronormative familial

configuration. The Evil Queen of Snow White fame (Regina Mills, played by Lana

Parrilla) casts a curse to destroy all happy endings, one that transports the majority of

the residents of the Enchanted Forest to the fictional Storybrooke, Maine, in "our"

world, the Land Without Magic. Snow White and Prince Charming (Ginnifer Goodwin

and Josh Dallas), in a final effort to defeat the Queen, send their infant daughter, who

is the prophesied savior, through a portal to the Land Without Magic. This daughter,

Emma Swan (Jennifer Morrison), grows up an orphan, and in a dark period in her life,

gives birth in prison to a boy whom she puts up for adoption. Ten years later, that boy

(Henry Mills, played by Jared Gilmore) shows up at her doorstep, with the words, "My

name's Henry. I'm your son," and recruits her—albeit reluctantly—to the cause of

taking him home to his adoptive mother, Regina Mills, whom he claims is the Evil

Queen, and whose curse Emma must break to save them all. This premise—"Henry

has two mommies," as it is often referred to—and the protagonist/antagonist

relationship between Regina and Emma that drove the show's plot in the first season,

found its resonance with femslashers who flocked to the fandom.

[4.2] In the course of its five seasons, Once Upon a Time has accrued numerous

charges of racefail and queerfail from its viewers. The show's main cast continues to

feature only one POC, Lana Parrilla, who is of Puerto Rican/Italian heritage and

identifies as a Latina. Until the fifth (current) season of the show, there were no

explicitly queer characters, despite its heavily subtextual teasing of Mulan's bisexuality

—first, with her gender ambiguous expression of love for Princess Aurora, and later,

with the characters Ruby and Merida in the fifth season of the show. The show's

producers announced the inclusion of an LGBT storyline in the fifth season as a show

of support for its queer audience, saying that, "We know that community have been

big supporters of the show and we would love to be able to tell a love story that

reflects that" (O'Sullivan 2016). The eventual love story, featuring two white

characters (Ruby and Dorothy) played by guest stars with no larger role in the

narrative, left many viewers disappointed, even as others observed that it "sent a

strong signal of support to LGBT fans and openly defied the homophobes in Once Upon

a Time's viewership base for the first time in series history" (Sparks 2016). The

fandom, despite these fails, continues to be a thriving one.

[4.3] The particular problem with articulating queer spaces and texts as the only or

primary axis of identity within fan communities, and the extension of that to academic

theorizations of subversion and resistance in fan spaces, becomes apparent when one

considers the fault lines within the Swan Queen fandom's celebration of the

nonheteronormative family unit of Regina, Henry, and Emma, or the Swan–Mills

family. The show's problematic storyline in the early seasons that constituted the

undermining of Regina as Henry's evil adoptive mother in favor of Emma as the good

biological mother, the white savior, was hotly contested by most fans of Regina's

character and Swan Queen. The canon storyline was perceived as antiadoption and,

furthermore, as one that presents a disturbing mirror to the systemic racism in realworld practices that leads to a disproportionate number of women of color in the USA being deemed unfit to raise their children (Roberts 2002; Garcia, Aisenberg, and

Harachi 2012). In the words of a fan, stanleytuccis, responding to a storyline in the

second half of the show's third season, wherein a memorywiped Henry remembers

being raised by Emma, as opposed to Regina, "Regina is being robbed of her identity

again. which shouldn't be surprising. but it's sad…we are in season 3 and Regina is still

being denied as a mother. as Henry's mother. and that is so fucked up" (stanleytuccis

2014).

[4.4] Regina's Latinidad has been a subject of relentless scrutiny within the fandom,

even though the actress, Lana Parrilla, playing the said character identifies as Latina

and once famously claimed, in what would become a rallying cry for many fans, "Yes, the Evil Queen is a Latina!" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jzxi2S9rjkk). Once Upon a Time's mythology, especially in its homogenous vaguely European,

Disneyesque fairytale land, does not make an effort to elaborate on the racial or ethnic

identities of characters of color. In response to an anonymous question posted at the

sqfanawards Tumblr (a Swan Queen fan fic awards blog)—"Are there any fics that

acknowledge Regina being Latina (and not just through epithets or a few lines) in the

nominated/winning fics [at the sqfanawards]?"—the moderator wrote, "Now is where I

feel completely confused and don't understand where this specific canon [head or

otherwise] came from. Explicitly within the show nowhere did it even hint as to what

nationality or race she's portraying" (sqfanawards 2014). The position taken by the

sqfanawards moderator, demanding explicit articulations of ethnic/racial identity for

characters of color in fannish source texts, is not uncommon in fan spaces, cutting

across het/male slash/femslash spectrums. The default whiteness of mass media

productions—of which Once Upon a Time is a prime example—allows for colorblind

interpretations of the source text, even within queer fan spaces that celebrate

diversity and the subversive pleasure of queering a heteronormative space. Tumblr

user wherethewhiled, identifying herself as a Chinese American fan, drives the point

across when she writes,

[4.5] sqfanawards, your post asks for fact, proof and explicit statements

re: Regina's heritage and race. Here is a fact that I can provide: race and

ethnic identities are not conditional, it is not an optional character trait, it is

relevant 100% of the time. It isn't ever "superfluous" in life, it is an

inextricable part of who a person is, it impacts how a person lives.

Therefore, if a story is to portray a human being well, how can those

identities be "superfluous"? How does it not impact that character's story?

The answer is: when we homogenize, then default characters to "colourblind" white or a generalized white culture. The kicker is: people of colour in real life do not have that privilege of being treated as "without colour," and

so, when that outright erasure happens in fiction, it isn't an extra detail that

could or could not be included, it is a life of triumphs and hardships and pain

that is being stripped and thoughtlessly dismissed as unimportant.

(wherethewhiled 2014)

[4.6] It becomes evident from the aforementioned debates that for sections of the

Swan Queen fandom—one that fights regular, oftenvirulent battles with canon

shippers of heterosexual ships on its reading of queer subtext in Emma Swan and

Regina Mills's relationship—emphasizing of Regina Mills's Latinidad holds enormous

value, one that is no less significant than their queering of the heteronormative

maintext of Once Upon a Time. In some readings of this reclamation of their favorite

character's Latinidad, fans flesh out elements of her backstory as a sympathetic villain to read the story of the Evil Queen's rise as a narrative seeped in white privilege and

racial oppression. Once Upon a Time represents the fabled enmity between Snow

White and her Evil Stepmother as one wherein the cruel machinations of Regina's

mother and the master manipulator Rumpelstiltskin (played by Robert Carlyle), led to

her marriage to Snow White's mucholder father, King Leopold, against her will.

Tumblr user deemnfic, another fan identifying herself as a fan of color, addresses this

backstory, arguing, "Regina's forced marriage to Leopold can be likened to the position

of a house slave or Mammy," and further, that it was a clear instance of "buying" an

"older girl of color—to raise the lilywhite child" (deemn 2013).

[4.7] Although Swan Queen fan fic engages with these readings of Regina's story in

multiple ways, we will limit our discussion to two stories, both wellreceived in the

fandom: Cops&Robbers by deemn (deemn 2014), which is an unfinished canon

divergence story that sends the Swan–Mills family to New York and uses the fake

marriage trope to advance Emma and Regina's relationship, and Send Up a Signal

(that everything's fine) by coalitiongirl (coalitiongirl 2015), an AU that has Regina and

Emma star in a television fantasy drama called Happily Ever After, which is in fact a

reimagining of Once Upon a Time. Our choice of these two stories, apart from their

reception within fandom, is to underline this complex wrangling of Regina's queer

Latinidad as a constitutive element of fannish subversive practices.

[4.8] deemn's story, in a clever sleight of hand, places Regina and her family in New

York in a bid to escape persecution for her past crimes as the Evil Queen and, in the

process, squarely forces her—and the readers along with her—to confront a world

wherein colorblindness is not an option afforded to people of color. The fan fic weaves

in canonical references to dubious paperwork produced by Rumpelstiltskin (Gold) for

Henry's adoption, and thus Regina finds herself in a position wherein she is a Latina

without paperwork in the real world:

[4.9] She lays it out quickly, quietly. On paper, Regina doesn't exist. All the

paperwork Gold forged for Henry's adoption describes a now fortyseven

year old woman, but there's no paper trail for the last fourteen years, and

modifying the original adoption records—it's going to be a mess. (deemn

2014)

[4.10] Emma and Regina find themselves thwarted, among others things, by

attempts on the part of an enthusiastic realtor who attempts to find them a

neighborhood in the city they'll fit in:

[4.11] Air whistles over the bottle top as Emma sucks in a breath. "Yeah, it

was the white trash plus Spanish plus lesbians part."

[4.12] Regina lets the misnomer slide, just this once, chews at the inside of

her lower lip until she thinks she has words in the right order. (deemn 2014)

[4.13] In one delicate moment, the narrative manages to address the complex

intersections of multiple loci of privilege and oppression—sexuality, race, and class.

Elsewhere in the story, Regina's lack of Spanishspeaking ability becomes a part of the

fan fic's commentary on Latinx identity in present day America, with its constant

negotiation with language and belonging. In deemn's version of events, there is no

scope for ambiguity on the Evil Queen's queer Latinidad—the circumstances of the

narrative do not allow its readers to forget that Regina is Latina, that regardless of the

fantastic setting of Once Upon a Time, it is, at the end of the day, a product of our

world and is enmeshed in its dynamics of power and oppression. In the process, it

forces us to reconsider assumptions about the superfluity of racial/ethnic identities of

characters of color in everyday fannish practices.

[4.14] coalitiongirl's Send Up a Signal (that everything's fine), reimagines Once Upon a Time as Happily Ever After, a modern fantasy drama. It stars the debutante Emma

Swan and veteran actress Regina Mills, and in a conscious act of racebending, casts an

AfroLatino original character (Jamaal) as their son in the fictional show's narrative.

The show is produced by none other than Cora Mills (Regina's mother) and Leopold

Blanchard (King Leopold), who serve as convenient standins for the showrunners and

writers. A love letter to the Swan Queen fandom, the fan fic is a story of triumph

against all odds—Emma and Regina's television counterparts, Rose and Victoria,

overcome the demands of heteronormative storytelling and queerbaiting to eventually

emerge as a canon couple, even as the two women who play the said characters

navigate their own love story and the perils of being queer in a homophobic media

industry. There are inside jokes and tongueincheek references to various incidents

over the years that are instantly recognizable to Swan Queen fans, but amidst it all,

the story never loses sight of the fact that "the Evil Queen is a Latina." The author,

who identifies as white, locates her in a world wherein racism is an everyday reality,

often in delicate touches such as her typecasting in Hollywood.

[4.15] The story's most scathing commentary on race and representation in the

whitedominated culture industry, however, is reserved for the character of Cora,

whose blasé appropriation of the language of social justice leads to proclamations such

as, "If we can't write diversity into our fantasy, what's the purpose of fantasy at all?,"

even as she defends her choice to cast white actors for the role of Jamaal's biological

parents and calls herself a progressive showrunner. The stinging hypocrisy, in tune

with Cora's canon characterization, is of course a commentary on the whitedominated

media industry as a whole, but on Once Upon a Time in particular—weighed down by

echoes of years of fannish outrage over multiple instances of racefail and Twitter

trends like #OnceUponARacefail.

[4.16] coalitiongirl's story then turns its gaze upon the fandom itself. Happily Ever

After's Victory Rose fandom (fans of Emma and Regina's television counterparts, Rose

and Victoria), mirrors the Swan Queen fandom and its own complexities in the real

world. In one instance, the fannish response to an offhand comment by Jamaal on

Victory Rose—"gross," said laughingly, before a serious, positive response on the same

—leads to furious allegations of homophobia from a fandom that thinks nothing of

branding a 16yearold an angry black man:

[4.17] He's 16. If he doesn't understand why he can't reply to a question

about queer women by calling them GROSS, he shouldn't be at cons.

[4.18] Idk, he seemed really angry in that video. Like he didn't want to be

asked about it at all. (coalitiongirl 2015)

[4.19] Within the narrative, Jamaal manages to escape the incident without careerdamaging repercussions after interventions by both the protagonists on his behalf, but the story nonetheless seems to ask if queer fan spaces that are quick to raise charges

of homophobia, at times at the expense of considerations of their own lack of

awareness of racial dynamics and oppression, are necessarily as progressive as they

aspire to be. Indeed, this is a key question for both fan spaces and fan studies going

forward.

[4.20] The racial dynamics within Swan Queen fandom and the fault lines therein, as

a case study, serve to highlight this contradiction between inclusion and everyday

racial erasure that is part and parcel of fannish spaces. Certain fan practices, as we

have underlined in our analysis, can constitute negotiations with such erasure—

sometimes by reclaiming a favorite character as emphatically not white, through the

creative reworking of canon in meta and fan works that engage explicitly with racial

identity. Indeed, as the case of the Swan Queen fandom suggests, such negotiation

and engagement makes for an integral part of fannish practice.

5. Conclusion

[5.1] Throughout this essay, we have traced the differential intersecting and

interlocking aspects of identity that, while always being present in both popular

cultural texts and the communities that form around them, need to be given further

weight in academic theorizations of resistance, subversion, and cooption. As we have

argued, racial and ethnic identity must be considered as important to our

conceptualizations about fandom spaces as we have always considered gender and

sexuality. To do otherwise will be to repeat the mistakes of fields such as feminist and queer studies that have at times unwittingly reinscribed the idea that race is somehow

an additional aspect of cultural experience, something that can be disregarded at will

(Ford 2011; Thomlinson 2012). Fan studies continues to have a strong thread of

reading fan culture (especially femaledominated aspects of it) as enabling spaces that

allow for greater freedom in (re)crafting the cultural narratives that seek to order our

world. While these spaces definitely work to disrupt hegemonic constructions of what

kinds of stories are allowable in fan communities, their recurrent biases and erasures

are equally present. As elsodex, a Swan Queen fan, puts it when talking about the

difficulties of writing Regina as Latina:

[5.2] This discussion we are having right now. This, right here, is an

example of how, in order for our identities to be validated, we almost have

to turn ourselves into utter caricatures just to be seen. Not only is that

bullshit, but it's fucking harmful as all fuck. For everyone.

[5.3] What I'm trying to get at here is, it takes finesse and frankly,

experience to write this sort of thing well. But that's difficult, when the

examples we end up learning from are so messed up to begin with that we

just end up perpetuating these things.

[5.4] So I understand sociopsychologically why some authors would feel

the need to write with little epitaphs with no thought or consideration for the

actual reality of the character.

[5.5] But here's the thing—none of that is an excuse. You want fanfic to be

redemptive? You want fandom to be a "Take that!" to the corporations who

own the stories—to be the capital "T" capital "V" True Voice of the people?

[5.6] Then you've got to fucking earn it, folks. (elsodex 2014)

6. Notes

1. To summarize, RaceFail '09 refers to a series of blog posts written by fans engaged

in the science fiction and fantasy (SF/F) community, initially written in response to

SF/F author Elizabeth Bear's (2009) advice about writing the other in fiction. These

posts pointed out both Bear's apparent hypocrisy, critiquing her record of portraying

people of color, and encompassed the failings of the SF/F genre as a whole when

dealing with the issue of race. While it is not within the scope of this chapter to discuss

the specific series of events that made up RaceFail, the discussions that took place,

which involved fans, writers, and editors, have impacted the ways nonwhite fans

engage with such issues across media fandom. For more, see Fanlore entry

http://fanlore.org/wiki/RaceFail_%2709.

2. For instance, in the case of the television show The 100 (2014–), the overwhelming negative reaction to the killing off of one half of the femslash ship of Clarke and Lexa

(known as Clexa) is certainly proof by any estimation that femslash fandoms in the

present day more than make up the numbers in terms of fan activity (Roth 2016).

3. This has also been dubbed the Brittana Effect, whereby fans of other shows have

taken inspiration to advocate for their favorite queer ships to become canon, couching

their arguments in terms of increasing diversity on television. This kind of advocacy,

while welcome in certain contexts, also must remain contextualized within other

aspects of representation in the concerned texts.

4. The problematics of creating an Asianinspired fantasy world have been commented

on by both fans and critics, but the show's treatment of individual cultural practices

that make up its universe has in the main been well received by nonwhite fans.

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Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Praxis

Queerly imagining Super Girl in an alternate world: The fannish

worlding in FSCN femslash romance

Jing (Jamie) Zhao

University of Warwick, Coventry, England

[0.1] Abstract— A globally formatted, Idolstyle, reality singing contest produced by a Chinese provincial TV station, Super Girl (SG; Hunan Satellite TV, 2004–2006)

received staggeringly huge commercial success nationwide. It only allowed female

participants and featured a large number of genderdefying finalists. This article

explores femslash fan fiction published and circulated on feise chaonü (FSCN), one

of the most popular Mainland Chinese femslash fandoms of 2006 SG participants.

The lesbian romance depicted in FSCN fan fiction is inspired by and further

articulates the intentionally "queered" content of SG. However, these lesbian stories

are often narrated within culturally distant, fictional settings, such as Western,

futuristic, or historical backdrops. My reading of FSCN femslash fan fiction explores

how and why this prevailing, yet selfcontradictory, femslash writing strategy helps

the fans to queerly construct an "alternate world" that enacts, facilitates, or

legitimizes Chinese lesbianism. I reveal the underlying ways in which this FSCN

worlding practice ambiguously appropriates and ridicules contemporary Chinese

female gender and sexualityrelated norms and ideals. Ultimately, I argue that the

"worlded" contexts and plotlines of queer fantasy in FSCN femslash can be construed

as active fannish responses to and negotiations with the realities and histories of

Chinese lesbianrelated public cultures.

[0.2] Keywords— Chinese femslash; Fan fiction; Lesbianism

Zhao, Jing (Jamie). 2017. "Queerly Imagining Super Girl in an Alternate World: The

Fannish Worlding in FSCN Femslash Romance." In "Queer Female Fandom," edited

by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures,

no. 24. http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.870.

1. Introduction

[1.1] A queer fan subculture that focuses on homosocial/homoerotic relationships

between female characters and/or celebrities, femslash has been prevalent in Chinese

cyberspace for over a decade (note 1). Existing scholarship attributes the rise of online

Chinese femslash fandom to its potential to utter queer voices and generate

alternative affective belongings (Yang and Bao 2012). Yet despite its growing

popularity, there has been little effort given to unveil the internal complexity and

contradiction of Chinese femslash culture, especially Chinese femslash fans'

sophisticated reimaginings of lesbianism, which are often conditioned by mainstream

understandings of female gender and sexuality in the nonfictional world.

[1.2] To fill this gap, this article presents a case study of the femslash writings of

genderdefying female participants of a prominent Chinese reality TV show, Super Girl

(SG; Hunan Satellite TV, 2004–2006). This globally formatted, Idol style singing

contest once highly profiled a large number of female participants who looked either

"boyish" or "androgynous" (Yardley 2005). These female contestants had never

explicitly revealed their sexual orientations in public. However, the ambiguous intimate

relationships between them had been articulated and celebrated in SG's online

femslash fandoms. My analysis looks at the femslash fan fictions created and

circulated on feise chaonü (FSCN), one of the most popular and largescale femslash

fan forums for 2006 SG (note 2). FSCN was built in May 2006 and is fraught with queer gossip and femslash vidding and writing. By the end of 2015, FSCN contained

more than 460,000 entries and over 3,000 threads. According to earlier scholarly

observations on FSCN, to this day hundreds of original femslash fan fiction works have

been circulated on the site, a few of which are more than 200,000 words in length

(Yang 2010; Yang and Bao 2012, 851).

[1.3] My study pays particular attention to FSCN femslash fan fiction with culturally

distant settings, such as Western, futuristic, or historical backdrops. Methodologically,

drawing from John Fiske's (1996) and Michel Foucault's (1990) explications of

discourse in modern societies and public cultures, in concert with scholarly

understandings of gender and sexuality as discursive formations in Western

scholarship (Rich 1986; Butler 1990; Sedgwick 1993), I mainly employ textual and

discourse analyses of some representative FSCN narratives featuring this kind of

writing strategy. During my online ethnographic observation of FSCN between 2006

and 2013, I have read hundreds of FSCN femslash stories and tens of thousands of fan

entries responding to the stories. In fan studies, both online narratives and

communication are deemed as "representations of experiences, constructed first by

the [fan] participants themselves and then by the researcher in the analysis of the

data and the presentation of the findings as a coherent text" (Bury 2005, 29). Echoing

this view, my interpretation of the data obtained during my longterm observation

unpacks "the meanings which underlie and are enacted through these textual

practices" (Hine 2000, 50) on FSCN. In doing so, I detail the contradictory yet critical

ways in which Chinese lesbian identities, desires, characters, and relationships are

posited and narrated in these queer fantasy contexts as a subjective fannish cultural

discourse.

[1.4] It is worth noting that this textual maneuver of repositioning nonheterosexual

characters into certain "already queered" sociocultural contexts is not FSCNspecific; it

widely exists in both Western and East Asian popular cultures, especially fannish

cultural productions (see Doty 1993, 15; Benshoff 1998, 215; Jones 2002; Jung 2004;

Woledge 2005; Lothian, Busse, and Reid 2007; Martin 2008; Martin 2012; Ng 2008,

104; Wei 2008; Li 2009; Suter 2012; Feng 2013). In earlier fan scholarship, a

comparable genre of Western slash/femslash fan fiction, which typically narrates queer

romance against futuristic, historical, or fantasy backdrops that remove the

sociocultural pressures faced by both LGBTQ communities and queer fan writers in

reality, has been termed as "alternate world" (AW), "alternate reality" (AR), or

"alternate universe" (AU) literature (Penley 1991; Jenkins 1992; Jenkins 2006;

Woledge 2005) (note 3). However, existing studies tend to understand this writing strategy as a liberatory, escapist tactic for homosexualthemed cultural productions or

an intentional disinterest, demonization, and/or othering of samesex relationships.

[1.5] For example, in his study of male homoerotic romance in Japanese boys' love

(BL) works, James Welker notes that the Western cultural elements commonly

borrowed in BL "help to liberate [Japanese] writers and readers to work within and

against the local heteronormative paradigm in the exploration of [gender and sexual]

alternatives" (2006, 841; also see Suter 2012, 230). Some other scholars also remark

on the "antirealist" or "homoindifferent" tendency rooted in this kind of queer fan productions because it "is simply not about modern homosexual identities, and thus,

although it often depicts homosexual acts, it retains a distance from homosexual

politics" (Woledge 2006, 103; also see Allison 1996; Green, Jenkins, and Jenkins

1998; Kinsella 1998; McLelland 2000; Wei 2008; Li 2009). Similarly, in her

groundbreaking study of FSCN fan productions, Ling Yang reads some of the relocated

narrative settings that are not closely associated with the real lives of the SG

participants as a means for the fans to express their own lived experiences, emotion,

and desires (2010). She attributes this prevailing style of FSCN writing in part to the

growing estrangement between the show's contestants in real life after the show had

ended.

[1.6] Dissimilar to these previous findings, Fran Martin observes a subjective,

powerful "worlding" practice in the Taiwanese fandom of Japanese BL that is shaped

by both local realities and crosscultural fantasization (2008; 2012). As she elaborates,

worlding is

[1.7] the way in which Taiwanese readers use the BL texts to imagine a

geocultural world and reflect on their relation to it—that is, to create an

imaginative geography of a "Japan" that is characterized by sexgender

ambiguity/fluidity/nonconformity, where beautiful boys enact romance

narratives and enjoy passionate sex with each other. (Martin 2012, 378)

(note 4)

[1.8] In so doing, as Martin incisively argues, the Taiwanese BL fans imaginatively

create a "BL Japan" that "is notably distinct from readers' own everyday lifeworlds in Taiwan [but] facilitates the formation of a reflexive zone of articulation where the fans

work through a range of responses to local regimes of gender and sexual regulation"

(2012, 366). In this article, I go beyond Martin's viewpoint to look at the alternate

worlds as reconfigured in FSCN femslash fan fiction. I see the worlding practice

embodied by the culturally distant settings in FSCN femslash as a discursive strategy

to address the depressing queer reality in contemporary Chinese society. Through this

tactic, FSCN fans show an intense unease and insecurity, as well as deep concern

about the existence and survival of lesbianism in the heterocentric Chinese world. This

femslash genre can thus be seen as a sophisticated, selfreflexive means for the fans

to voice their queer fantasies and legitimize lesbian romance. It offers an indirect

critique of mainstream Chinese society's erasure, denigration, and ostracization of

realworld lesbian practices (Sang 2003; Martin 2010; Kam 2013). Meanwhile, I also

unveil the ambivalent aspect of this fannish worlding strategy on FSCN fandom in

revising, appropriating, and sometimes even conforming to mainstream media's queer

connotations, unpleasant queer realities, and sociocultural stereotyping of lesbianism

in local regimes.

2. SG as a queer female spectacle and FSCN as its femslash

fandom

[2.1] The femslash mania surrounding SG was certainly not accidental. As a new

media platform opened to a grassroots public, it lent voice to underrepresented

Chinese females in various ways. As noted by Nick Couldry, it is "the fantasy of being

included in some way in major cultural forums" that propels the audience to

participate in the auditions and/or voting of reality TV shows (2000, 55). Indeed, SG's

preliminary annual audition had no restrictions on the participants' age, outward

appearance, singing style, or any other backgrounds. A wide range of Chinesespeaking females from all over the world were motivated to participate (Yardley 2005;

Warn 2006). In its second season, in 2005, SG attracted about 120,000 participants to

audition (Meng 2009, 260) and 400,000,000 viewers during the broadcasting of its

final national competition (Yue and Yu 2008, 118). Although its selection criteria and

processes were updated frequently and became more and more complicated, the

general rule was for the participants to be judged by the following three groups of

people before the finalists could proceed to the next round: several professional

judges, a small team of randomly selected public judges, and the nationwide audience.

While the professional and public judges were invited to vote for the participants in the

live studio after the contestants' performances, the audience were allowed to vote for

their favorite singers through SMS messages. The ranking of the three finalists in the

national competition was solely decided by the audience's SMS votes (Meng 2009,

260).

[2.2] The unrestricted preliminary audition and the audience's voting rights on SG

further encouraged the participation of those with nonnormative gender personas. A

large number of females who were conspicuously genderdefying participated in the

2005 and 2006 nationalwide auditions. Later, a great many regional and national

finalists presented varied forms of queer performance in the show that "obviously

challenged traditional [Chinese female] gender norms" (Warn 2006, 2). As argued by

Frances Bonner, reality TV typically looks for people who can "project a personality on

television" and who "are more usefully ordinary than others" (2003, 53). SG

participants' nonconformist gender (and perhaps potentially sexual) deviance became,

in this sense, a marketable draw for TV producers to explore. By dramatizing and

sometimes even homeroticizing the friendships between female contestants (Zhao

2016), SG carefully manufactured some of its genderdefying participants as "onscreen" queer hybrids that imply "the way that gender bending and nonnormative sexualities can denaturalize and transgress" normative gender and sexuality divisions

(Friedman 1998, 77). Meanwhile, it has been noted that fans tend to employ slash to

expand and explore the underlying world hinted at by mainstream media (Bacon

Smith 1992, 45; Jenkins 1992, 176). This intriguing feature of SG eventually rendered

itself a queer female spectacle, which not only helped to promote, dramatize, and

sensationalize the show but also emboldened the reinterpretations of these queer

female images by the show's staggeringly large numbers of online fan communities'

(Yue and Yu 2008; Yang 2010; Xiao 2012; Yang and Bao 2012; Huang 2013; Kam

2014; Zhao 2014; Zhao 2016).

[2.3] Numerous femslash communities and spaces devoted to SG have been built

since 2005 (Yang 2010; Yang and Bao 2012, 846–47). In 2006, femslash writings

about SG flooded Chinese cyberspace. Because of its wideranging focus on multiple

queer pairings in the 2006 season of SG, FSCN became one of the most prominent SG

femslash forums. The majority of the fans actively participating in the forum were

young, educated, Mandarinspeaking, Mainland China–based female fans with diverse

gender identities and sexual orientations (Yue and Yu 2008; Yang 2010; Yang and Bao

2012; Zhao 2014) (note 5). FSCN femslash activities were extremely active from 2006

to 2010. After 2010, partially due to the stateforced transitioning of the

entertainment contents and production formats of SG and similar kinds of reality TV

shows (Yang 2014, 521–22), as well as some disruptions and inner struggles within

FSCN community caused by several SG participants' lesbian scandals (Zhao 2014),

FSCN's vitality as a femslash fandom gradually faded.

[2.4] Most stories in FSCN femslash transform the 2006 SG queer hybrids into

characters with more explicit lesbian romances; however, they typically do so without

situating such lesbianism within the contexts of SG. This repositioning helps to

distinguish the characters from SG, a media world very close to reality, and reassigns

these reality TV stars to fictional occupations and identities. It allows FSCN writers to

draw heavily on a variety of genre elements, such as crime, fantasy, historical, or

science fiction. In this way, the writers break the constraints of the canon and reclaim

the homoerotic connotations of the pairings in distinctive settings. Nevertheless, a

more meticulous examination of the underlying reasons for this deliberate

disentanglement of lesbian romance from contemporary Chinese sociocultural contexts

reveals the cultural implications of this femslash genre. In the following sections of this

article I offer a close reading of several commonly used, culturally distant settings of

FSCN fan fiction—Western, futuristic, and historical backdrops. My analysis illustrates

how the prevalence of this femslash genre in FSCN showcases its fans' awareness of

and anxiety over mainstream Chinese society's patriarchal manipulations of female

gender and sexuality, as well as their implicit and sometimes subjective challenge of

this (hetero)normative regime.

3. The Western worlds

[3.1] Western contexts are commonly narrated in FSCN fan fiction to complete the

development of lesbian romance, especially in the stories devoted to a popular pairing

of two 2006 SG national finalists, Liu Liyang and Shang Wenjie. Interestingly, the

appearance of Western storylines in FSCN femslash is often paralleled with some

turning points for their lesbian identities, desires, and romantic/sexual relationships.

Such is the case in the sensational FSCN fan fiction titled fei se shi (FSS;

fatiaocheng521 2006), which pairs up Liu and Shang, and is known for its explicit

portrayals of their highly eroticized, incestuous, and sadomasochistic lesbian

relationship. FSS was originally published on FSCN by the author in November 2006

and had gained more than 10,000 fan responses by 2011. Even now, nearly ten years

later, the fiction still draws recognizable fan discussions online.

[3.2] In FSS, Liu and Shang are depicted as paternal halfsisters who, unaware of

this fact for most of the story, are brought up together as stepsisters and have strong

but convoluted feelings for each other beginning at 12 years old. After Liu's tomboy

lesbian identity dramatically surfaces in her final year in high school, her lesbianism

immediately lines up with her other socially questionable behaviors and qualities, such

as being a troublemaker and school dropout. All her "misdeeds" greatly disappoint and

eventually enrage her father. He felt that it is impossible for Liu to stay in school and

at his home anymore, and therefore decide to exile her to England with the excuse of

"continuing her education." Yet, as the plot quickly unfolds, this decision of Liu's father

to send her away actually aims to cast off the shadow caused by Liu's lesbian scandal in high school and let the rest of the family start over with a normal life. Ironically,

during the course of her lesbian encounters in England, Liu becomes an independent,

sensitive, responsible, and hardworking person and also learns how to deal with her

anger, despair, and complicated feelings toward her stepsister Shang. In this part of

the plotline, England interestingly is staged as both an exotic wasteland for

heteropatriarchal families to expatriate their "misbehaved" children and a queer

nurturing place for young lesbians to explore and make sense of those samesex

desires constantly rejected and stigmatized in the mainstream Chinese environment.

Moreover, soon after Liu's exile in England, she accidentally comes across Shang in

France, where they had their first kiss in a dreamy, surreal scene of nighttime escape

together. France, often imagined as a romantic, sexually open place in mainstream

Chinese culture, here serves as the fictional locus where the two are allowed to bond

emotionally and develop intense lesbian romance.

[3.3] Sometimes, the location of the West is also used in FSCN fan fiction for Chinese

lesbian characters to run away as queer diaspora from the social pressures resulting

from their samesex desires. In the plots of many FSCN stories, the romantic

relationship of Liu and Shang starts in China but is doomed to fail eventually because

of external pressures. Then, one or both of them goes to a Western country, such as

England, France, Greece, Italy, Canada, or Australia, to recover from the psychological

trauma. The plot then finds them either reuniting overseas and resuming their love

affair after they return to China, or meeting by chance in the West, where they settle

as a happy lesbian couple. Even in the stories without a happy ending between the two

characters, Western settings still function in a therapeutic way. Take, for example, the

fan fiction Plane Tree (chouchangliaowuyi 2009). In this story, realizing there is no

future for her secret lesbian love for Liu, Shang runs away and eventually settles down

in Australia, a place with a scenery similar to the one where she meets Liu for the first

time. This Australian plot offers Shang a space that not only separates her from the

current, disappointing reality in China but also allows her to reminisce about her

lesbian past. Even in some stories where the development of the lesbian romance is

not relocated abroad, it is often the case that at least one of the partners is imagined

as having lived in a Western country earlier in her life. In these stories, the experience

of living in the West often serves as a prelude to their lesbian romances in China.

[3.4] These storylines with a western setting may have been inspired by the

cosmopolitan personal backgrounds of Liu and Shang as promoted in the reality show

(Zhao 2016, 165). They both studied in European countries and can speak multiple

Western languages fluently. Shang studied as a French major in college, while Liu

finished her undergraduate study in England. Western locations with predominant

French and Englishspeaking populations are frequently employed as the settings of

FSCN fan fiction. However, the fact that the alternate Western world positively

perpetuates the development of Chinese lesbianism, nourishes lesbian sentiments, and

serves as the destinations of choice for nonheterosexual people in queer diaspora, is

hardly a direct borrowing from the reallife narrative. Notably, a great number of FSCN

femslash stories position other SG participants in Western settings, such as Zhang

Liangying in Love Wrong, Wrong Love! (nabi forever 2007), Li Na in Shadow Gloom

(fenglaifengquyuwuhen 2007), and Wei Jiaqing in Every Lonely Flower (feiyangyixia

2007). Most of these participants have never been abroad and/or cannot speak foreign

languages at all in real life. In the following entries of one FSCN story devoted to

queerly coupling Liu and Shang, Love Likes the Tides (malilian.xiongyong 2009a),

some fan readers questioned why the story is set in Quebec, a place relatively

unfamiliar to most Chinese people, to which the author responded:

[3.5] Quebec is the largest, Frenchspeaking province in Canada. It is

chosen [to be used in the story] because samesex couples can legally get

married there. As a YSER (femslash fan of Liu and Shang), we believe it

represents hope. (malilian.xiongyong 2009b)

[3.6] As can be seen from the author's reply, the queersupportive, promising West

in these FSCN writings, as reimagined and aspired to by some fans, is an ideal fantasy

universe, which, by nature of the frequently massmediated celebratory queer images,

is utilized for the imaginary creation of Chinese lesbian romance. The use of these

Western backdrops helps the fans validate in concrete, sociocultural terms the

existence and future possibility of Chinese lesbianism, which in realworld China is less

legitimate and recognizable. In this sense, these alternate Western worlds in the fans'

fantasy scenarios are culturally, politically, and socially valorized as the opposite of

mainstream Chinese society in order to express, develop, and reminisce about samesex desires.

[3.7] This essentialization and romanticization of the West as a queer wonderland in

FSCN femslash can be seen as a result of complex negotiations between the fans'

queer fantasy desires and the stereotyping of Western practices of lesbianism (or

nonheterosexuality and other kinds of gender and sexual deviances) in China. It

implies a Chinese fantasy trope that samesex desires are more prevalent and easily

developed in Western countries and are more acceptable to people with Western

cultural upbringings and lived experiences. This deployment might be explained by an

Occidentalist perspective in current Chinese society that "the plentiful and prosperous

Western materials civilization and its culture are considered superior to Oriental

culture [by some Chinese people]; …the Western world is a heaven [to them]" (Ning

1997, 64). The erasure of queer, especially lesbian, history, existence, and

representations in local Chinese media and the influx of Western queerrelated

information into Mainland China have helped the Chinese consumers form this positive

conceptual linkage between nonheterosexuality and the West. For instance, a

valorization of a Western queer world, "which is perceived as nonhomophobic, carefree, and liberating" has been found to be prevalent in China (Chou 2001, 31).

Especially in recent years, the blooming of media piracy in Mainland China has

familiarized Chinese people with a diversity of Western media, including queerthemed

American TV shows such as Queer as Folk (Showtime, 2000–2005) and The L Word

(Showtime, 2004–2009) (Tan 2011; Yang and Bao 2012). These shows in Western

media further promote among Chinese audiences the fantacization of queer images

that may be removed from offscreen, Western physical worlds.

[3.8] Moreover, this queer exploration of the West as an alternate world suggests a

tendency to use Western locations to "naturalize" lesbian romances between Chinese

characters. The contextual naturalization of lesbianism discloses some FSCN fans'

compliance with one Chinese heterocentric assumption of lesbianism as derived from

and shaped by cultural influences from the West (Engebretsen 2008). In a recent

study of Chinese fans' interpretation of the American TV show Friends (NBC, 1994–

2004), See Kam Tan (2011, 221) recognizes that a "'weusChineseself' versus 'theythemWesternersother'" dichotomy is created in Chinese audiences' crosscultural interpretations of sex and homosexualityrelated themes. Tan's (2011, 222) study

demonstrates that some Chinese fans possess distorted, homophobic views of

homosexuality as a "contagious disease," a "'learned' behavior," and a prevalent occurrence in the West. According to Tan (2011, 219), the mixed influences of Chinese

people's selfconsciousness as a unique "cultural group that had particular traditions,

norms, and values…the recourse to cultural difference based on ignorance and denial,"

and the unfamiliar life portrayed on American TV lead to "gross generalizations of the

culture of the other" among the Chinese audience (2011, 221). These views of

nonheterosexuality in mainstream Chinese society as derivative and deviant are

possibly also internalized and incorporated into FSCN femslash writings and reflected

by the fans' queer use of the West in femslash narratives.

[3.9] Nonetheless, underlying this promotion of the valorized queer atmosphere of

the West in FSCN fan fictions is also the "backward" intolerance of mainstream

Chinese society toward nonheterosexuality (Engebretsen 2008, 99). The fans' utopian,

queer imagining of the West, though problematic, ultimately reflects their acute

awareness of mainstream Chinese society as an exclusionary, heterocentric place.

Thus, in their fictional narratives, the fans tend to emancipate lesbian characters by

creating what might be called the space of queer utopia freed from the constraints of

heterosexual hegemony in contemporary China. This point can be better demonstrated

by FSCN fans' crafting of futuristic and historical Chinese contexts in the fan fiction.

4. Futuristic and historical settings

[4.1] Futuristic and historical China are two other common settings in FSCN

femslash. Since "the temporal settings have a strong influence on plotlines and the

type of fantasy that is found in [romance stories]" (Linz 1992, 11), these backdrops,

to a certain degree, help the writers to complete utopian, bolder lesbian romances.

They are frequently appropriated by the fan writers to create greater homoerotic

possibilities and promises between the characters. Yet, similar to the Western worlds

deployed in FSCN femslash, such narrative settings often reflect both a subversion of

normative female gender and sexual ideals in the fictional world and the fan writers'

frustration with the harsh reallife conditions of survival for lesbianism in

contemporary China.

[4.2] One case in point is the futuristic fan fiction, One Thousand Years Later

(niaoshanmingdeYS 2007). In this story, the lesbian romance between Liu and Shang

takes place in the year 3032, in which there are ongoing intergalactic wars between

humans, robots, and aliens. The author starts the story by stating that "Now is AD

3032 on the earth…Human civilization is on the verge of being destroyed by the rapid

development of technology… Human obtains unprecedented freedom… The socalled

ethics has long been stamped out" (niaoshanmingdeYS 2007). In such a chaotic

future, love and sexual intimacy not only transcends traditional boundaries of gender,

sexuality, and species but also is no longer sacred. Within this futuristic, permissive

environment, the plot continues to describe a lesbian love tragedy that failed 1,000

years ago because of social pressure. This strategy of using combined futuristic and

fantasy generic tropes to reimagine Chinese lesbianism makes wobbly the centrality of

heterosexuality in today's Chinese society. However, the story simultaneously places

lesbianism in opposition to contemporary social order and morality. The continuation

of a lesbian romance in a chaotic, alien world suggests that lesbian relationships are

only achievable when released from the constraints of the present heterocentric social

and ethical systems.

[4.3] Similarly, the stories set in ancient China are usually set in a time when

feudalism was the social and cosmological norm. The construction of lesbian romances

in the relatively more closedin and conservative sociocultural environment of the past

can be read as an ironic commentary on the marginalization of and discrimination

against lesbianism in the stillhomophobic, highly civilized, postmodern human society

of today. However, these historical plotlines are always infused with elements of social

and political turbulence, a strategy that also possibly divulges a contradictory,

pessimistic undertone of this fan fiction subgenre to parallel the existence and

continuation of lesbian relationships with the ongoing social malaise and disorder.

[4.4] For instance, in one FSCN fan fiction work, Shanghai 1943 (bulaimeidefuqiao 2007), the lesbian love between Liu and Shang is set in the context of the Chinese civil

war period during which Chinese women were severely subordinated and had no

control of their own destiny (note 6). The romance occurs between two characters working in a Moulin Rouge–style Chinese brothel where most of the girls are escorts.

In another instance of historical FSCN fan fiction, Peking Opera Blues

(sanshaonainaideshanzi 2007), the lesbian story is set in a femaleonly traditional

Chinese opera troupe during China's antiJapan war era (note 7). Intriguingly, almost

all the females in this troupe are portrayed to be nonheterosexual. Of course, this plot

design is largely based on the crossdressing tradition and transgenderism in this type

of Chinese female troupe. Yet these intentional cultural positionings of lesbianism in

the historical genre can also be viewed as clear manifestations of the fans' intertwined

queer derision of contemporary Chinese heteropatriarchal society and their conformity

to mainstream societal definitions of lesbianism.

[4.5] These historical repositionings of lesbianism serve as an interesting detour to

imagining homorelationships between females that are unsettling to current,

heteropatriarchal hegemony. It has been argued that, in romance fiction, historical

settings are more often employed to "depict poverty, violence, and rape than are

romances set in the present… [Because they] mak[e] the dramatization of such perils

more remote and therefore less threatening" (Seidel 1992, 166). Indeed, most of

these FSCN historical romances are accompanied with plots of rape, jealousy, revenge,

sexual licentiousness, suicide, and sexual violence and abuse toward and between

female characters. These dramatic, intense storylines and the permissive, chaotic,

distant settings often generate homosocial and homoerotic bonding between the

subordinated females in the stories. As Maureen Quilligan (2005, 12–13) has pointed

out, lesbianism is a way for women to retain their agency, actively express their

desires, and refuse to be traded out in a patriarchal society. While a direct subversion

of heterocentrism in mainstream Chinese culture seems unrealistic and less possible,

these historical lesbian fantasies function as a distant and relatively safe strategy of

queer resistance against realworld cultural forces that deny and silence samesex

desires of women.

[4.6] Furthermore, although historical settings "have an advantage in creating

fantasy worlds because our view of the past is selective" (Putney 1992, 99), selective

historical Chinese contexts in these stories are certainly not utopian queer fantasy

worlds. The imaginary lesbianism in these stories is also not exempt from being

defined and even ostracized by the present Chinese heteronormative society. Similar

to the Western plotlines, the historical settings often present relatively "naturalized"

lesbian romances developed through women's crossgender identifications, crossdressing careers, or emotional bonds in an authoritarian, misogynistic surrounding. In

such cases, the fan writers attribute Chinese lesbianism to the attachment of female

friends within unconventional, difficult, or unsettled sociocultural and political

environments. This way of "explaining" lesbianism, to some extent, reproduces the

heteropatriarchal understandings of nonheterosexual female desires and identities as

"derivative" and "situational" (see Sang 2003; Martin 2010) that the fans strive to challenge through femslash writings.

5. Conclusion: A self-contradictory worlding practice

[5.1] Some scholarship believes that slash fans have a tendency to ignore realworld,

queerrelated, social and political issues and that they tend to focus only on the

pleasure generated through their play with samesex desires. As Rhiannon Bury

claims, "the function of romance fiction, even if it is queer, is to provide an escape

from unpleasant realities; simply put, issues detract from the fantastical pleasures of

such texts" (2005, 93–94). Nevertheless, some scholars (McLelland 2005; Wood 2006;

McLelland and Yoo 2007) also argue that certain queer fan communities dedicated to

Japanese media can be understood as a "counterpublic" (Warner 2002) because they

actively and critically challenge "hegemonic (that is, patriarchal, masculinist,

heterosexist) codes governing the public expression of gender and sexuality"

(McLelland and Yoo 2007, 100).

[5.2] Neither view in itself can fully explicate the intricacy of FSCN femslash writings.

Indeed, as previous research illustrates, many SG fans, including the FSCN femslash

writers who had situated their stories within contemporary, SGrelated contexts (note

8), fully realized the specific "capitalist mode" of the show's deliberate exploitation of

female homosociality, yet were still able to enjoy the subjectivity and "pleasure of fan

practices" during this discourse (Yang 2009; Yang and Bao 2012, 850; Yang 2014).

Nevertheless, due to the increasingly tightening and evolving online media censorship

and communication control in Mainland China, cyber public spheres, especially the

ones explicitly advocating equality and democracy, hardly exist in such an

environment (Zhou 2006). For instance, most FSCN femslash fans constantly made

efforts to differentiate the fantasy of lesbianism in the fan fiction works from the realworld lesbianrelated topics; in some cases, the administrators of the fan sites would silence explicit fan discussions on LGBTQ cultures to avoid potential backlash against

both the SG celebrities and the fandom itself (Zhao 2014).

[5.3] Furthermore, online Chinese queer fan literature might "articulate [fan writers']

desire for democratic changes in both the intimate sphere and the public sphere" (Xu

and Yang 2013, 39), but it has also been found fraught with "repression of female

sexuality…uncertainties about [females'] gender identities and frustrations with

heterosexual relationships as constituted in contemporary [Chinese] society" (Feng

2013, 81). As I reveal in this article, the worlding strategy allows fans to elaborate their complex queer fantasies and their struggle with mainstream, heteronormative

cultures, as well as to negotiate with prevalent sociocultural regulations on female

genders and sexualities. The creation of alternate worlds in fan fiction allows FSCN

fans to voice their awareness of the undesirable realworld situations faced by Chinese

lesbians. Meanwhile, the alternate settings and plotlines of FSCN femslash fan fiction

imply that contemporary, mainstream Chinese society offers very limited supportive

space for queer females. Seen in this light, this writing technique suggests that those

who want to have a lesbian relationship need to run away from the judgment of their

peers, cut off their social ties with family members and friends, and live in a culturally

distant place or time in order to relieve themselves from the pressures that could

hinder the development of their lesbian love. With this narrative strategy, FSCN fans

simultaneously exercised their queer play with mainstream media, posed discursive

challenge to Chinese lesbian reality, and expressed deep concern and discomfort with

the heteropatriarchal and heteronormative paradigms ingrained in contemporary

Chinese society.

6. Acknowledgments

[6.1] I thank my MA thesis advisor, Elana Levine, without whom the completion of

this research would have not been possible. I extend my gratitude to Celina Hung and

Fran Martin for their generous support, patience, and careful persuasion, which have

made my researching and writing on this topic a rewarding journey into the past, the

future, and the soul.

7. Notes

1. The terms "girl slash" and "girls' love" (GL) have also been used in certain studies of

Chinese queer girl culture (Yang 2010; Yang and Bao 2012). GL is often closely linked

to Japanese media and popular cultures. A large portion of GL culture also exclusively

centers on the platonic, homoromantic relationships between underage, feminine girls.

Furthermore, the definition of GL varies in different cultural contexts. Thus, I use the

term "femslash" in this article to denote all kinds of FSCN fans' female samesex

fantasies.

2. This site is available at http://tieba.baidu.com/f?

kw=%E7%B3%C9%AB%B3%AC%C5%AE.

3. Certain genres, such as gothic and horror, have also been frequently appropriated

in Western AW (or AR/AU) fan narratives.

4. In her research, Martin also uses the term "worlding" to describe how Taiwanese BL

fans socially connect with each other in a local affective community. Because of the

limited scope of this article, my analysis focuses on the imaginative level of worlding in

FSCN femslash.

5. Some fan scholarship has showed that it is very difficult to unveil the real, offline

identities and backgrounds of online fans because virtual identities themselves are

often performative, fluid, and fictional (Busse 2006; Hanmer 2010). Based on my

longterm observation, this point is also applicable to FSCN fandom. In the previous

study focusing on FSCN, the researchers believe that its fans, especially fan writers,

were welleducated, and romantically (or even sexually) experienced and

knowledgeable (Yang and Bao 2012, 851). Their findings were largely based on the

sexually revealing content and welldesigned, sophisticated plotlines of FSCN femslash.

Yet I also found a few active FSCN fans who claimed to be romantically innocent,

underage girls. Take, for example, xinxinxiaoxue, who claimed during online FSCN

conversation with other fans, to be only 12 years old in 2007 and to never have had a

romantic relationship (see http://tieba.baidu.com/p/166973394?pn=74). Thus, my

research does not attempt to specify any precise data of the demographics of the

participants of FSCN femslash.

6. The backdrop of the story is a time period before the founding of the People's

Republic of China in 1949, during which Mainland Chinese society was still at war.

7. This time period is from 1931 to 1937. This kind of female troupe is frequently

referred to as kunban.

8. The FSCN femslash fan fiction works that set lesbian romance within a SG context,

though they existed and were popular among the fan readers, often divulged the fan

writers' cynical or gloomy view of the show's manipulation of queer female images and

the reallife lesbianism in mainstream Chinese society. Such an example is one of the

most sensational fan fiction works in FSCN, A Play for the World to See

(axiuluozhishuhai 2006).

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Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Praxis

Female-centered fan fiction as homoaffection in fan communities

Ria Narai

University of Wol ongong, Wol ongong, New South Wales, Australia

[0.1] Abstract— In the scholarship of fan studies, a lot has been said about why

female fan communities enjoy writing about male characters and relationships in fan

fiction. In contrast, there has been a dearth of research into female fan communities

that are centered around female characters and their relationships with each other.

Here I examine the heretofore unnamed femalecentered fan fiction genre of

homoaffection fic through a close reading of examples chosen from the Star Trek

fandom. I show how this fan fictional genre reworks the masculine narratives of the

television series and movies in order to define female experience and demonstrate

the way in which this in turn creates female communities in both the world of the fic

and our own world.

[0.2] Keywords— Community; Female fandom; Femslash; Gift economy

Narai, Ria. 2017. "FemaleCentered Fan Fiction as Homoaffection in Fan

Communities." In "Queer Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng,

special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.1014.

[0.3] White picket fences have no place on space stations.

—Hellekson and Busse (2014)

[0.4] With Jadzia and Keiko both gone, Nerys became painfully aware of

just how much she'd come to rely on the two of them for support, advice

and, yes, gossip.

—AceofWands, "Casting On" (2014)

1. Introduction

[1.1] This special issue of TWC sets out to "collect and put in dialogue emerging

research and criticism on the subject" of femslash, and my paper contributes to this

goal by attending to a particular fan fiction genre that incorporates femslash but also

refuses to draw a strong distinction between sexual and nonsexual relationships

between women. As an academic fan, I believe, like Jenkins, that fan fiction is a

resistive form of creative expression practiced by women (note 1) who seek to

"colonize" the texts they are fans of by "reworking [them]…to become open to feminine pleasures" (Jenkins 1992, 114–15). This focus on fandom as a community of

women has intrigued scholars, particularly in regards to slash. However, comparatively

little has been said about the women who talk, read, and write about women in fan

fiction, which is particularly lamentable given the extensive work about women reading

and writing in other femalecentric genres such as romance fiction (e.g., Radway

1984). There are even some similarities between the genres—for example, Radway's

notion of romance fiction as compensatory literature that "enables [women] to relieve

tension…diffuse resentment, and…indulge in a fantasy that provide[s] them with good

feelings" (1984, 95) could easily be applied to fan fiction as well. But the scholarship

on women in fan fiction in general, and on femslash specifically, is incredibly sparse—

as Reid points out, "the existence of women writing about women in fandom is

generally ignored" (2009).

[1.2] In this paper I seek to rectify this lack, sketching out the characteristics of a

fan fiction genre that fans recognize but have not named, homoaffection fic, and

showing how it reworks masculine narratives and in doing so centers and revalues

female experiences, bringing into being female communities both in the world of the

fic and—through its circulation in female fan communities—in our own world. The

examples of homoaffection fic that I have selected come from the Archive of Our Own

(AO3; https://archiveofourown.org/) and are based on the various Star Trek television

series and movies. They were chosen through consultation with the community of Star

Trek fans on Tumblr, and I have obtained permission from all the creators of the fan

fiction included in this paper.

[1.3] In order to analyze these examples of homoaffection fic, I am drawing upon a

number of theoretical frameworks including the notion of the lesbian continuum,

theorized by Eve Sedgwick and expanded by Adrienne Rich, which "[includes] the

sharing of a rich inner life…bonding…[and] the giving and receiving of practical and

political support" (2003, 27); Elayne Rapping's use of the private sphere in analyzing

soap operas, particularly the "things women do in [the private] sphere [that] are seen

as central to the maintenance and proper functioning of human life" (2002, 52); and

the existing fan studies scholarship on the gift economy in fandom.

[1.4] I must also clarify that in this paper I use the potentially problematic terms

"masculine narratives" and "feminine narratives/pleasures" in reference to the public sphere and private sphere, respectively, which treads uncomfortably close to gender

essentialism. That is, of course, not my intention at all. I use these terms not because

men and women have innate properties that align them to these different spheres but

because these terms are socially produced in many domains (including fiction and fan

fiction) and are therefore useful to my argument.

2. Defining homoaffection fic

[2.1] Homoaffection fic is not a named genre in fandom. It was while reading Star

Trek fic in other named genres, such as fluff, curtainfic, fem gen, and femslash that I

began to identify similarities and recognize the conventions of a new genre. The fic

was femalecentered—not just because the main characters were women or because it

was focalized through a female character but because it was centered on the

relationship between two or more female characters. Also, if a male character or a

relationship with a male character was included or discussed, then it was secondary to

the main focus on female characters and relationships. However, it was not just that

this fic centered on women but what women did in the fic itself that I identified as a

generic convention. In terms of conventional narrative structure, nothing happens in

the fic. The traditional plot—of set up, conflict, resolution—is not present. Instead,

there is an emphasis on the female characters offering each other emotional support,

with their relationships being profoundly positive.

[2.2] Although it is not a named genre, fans other than myself were able to

recognize it when asked. As an author of homoaffection fic, I reached out to my

community for fic that fit within the genre. I selected examples for this paper by

sharing a post with the Star Trek fan community on Tumblr, describing the type of fic I

was looking for and asking for recommendations. Within a week I had been sent over

30 examples.

[2.3] It should be noted that although homoaffection fic is an unnamed genre, it is

similar in some ways to another fic genre that existed prior to and in the early days of

the Internet, known as smarm ("Smarm" 2016). This genre was similar to the

hurt/comfort genre, with an emphasis on the comfort: like homoaffection fic, it

emphasized characters caring for and supporting each other through everyday

experiences that were not part of the original narrative. Unlike homoaffection fic,

smarm—like most fan fiction genres—was primarily associated with malemale

friendships; however, it did include stories written about women. Another dissimilarity

was that smarm was seen as the antithesis of slash, with characters not having a

sexual relationship of any kind ("Smarm" 2016). The existence of smarm

demonstrates that this type of storytelling, and the accompanying caring community of

female readers and writers, is not a new phenomenon in fandom. And it also serves as

a reminder that there are similar genres to homoaffection fic which focus on malecentered stories, in contrast to homoaffection fic's unique focus on women.

[2.4] In naming this genre, I have borrowed the term homoaffection from Caroline

Gonda, who in turn adopted it from Susan Lanser to describe samesex relationships in

a way that emphasized the importance of affection as opposed to being constricted to

a sexual/platonic binary with terms such as homoerotic or homosocial (2007, 92). This seemed appropriate to my classification, as the fic encompasses a wide range of

relationships: sexual, romantic, platonic, and familial. This diversity of relationships

between women can be understood in terms of what Rich and Sedgwick call the

lesbian continuum. Rich suggests that "we consider the possibility that all women…

exist on a lesbian continuum" (2003, 136), with Sedgwick explaining that "the

diacritical opposition between the homosocial and the homosexual seems to be much

less thorough and dichotomous for women, in our society, than for men" (1985, 2).

[2.5] In other words, because men in our society are confined to such a strict

heterosexual/homosexual binary, any expression of homosocial behavior or affection

between men must not be classified as anything other than a normal aspect of

heterosexuality and defended, sometimes violently, as such. However, women are not

restricted to the same binary, and the line between heterosexuality and homosexuality

is blurred, particularly by homosocial behavior and affection. Sedgwick goes on to

explain, "At this particular historical moment, an intelligible continuum of aims,

emotions, and valuations links lesbianism with the other forms of women's attention to

women: the bond of mother and daughter…the bond of sister and sister, women's

friendship" (1985, 2).

[2.6] It is these forms of women's attention to women depicted by homoaffection fic.

This is best illustrated through a close textual reading of a short example of

homoaffection fic. The example I am analyzing, "Ice Cream, Coffee and Strawberry

Tart" (2013) by cosmic_llin, is the third fic in a series about the romantic and sexual

relationship between Seven of Nine from Star Trek: Voyager (1995–2001) and Sarina

Douglas, a minor character from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine (1993–99). Voyager and

Deep Space Nine are two separate spinoff Star Trek television series, which ran

almost concurrently and are set at roughly the same time inuniverse. Deep Space

Nine depicted the adventures of the crew of the titular space station in what is known

as the Alpha Quadrant—the region of space that the Federation is situated in. Voyager

is set on the titular starship, which is flung to the faroff Delta Quadrant on the other

side of the galaxy. The series depicts their voyage home and culminates in their arrival

at Earth in the final episode.

[2.7] The character Seven of Nine joins the crew of Voyager halfway through the

series, having been rescued from the Borg Collective—a hivemind of cyborgs,

assimilated from humanoid races across the galaxy—by whom she was assimilated as

a 7yearold. The character of Sarina Douglas, meanwhile, appeared in only two

episodes of Deep Space Nine; in "Statistical Probabilities" she is introduced as a genetically engineered human who processes information so quickly that it cannot get

to her visual or auditory systems, rendering her unable to interact with her

surroundings. In her subsequent appearance in "Chrysalis" an operation is performed which corrects the problem, allowing her to properly interact with the world for the

first time since she was a child. Seven and Sarina never meet or know of each other in

their respective series, but they have a great deal in common. They are both geniuses

and work as scientists, and both have difficulty with social interaction because of their

upbringings. Furthermore, they share a love of singing, which is established in their

respective series and is part of the first fic in the series "Jasmine and Rose" (2012), in which Seven and Sarina meet at a scientific conference and develop romantic feelings

for each other. By the time of "Ice Cream, Coffee and Strawberry Tart" (2013) their

relationship has been established. As the title suggests, the fic consists of three

sections—one for each conversation Seven has about her relationship with Sarina.

[2.8] Seven shares ice cream with Naomi Wildman, the first child born on Voyager.

Their relationship is a curious mixture of maternal and sisterly, as a result of their age

difference. Their conversation begins with Seven commenting on Naomi looking older:

[2.9] "Naomi Wildman," said Seven. "Your appearance has altered. You

have gained approximately six centimeters in height since our last

encounter, and you have modified your hairstyle." She paused, and smiled.

"It is very…grownup."

"Really?" Naomi beamed back, sliding into the booth opposite Seven.

(cosmic_llin 2013)

[2.10] Following this, they order the ice cream, and Naomi tries to tease information

out of Seven about Sarina. There is a childlike innocence to Naomi's questioning: "'A

gift? Who from?' [Naomi] 'A friend.' [Seven] 'A girl friend?' [Naomi]." Even her

observation that Seven looks different because she is "smilier" contributes to the

overall tone of their friendship. This is reinforced by the ending of this section, with

Naomi entreating Seven to "'tell me about Sarina!'"

[2.11] The second section, the coffee, is shared with Admiral Kathryn Janeway,

Voyager's former captain—which fans would anticipate, because of her wellestablished love of the beverage. Seven and Janeway share a professional relationship, as implied by the coffee, and yet there is also a maternal aspect to it in

the television series. This is reflected in their dialogue:

[2.12] "Status report," said Admiral Janeway, taking two mugs from the

replicator and bringing them over to the couch, where Seven was sitting.

"Everything is fine," Seven said, taking her mug.

"…and?" (cosmic_llin 2013)

[2.13] This continues, with the Admiral's repetition of "… and?" prompting brief, practical answers, until Janeway finally asks Seven to "tell me everything. " This request is followed by the longest paragraph in the entire fic:

[2.14] So Seven told her how Sarina's shuttle had been twentythree

minutes late, how they had tried almost every restaurant on Earth that

Sarina had ever happened to read about in a book, how they had gotten lost

in Kaluga, seen an oldfashioned movie, walked the entire length of

Federation Row in Paris, bought confectionary from street stands, and talked

for hours about the new warp engine developments that had been in the

news lately. (cosmic_llin 2013)

[2.15] The use of short sentences and repetition in the first half of this section builds

up the suspense, which is satisfied by the condensed description of all the details

Seven shares with the Admiral. This paragraph in particular reflects a common female

experience, of giving an indepth retelling of a date to a female friend.

[2.16] The third and final section is Seven's conversation with her only living relative,

her aunt Irene Hansen, who appears briefly in a single episode, having reached out to

contact Seven in the Delta Quadrant, along with all the other families whose loved

ones are on Voyager. This section of the fic begins with a discussion of the strawberry

tart:

[2.17] "How's the strawberry tart?" Irene asked.

Seven swallowed her current mouthful and smiled. "Excellent, as always,"

she said. "Aunt Irene, you do not have to make it every time I visit. I know

from experience that preparing food by hand is timeconsuming."

"Nonsense, it's your favourite," said Irene. (cosmic_llin 2013)

[2.18] The caring relationship between them is established through the homemade

strawberry tart and the effort that Seven's aunt goes to in making it. This initial

discussion is followed by Irene asking whether Sarina also likes strawberry tarts and

suggesting that Seven bring her to meet her, prompting a discussion about their

relationship.

[2.19] "So…it's getting serious between the two of you?"

Seven paused for a moment to consider the various meanings of the word

serious.

"Perhaps?" she ventured. "I am unsure. I don't know yet what I want to

happen next, or how I foresee our relationship progressing…I like how things

are now."

"Well, as long as you're both having a good time, that's the important thing,"

Irene said. "It does my heart good to see you happy, Annika." (cosmic_llin

2013)

[2.20] Irene's use of Seven's birth name, Annika, is a reminder of the familial

relationship between them, different to the one she has with Naomi or Kathryn.

[2.21] From this analysis, it is clear to see the four kinds of relationships that

cosmic_llin has plotted in this fic. Seven and Sarina's romantic and sexual relationship

is at the center of the three conversations, yet it is not the focus—the platonic

friendships she has with Naomi and Janeway, her chosen family, and her familial

relationship with her aunt—are the main features of the text. And each relationship is

different yet similar, a perfect example of the many different relationships that are

part of the lesbian continuum and the way that they all "[include] the sharing of a rich

inner life…bonding…[and] the giving and receiving of practical and political support"

(Rich 2003, 27). It is this, the women supporting Seven and her relationship with

Sarina, that is what happens in the fic. Their dialogue and their actions—particularly

the expression of emotions and eating and drinking—is what makes up the majority of

the fic. In order to see what is at stake here, I draw on Rapping's work on the

importance of the private sphere to soap opera fans. She states that there is

[2.22] a sharp delineation between the male driven public sphere, in which

work, business, and public affairs are handled, and the female driven

domestic sphere…in which [takes] place the work of caring for and

maintaining family relations, the socializing of children, and the negotiation

of emotional and spiritual matters…This realm was seen to promote values

such as caring, emotional openness, mutual support, and concern for the

welfare of the group. (2002, 52–53)

[2.23] In the private sphere, Rapping argues, "the things women do"—in particular,

"the work of caring for and maintaining family relations" and the expression of "caring, emotional openness, [and] mutual support"—"are seen as central to the maintenance

and proper functioning of human life" (2002, 52–53). This centralizing of "the things

women do" characterizes homoaffection fic as well as soap opera, and it is part of the

way in which this genre of fic defines, constructs, and revalues female experience. A

connection between soap opera and fan fic along just these lines—their construction

and representation of female lives—has been drawn by Camille BaconSmith, who

states that "fan writers, like soap opera fans, want to see characters change and

evolve, have families, and rise to the challenge of internal and external crises in a

nonlinear, dense tapestry of experience" (1992, 64). She claims this is so as "whether

because of innate qualities or socialization, women perceive their lives in this way, and they like to see that structure reproduced in their literature" (1992, 64). Whether this

is true of all fan fiction or not, it applies to homoaffection fic.

3. Defining, constructing, and revaluing female experience

[3.1] To establish fan fiction as a form of literature that seeks to rework existing

texts to "become open to feminine pleasures" (Jenkins 1992, 114–15) raises the

question of what, exactly, is meant by feminine pleasures. Fic focusing on traumatic

events such as character death, humorous romantic comedy plots, epic tales more

complicated than their original source text—fan fiction encompasses all of these and

more, and as it is written primarily by women, it follows that it must all then be

fulfilling feminine pleasures. But homoaffection fic seems to focus on a specific form of

feminine pleasure, the one hinted at by BaconSmith, of seeing characters exist in a

"nonlinear, dense tapestry of experience" (1992, 64) encompassing the everyday,

reflecting women's experience of their own lives. In BaconSmith's view of what fan

writers want in their fic, "it is living day to day that matters, not the single events that

make up individual plots" (1992, 64).

[3.2] This is reflected in homoaffection fic, which focuses on the mundane and trivial

and revalues them as important. The fic I was recommended features a variety of

domestic activities from eating, drinking, sleeping, and bathing to knitting, gardening,

visiting the holodeck, or going on shore leave, as well as the other, most common

aspect of homoaffection fic: emotional support, with female characters confiding in

each other and receiving support and understanding, as well as physical comfort and

nurturing, in return. Often, as in "Ice Cream, Coffee and Strawberry Tart," the two are

linked together, with the domestic activities being used to nurture a character

physically while they are being supported emotionally.

[3.3] For example, "Pomegranate" (2010) by Raven follows on from the events of the

Star Trek (2009) movie, with the character of Nyota Uhura returning to her home on

Earth to heal from the ordeal. Tea serves an important function in the story. It is

established that making tea was how her mother nurtured her when she was studying

to join Starfleet—"Nyota studied late into the night, every night, and her mother made

tea after dark and poured out mute, loving cups"—and that this is how she continues

to nurture and comfort her when she returns home: "'I'm so sorry,' her mother says,

softly. 'I'm so, so sorry. I know I can't understand.' She lets go and stands up. 'Let me

make you some tea, baby, okay?'" The mundane, domestic act of drinking tea is given

a sense of importance in this example of homoaffection fic—and it is not an isolated

example.

[3.4] My own fic, "Casting On" (2014), depicts the formation of a knitting circle among the women of Deep Space Nine. Knitting serves to bring the women together

as they support and comfort each other. They also drink tea while knitting and talking

and, as in "Pomegranate," it is not treated as just a descriptive detail but as an

essential part of the story. In one scene, Keiko O'Brien—the wife of main character

Miles O'Brien—joins the knitting circle after a harrowing few weeks when Miles's life

was put in danger numerous times. When she arrives, she is emotionally distressed.

The other women there settle her on the couch then get her some tea to drink: "Keiko

brought the mug to her face and inhaled deeply. Dax was pleased to see some of the

tension ease from her shoulders" (AceofWands 2014). This then allows Keiko to open

up to the other women emotionally. Something as simple as providing and drinking tea

is constructed as an important aspect of female experience—and homoaffection fic

revalues this experience as itself important. This is a political act of resistance to

traditional (masculine) narrative values.

[3.5] Hennegan laments that, in traditional literature, "the bulk of women's lives go

ignored, unknown, unrecorded. Women's lives are too 'trivial,' 'boring,' 'narrowly

domestic' to matter and the novels which depict them are equally expendable" (1998,

184). And her examination of socalled women's books written in the 18th and 19th

centuries reveals "meticulously detailed accounts of a women's world" with less visible

male characters, and whose "real content lay in the women's interactions with each

other: in the advice they gave, care they took, support they offered, sacrifices they

made" (1998, 174). This description clearly fits homoaffection fic as well, suggesting

that it is not a new phenomenon but a continuation of an existing form of literature—

one that constructs everyday domestic activities and emotional support as a defining

part of female experience and that revalues this as something important and worthy of

being written about. This raises the question, however, of what pleasure is to be

gained from reworking the masculine narratives of an actionadventure science fiction

television series to focus on the female experience of the everyday and the domestic.

That is, why write homoaffection fic in the Star Trek universe when women's fiction

already exists?

4. Reworking masculine narratives

[4.1] Henry Jenkins notes that "most traditionally feminine stories do not require

such constant reworking in order to become open to feminine pleasures" (1992, 114),

suggesting that part of the pleasure is, precisely, in the reworking itself. Pugh states

that a fic writer of her acquaintance once remarked that "people wrote fanfic because

they wanted either 'more of' their source material or 'more from' it" (2005, 19). In

other words, either they love the text so much that they want to continue spending

time with those characters in that world, or their desires are not being fulfilled by it

and they want more. I believe both to be true in the case of homoaffection fic. The

writers love the world of Star Trek and its female characters, and yet Star Trek

episodes are traditional masculine narratives—as are most television dramas.

[4.2] Fiske defines masculine narratives as those "structured to produce greater

narrative and ideological closure" (1987, 200) and contrasts them to soap operas,

noting that masculine narratives "have a single plot, or a clearly defined hierarchy of

main and subplots" in contrast to the multiple characters, plots, and perspectives of

soap operas (1987, 219). Furthermore, masculine narratives tend to focus on the

public sphere, as outlined by Rapping (2002), and to center on the work that the

characters do. Because of their desire to explore more feminine pleasures, the writers

of homoaffection fic focus on a different aspect of the characters' lives than what we

see in the masculine narratives of the series. This is illustrated in different ways in the

examples I have selected.

[4.3] In some cases, the fic explores events that would never happen in the series,

such as "Coffee in Bed" (2010) by Opal Matilla—a series of fics about the romantic,

sexual relationship between Admiral Kathryn Janeway from Voyager and Doctor

Beverly Crusher from The Next Generation (1987–94), two characters who never meet

in the series. The fic series is set after Voyager returns to Earth, and follows on from

The Next Generation movies, when Janeway is an admiral at Starfleet Headquarters

and Crusher is the head of Starfleet Medical. The series follows their relationship as it

progresses from dates to moving in together—then continues to marriage and

pregnancy in a subsequent series—and much of it is entirely domestic, without any of

the markers of traditional masculine narrative. For example, "Ours" (2011), a fic

halfway through the series, consists of the two women adjusting to moving in

together, particularly Kathryn getting used to the idea of them sharing a cat. Much of

the fic is devoted to erotica and dialogue between them about the aforementioned cat.

[4.4] This is one of the ways in which homoaffection fic can completely rework the

characters and events from Star Trek to fit feminine pleasures. However, it is not the

only way in which homoaffection fic reworks masculine narratives. Other examples

center around the events of particular episodes, specifically the emotional impact that

they have. "Kindred Spirits" (2014) by allamaraine follows the Next Generation

episode "Lower Decks," where a young Starfleet officer, Sito Jaxa, dies on a dangerous

mission. Although we do see some of the characters grieving, including Captain Picard,

who sent her on the mission, there is not much space given to that grief in the

episode. By contrast, allamaraine's 2,000word fic focuses entirely on Doctor Crusher

comforting her grieving friend and nurse, Alyssa Ogawa. The fic culminates in Beverly

physically comforting Alyssa as she cries:

[4.5] Beverly felt her chest tighten at the sound of Alyssa's grief. "Come

here," she said, gathering Alyssa into her arms.

"I miss her so much," Alyssa sobbed, before burying her face into Beverly's

shoulder.

"Shhhhh," Beverly stroked Alyssa's hair and gently rocked her back and

forth. "I know, I know." (allamaraine 2014)

[4.6] A similar scene occurs at the end of my fic "Casting On" (2014), set during the

second and third seasons of Deep Space Nine and filling in the gaps between episodes,

in terms of the emotional impact that these events have on the female characters. The

final scene follows on from the events of the episode "Life Support," in which Kira

Nerys's lover has died. In my fic, Jadzia Dax arrives at her quarters to comfort her

while she is grieving:

[4.7] Jadzia lead her, gently, across the room. She pressed firmly on her

shoulder, silently urging her to wait there, and went and heaved Nerys's

couch around until it faced the window. Then she took Nerys's hand and

pulled her down onto the couch beside her. They looked out at the bright

stars, undulled by a planet's atmosphere, and the low hum of the station's

environmental control system was the only sound to be heard.

And when Nerys started to cry again, soundlessly, her whole body wracked

with sobs, Jadzia said nothing, but wrapped her arms around Nerys and

gently rocked her from side to side. (AceofWands 2014)

[4.8] These examples are two among many in homoaffection fic, and they

demonstrate the way that this fic revalues female experience and constructs it as

something valuable. It is not simply that fans are adding female experiences to the

traditionally masculine plots of Star Trek episodes, but that by focusing on them they

are fleshing out aspects of the Star Trek universe that are considered trivial and thus

creating a much richer narrative world, encompassing a wider range of human

experience. And in doing so, they are reconceptualizing the television series not only

for themselves, as individual fans, but for others. In her paper "Slash as Queer

Utopia," Willis states that "to say that Blake and Avon are in love is not only to make a

claim about the content of Blake's 7; it is also to make the claim that queer desire

exists and can be recognized" (2007, 4); analogously, homoaffection fic does not just

make a claim about the Star Trek universe but insists that in our world, the things

women do exist, and that these things are not only valuable and worthy of being

written about but are crucial to maintaining a livable world. With this emphasis on

reworking masculine narratives to open them up to female experience, homoaffection

fic attracts fans who are also interested in exploring those possibilities. The women writing about these characters want to explore the relationships between them that

might only have been hinted at, or given less emphasis, in the original text. Or, as

with many of the examples, they might bring together characters who never even met.

[4.9] But in writing fic about women coming together to form female communities,

the fic itself also acts to bring the fan writers and readers together to form their own

female community. As Stanfill and Condis note, "fan work creates fan community—

fandom itself—through the production and maintenance of affective ties" (2014, 3.4).

In other words, by interacting with each other—whether in comments on fan fiction or

talking in a community space like Tumblr—these fans form a community. Indeed, as

Scott notes, "it is the reciprocity and free circulation of fan works within female fan

communities that identifies them as communities" (2009, 2.10). So the creation and

circulation of homoaffection fic, whose focus is on female communities and

relationships, in turn develops reciprocal female communities and relationships among

the fans who write, read, and share it.

5. The role of the gift economy

[5.1] It is not simply the circulation of fan fiction in fandom that forms a community.

The Star Trek fandom is vast and stretches across real world and online spaces, and

the subset of the fandom who write and read homoaffection fic is small and centered

around Tumblr and AO3. Their community is formed through their interactions in these

online spaces. The social aspects of this community take place on Tumblr, where

pictures, fic, and vids are shared and where discussion about the female characters,

their relationships, and particular events and episodes is common. Wilson states that

the "affective discourse of fandom (that is, excited conversations and expressions of

love) is inextricable from the production of fan fiction" (2016, 3.6) and this is true of

the community that I am examining. Many of the fans who interact on Tumblr also

write fan fiction, and because of their affective ties, they often write fic specifically for

each other. But as Turk notes, "While some gifts are made for and presented to

specific fans, whether in the context of a preexisting friendship, a prompt or request,

or a fest or challenge, they are typically made available not only to that individual but

to the community as a whole" (2014, 3.1).

[5.2] Even when fic is written for someone, it is still shared on the AO3 to be enjoyed

by the entire community. In the selection of homoaffection fic chosen for this paper, a

number of examples were gifts. "When The Working Day Is Done" (2015) was written

by glitteratiglue for cosmic_llin, with the note "because she got excited about the idea

and didn't tell me I was insane for wanting to do it," suggesting a friendship between

the two writers that extends beyond reading and writing fic. However, friendship is not

a prerequisite for gifting fic. Since 2014, cosmic_llin has run an annual Star Trek

Friendshipfest on the AO3, described as "a fanfiction exchange for friendship stories

set in the Star Trek universe" ("Star Trek Friendshipfest" 2014). Fic exchanges are a common practice in many fandoms (and across fandoms). Writers sign up for them,

request pairings they would like to read, and offer the pairings they are willing to

write. Then they get matched, anonymously, and have a limited time to write fic of a

certain length, which is then shared on the AO3.

[5.3] This particular fic exchange is often a source of homoaffection fic, with

participants requesting female friendships. I myself have been the recipient of fic in

these exchanges, including "Everything Will Be All Right (If You Keep Me Next To You)"

(2014) by silly_cleo, written for my request for more fic about the women of Deep

Space Nine being friends. And "Kindred Spirits" by allamaraine was another gift of that same exchange, written for glitteratiglue. I mention these examples in particular to

demonstrate not only the way in which the fic exchange is part of the existing

community—as it is made up of many fans who already know and interact with each

other on Tumblr—but also that it is part of the making of that community. Although

fans may not have interacted prior to writing fic for each other, the act of writing that

fic can serve to form the first bonds of friendship and establish a sense of community.

Fans discover that they share similar interests in terms of what they want to write and

read about, which naturally encourages them to seek out and interact with each other

on Tumblr in the hopes of being able to discuss those shared interests. Thus the gift

economy creates social bonds and constructs fan community.

6. Conclusion

[6.1] In the chapter of The Fan Fiction Studies Reader about slash, Hellekson and

Busse suggest that the only relationships that make sense in the universes of cult

television are homosexual ones, as heterosexual relationships are "bound to shortcircuit the adventures and fantastic explorations" at the center of these series (2014, 80). They suggest that "domesticity cannot be allowed in these universes, and within a

heteronormative ideology, heterosexual relations will eventually lead to domesticity…

White picket fences have no place on space stations" (Hellekson and Busse 2014, 80).

Obviously, I do not agree with this assertion. Homoaffection fic, the fan fiction genre I

have defined and illuminated in this paper, embraces domesticity and incorporates it

into Star Trek—a cult television universe it is supposedly antithetical to.

[6.2] Furthermore, with its central focus on female characters and their relationships

with each other, homoaffection fic embraces domesticity while simultaneously resisting

heteronormative ideology. It defines domestic activities and emotional support as

essential aspects of female experience, and it constructs and revalues this as

something worth being written about. And it counters the notion of domesticity having no place in the actionoriented, masculine narratives of Star Trek by reworking those

narratives to make them open to feminine pleasure. By creating this sense of female

community within the fic itself, it also creates the same supportive community among

the fans who create and circulate this fic—of which the giving and receiving of gift fics

is an integral part.

[6.3] Although this paper has focused solely on Star Trek and on a specific section of

its fan community, Hennegan's commentary on women's fiction in the 18th and 19th

centuries makes it clear that homoaffection is part of a long tradition of feminine

resistance to masculine narratives. The link between this form of literature, in which

female experience is valued as something important and worth writing and reading

about, and fan fiction has previously been unacknowledged by scholarship—in much

the same way that femslash and other femalecentered forms of fan fiction have been

ignored. And yet, as this paper demonstrates, these forms of fan fiction serve an

important need for female fans. They create a richer narrative world that encompasses

a wider range of human experience—specifically, female experience—and revalue this

experience as important.

[6.4] As with femslash and queer female fandom in general, there is plenty of scope

for further research into homoaffection fic as a genre of femalecentered fan fiction

and the role it plays in creating and serving female communities. So too is there scope

to explore the similarities and differences between homoaffection fic and other similar

fic genres such as smarm. But in terms of its role in the Star Trek fan community, this

paper has demonstrated that through reworking the traditional masculine narratives of

Star Trek, homoaffection fic has continued the tradition of illuminating the lives of

women and thereby unequivocally states that white picket fences do indeed have a

place on space stations and starships.

7. Acknowledgments

[7.1] I thank both my supervisor Ika Willis and fellow homoaffection fic author Llinos

Cathryn WynnJones for their help, guidance, enthusiasm, and encouragement.

8. Note

1. Although here I refer to female experience and female community, I must clarify

that I am not referring to an innate characteristic attached to biological sex, but a

socialized way of being not limited to heterosexual, cisgendered women—as there are

a diversity of genders and sexualities present in fan communities.

9. Works cited

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allamaraine. 2014. Kindred Spirits. Fan fiction. Archive of Our Own, August 16.

BaconSmith, Camille. 1992. Enterprising Women. Philadelphia: University of

Pennsylvania Press.

cosmic_llin. 2012. Jasmine and Rose. Fan fiction [series]. Archive of Our Own,

November 23.

cosmic_llin. 2013. Ice Cream, Coffee and Strawberry Tart. Fan fiction. Archive of Our

Own, April 22.

Fiske, John. 1987. Television Culture. London: Methuen.

glitteratiglue. 2015. When the Working Day Is Done. Fan fiction. Archive of Our Own,

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Gonda, Caroline. 2007. "Being Faithful: The Ethics of Homoaffection in Antonia Forest's

Marlow Novels." Journal of Lesbian Studies 11 (1–2): 89–105.

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Hellekson, Karen, and Kristina Busse, eds. 2014. The Fan Fiction Studies Reader. Iowa

City: University of Iowa Press.

Hennegan, Alison. 1998. "On Becoming a Lesbian Reader." In Sweet Dreams:

Sexuality, Gender and Popular Fiction, edited by Susannah Radstone, 165–90. London:

Lawrence and Wishart.

Jenkins, Henry. 1992. Textual Poachers. New York: Routledge.

Matilla, Opal. 2010. Coffee in Bed. Fan fiction [series]. Archive of Our Own, September 8.

Matilla, Opal. 2011. Ours. Fan fiction. Archive of Our Own, January 26.

Pugh, Sheenagh. 2005. The Democratic Genre. Bridgend: Seren.

Radway, Janice A. 1984. Reading the Romance. Chapel Hill: University of North

Carolina Press.

Rapping, Elayne. 2002. "Daytime Utopias: If You Lived in Pine Valley, You'd Be Home."

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Durham: Duke University Press.

Raven. 2010. Pomegranate. Fan fiction. Archive of Our Own, September 26.

Reid, Robin Anne. 2009. "'A Room of Our Own': Women Writing Women in Fan and

Slash Fiction." Dreamwidth.org, April 4. https://robinanne

reid.dreamwidth.org/26260.html.

Rich, Adrienne Cecile. 2003. "Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence

(1980)." Journal of Women's History 15 (3): 11–48.

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Scott, Suzanne. 2009. "Repackaging Fan Culture: The Regifting Economy of Ancillary

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Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Theory

Locating black queer TV: Fans, producers, and networked publics on

YouTube

Faithe Day

University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, Michigan, United States

Aymar Jean Christian

Northwestern University, Evanston, Il inois, United States

[0.1] Abstract— For black creators, television remains an elusive yet illustrious art

form. Corporate television networks have restricted access to black writers, limiting

black representations. However, through a more open distribution system on the

Internet, black writers have expanded the art of television, producing stories in a

wider range of genres through a variety of intersectional identities and intersecting

art forms. Here we interrogate indie black cultural production to first locate how

writers queer traditional television production. We then examine how audiences form

counterpublics to read and respond to these works in comments and on blogs. We

engage a broad array of popular indie series whose creators span identities and

whose narratives span genres, including the black queer and lesbian dramas

Between Women (2011–present) and No Shade (2013–2015) as well as the comedic

black gay pilots Twenties (2013) and Words with Girls (2012–2014). We explore

how and why producers conceived of these series alongside how viewing publics

interpreted and consumed them. To varying degrees, these series queer not only the

norms of television production and form but also of viewership and audience

response.

[0.2] Keywords— Audience; Digital media; Fandom; Intersectionality; Television

Day, Faithe, and Aymar Jean Christian. 2017. "Locating Black Queer TV: Fans,

Producers, and Networked Publics on YouTube." In "Queer Female Fandom," edited

by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures,

no. 24. http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.867.

1. Introduction

[1.1] Visibility and invisibility shape why black producers create, and how their fans

respond to, queer representations on YouTube. We theorize this unique fanproducer

relationship as "quareshared recognition," combining intersectional performance

theory and fan studies. Examining popular black queer Web series No Shade and If I

Was Your Girl as well as pilots Twenties and Words with Girls, we find a heightened visibility of queer women of color, as producers serialize performances for and by black

queer women. Indie producers and fans collectively create new performances of

blackness and queerness via open networks online, in response to legacy broadcast

and cable television networks that ignore and normalize intersectional black identities

through closed development processes. The work of producers and fans reveals how

networked (digital, peertopeer) distribution reconfigures the (in)visibility of black

production, performance, and fan reception in legacy network (linear, onetomany)

development.

[1.2] Black queer indie series are largely unrecognized by legacy networks so

circulate in the decentralized networks of those in the community who recommend

series to friends and family. Fans of queer black Web series include both individuals

who explicitly identify as queer and those who do not. Aware of the diversity among

fans, producers explicitly work toward visibility for black queer people and must

negotiate with fans the networked visibility of black queer performance without legacy

network intermediaries on openaccess platforms. We argue this unique producerfan

relationship quares scholarly understandings of television development by fostering a

more complex, interdependent vision of series distribution, particularly of indie,

communityfocused series.

[1.3] Our essay locates black queer TV production and reception through analysis of

comments from fans and interviews with producers in Hollywood and outside in

Chicago and New York. We analyze how producers respond to their communities,

locally and nationally, and how fans reconstruct and negotiate communities online. As

Rebecca Wanzo (2015) writes, our position as black acafans, an underexplored area in

media studies scholarship, compels us to center intersections of race, gender, and

sexuality in our study as a form of both scholarly and industrial critique. Like fans of

legacy TV series, fans of indie series are networksavvy and understand the

mechanisms by which the mainstream channels under– and misrepresent them.

Therefore, they envision queer black indie productions as one of the only ways through

which they can gain visibility in the public media sphere.

[1.4] At the same time, fan affective connections with black queer performance

create a representational burden that producers must carry. Black indie TV writers are

constantly held accountable for the representations that they utilize, and they face

pressure to meet the expectations of the queer black community. In interviews,

producers of No Shade, If I Was Your Girl, Twenties, and Words with Girls directly engage with and struggle over the invisibility and visibility of black queer persons,

before and after production. They cite a range of impetuses for releasing series online,

including representing community expressions and concerns, personal struggles,

interpersonal or social dynamics, artistic allegiances in film and TV, and economic or

market incentives. In analyzing these series, we can see production impetuses falling

into two categories that are specific to location and series type. Many producers of indie series outside of Hollywood express their primary motivation as socially and

communitydriven. These producers tend to welcome more feedback and engagement

from fans and take more pleasure in or issue with the visibility of the performances

represented. In slight contrast, producers working within or near Hollywood stress

market incentives to a greater degree than those producing in cities outside of

Hollywood. These producers work to use pilot series as a means for breaking into the

television industry and/or producing their own identitybased artistic vision. Yet, in

both cases, these productions quare legacy forms of television production by exhibiting

both transparency and the importance of audience reception in their creation, as well

as a commitment to producing more complex and diverse portrayals of black queer

performance by black queer producers.

2. Black queer indie series: Quare-shared recognition among

fans and producers

[2.1] Web series represent a form of independent television or indie TV: television

production independent of legacy (traditional broadcast and cable) television

distribution (Christian 2014). Legacy television distribution develops series by culling

from thousands of pitches and producing one or two dozen pilots, presented to

advertisers who buy the audience's time up front, before viewers ever see the

narrative. Stories and performances produced by those black and brown producers are

marginalized in this process for a variety of reasons, including closed professional

networks and discrimination in writers' rooms (Bielby and Bielby 2002; Henderson

2011). In this sense, television productions within legacy networks exist in a black box

where fans tend to have little knowledge of or involvement in the production process

but instead are positioned as passive consumers whose main role is to garner ratings,

views, and therefore profit for the network.

[2.2] Yet Web distribution allows producers to connect with viewers directly, without

network distributors who shape and select narratives to appeal to broader audiences,

conform to established formulas, and satisfy advertisers (Gitlin 1983; Lotz 2007). Most

black Web series are about straight people, but the specificity of intersectional Web

series by queer and femme people of color has made them popular online (Christian

2016). View count on If I Was Your Girl rivals that of Issa Rae's The Misadventures of

Awkward Black Girl, by all accounts the most successful black series online. Anacostia, a DCbased series starring and created by gay producer Anthony Anderson, amassed

enough of an audience to run for at least four seasons, giving it time to garner a

Daytime Emmy for guest star Martha Byrne. Dramas and dramedies about queer

people of color are popular on YouTube, beginning with Chump ChangeS, the first

black drama on the site, and continuing with The Lovers and Friends Show, Between

Women, and Drama Queenz. C. Riley Snorton (2014) reminds us of New York Times critic Kelefa Sennah's (2007) acknowledgment of R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet, an

R&B opera, as integral to YouTube's rise as a platform for viral videos. Black queer

producers also bring to YouTube the art of black performance and drama, best

exemplified by Kalup Linzy's fourseason soap opera with original music, Melody Set

Me Free (2007–), about a matriarchal family trying to achieve power in the music

industry, and by artists and personalities like Tay Zonday, Jayson Musson (aka

Hennessy Youngman), Todrick Hall, B. Scott, Kid Fury, and Crissle.

[2.3] Black queer and intersectional Web series advance innovation in series

development and set the stage for creating queer community online through

identification with content creators, the characters, and issues in the series. Corporate

networks address communities as market niches and employ post identity (postracial,

postgay) politics, erasing differences within communities and promoting

disidentification between racialized subjects and the text even on niche channels like

LOGO (Dávila 2012; Muñoz 1999; Ng 2013; Sender 2004; SmithShomade 2008;

Warner 2015). In response, we find that queer of color Web series promote quareshared recognition. This theory integrates queer and black theory into the breadth of scholarship on how fans, particularly women, appropriate, shape, and challenge media

texts within affective communities (Bury 2005; Christian 2011; Jenkins 2006;

Morimoto 2013; Ng 2008; Russo 2009). By combining E. Patrick Johnson's conception

of Quaring and Patricia Hill Collins's use of shared recognition, we see black queer

series development as constructed in relation to shared recognition of performances of

intersectional identity. For Johnson (2005), Quaring (taken from black vernacular)

references the ways in which sexual and gendered identities "always already intersect

with racial subjectivity" while also showing how these identities resist oppression and

containment (125). Collins (2000) defines "shared recognition" as the process by

which black women form a community in order to recognize "the need to value Black

womanhood" (97). While Collins references black women's identity, the indie

productions that we analyze expose how we must value queer identity within the black

community and the ways in which Web producers value the identities and opinions of

their viewers/fans. As Kara Keeling (2007) shows in cinema, the visibility and

invisibility of black queer femme representations perform an essential function in how

audiences assess cinematic reality; meanwhile C. Riley Snorton (2014) theorizes black

sexuality as marked by hypervisibility and invisibility in the public sphere, forming

what he calls a "glass closet" around black subjectivity. Quaring and shared

recognition undergird the reading practices that viewers bring to performances of

black queer and femme identities in indie TV, framing the discourse through which

they negotiate the paradoxical invisibility and hypervisibility of blackness and

queerness—the glass closet frames the reality of black queer productions and publics.

In their use of quareshared recognition, black queer Web producers quare legacy

television production by demonstrating the value of black queer identity. This is

accomplished through producing series and pilots that expand the diversity of black

queer performances, as well as bringing viewers into the production process by

encouraging recognition and interaction with the media text.

[2.4] As Nancy Baym states, "most good qualitative work uses multiple strategies to

get at the phenomena that interest them. Researchers may look at multiple forms of

online discourse, they may conduct interviews, and they may complement online data

collection with offline encounters" (2006, 84). Therefore, in order to understand how

recognition shapes reception, we performed a content analysis of the YouTube

comments for both the series and pilots in conjunction with the collection of interview

data from series creators. In order to gain the most variability in responses to the

series, we only examined the comments for the first episode of every series. While No

Shade and Words with Girls have only one video as the first episode, If I Was Your Girl is available on YouTube as a compilation of three episodes, and Twenties is presented

as an episode in four parts, so the number of comments and videos analyzed varies

across the group: No Shade: 418 comments; Words with Girls: 128; If I Was Your

Girl: 1,768; and Twenties: 787. We conducted open coding to categorize comments

from the start of the series to the most current postings. The analysis foregrounds

similarities between the comments across content as well as what is unique to each

series and pilot. Drawing on the work of Norman Fairclough (2013) and critical

discourse analysis, we also analyzed the discourse between viewers of the show. This

discourse unites meanings both inside and outside of pilots, as viewers draw on their

own experiences in life, with the show, and with other media texts to formulate

responses to the representation of a queer black identity. Given the small sample size

of interviews (three), interview transcripts were not coded; instead, the researcher

focused interviews on how and why producers develop their stories and compared

what discourses—for example, community versus market value, explicit versus implicit

citation of black queer identities—were emphasized by each producer in their

responses.

[2.5] The rest of this paper focuses on an analysis of the communitydriven queer

Web series produced outside of Hollywood ( No Shade and If I was Your Girl) and the

marketdriven pilots produced in Hollywood ( Twenties and Words with Girls), in order to examine how the direct and discursive comments on these series reflect the

construction of a queer black audience unique in their interest and investment in the

production of black Web series and nuanced representations of a queer black identity.

Each case study integrates interviews with series producers in which producers

express similar investments in the production and representation of black queer

performances. Our analysis suggests location as a key variable in how producers

negotiate their investments. Hollywoodbased producers are more attuned to creating

marketable representations while those outside the TV industry's center express in

greater depth and detail how their personal investments connect to community and

social concerns in their respective cities. Both of our analyses suggest how networked

distribution privileges communitybased modes of production and engagement focused

on creating publics, shifting television development online from niche/marketdriven to

social/communitydriven.

3. No Shade and If I Was Your Girl: Speaking to black queer

communities

[3.1] Premiering in February 2013, black queer drama No Shade (2013–2015)

centers on the life of Noel Baptiste, a HaitianAmerican artist struggling in New York

living with his religious and homophobic mother. Creator Sean Anthony portrays Noel

as naïve and in search of his place within the LGBTQ community. His three best friends

—bar manager Eric D. Stone, choreographer Kori Jacobs, and transgender makeup

artist Danielle Williams—assist him in this journey while also grappling with their

identities as artists and queer and transgender people. In focusing the narrative

around Noel, Anthony attracts an audience who does not just identify as queer but

also as Haitian or HaitianAmerican, raising issues around being gay in Haiti or within

the Haitian community. Comments such as "Haitian? Wow. Never knew someone

Haitian and gay. I'm Haitian and other Haitians can't even imagine homosexuality in

Haiti" reflect the lack of visibility within mainstream media and society for this

particular identity. For viewers who relate to Noel, there is a shared recognition around

the unique oppression that he deals with because of the intersecting identities of a

Haitian Gay man. Yet in the first episode, Noel is not explicitly described as Haitian.

Many viewers see Noel's black diasporic identity signaled through other factors, such

as the last name Baptiste and his mother's use of Haitian Creole (not translated in the

series).

[3.2] We see the use of language and naming to signal communal affiliation in

viewers' comments, defining No Shade as a queer space. Stating their appreciation for

the series and its message, viewers of No Shade continuously reiterate slang terms

requiring prior knowledge or familiarity with the queer community to be understood,

for example: "The life I was given within the first 30 seconds is what made me stay.

Killin it!" Much of this language comes out of the ballroom culture in New York City,

with which some characters in the series, such as Kori and Danielle, are heavily

affiliated. Ballroom culture is especially depicted through the intertextuality of the

series, which blends genres from various film and television texts. Paris is Burning, the

1990 documentary film by Jennie Livingston on the ballroom culture in New York, is

satirized in the first episode of the series through the character House Mother Patty

Alchemy, to mostly positive (but some negative) comments from viewers. As Marlon

Bailey (2013) states in his ethnography of ballroom culture, Paris is Burning is one of the most prominent films depicting the lived realities and unique forms of selffashioning, familial support, and identity construction within queer of color communities (4–5).

[3.3] Following S. Craig Watkins's work in music and Aymar Jean Christian's work in

TV, we see the work of communitydriven indie series as producing not only visibility

but also innovation. From reconfiguring corporate practices designed to exclude to

producing series on new technologies, communitydriven Web producers quare legacy

forms of television production by facilitating new networks of association for black

queer viewers. Viewers actively acknowledge this innovation and the connections that

black queer productions foster. Discussions most often refer to other Web series, such

as Between Women, when discussing representations of black queer community (for

example: "I stumbled across this after looking at Between women and I fell in love

with the show…please keep them coming"). At the same time, viewers also reference

series such as Noah's Arc (2005–2006), which appeared on the LOGO channel and also

represented a black gay man who deals with many of the same struggles as No

Shade's protagonist Noel.

[3.4] The breadth and depth of the performances of black queer identity that

Anthony crafts also suggest why viewers engage with and debate the representations

in a variety of ways. With no marketing or plan and only a small crew, and performing

many of the roles himself, Anthony nonetheless creates a series that promotes shared

recognition for a diverse black queer community. The pilot has been played almost

90,000 times as of this writing (Anthony 2013). To be sure, Anthony was also

motivated by personal and social concerns; the characters were modeled after friends

in New York along with his own experiences: "I implement a lot of things with me and

my friends…I've been every one of those characters." (Anthony, pers. comm.)

Danielle, a transwoman in the ball scene, reflects transwomen he knew in the ball

scene, even as he acknowledges "there's different types of transgender women…

there's some that don't associate with that world," Anthony said in the interview;

Anthony combined personal motivations with a sincere desire to address his

community's invisibility in the mainstream media, or "put comedic humor behind a

filter that reflects the community." Anthony and No Shade reveal the complex politics

of recognition in the production and reception of black queer indie TV. They show how

communitydriven productions provide fruitful platforms for engaging viewers around

cultural and placebased differences within and between black queer identities and

performances.

[3.5] Charting the rocky relationships and ups and downs of four queer women (Toi,

Stacia, Lynn, and Rhonda) in Chicago, If I Was Your Girl (2012–2013) is a thriller that

goes back and forward in time to construct a narrative about serious issues in the

queer of color community including incarceration, domestic violence, and suicide. As

the second series invested in the black queer community, If I Was Your Girl shares its

fan base with another Web series about queer women of color in an urban space,

Between Women, set in Atlanta. As seen in the comments for No Shade, which

reference Between Women as the series that led them to the show, for many viewers

of If I Was Your Girl, Between Women is their first lesbian series. Many viewers see Between Women as a starting point for their investment in queer Web series and take

sides proclaiming whether or not Between Women is better or worse than If I Was

Your Girl using standards that include the quality of the acting, characterization,

entertainment value, and representation of queer women.

[3.6] If I Was Your Girl is different from Between Women and No Shade in content and comments because of its sexually explicit portrayal of black queer women, which

has resulted in an inordinate number of comments from nonqueer, religious, and/or

homophobic viewers. This pushback seems to be indicative of the fact that If I Was

Your Girl veers away from the safe and sanitized portrayals of lesbian couples that

viewers are used to seeing in other Web series and network TV in order to visibly

represent the fullness of lesbian sexuality. Embracing these representations, there are

also many viewers of the series who truly enjoy the series because of the overt

representation of lesbian sexuality. In the comments section, there are multiple

examples of the parasocial relationships that fans developed with the queer characters

and couples as a result of this attraction (note 1). As one commenter states, "You never see lesbian shows on the tv so thats y theres youtube:)…smh [shaking my

head] u people are mad because [you] disapprove of homosexuals lol [laugh out loud]

o wel." Hypersexualized queer individuals do not operate within respectability politics,

but viewers see Web series as a unique space where producers should push the

boundaries of what is acceptable in the mainstream. If viewers do not approve of

these representations, then the content is probably not for them.

[3.7] In keeping with the goals of communitydriven productions, creator Coquie

Hughes (2013) explicitly cites her motivation—particularly domestic and state violence

— to create works for the urban black lesbian community as inspired by her personal

and social experiences. During our interview she states, "I wanted to use the film to

let people to know that I was a lesbian…It kind of gave me that bravery I needed"

(Hughes, pers. comm.). While Hughes's personal work is rooted in propagating

representations of urban queer women of color, her roots are in community theater for

city publics, and conversations around If I Was Your Girl started locally in Chicago at

the Portage Theater in Portage Park, an ethnically diverse community with a growing

black population. Hughes premiered the series in April 2012 to an almost soldout

audience of 1,100 people, not all of them queer, and premiered it again to a soldout

audience later that year. "The local people they liked it…The bootleg man really played a role in getting the word out," Hughes said in the interview. When she sold the

version online after the premiere, she grossed $12,000.

[3.8] Hughes's impressions of local reception mirror online dynamics, revealing how

the performances she captured—she cites the attractiveness of actors as key—

produced complex sexual response from queer and nonqueer viewers alike: "I get

more so straight people who relate to my projects…A lot of straight people come to my

premieres. They say 'I'm not gay but…' so and so is gorgeous…People get all kinds of

emotions" (Hughes, pers. comm.). Hughes cites the complex politics of recognition in

black production and reception. The black community's invisibility creates excitement,

drawing diverse crowds for queer content; yet media's hypervisibility and the

independentmindedness of creators intensifies conversations around representations

of blackness. Series by producers like Hughes clarify and challenge the boundaries of

black community. Black production and performance online is an innovation in

television development with social but also economic value. As Hughes stated in the

interview: "I didn't plan on making films for the urban lesbian community. I'm just

taking advantage. Ain't nobody making content for this community because they don't

care…They will pay to see themselves." For Hughes, modest financial gain is an

unpredictable side effect of providing places online and offline for a public eager to

engage with the queerness of black social dynamics.

4. Twenties and Words with Girls: Marketing black queer

publics

[4.1] In contrast to communitydriven series productions, marketdriven pilot

productions are primarily focused on moving from the Web to television networks. The

existence of underserved audiences encourages producers to make pilot episodes to

show legacy networks that there's a market for their work. Yet, while Christian

describes how all indie series are possible pilots to be picked up by major networks,

producers working close to Hollywood are increasingly constructing more limited

stories (pilots instead of full series) to introduce new characters and inspire fans to

pressure legacy networks to invest in developing black queer series (2014).

Commenters initially expressed confusion around the purpose of a pilot and whether or

not it will actually become a series, either online or on cable. Yet, after producers allay

these concerns, some viewers support the productions on the basis of quare

identification. Openly distributing pilots online to black queer fans quares legacy

network traditions of testing pilots with randomly filled (race– and sexualityneutral)

focus groups and public screenings in Los Angeles and elsewhere, where the results of

these tests are hidden from the public and used only by (mostly white) network

executives who decide whether or not the series get the green light (Gitlin 1983).

[4.2] Exploring the lives of six twentysomethings, Twenties (2013) is a pilot presentation in four parts centering on the protagonist, Hattie, who is seeking Internet

fame through vlogging on YouTube. Produced by Queen Latifah's production company,

Flavor Unit, Twenties received a pilot script deal with BET before the departure of

Loretha Jones, head of original programming, after which the project stalled (Rafus

2014). While the show starts off as a heteronormative comingofage tale, as the

series unfolds, the fiancée of one of Hattie's best friends is discovered having a gay

affair, and Hattie comes out as a queer woman in love with a straight girl. Its

installments explore the performance of blackness, interracial dating, the nature of

queer sexuality, and financial hardship. Many audience members expressed how they

related to these issues, particularly on the trials of falling in love with a straight girl, as

Hattie expresses in the end of Part 4. Although Hattie does not explicitly come out in

this video, with one viewer stating "so is Hattie gay? someone please answer," most

viewers recognize Hattie's declaration of love for a straight girl as indicative of her

queer sexuality. Similar to the comments on If I Was Your Girl, while some comments

express disdain at what they call a "homosexual agenda," there are even more

comments expressing joy at seeing queer women of color represented in the media

(Waithe 2013).

[4.3] Yet, audiences heavily critique the show for being elitist or bougie, promoting

consumeristic, narcissistic, selfindulgent, or strange characters. As one comment

says:

[4.4] I love to see beautiful young black people on television but I wish

that there was more substantive dialogue. Our twenties are marked by more

than blackbrand consumerism. We have more depth than this. How do you

break tropes about black people (she prefers the original wiz of oz—really

cool) but then reinforce them (black women have never had sex ed/don't

know how to use tampons—read, we don't know our bodies and need a

white woman to show us the way) The subsequent scene is problematic.

[4.5] Twenties seems to operate in the liminal space between stereotype and

realism, making it difficult to find an audience who can relate to the show as it works

to produce the knowing laughter endemic of the sartorial tone of 21stcentury quality

television. While this results in a very smart take on the black twentysomethings, the

pilot splits the audience and opens itself up to critique on both sides from viewers

concerned about the threat of stereotypes and the misrepresentation of black women

as well as from those who are tired of the sarcastic tone of series such as Girls, a

series created and partially written by Lena Dunham for HBO in 2012, which focuses

on the lives and relationship(s) of four young white women living in New York City

during their early twenties. The issues around stereotypes hinge on the particular

scene, mentioned in the comment above, in which the pilot's only white character

explains to the three black female characters how to use a tampon. While some

viewers also relay their experiences of first learning how to apply a tampon that

occurred through the help of friends in college or in their early twenties, many other

viewers state that the series is reinforcing the idea that black women are ignorant

about their own bodies and are sexually misinformed.

[4.6] Even with these viewer concerns, the pilot has garnered over 300,000 views for

the four parts of Twenties, yet the series still has fewer than 1,000 comments. Mixed

reviews could have limited audience response, but it could also be a result of confusion

among viewers around what a pilot is and why the four videos did not constitute a

Web series. The description of the show explicitly states "This is NOT a web series…

This is a Flavor Unit Production." But the description did not explain that the four

installments are one pilot made to generate an audience and to push back against

legacy networks' pitchtopilot model of series development. Limiting the narrative

scope allows the producers to utilize resources that increase production value—the

industry's standard focuses on the quality of production, typically technical elements

like lighting, sound, and design but also acting, directing, and writing. Twenties is shot

by Justin Simien, director of Dear White People, winner of the Sundance and

Independent Spirit Awards, which was eventually set up in development at Netflix. His

presence lends a patina of credibility inaccessible to other indie Web series working for

recognition by Hollywood. Twenties stands out in the Web series market and attracts

viewers who want to see black queer people in shows of broadcast quality but find it

more challenging to keep viewers.

[4.7] In Twenties, Waithe and Flavor Unit use decentralized networks to support their

bid for legacy network recognition (a series development deal). In this they had some

success. They encouraged viewers to share Twenties with twenty people if they liked

it, underscoring how queer black Web series rarely gain visibility on YouTube, even

with high production value, unless disseminated through social networks. Some

commenters express excitement about the prospects of the pilot becoming a television

show. Even more viewers express knowledge of the constraints of broadcast television,

rooting for the show to get picked up by cable networks such as HBO or Showtime or

by online subscription services such as Netflix or Hulu. Still, many viewers want the

pilot to become a Web series, with some explaining a lack of access to cable television

networks (premium channels requiring monthly payments) and others proposing that

Web series keep the power of production in the hands of black content creators. In this

sense, Twenties rallies more fans interested in developing niche markets for black

content than those invested in communitybuilding and authenticity.

[4.8] In interviews with the press, Lena Waithe cites both the representational

inequality on television and her own life as inspirations for Twenties. To her, the show

reflects a black experience not defined by stereotypical blackness, but one which is

both specific and universal:

[4.9] I didn't write this pilot just because I wasn't seeing myself on

television. I wrote it because it was a story I needed to tell…TWENTIES is the

most personal script I've ever written and I don't think it's a surprise that it's

also gotten me the most attention. People like it when you tell the truth. And

this is mine. But I also think it's universal. Because who can't relate to being

in your twenties and sucking at life? (quoted in Dowell 2013)

[4.10] Waithe's complex, at times contradictory, impulses manifest in the story and

viewer response. She embraces the burden of representation in mainstream film and

television, for instance naming Hattie after Hattie McDaniel, the first black woman to

win an Academy Award, a message not lost on commenters. But crafting a unique but

also relatable story about a black lesbian proved a difficult tension to resolve.

Commenters' confusion over some of Waithe's storylines derive from experiences so

personal—"these are pages from my diary," she told After Ellen—they appear to

disrupt expectations of shared recognition (Rafus 2014). The tampon storyline comes

from her childhood; her mother would not let her wear them whereas she noticed

white girls did—Waithe compares this cultural difference to makeup and pierced ears.

She notes how blackness can be expressed outside of dialogue, in clothes and music, a

lesson she no doubt took from Shonda Rhimes (consider Scandal's soundtrack), Bill

Cosby (note 2), and A Different World, all of which she cites in interviews for their ability to broaden or ignore race: "I'd love to tackle it (performing blackness),

possibly, but I'm more interested in discovering what it's like for a Black person of her

age, and in her group, living in Los Angeles" (quoted in Rafus 2014). We can see in

Twenties the ways in which marketdriven productions, while similarly invested in

black queer audience opinion, are also inspired by the creator's singular

conceptualization of black queer identity, hailing the auteuresque impulses of film and

quality television. At the same time, marketdriven productions also quare legacy

television development with fans' involvement in the pilot process. Unlike corporate

Web networks like Amazon that also pilot openly but rely on mostly white, credentialed

Hollywood producers, these indie productions focus on keeping the means of

production and reception in the hands of black queer producers and fans.

[4.11] Avoiding prospective audience confusion over format, Words with Girls

(2014), originally an eightepisode series produced independently by creator Brittani

Nichols, explicitly signals itself as a pilot. Premiering in September 2014 along with

two other comedy pilots, Nichols's pilot centers around Pacey, a lesbian and financially

challenged slacker, who right at the moment she plans to propose to her longtime

girlfriend is dumped and left with her friends to pick up the pieces of the emotional

breakup. Nichols also stars in the series as a friend to Pacey, also involved in a

complicated relationship with her girlfriend. The series is one of three pilots produced

by Issa Rae through her Color Creative network, a kind of studio developing online

pilots for networks or studio to pick up or develop.

[4.12] With this setup, viewers of Words with Girls are much more informed about

the pilot process and discuss which of the other Color Creative pilots they watch, like,

and/or dislike. Similar to the response to Twenties, viewers are excited to see faces

they know from other series such as Awkward Black Girl as well as representations of

queer women of color. However, the pilot did not seem to be as popular as the other

pilots from Color Creative and, as of the most recent episode of the series/pilot

analyzed, Words with Girls has the least comments and views of all of the series with a

little over 30,000 views and slightly over 100 comments. Many of these comments

critique the writing on the show, describing the pilot as boring and the characters and

acting as inauthentic. These critiques also seem to correspond to the fact that unlike

most Web series and the pilot for Twenties, Words with Girls is standard television episode length at almost 30 minutes long. While the video for If I Was Your Girl is

approximately three times that length, we suggest that the racy subject matter and

drama of the plot was able to hold viewers' attention in a way that the more mundane

ups and downs in the lives of a group of friends does not. At the same time, many

commenters disagreed with the negative critiques. One such comment states, "I think

people are being a little too critical. I feel like I've got a great ideal of the girls'

individual personalities. I love the ideal of the plane and the underlining message of

each woman being in some form of transition. Always great to have an awkward

character, a wild card, and a moody one! Great effort."

[4.13] From this comment and others like it, we see a divergence in how audiences

read the series. Some were less critical and more generous, seeing potential in where

the characters could go in the narrative. Yet for other audience members, the readymade presentation of a pilot invites greater critique because it is supposed to hook them and make them want to watch more. As in the other pilots in this study, Words

with Girls tends to receive more criticism and negative comments from viewers who

were not a part of its ideal target audience.

[4.14] Despite noticeably lower production value, the original Words with Girls series,

shot when Nichols was new to Hollywood, was just as popular. Similar to No Shade,

Words with Girls draws on queer cultural expression and language, as every episode of

the series is centered around a word presumed to be part of black lesbian vernacular:

"The language that we use in different communities is always so different…There's not

always the way the word is actually supposed to be used" (Nichols, pers. comm.).

Trying to capitalize on the success of Broad City, Nichols read all of the comments and

tried to become a YouTuber, by posting oneoff shows—like vlogs—that were cheaper

and more immediate. Nichols's original series focused on cultivating a community of

black queer women. When Nichols was pitching Issa Rae on the pilot, however, she

was working in the industry as a writer for the Web series Billy on the Street and as an

associate producer on a pilot for a cable network. Writing, starring, and editing her

own pilot was a new and affirming experience for her: "It's something I can take to

going out to other jobs," she said in the interview; Words with Girls allows her to

"trust my voice and whatever comes out of that is going to be different" from

Hollywood's malecentered series.

[4.15] This raises the question of whether the Color Creative pilot is more auteur–

and marketfocused compared to its predecessor. Comparing the opening of the

episodes and the words that telegraph its meaning and purpose suggests that it is.

Each episode title of the original Words with Girls presents and defines a word that the

characters grapple with in the episode, such as "Homophobic" and "Beard." For the Color Creative episode, the word is simply "Pilot," defined as "a person who operates the flying controls of an aircraft" and "a television program made to test audience

reaction." In the episode, Nichols's character Aspen is writing a pilot and her friend Ari

(comically named an "assistant to watch" by Hollywood trade magazine Variety) wants to see it and give feedback. The pilot engages directly with the writers' struggle in Los

Angeles and explicitly places the audience in the role of a consumer whose reactions

are being tested for market performance, as opposed to a community whose views are

valuable as a social good. The longer pilot thus reframes the series from community

vernacular to niche product, shaping how viewers perceive representations of

blackness in the narrative and each other as a public (Nichols 2014). Nevertheless, by

publishing Words with Girls on YouTube and explicitly asking Rae's predominantly

black fan base for recognition, the pilot circumvents legacy TV's closed processes for

testing pilots, quaring this process by centering a conversation between black queer

producers and fans.

5. Conclusions

[5.1] As Herman Gray (1995) writes in Watching Race, during the 1980?s "blackness

emerged as a site of contested struggle over the very question of identity and

difference within America in general and Black America in particular" (42). Broadcast

television networks developed dozens of black series as white viewers started

watching cable channels, using black audiences' affective desires to see themselves to

smooth business operations in a moment of new media change (note 3). Yet

broadcasters rarely acknowledged the queerness of blackness. Mostly confined to

family sitcoms, black characters had little narrative space for nonnormative sexual

expression, even though America's policing and regulation of black sexuality can be

articulated in concert with blackness and queerness. The struggle for blackness rages

on in both the linear sphere of television and the networked sphere of Web production.

For black queer viewers in particular, the symbolic annihilation experienced through

limited representations in not only mainstream broadcast networks but also more

nichedriven cable networks has led them to alternate models of media representation.

These alternate models are exemplified through the multitude of Web series and pilots

released on YouTube, which, in seeking community, create representations more

recognizable or sincere.

[5.2] From our study of a subsection of quare YouTube productions, Web series and

pilots tend to fall into one of two locationbased categories that both challenge

conventional forms of television production. Communitydriven productions are defined

as the indie series created primarily with the black queer community in mind as seen

with the analysis of No Shade and If I Was Your Girl. The creators of these series are invested in responding to what their audience would like to see instead of working to

create a show that would be well received by a legacy network. In addition, these indie

series tend to be lower in production value or less finished/complete than are other

television series. By contrast, marketdriven productions are defined as the pilots that

are created with the purpose of gaining a production deal with a legacy network, for

example, Twenties and Words with Girls. In contrast to the indie series, these pilots are not fully created series but are rather one complete episode or a pilot in parts

created to garner market interest. They also tend to be higher in production value

than are the communitydriven productions in order to make it easier for the pilots to

be accepted by legacy network executives.

[5.3] While some may view the marketdriven pilots as simply replicating the

traditional forms of television production that we are used to seeing, black queer pilot

productions also quare television production by being created and financed by

individuals who are working to see their communities represented, instead of a

network supplying funds to create a pilot geared toward a particular niche market. In

addition, both communitydriven and marketdriven productions utilize language and

themes that reference a canon of queer production both within and outside of legacy

networks. Therefore, referencing black queer language and culture demonstrates how

all of the Web content producers profiled are invested in fostering a shared recognition

between their content and black queer viewers. By representing black queer

communities with performances and images that viewers recognize in themselves

and/or their kin, black queer Web productions, producers, and viewers utilize a quareshared recognition in order to fill in the blanks left by legacy productions.

[5.4] Although none of the series analyzed have amassed audience sizes attractive

enough for series orders by potential legacy TV distributors, from the perspective of

viewers, black queer indie TV is just as valuable as mainstream productions, if not

moreso. Producers want to challenge the network system from the inside out, but

many viewers are encouraging them to challenge the system from the outside in. As

Kara Keeling (2014) writes in her essay "Queer OS," to queer an operating system is

to be "at odds with the logics embedded in the operating systems" by seeking to

change that system through "scholarly inquiry and social activism" (154). Creating

quare Web series and choosing to watch them over solely consuming legacy network

productions queers the operating system of the television industry—pilot and series

development and financing. By not simply accepting what is given to them from the

YouTube algorithm, legacy corporate networks, or even indie producers, online publics

queer the norms of viewership by inciting representational change for their

communities.

6. Notes

1. There is an extensive literature in media sociology and communication studies on

how media texts—particularly dramas or soap operas—facilitate parasocial interaction.

See Baym (1999), Horton and Wohl (1956), Liebes and Katz (1992), and Morley

(2003).

2. See Christine Acham's (2013) short essay on representing race on Cosby where she

notes the presence of black art in the home of the postracial sitcom.

3. We view this as akin to Keeling's discussion of the role of blaxploitation in the film

industry during the 1970s before the rise of the blockbuster and after the breakup of

the studio system; see Keeling (2007).

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Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Praxis

Constructing queer female cyberspace: The L Word fandom and

Autostraddle.com

Kelsey Cameron

University of Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, United States

[0.1] Abstract— Autostraddle.com is the most popular independently owned Web site

for queer women and a central, organizing force in queer female cyberspace. It also

grew out of The L Word fandom, though its appearance now occludes the history of fan

recapping that laid its groundwork. In this article, I reconnect Autostraddle to The L

Word fandom, tracing the gradual accumulation of online fan activity into a stable Web

site and queer female social space. In doing so, I revise dominant conceptions of fan

productivity as individualcentered and temporally bound, arguing for a more expansive

consideration of the largescale creations fans can build over time. My intervention is

twofold: a plea for history where the Web can seem to be an eternally present medium,

and an assertion of fandom's inseparability from the larger landscape of queer female life

online.

[0.2] Keywords— Blog; Fan community; Fan productivity; Queer women; Recap culture;

Web history

Cameron, Kelsey. 2017. "Constructing Queer Female Cyberspace: The L Word Fandom

and Autostraddle.com." In "Queer Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve

Ng, special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.846.

1. Introduction

[1.1] In this article, I analyze The L Word (TLW) fandom's role in establishing online

spaces for queer women. TLW premiered in January 2004, when queer presence online

was restricted to mailing lists, chat rooms like Gay.com, and certain sections of MySpace.

Though there were some spaces designed explicitly for queer women (see Bryson 2004;

Correll 1995; Rak 2005), most targeted gay men, catering to lesbians incidentally or as an

afterthought. Queer female cyberspace as it exists today emerged alongside and often

through TLW, as women gathered together online to discuss and critique it and then

stayed together even after its run. Digital spaces for queer women did not spring

spontaneously into existence; they had to be made, and I argue here that TLW fandom

was essential to their making.

[1.2] In making this claim, I use Autostraddle (http://www.autostraddle.com) as a case study. Arguably the mostvisited Web site for queer women worldwide (note 1),

Autostraddle gets over a million unique views per month and over 3 million total; to put

that in perspective, the United States' bestselling lesbian magazine ( Curve) lists its readership at less than a fifth of the site's monthly total. Independently owned where all

other major queer Web portals are run by established media conglomerates, Autostraddle

describes itself as "an intelligent, hilarious & provocative voice and a progressively feminist online community for a new generation of kickass lesbian, bisexual & otherwise inclined

ladies (and their friends)."

[1.3] What Autostraddle's "About" page occludes is the debt it owes to TLW fandom. The

site grew out of TLW's online community, and its major players honed their skills at

content production and community management through roles they played in fan spaces.

That this history of development disappears behind an apparently atemporal surface is

characteristic of the Internet in general and queer online space in particular: as Ben

Aslinger points out, "the ephemerality of the web as a medium and the historical silences

that render writing queer political, social, and cultural histories so difficult" can make it

seem like the queer Web has no history (2010, 114). Part of my project here is to make

visible that past, for it shapes queer online sociality's present even when it goes unnoticed.

With reference to Autostraddle, that means tracing out TLW's shift from gravitational

center of community to infrastructure invisibly undergirding online lesbian spaces. Using

the site as a case study, I demonstrate how TLW served as an initial node for the

organization of digital lesbian community and then dropped off the radar even as the

spaces it made possible continued to thrive. My intervention is thus twofold: a plea for

history where the Web can seem to be an eternally present medium, and an assertion of

fandom's inseparability from the larger landscape of queer female life online.

[1.4] A number of other online lesbian spaces owe their existence to TLW, and other

histories could be written around them. The best known is AfterEllen.com, where TLW

drew together a community before it aired. In September 2002, AfterEllen creator Sarah

Warn began writing about Showtime's upcoming lesbian ensemble drama (then titled

Earthlings) on her Web site. AfterEllen was at the time a weekend project Warn ran alone,

with a tagline reading "Reviews and Commentary on the Representation of Lesbians and

Bisexual Women in Entertainment and the Media." Response to the first TLW article ("Will

'Earthlings' be the Lesbian 'Queer as Folk'?") was overwhelming, and as AfterEllen

continued reporting on it the site's readership exploded. Warn brought on other

contributors, and the site's success eventually drew attention from major media

conglomerates: Viacom acquired it in 2006, and then Evolve Media took the reins in 2014.

Thus AfterEllen is, in Warn's words, a business "built on the lesbian community's interest

in The L Word" (2006, 2).

[1.5] I focus on Autostraddle rather than AfterEllen for two reasons. The first is that

AfterEllen's link to TLW has already received substantive scholarly attention: in discussing

AfterEllen's practices of film criticism, Maria San Filippo notes the "symbiotic" relationship between show and site (2015, 131–32). The second, more substantive reason is that

centering Autostraddle allows for a different view of queer female fandom's economies.

AfterEllen's 2006 acquisition tends to be read as a moment of corporate takeover, when capitalist logics of monetization intrude upon fan and community spaces. Such an account

is not wrong, but it is also not the only story: centering Autostraddle allows me to attend

to the entrepreneurial desires of fans themselves, nuancing the opposition between fans'

authentic, communityoriented activities and corporations' exploitative, moneydriven

ones.

[1.6] My project draws on fan studies' insights and vocabulary, though I am conscious of

its tendency to overlook LGBT women and their cultures. Henry Jenkins's work was

essential to establishing fan culture as a legitimate object of scholarly inquiry, and most

studies of online fandom owe a debt to Convergence Culture, which pioneered considering

digital spaces in tandem with the televisual objects they are often organized around. As

Jenkins himself acknowledges, however, the people he studies are "disproportionately

white, male, middle class, and college educated" (2006, 23); the prevalent models of

fandom—as a lowstakes form of association, as separate from identity work, as anchored

in a single TV show—grow out of this demographic's particular way of engaging with media

objects. They do not necessarily translate to queer women, who lack both identity

reinforcement from mainstream culture, which Jenkins's subjects constantly receive, and

the embodied sexual spaces that many position as key to the cultural lives of gay men

(Dean 2009; Delaney 2003; Warner 1999). There is abundant reason to think that queer

women's investment in media is the opposite of low stakes. Part of my project is thus to

work through the tensions inherent in uniting queer women and fandom, and to explore

whether "fan" is the right name for the people who came together around TLW.

[1.7] This article moves through three sections and a brief conclusion. The first is a

consideration of previous scholarly work about TLW and fandom, through which I articulate

the context and contribution of my project. The second and third trace two of

Autostraddle's key players (Laneia and Riese) on their respective trajectories through TLW

fan spaces, drawing on their own published accounts of this time and on archived fan sites

(note 2). My analysis is centered in three Web spaces: Autostraddle itself, its predecessor

blog The Road Best Straddled (where Riese wrote TLW recaps), and the Planet Podcast

blog and forum (where Laneia was a moderator). In concluding, I examine Autostraddle's

design to argue for a recalibration of how we talk about fan productivity.

[1.8] As sources, I use only publicly accessible materials with significant online

circulation. Riese and Laneia are both public figures, and have discussed their lives and fan

activities extensively on Autostraddle and their own blogs; their disclosures—which I

analyze throughout this paper—are already subject to wider reading than academic

discussion will expose them to (note 3). I refer to them by the names they write under,

which are abbreviations but not pseudonyms, and provide links to all digital sources I

reference. Thus, although my project shares certain values with ethnographic work—an

investment in thick description and the lived reality of a particular social group (Geertz

1973)—I am not here doing ethnography as traditionally understood (note 4). Rather, my

interest lies in documenting the architecture of an emerging lesbian space through

collecting and analyzing publicly accessible digital traces.

[1.9] The archival materials I work with are neither complete nor impartial: Riese's and

Laneia's writings are bound up in the work of selfpromotion, of attracting a readership to

Autostraddle and putting forward a particular account of its emergence. Others who

participated in The L Word fan spaces might dispute their accounts, and in fact some do:

in response to a post by Riese about Autostraddle's history, user ar1ana comments, "This

blog post is entirely too inaccurate (and too selfcongratulatory) to call itself 'an oral

history' of anything" (Riese 2014, comment posted January 29 at 8:23 am). That a record

is disputable does not compromise its value, however. I do not take Riese's and Laneia's

writings as unvarnished truth, but they still provide an important window into the

emergence and transformation of lesbian cyberspace.

2. Online with The L Word

[2.1] Before turning to my case study, I want to frame my project in relation to existing

work on TLW and online lesbian sociality. Scholars tend to focus on OurChart.com, a

lesbian social network Showtime both incorporated into TLW's storyline and attempted to

launch in the real world. Kelly Kessler articulates the reasons for its prominence as follows:

[2.2] Sites with overt links to Showtime were not the only or likely even the

most frequently visited lesbiantargeted sites on the web…however, the textual,

mechanical, and aesthetic choices and interactions on Showtime's sites speak

more directly to the possible economic and ideological underpinnings at the

heart of media corporations' drive to capitalize on convergence. (Kessler 2011,

126)

[2.3] What OurChart uniquely reveals, in other words, is the intertwining of fan activity

and capitalist imperative: the site stands as testament to Showtime's desire to profit off of

fan labor, and analyzing it brings to light the means by which media corporations exploit

and channel fan productivity toward commercially valuable ends. As Kessler argues, then,

corporate design of fan spaces reveals the narrative of fandom as free play (Bryson 2004;

Jenkins 2006) to be a myth: rather than enabling democratic, userdriven activity,

OurChart produces "an utterly predictable and restrictive vision of the lesbian target

market, while simultaneously usurping the supposed freedom associated with the increase

in online fan activity" (Kessler 2011, 128).

[2.4] Kessler's is in many ways a valuable perspective—it is important to consider the

costs of increasing lesbian visibility in mainstream media (Villarejo 2003) as well as who

nonetheless remains invisible. However, such an approach obscures what TLW viewers

actually build through fan activities, how they interact with and move between

OurChart.com and other TLWbased online spaces. Kessler acknowledges that her study

focuses on Showtime's "privileged discourse" (2011, 127); it cannot answer the question

of how consequential that discourse is or whether it has meaningful impact on lesbian cyberspace as a whole. That a corporation wants to channel fan activity does not mean

that it succeeds in doing so, for agency lies in both production and consumption. Writing of

TLW viewing parties, Candace Moore notes that "the fan public both links themselves to

the fiction (by their very presence) and surprisingly resists it (by exhibiting critically

distanced or even disinterested forms of attention) (2009, 130)." Such resistance does not

negate Showtime's structuring influence, but rather suggests that "the outcome of

mediations between capital and fan laborers is far from a foregone conclusion" (Russo

2014, 109). In other words, we need to take into account what fans actually do in the

context of corporate media structures rather than assuming blanket resistance or blanket

assimilation.

[2.5] My goal, then, is to shift attention from corporations to people, from centralized

structures to marginal fan activities. With TLW, that means contextualizing OurChart.com

in a broader landscape of online queer sociality. OurChart's particular functions and

failures as lesbian social space are well documented (Kessler 2011; Moore 2009; Russo

2014). Instead of retreading that ground, I want to point to what both Showtime's

presentation of OurChart and scholarly treatment of it obscure: it was only part of a larger

online constellation of lesbian sociality around TLW that began developing before the site's

launch (at the end of 2006) and continued after Showtime abruptly shut it down (at the

end of 2008). While Showtime's press materials cast OurChart as the "first lesbian social

network" and academic work tends to accept this positioning, there was already at its

inception a vibrant—if dispersed—community of queer women talking about TLW and

themselves online. OurChart was unique in its legitimated, branded connection to the

series (TLW's showrunner and stars were among its founders), but even at its most

popular it was never the entirety of digital lesbian social space. I argue that you cannot

separate OurChart from its context, for emergent, fanbased networks of digital lesbian

sociality are prerequisite to OurChart's existence: such spaces had to be already proven

viable for Showtime to invest in creating one. That OurChart drew both contributors and

users from other TLW sites supports such a claim, as does the fact that these same people

went on to participate in related ventures (like Autostraddle) after its demise. Thus, a

narrow focus on Showtime's site—as unique, as isolated, as singularity—fails to account

for the traffic between commercial and independent digital lesbian spaces, and grants

corporate Web platforms a primacy they did not in fact hold.

[2.6] In placing OurChart in context, I hope to give a richer sense of TLW's role in the

wider topography of queer female cyberspace—the way fans coalesced around it in a

variety of online venues, many of which they themselves built. I do not have room here to

detail all such spaces, and so I focus on the trajectories of two individuals: Laneia and

Riese, driving forces behind Autostraddle. Both contributed content to OurChart, but both

also entered TLW fandom through other, unofficial Web sites where they continued to play

roles even as they participated in Showtime ventures. My hope is that analyzing their

paths will clarify Autostraddle's particular history, as well as point toward the more general forces at play in the formation of queer online space.

3. Laneia and the Planet Podcast

[3.1] Laneia first encounters TLW in 2005; at the time, she is married to a man, raising a

son, and a new subscriber to Showtime. Hence she has the channel on as she is doing

work around the house, where she happens upon a marathon of TLW season 2 without

immediately realizing what she is watching:

[3.2] And then it was Shane and Cherie [having sex] and I did that thing where

you look around the room to make sure no one's seeing you, even though no

one else is in the room, and I shut the door even though there was no reason to

and sat on the edge of the bed and changed the channel, like I was never ever

going to watch that seriously, I was not. And then I changed it back. And the

next day I realized Google's full potential. (Riese 2014)

[3.3] The breathless, rushed feel to this narration ("And…and…and") suggests that this is a moment of importance, but also one that Laneia cannot immediately process in its

entirety. Thus Google comes into play the next day, when she uses her computer for

private research and viewing, taking advantage of the way search engines organize and

make accessible online information. Engaging with TLW is here as much about going online

as it is about watching TV; it is a combination of mediated experiences, linked to a

technological milieu rather than any one medium. And the multiplicity of mediation

becomes more pronounced when Laneia enters the fan community: her initial foray is

through the Planet Podcast, the highestrated L Word podcast, which she finds because she has just gotten an iPod and become "obsessed with podcasts, because you could listen

to them while you cleaned the house" (Riese 2014). As she listens and grows more

invested, she also becomes a commenter on the Planet Podcast's blog, developing

relationships with the podcasters and other listeners enabled by the Blogger platform's

investment in sociality.

[3.4] I want to focus now on the Planet Podcast and Laneia's relationship to it, for it

provides a useful contrast to OurChart's corporate orientation. The podcast is produced by

KC and Elka, two TLW viewers from Albuquerque, New Mexico, who describe their

motivation for making it as follows in their first episode:

[3.5] All over the country today, people are going to L Word premiere parties.

People who live in real cities, like Phoenix, Los Angeles, New York. There's

probably somewhere in Oklahoma that's doing it but no, podunk Albuquerque

has no premiere parties. We put up a post on Craigslist: come to our L Word

premiere watching party, it'll be fun. But nobody—one straight girl, but you can't

have an L Word party with one straight girl. So we decided to make an L Word

fan podcast. Maybe somebody else out there is missing all the premiere night

parties as well. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DjAiBsCPPjg)

[3.6] Podcasting is here a gesture toward lesbian community in an environment without

a local one: KC and Elka take the steps that enable social viewing in "real cities"—opening their home to others for a premiere party—but get no response in Albuquerque. Thus the

podcast is initially figured as a response to lack, an attempt at conjuring mediated

community where there is no readily available embodied one. Significant here is how spurofthemoment their decision to start podcasting feels: this is not a project KC and Elka labored over for months before it got off the ground, but rather an event roughly on the

same scale of investment as throwing a party in one's home. That KC and Elka can

transition with relative ease from viewers of TLW to makers of their own fan media brings

to mind the eroding distinction between media consumption and production so often

considered characteristic of digital technology (Benkler 2006; Manovich 2009; Ritzer and

Jurgenson 2010).

[3.7] The podcast inspires further cycles of consumptionintoproduction in its listeners.

At each episode's end, KC and Elka invite responses, listing a phone number, blog address,

and email account for anyone who wants to "be part of the chart where we make a

connection with our listeners"; note the attempt to foster an online version of TLW's

diegetic chart years before OurChart.com would launch. Listeners do respond, Laneia

among them, commenting on the blog to interact with KC and Elka and also, importantly,

with each other. Laneia suggests that this manytomany (or at least severaltoseveral)

interaction was key to the growth of a community around the podcast:

[3.8] The thing was that we—the commenters on the blog—weren't getting

enough of each other via the comments, and the majority of the comments

started to be us talking to each other and playing off each other and FLIRTING,

god whatever. So we started blogs of our own so we could, I don't know, be

more? Like more of ourselves in this space. And a few of us would record

ourselves doing whatever—telling a story usually—and upload it to our blogs.

(Riese 2014)

[3.9] Again we see a progression from consumption to production: commenters want to

be together with an intensity that exceeds the Planet blog's established spaces of

reception, and so they begin to build their own venues for interacting. Note Laneia's

repetition of "more"—"be more, " "more of ourselves," which suggests a desire to forge greater contact with other commenters over a shorter period of time. Laneia, for example,

starts blogging under the name "Green" and eventually makes a personal podcast with a

fellow commenter; through it she becomes visible in the fan community in her own right.

Important here is that the conversations developing out of the Planet Podcast are not

necessarily about either TLW or the podcast: the Planet Podcast (like TLW itself) serves as

a nodal point bringing together many queer women, who use the community spaces it

enables to express their own interests and desires—sometimes their interests in and

desires for each other.

[3.10] It is hard to say exactly how large the Planet Podcast community comes to be.

The episodes and blog are no longer accessible, and translating number of comments or

page views into number of community members is an inexact science at the best of times.

(To give ballpark numbers: podcast episodes have hundreds of comments and at least one

Planet forum thread has 30,000 views.) We can say, at least, that the community

outgrows a Blogger comment section: KC and Elka create a members' forum as a space

that—as they describe in a blog post titled "Where you at?" on April 8, 2006—"focuses more on Kelkians" (as their commenters were called) and "less on Kelka" (KC and Elka

themselves)

(https://web.archive.org/web/20060427212020/http://theplanetcast.blogspot.com/). This

is an explicit shift in emphasis, from the podcast itself as media object to a userdriven

lesbian social space. They ask Laneia to be a forum moderator because of her visible

presence in the community; as we will see in the following section, here her story

intersects with Riese's.

[3.11] Before I move on to that section, however, I want to address the relationship

between online community and its embodied counterpart. The two are often opposed, and

it can be tempting to see the former as a weaker form of connection, as less meaningful

because it originates in mediation. I want to push back against this line of thought, which

depends on two faulty assumptions: first, that each act of mediation represents a loss in

the vitality of experience, a dampening or cheapening of sensation, and second, that we

can separate mediated life from an originary state of unmediated connection. As Mary

Gray argues, the possibilities media make available for LGBT people "are always

interlocking with the material conditions of their lives" (2009, 164). The Planet podcast community is for its members less escape from the world than an extension of it, part of

the fabric of everyday life. And, though it begins in a TV show and coalesces through a

podcast, that community materializes in realworld gatherings; the first, "Kelka Pride,"

attracts 92 women from all over the country to KC and Elka's hometown for Pride. This is

not so different from KC and Elka's original plan to have people over to their house,

though at a scale and intensity far greater than a viewing party could achieve.

4. Riese, recapping, and the entrepreneurial impulse

[4.1] Riese's trajectory through lesbian cyberspace begins similarly, with a televised TLW

encounter and subsequent Internet research:

[4.2] Before The L Word, I'd never seen lesbians who looked and talked like me

and my friends…As a slut who'd been told all her life that lesbians were girls who

"couldn't get a man," I found the character of Shane so revolutionary and

empowering. She had this ego and strength that came from not wanting men,

and really wanting women. I fell in love and googled her to death, which

eventually brought me to The L Word Online, because they were big into Shane.

(Riese 2014)

[4.3] Again, we see an initial affective connection that Google routes into fan space. The

L Word Online (http://thelwordonline.com) is an unofficial but popular TLW fan site that, as Riese suggests, developed out of love for Shane and Kate Moennig, the actress behind

her; its two founders, Slicey and Oz, began tracking TLW as soon as Moennig was cast, at

first feeding information to established magazines and sites and eventually creating TLW

Online as their own platform for information dissemination. As a site rather than a blog,

TLW Online places less emphasis on commenting and reciprocal sociality; it provides links

to social spaces, including the Planet Podcast blog, OurChart, and MySpace, but itself

operates on a severaltomany, contentprovider model.

[4.4] Through TLW Online, Riese finds KC and Elka and related TLWderived media.

Unlike Laneia, she has offline friends to enjoy the show with, but they do not satisfy the

depth of her interest in the show: "I talked to a lot of people about it, and still my own

inner life with it was so much bigger than theirs." Mediated community thus offers

something "real life" doesn't: a deeper and more intense relationship to TLW, and the

ability to form lesbian worlds around it. Where Laneia was happy to participate in someone

else's community, Riese becomes active in fandom to build her own: "I saw the internet as

a place for advancing my career as a writer…and so it was never about casual

conversations about things I liked, it was always deliberate and 'onbrand'" (Riese 2014).

Thus, where Laneia is a pseudonymous and largely behindthescenes presence, Riese

works to establish her online self visibly and as a brand, a node around which people

would gather rather than one of many gathered into some other community. In service of

this goal and inspired by KC and Elka, among others, she herself begins to recap TLW as

an offshoot of her established personal blog.

[4.5] Hearing "recap," it is easy to imagine "summary": a rote recitation of events that recalls to mind what happened during a show but offers little additional value. As Mark

Andrejevic has noted, however, the practice of recapping television involves criticism and

interpretation, often with the addition of humor: "Within this context, the show is no

longer the final product but rather the raw material to which value is added by the labor—

some paid, some free—of recappers" (2008, 32). This is the tradition of recapping Riese

enters into, and from her first recap she foregrounds the value she adds: her own stories,

pictures, and reactions, which arise in response to TLW but are not reducible to it. It is

worth reproducing that first recap's opening at length to demonstrate its functioning:

[4.6]

KC and Elka of the "Planet Cast" do such an amazing weekly L Word

roundup recap podcast that I can't even begin to compete (AfterEllen has its

own fantastic recap as well) so I'm gonna do something a little different with

mine. Oh also—I have learned a lot about making fun of television from the

Americas Next Top Model recapper, fourfour. So I must also thank him. Also I'd

like to thank God and my mother.

[4.7] So, because I know I will never be KC and Elka, or FourFour, or ScribeGirl

or whatever, I'm just going to post all the photos of breasts and tell you how

good their breasts are. I'm going to track my bisexuality over the course of the

program. (http://theroadbeststraddled.blogspot.com/2006/11/wheredoibegin

lwordseasonthree.html)

[4.8] First, Riese works through a lineage of established recappers—KC and Elka,

AfterEllen's ScribeGrrl (whose name she misspells), and Television Without Pity's FourFour

—and then she asserts her difference from them. They already do such a good job

analyzing TLW and working through its significance that she is not trying to compete;

instead, she makes herself into a character to be tracked alongside those from TLW.

Recappers are always to a certain extent present in their writings—their accounts of the

show are filtered through their own particular interests and experiences—but Riese takes

this a step further: she presents herself as a mediated object, whom readers might attach

to in the same way viewers do the women of TLW. Thus she narrates not just onscreen

events but herself as event, which manifests as a playful tracking of her own position on

the Kinsey scale via an infographic (figure 1). Later in this episode, for example, Shane's

new haircut so offends Riese that her Kinsey position drops to an "exclusively

heterosexual" 0; the head in the infographic slides from a central 3 all the way to the left.

Figure 1. A movable head on the Kinsey scale, which appears in Riese's recaps. [View

larger image.]

[4.9] And other people from Riese's life get drawn into the recap as well. An inshow

argument between Bette and Tina provokes the following freeassociative ramble:

"Haviland won't even say that word ("cunt") out loud, and I say it all the time, but her and I are still great friends. See? Friends. And we're not in therapy. At least not together. I

kinda like Tina's look this episode though. Hmm…" As the episodes progress, Riese begins

incorporating pictures of herself and the people she watches TLW with and reporting their

reactions as well; she ends up producing a whole cast of characters that her readers

"watch" watching the show. She also makes clear her growing disappointment with the

series, which spurs her to deal less and less with its actual content. Consider the opening

to her recap of 4.11, "Literary License to Kill": "Okay. I'd like a literary license to kill the writer of this show. Arguably, that's sort of what I do here anyway, right? To make it

through this week, I must imagine that I'm not, in fact, recapping a tv show episode.

Rather, I'm using the characters and 'storylines' of a teevee show as a starting point for

my hot comedy" (http://theroadbeststraddled.blogspot.com/2007/03/lwordseason4

episode11literary.html). Though it is framed as a counterfactual imagination, it seems to

me that this is exactly what is happening here: TLW is a starting point, something Riese

uses but ultimately wants to move beyond. Such movement is already present in these

recaps, as the comments on them make clear: readers spend more time talking about

Riese and her humor than they do the show, and a number declare that they read for her

stories and comments though they no longer watch TLW at all. This trend away from TLW

and toward viewergenerated content becomes even more entrenched with time, as we

will see in the following section.

[4.10] In December 2006, Riese emails KC and Elka asking if they want to trade links (a

common practice of reciprocal sociality at the time, wherein each party gains exposure to

the other's audience). They agree, and also give Riese permission to post a link to her

recaps on the Planet boards: Laneia's domain. When Laneia sees Riese's post, her instinct

as moderator is to delete it, as it speaks in the language of selfpromotion rather than

accepted fannish lexicons. This interaction dramatizes the tension between fan productivity

and economic productivity: Riese comes across as too entrepreneurial, too interested in

profit rather than the enjoyment of mediated objects. The economic dimensions of fan

activities tend to be read as imposed from the outside by the media industry—as

companies like Showtime exploiting fans' free play—a narrative to which Riese's desire to

both be a fan enjoying TLW and parlay her fan activity into an actual paying job someday

stands as an important corrective. My goal in tracing both Laneia's and Riese's fan

activities is not to set up a morally inflected binary between them—Laneia as the good,

communityoriented fan and Riese as the bad, moneydriven imposter—but rather to make

clear the range of orientations fandom encompasses. I would argue, in fact, that the

combination of entrepreneurial investment and community orientation is key to

establishing and sustaining Autostraddle.

[4.11] After Riese and Laneia's initial encounter, they continue to interact in online

spaces. Laneia begins reading Riese's TLW recaps, and when Riese posts a link to her

personal blog in one of those recaps Laneia starts reading and commenting there, too.

They become friends, and through 2007 and 2008 their online worlds are visited by many

of the people who will later be involved in Autostraddle. A number of them, writes Riese,

are "blog commenters who lived in the area and so gradually one by one we kept making

plans to meet in real life." Note again the difficulty of separating fandom from "real life,"

online friends from the offline world. During this time, Riese is also imagining ways to

bring together the various online pursuits she is engaged in. An initial idea is "All Our

Powers Combined," a "landing page for our favorite queer bloggers" that would centralize and formalize the online community that had been formed through TLW but was moving

beyond it (Riese 2014). By 2008, her imagining shifts to an online magazine, and she

recruits Laneia and others to help her build it.

[4.12] In the midst of all this OurChart comes into play. Given that it has received the

lion's share of critical attention about TLW and online lesbian sociality, I will not spend

much time on its particular features here. Suffice it to say that when Ilene Chaiken and

her team went looking for content providers outside the TLW cast, they found their way to

Laneia and Riese through people they had gotten to know in the fan community: Riese

was one of OurChart's first "guestbian" columnists (figure 2), and soon after Laneia

became a paid member of the site's writing team. Thus, while TLW viewers did inhabit

OurChart during its two years of functionality, their community was never contained within

or reducible to it. As the next section will make clear, the queer female sociality that

coalesced around TLW would outlive and outgrow the show itself.

Figure 2. OurChart.com's design, prominently featuring the "guestbian" column where Riese would sometimes appear (http://albertsondesign.com/projects/ourchartwebsite ).

This image comes from Albertson Design, the company that designed the OurChart brand

for Showtime. OurChart.com itself resists archiving, so this is one of the only remaining

accessible images of it. [View larger image .]

5. Autostraddle: Fandom and beyond

[5.1] Autostraddle.com launched in 2009, as TLW's sixth and final season was airing.

One of its earliest posts, "What Is Autostraddle 1.0," gives the following selfdescription:

"Something new. Girlier than Queerty and gayer than Jezebel, Autostraddle aims to

address all things terrible/AWESOME with a quick, queer and intellectual attitude. We're

particularly passionate about independent movies and music, books, theater, visual art,

cyberculture and sex as well as queer theory, social justice, feminism and GLBT rights."

While Autostraddle articulates itself in relation to entertainment media, TLW is nowhere to

be seen: television in general does not even make it onto the list of things Autostraddle is

passionate about. Further down the page, under the subheading "Why Now?," the series

does get a mention:

[5.2] I [Riese] have been wanting to do this for a long time—and though I've

made serious steps towards very similar ideas with other ambitious visionaries

over the past two years, this is when it's finally come together. For one, I don't

want to lose the strong online community we've built around The L Word. It was

a bad show anyhow. We're all here, let's do something good.

(https://web.archive.org/web/20090313054931/http://www.autostraddle.com/featured

articles/whatisautostraddle10/)

[5.3] TLW, in other words, provided an opportunity: an initial rallying point that helped

queer women find each other and jumpstarted conversation among them. The things

these women build as a result—relationships, communities, Web spaces such as

Autostraddle—are not, however, primarily about the show.

[5.4] Today, Autostraddle betrays no link at all to TLW. Though its original layout gave a

prominent place to " The L Word Archives" (figure 3), the current menu offers no means of specifically accessing TLW content. There is a submenu dedicated to television (figure 4),

but the shows it lists are ongoing or more recent: Pretty Little Liars, Orange Is the New Black, Faking It, Transparent, Glee, Orphan Black, The Fosters, American Horror Story, Bomb Girls, and The Real L Word. That final entry—a reality TV offshoot of TLW—is the sole implicit reference to the show so important to Autostraddle's founding. The site's

blogstyle design also contributes to TLW's forgetting: the most recent posts go at the top

of the page, relegating past content to archives accessible only through a targeted search.

Autostraddle is thus clearly not a TLW fan site, for you could spend hours clicking through

it before encountering any reference to the show.

Figure 3. Autostraddle's original menu as of March 2009, which offers a shortcut to "The L

Word Vaults."

Figure 4. Autostraddle's current menu as of March 2016, which has no shortcut for

accessing TLW content. [View larger image.]

[5.5] So, to return to the question of naming: does Autostraddle count as fandom? In his

seminal Fan Cultures, Matt Hills cautions against the impulse to search for fandom's

"rigorous definition," which flattens the contextual nature of fan activity in the service of producing manageable objects of study. He does give the following, however, as

something of a working definition: "What different 'performances' of fandom share…is a

sense of contesting cultural norms. To claim the identity of a 'fan' remains, in some sense,

to claim an 'improper' identity, a cultural identity based on one's commitment to

something as seemingly unimportant and 'trivial' as a film or TV series" (1992, xx–xxi).

One way of approaching my question, then, would be to ask whether the viewers of TLW

who built Autostraddle claim an identity based in TLW. The only response possible here is

the eternally unsatisfying "yes and no": yes in that TLW initiates viewers into particular mediated identity formations, and no in that those identity formations find their anchor in

lesbianism, bisexuality, and queerness as much as in the show.

[5.6] Fandom is of course never only or exclusively about a show. Study after study

highlights the importance of sociality to fan experience, the pleasures people derive from

discussing, critiquing, and interpreting their favorite objects together. In one of the first

studies of online fandom, Nancy Baym emphasizes the tendency of fan groups to stray

beyond their initial topic as they develop into communities. Analyzing the rec.arts.tv.soaps

Usenet newsgroup for soap opera fans, she notes how members chat about major and

minor events from their own lives alongside analyses of soaps, signaling messages that

are social digressions by putting "TAN" (for "tangent") in the subject line. As Baym argues,

"The fact that tangents are marked explicitly in the subject lines indicates that some

people do not want to partake in r.a.t.s. when it goes beyond the soap. Although the

establishment of the TAN genre sanctions a space for purely social chat, its marking also

marginalizes it as outside the group's primary arena" (2000, 140).

[5.7] With TLW fandom, social tangents are not marginalized in this way. When Laneia

and Riese put more and more of themselves into their fan presences, no one chastises

them for straying too far from the primary arena of TLW. In describing the relationship she

and queer women had to TLW, Riese writes, "We'd built whole worlds around this show!"

(Riese 2014). Those worlds—the communities and connections forged with other queer

women—are the point, and so the show itself becomes tangential. The formation of queer

female community was a main thrust of TLW fandom, and that community remains its

lasting legacy. And while Autostraddle may be an exceptional case—an unusually wideranging product of fan activity, which has cultural impact on the scale of TLW itself—the increasingly wide circulation of fan culture makes it necessary for us to rethink its

boundaries and definitions. Exceptional cases are proliferating as the Internet makes fan

works easier to access and circulate: consider Twilightfanfictionturnedbestseller Fifty

Shades of Grey, or the success of Harry Potter parody A Very Potter Musical, which launched Darren Criss into a mainstream television career.

[5.8] Thus, we need to add nuance to models that view fan activity exclusively through

the lens of a central text and imagine fandom as something that should be separate from

corporate economies. The recent turn to questions of fan labor (De Kosnik 2013; Stanfill

and Condis 2014) is an important one, but it tends to focus on the small scale: fan videos,

fan fiction, or other objects that one or several people make over a relatively short period

of time. Fandom's productivity is visible here, but as Autostraddle makes clear, it also

happens at other scales and over longer durations. Scholars are good at talking about how

fans inhabit and expand the world of a show, the individual and communal creativity

involved in remaking stories to one's own ends. We have less vocabulary for worlds built

around a show that then outgrow it. I am not arguing here that Autostraddle is somehow

better or more valuable than more commonly considered fan works, but it is a different

beast, and its difference pushes us to think about where we draw fandom's limits. More

specifically, it asks us to consider fan productivity as it intersects with structure: not just

the individual projects undertaken by specific artists or writers, but also the way they build

up and take on life of their own.

6. Notes

1. I say "arguably" because it is difficult to get exact information about page views and

relative popularity. Autostraddle claims to be the mostvisited lesbian Web site, and it is at

least among the top three (alongside AfterEllen and SheWired.com).

2. Archive.org's Wayback Machine is an important tool here, for it archives the appearance

of Web sites at particular dates, allowing users to see expired Web domains and earlier

iterations of existing sites.

3. This is one reason I focus on the two of them, though many people were involved in

Autostraddle's formation.

4. My project is closer to Internetinflected versions of ethnographic practice like "trace

ethnography" (Geiger and Ribes 2011). That I am a periodic reader of Autostraddle and

have participated in lesbian fan spaces (though not those of TLW) provides motivation for

and insight into this project, but nothing prevents others from finding the materials I work

with here.

7. Works Cited

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Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Multimedia

Femslash goggles: Fan vids with commentary by creators

Julie Levin Russo

The Evergreen State Col ege, Olympia, Washington, United States

[0.1] Abstract— This gallery opens with a curatorial essay offering a metaphorical

theory of vidding as an AR technology and contextualizing femslash fan vids. The

selection of works with artist notes includes "Come On" by here's luck (2002);

"These Two Arms" by Killa (2006); "Vitalum Vitalis" by hollywoodgrrl and ohvienna (2014); "Past the Feeling" by Anoel (2013); "Lightning Field" by bradcpu (2012);

"Gimme Sympathy" by beerbad (2014); "I Do Adore" by kiki_miserychic (2014);

"Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Mithborien (2015); "Hurricane" by Laura

Shapiro (2010); "Hands Away" by chaila and beccatoria (2011); "The Coming Out of

Quinn Fabray" by jarrow (2011).

[0.2] Keywords— Audiovisuality; Augmented reality; Lesbian subtext; Queer

spectatorship; Queer technologies; Vidding

Russo, Julie Levin. 2017. "Femslash Goggles: Fan Vids with Commentary by

Creators" [multimedia]. In "Queer Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and

Eve Ng, special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.1026.

1. Introduction

[1.1] Consider, if you'll indulge me, the mobile game Pokémon GO, a worldwide

phenomenon that has players walking, running, biking, and driving around their

environment with smartphones out to catch, collect, train, and battle cute critters.

(This reference is perhaps not as tangential as it seems if you factor in the popularity

of 'shipping Candela and Blanche, the female NPC leaders of teams Valor and Mystic.)

Pokémon GO is arguably the first killer app in the medium of augmented reality (AR),

which was already breaking as a consumer trend in 2009, when Wired defined it as

"an intersection between virtual and physical reality, where digital visuals are blended

in to the real world to enhance our perceptions" (Chen 2009). Mobility in the guise of

handheld or headmounted devices has been key to AR's alluring capacity to "reveal"

an imagined world that's coextensive with our real one. That world might be pragmatic

(an informative data overlay) or fantastical (an ecosystem of cartoon creatures), but

tying navigation in the app to movement through material space has been a common

characteristic. Engaging technology with our bodies is a baseline level of interactivity,

but beyond this, there may be varying degrees of control over the virtual layer:

accessing information with a few taps, capturing pokémon and building a personal

inventory, manipulating holographs with the hand tracking functions on the prototype

Meta 2 headset. And crucially, AR is usually configured as a visual mediation,

augmenting what we see. The oblong window of a phone screen, with the camera

pointed out, has been the most widely accessible optical interface for AR, doing an end

run around the cyborgean fantasy of wearable computers. But goggles are hotter than

ever in tech companies, and in 2016 it doesn't seem farfetched that a more affordable

version of Google Glass might catch on as quickly as the Apple Watch. Like attaching

the digital to your hand, seeing the virtual through your eyes is an old dream of the

future, but in the immortal worlds of 30 Rock's (NBC, 2006–13) Dennis Duffy, Beeper

King, "Technology is cyclical."

Figure 1. Dyna Girl (left; Electra Woman and Dyna Girl, ABC, 1976–77) and Dana

Scully (right; The XFiles, Fox, 1993–2002) using technology. [View larger image.]

[1.2] Fandom has its own technoutopias, bricolaged from consumer devices and

science fiction's imaginary. In Fanlore's (http://fanlore.org/) entry on "slash goggles,"

the earliest reference to the term is from 2007, but I suspect the phrase was in

circulation years before (the author of the cited LiveJournal post uses it without

explanation). I wrote previously that "this witticism evoking the image of specialized

eyewear (my literal pair are always big, round, and pink) is a metaphor for a queer

mode of viewing that interfaces with television's contradictions, excesses, gaps, and

fragments" (Russo 2015, 458) to unveil its homoerotic subtext. Today's debates over

the wearing of slash goggles seem to take them as corrective lenses: to their

proponents, they're a fix for the myopic heteronormativity of mainstream

representation; to their detractors, they're blinders that excuse a lack of LGBT visibility

(see Fanlore). But I like to think that the original inspiration for these goggles was not

spectacles or protective sports gear but rather the geeky trope of the AR headset.

Beyond adjusting our view of the screen, with our goggles, we can access

phantasmagoric strata of the text, and what's more, we can interact with them. We

can see the given image but simultaneously the navigable fannish reality that adheres

to it. AR turns reality into a remix.

[1.3] AR is a generative framework for elaborating on my proposition that vidding in general—and slash vidding in particular—"is a technology of seeing…a literalization of

fans' ocular prosthetics, rendering as montage the strategies of active viewing that are

animated by love" (Russo 2015, 458). Existing somewhere between the reality of

simply watching (even with corrective lenses in place) and the virtual reality of an

original universe, vidders augment their source with a layer of interpretation that

wouldn't be visible to the naked eye. Unlike AR goggles, though, slash goggles in this

guise operate through sequential editing rather than through superimposition in real

time. Sergei Eisenstein, pioneer of the theory and practice of montage, understood

moving images as juxtapositions up from their most basic unit: a succession of still

pictures intelligible as motion only to the human optical and cognitive apparatus. At

every level, conflict between elements produces dynamic effects for the viewer—

graphical, emotional, intellectual. Eisenstein's dialectical concept of montage, and

indeed of any creative medium, resonates with today's interfacing of the material and

the virtual: "The logic of organic form vs. the logic of rational form yields, in collision,

the dialectic of the artform" (1949, 46).

[1.4] Eisenstein edited his own films, but as Francesca Coppa has pointed out (2011,

124), the industrial history of film editing is yoked to women's labor—women whose

names (like Yelizaveta Svilova, wife and collaborator of another famous Soviet

director) are too often forgotten. Svilova appears at the editing bench in the iconic

metafilm Man with a Movie Camera (dir. Vertov, 1929) and her image is

reappropriated in Counteragent's metavid "She Blinded Me with Science" (2009). This

piece is a tribute to another editing virtuosa and frequent femslash vidder, Charmax,

and Counteragent's supercut foregrounds motifs in her work that show women

asserting agency over representation, from Morgana's visions and augury on Merlin

(BBC One, 2008–12) to the vidder's signature in the credits. Coppa writes that film

and video "technology has enabled the female gaze by giving women…control over

visual media" (2009, 112). Today, with digital hardware, software, and source material

at their disposal, female vidders have new tools to "see parts—tropes, movements,

frames—within larger narratives that are presented to them as unified and complete,

and they reassemble them into coherent wholes of their own devising" (110). The

sequential juxtaposition of analog photographs has given way to a different series of

fragments: the algorithmic sampling and data compression of digital video. Like film

editing, computer programming was initially a femaledominated field, so we shouldn't

be surprised to find that women have fashioned an AR hack like slash goggles.

Figure 2. Slash goggles, perhaps. [View larger image .]

[1.5] For Coppa, the liberatory principle of editing's cut and suture is not merely

formal: fragmentation is deployed fetishistically as a means to enjoy the erotics of

bodies and narratives through a "female gaze" (2009, 112). This private gaze has

been collectivized as "vidders have taught each other to see…by showing us exactly

what and how she sees" (Coppa, 2011, 124). Tisha Turk has built on similar ideas to

explain why fans may connect to vids not only on the basis of an investment in the

canon but on the basis of an investment in vidding itself as a technology of vision:

"Shared understandings and mutual interests transcend specific source material:

vidders and vidwatchers are fans of particular ways of seeing, ways of reclaiming or

talking back to mass media" (2010, 90). Although vids are often framed by scholars as

a species of audiovisual essay, Turk and Johnson caution us not to forget that creative

fans are writers as well as readers, and while vidders "are audiences, they also have

audiences" (2012, ¶1.3). An emphasis on the reception of vids points to their

foundation in what Turk has identified as a community or ecology that relies on

"advanced interpretive practices of vidwatching" (2010, 94). Through a set of

conventions developed collaboratively over several decades, "vids require audiences to

process many different kinds of information, including the visual content of clips

(what's happening in the frame), the context of clips (what's going on in the original

source), and the juxtaposition of clips within the vid (why one clip precedes or follows

another)" (Turk and Johnson 2012, ¶3.3). This interpretive intensity can pose

challenges when it comes to circulating or presenting vids to an uninitiated audience.

Below, you will have the opportunity to peruse a series of commentaries by vidders

about how they approached their work that reveals some of the sophisticated labor of

the gaze as simultaneously reading and writing, looking and cutting.

[1.6] Obviously, in keeping with the theme of this special issue, the collection below

takes femslash as an organizing characteristic: these are vids which might help to

define the specificities of femslash goggles as a transformative apparatus. (I am

forgoing my attachment to the more alliterative "girlslash goggles" in favor of the

dominant term.) Moreover, the pieces have some additional commonalities. All are

structured around an F/F pairing, which is not the only typical format of femslash vids

—there are examples that focus on threesomes or moresomes ("Take Me to Church"

[Root/Shaw/The Machine] by LithiumDoll, 2015), on queer kinship networks beyond

the couple ("Hera Has Six Mommies" by Tallulah71, 2008), and on multifandom media tropes ("I'm Your Man" by Charmax, 2008). On YouTube, many popular vids parallel

multiple 'ships to celebrate ("Yours" by 10fireflym) or critique ("LGBT Fans Deserve

Better" by fearlesssummer) the state of LGBT representation in mass media. In

contrast to the archival and archetypal function of such multifandom tributes, each vid

in this compilation presents a narrative arc particular to a specific relationship, serving

as a story at least as much as an argument. Also, none of the pairings here is strictly

canonical, so the vids are less directly celebratory or critical of mainstream portrayals

of queer female characters than many femslash fandom hits—although the vidders'

work does encourage us to interrogate how we define canonical sexuality in the first

place.

[1.7] Like vidding overall, femslash vidding is inextricable from the participatory

dynamics of distinct communities, relying on and contributing to shared emotions and

interpretations around media texts. And, like vidding, people are often fans of

femslash in general as a collaboratively defined genre that reaches beyond any single

fandom. Coppa and Tushnet observe that, in the era preceding YouTube, it was typical

for female vidders to distribute their work individually on passwordprotected Web

sites, but they mention in a footnote that "some Xena and Buffy vidders founded

centralized public vid listings" (2011, 132n4). These early online fandoms were

formative for femslash as a collective project, and videos developed as an anchor of

that project as the technical infrastructure progressed. Eve Ng researched vids made

in 2003–4 by fans of Bianca and Lena (Lianca) on All My Children (ABC, 1970–2011)

that were announced and discussed on message boards (primarily by queer female

fans). Ng proposes that "fan cultural forms such as the Lianca music videos constitute

rearticulations that are what fans want in queer narratives" (2008, 105). In this case,

they serve as a protest against and reconfiguration of problematic developments in the

couple's onscreen relationship. At the same time, these works have a tendency to

reproduce the more normative tropes of romance, including "romantic love as

redemptive power" (114), longterm monogamous commitment, and the idea that true

love is necessary for happiness. When watching femslash vids, then, it is important to

contextualize them as part of a conversation about the ways lesbian romance is visible

(or invisible) in the media, one which offers critical analysis of representation but still

looks for our culture's dominant language of love.

[1.8] This is to say that, from Xena/Gabrielle or Bianca/Lena to the present day,

femslash's political dimension relies not only on narrative and visual interpretation of

our media reality but also on the capacity of technologies like vidding to deploy

augmented realities that reflect desired images of queer women. The creators featured

here all participate in vidding fandom and participate to differing degrees in femslash

fandom. Their works have a general appeal insofar as they present recognizable stand

alone stories, and some premiered at vid convention VividCon or slash convention

Escapade, where femslash is in the minority. (An annual femslash con, TGIF/F,

launched in 2016.) Nonetheless, you will read about how these vidders are speaking to

particular fan communities and making explicit interventions in heteronormative texts.

One of the most exciting aspects of this collection is the range and complexity of

femalefemale relationships represented, extending beyond conventional romance to

explore unrequited love, power dynamics, antagonism, casual sex, and other

ambiguities. These pieces also exemplify a continuum of different relationships to

canon—highlighting, "fixing," or fully constructing certain aspects—and the vidders

explain specific editing strategies that they used to transform the story that we see.

Given the figure of goggles as an emblem for slash, it is appropriate that women

looking at women is a primary motif in evidence here—the paradigmatic "eyesex" that

has been pivotal to subtextual queer reading since the dawn of cinema. Most vids

excise dialogue and emphasize closeup shots of the face, foregrounding and

heightening this interplay of gazes. Coppa has observed that there are "vids that

feature, and even eroticize, women, often from a lesbian perspective," but more often

"fans tend to be critical of the eroticized female image" and use vidding to "experience the pleasure and power of not being seen" (2011, 125–26). At the same time, it's

plausible that "lesbian, bisexual, and queer women make up a large, possibly majority,

percentage of vidders," complicating the dominance of "vids featuring men as the

object of the gaze" (129n5). It is my hope that this collection will further displace the

focus on male characters as a privileged fascination, demonstrating in part the scope

of fan creativity directed at women. In femslash vids, we can see vividly the cultivation

of what we might call a lesbian gaze, embodied both in the visual intensity of the

relationships on screen and in the looking operations implied by the vidding activity

itself.

Figure 3. Section of editing timeline for "The Coming Out of Quinn Fabray" (2011) by

jarrow. (This video is included in the collection below.) [View larger image.]

[1.9] As the scholars cited have also stressed, however, vidding is not merely visual

but also audiovisual, and music is an inextricable component of the form. The music

video has been remarkably persistent as a schema for fan works, but in contrast to the

commercial format, the song illuminates the images rather than the images

illuminating the song. Turk, especially, describes the varied and fundamental roles

music plays in vid making and vid watching, writing that "the song and its lyrics

provide narrative and emotional information that the audience must decode…by adding

music, vidders renarrate source texts: the new music functions not merely as a

soundtrack for the images but as an 'interpretive lens' [Coppa] through which to view

the recut and resequenced clips" (2010, 95–96). Beyond offering interpretive cues,

"music is the throughline of a vid…[and] thus a crucial factor in whether the audience

experiences a vid as a coherent whole" (2015, 167). Song choice also carries, in large

part, the affective tone and impact of the vid (in Internet vernacular, the "feels"). Ng

found that Lianca videos were usually set to pop ballads where "both the lyrics and the

melody tend to conform to cultural understandings of emotionality," which was a

crucial tool to "facilitate a unique intensity of media engagement" (2008, 110). Turk

expands on this concept by explaining that "pop songs work on a logic of emotional

identification…encourag[ing] us to insert ourselves into them as the 'I' or the 'you,'" so

they can function "to give shape and voice to the emotions of fictional characters"

(2015, 171). Perhaps most importantly, "choosing a song is, for most vidders,

generative—of the vid itself and of the vidder's process for making that vid. Vidder

creativity is produced through interaction with music" (Turk 2015, 165). Indeed, in

many of the commentaries below, creators describe the importance of a song to the

development of their ideas and approach, and it's apparent that vidding as a mode of

fannish engagement is often intertwined with music fandom. Turk cites Michel Chion,

who terms the audiovisual principle synchresis: the idea that we will necessarily

perceive sound and image as interrelated. Vid editors and vid watchers collaborate to

realize the dialectical potential of this "audiovisual counterpoint" (Eisenstein 1949,

55), a particularly innovative multisensory rendition of AR.

[1.10] Please enjoy the following videos with an awareness of how their various

juxtapositions—source and interpretation, representation and desire, watching and

transforming, characters and editors, images and music, and sutures across cuts—

contribute to the seamless yet lush textures of vidding as a distinctive and interactive

mode of seeing. In the tech community, there is a tradition of presenting teardowns:

stripping consumer devices down to parts to better comprehend their technological

and economic constituents. Scott Torborg and Star Simpson, who did the first

teardown of Google Glass in 2013 (http://catwig.com/googleglassteardown/), wrote

that disassembly is important "in an age when more and more of our technology is

made inaccessible to the people who use it, to either understand, repair, or reuse"

(see also the EFF's "right to repair" topic: https://eff.org/issues/righttorepair).

Speculative technologies are also embedded in systems their users don't fully own or

control, and so, as a corrective to this opacity, you could consider this project a

collaborative teardown of Femslash Goggles as an AR apparatus.

2. Acknowledgment

[2.1] Thanks to kiki_miserychic for invaluable assistance with the conception and

organization of this project.

3. Works cited

Chen, Brian X. 2009. "If You're Not Seeing Data, You're Not Seeing." Wired, August

25. http://wired.com/2009/08/augmentedreality/.

Coppa, Francesca. 2009. "A Fannish Taxonomy of Hotness." Cinema Journal 48 (4):

107–13. http://dx.doi.org/10.1353/cj.0.0136.

Coppa, Francesca. 2011. "An Editing Room of One's Own: Vidding as Women's Work."

Camera Obscura 77 (26): 123–30. http://dx.doi.org/10.1215/027053461301557.

Coppa, Francesca, and Rebecca Tushnet. 2011. "How to Suppress Women's Remix."

Camera Obscura 77 (26): 131–38. http://dx.doi.org/10.1215/027053461301566.

Eisenstein, Sergei. 1949. "A Dialectic Approach to Film Form." In Film Form: Essays in Film Theory, edited and translated by Jay Leyda, 45–63. San Diego, CA: Harcourt

Brace.

Ng, Eve. 2008. "Reading the Romance of Fan Cultural Production: Music Videos of a

Television Lesbian Couple." Popular Communication 6 (2): 103–21.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/15405700701746525.

Russo, Julie Levin. 2015. "Many Copies: Cylon Television and Hybrid Video." In New

Media, Old Media: A History and Theory Reader, 2nd ed., edited by Wendy Hui Kyong

Chun and Anna Watkins Fisher, 150–60. New York: Routledge.

Turk, Tisha. 2010. "'Your Own Imagination': Vidding and Vidwatching as Collaborative

Interpretation." Film and Film Culture 5:88–111.

Turk, Tisha. 2015. "Transformation in a New Key." Music, Sound, and the Moving

Image 9 (2): 163–76. http://dx.doi.org/10.3828/msmi.2015.11.

Turk, Tisha, and Joshua Johnson. 2012. "Toward an Ecology of Vidding." In

"Fan/Remix Video," edited by Francesca Coppa and Julie Levin Russo, special issue,

Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 9. http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2012.0326.

4. "Come On" by here's luck (2002)

Video 1. "Come On" by here's luck (2002). Video source: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (WB/UPN, 1997–2003). Audio source: Tegan & Sara. Link:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/176621 . Password: faith.

[4.1] When I started this vid, I'd been vidding for about 6 months. Buffy the Vampire

Slayer (WB/UPN, 1997–2003) was the only show I'd vidded, and the only one I had

any interest in vidding. I wasn't planning to make a Faith/Buffy vid, but this song

grabbed me and wouldn't let go. Tegan & Sara's This Business of Art is full of songs

that could be about Faith; in fact, the vid I made right after this one was a Faith vid

set to "Superstar" from the same album. But the lyrics of "Come On" gave me a hook: the first line, "you've got your lights turned so they can see you," immediately

suggested the scene from 4.15 "This Year's Girl" in which Faith stands outside Giles's

window looking in at Buffy. That lyric/image combination ultimately gave me the

flashback structure of the vid.

[4.2] I don't ship Faith/Buffy in the sense of believing that they will (or should) end

up together or thinking that the characters were sexually involved offscreen, but I do

find their relationship fascinating. As I see the show, Buffy quickly becomes the most

important person in Faith's life—the one person Faith thinks might understand her—

and in turn Faith wants to be the most important person in Buffy's life. But she's not.

Buffy likes Faith (and is also a little envious of her), likes being important to Faith,

likes Faith's attention; but she has other friends too, other things in her life besides

being a Slayer (as well she should!). It's not hard to read that dynamic as a queer

woman in love with a straight friend who is never going to reciprocate those feelings

but really likes the attention.

[4.3] One of the things the vid highlights is the moments of connection between

Faith and Buffy that Faith interprets as promises of friendship, companionship,

devotion—the parallel between Buffy kissing Riley and Buffy kissing Faith is especially

important there. It also highlights the ambiguity in their relationship, which the

ambiguity of the song's chorus really helps with. "Come on, come on, come on"—come

on and do what, exactly? I staked the vid on its meaning two different but inseparable

things: Faith's goading Buffy to fight with her and daring Buffy to connect with her

erotically. That moment where she's got Buffy against the wall and for a second you're

not sure if she's going to hit her or kiss her? And then later she does kiss her, and

then she runs away? That's it, that's the vid. Well, that and the fight scenes, which are

the most technically impressive thing in the vid (and took a long time to get right—

seriously, I was so cranky).

5. "These Two Arms" by Killa (2006, Escapade premiere)

These Two Arms from Killa Beez on Vimeo.

Video 2. "These Two Arms" by Killa (2006). Video source: Xena: Warrior Princess (Renaissance Pictures, 1995–2001). Audio source: Still on the Hill. Link:

http://seacouver.slashcity.net/vid/thesetwoarms.zip.

[5.1] I heard this song played live on our community radio station, and knew

instantly that it had to be a Xena: Warrior Princess (Renaissance Pictures, 1995–2001)

vid. Though I'd never participated much in Xena fandom beyond reading some fic and

making one other vid, I'd deeply loved Xena's sixth season when it aired, with its lush

visuals and the overwhelming love story between Xena and Gabrielle unabashedly

front and center. Hearing this song 5 years after the show ended, it evoked those

images and feelings so powerfully, I couldn't resist.

[5.2] The ending of the show, though—what a betrayal. Not just Xena's death, but

the way they killed her, the undermining of everything the character represented, and

the trick they played, making us think Gabrielle would be able to save her. Of all the

shows to go there, we never thought it would be this one. So, given the chance to

rewrite the ending with the vid, I had to take it. Gabrielle kisses Xena, saving her life,

and the story ends there—your basic fan fixit.

[5.3] I've always been a fan of the surprise POVshift vid structure, where one

character's POV is represented for the first two verses, then the POV switches for the

last verse. Not only does it help create build within a song that might not have its own,

but it's also useful for showing how a relationship affects growth in one or both

characters. Since that's exactly the way the Xena/Gabrielle dynamic evolved, with

Gabrielle losing her innocence and eventually taking up bladed weapons and fighting

alongside Xena (and embracing that choice), the refrain of this song and its themes

were a perfect fit.

[5.4] Side note: At the time, my particular fannish vidding community was still

debating the aesthetics of when and how often to use dissolves in vids. This might

have been considered excessive. And it might be interesting to note that I made this

for a longrunning M/M slash con vid show, at which femslash was a fairly unusual

occurrence. I'm not positive, but I think only one femslash vid had aired there

previously, some years before.

[5.5] And finally, to my knowledge, this vid represents the only time a song's creator

has ever found one of my vids. As it turned out, the band members were huge Xena

fans, and they loved it. Lucky for me!

6. "Vitalum Vitalis" by hollywoodgrrl and ohvienna (2014,

VividCon premiere)

Vitalum Vitalis from hollywoodgrrl on Vimeo.

Video 3. "Vitalum Vitalis" by hollywoodgrrl and ohvienna (2014). Video source: American Horror Story (FX, 2011–). Audio source: TBC aka Instamatic. Link:

http://syncslaying.livejournal.com/38348.html.

[6.1] The third season of American Horror Story (FX, 2011–) dealt with a coven of

sassy young witches with a variety of powers all vying to be the Supreme (new leader)

by performing the Seven Wonders (witchy trials). Two such witches emerged as the

primary femslash pairing within the fandom: Misty Day and Cordelia Foxx (played by

Lily Rabe and Sarah Paulson, respectively). During one of the tests, Misty Day was lost

(in her own personal hell where she was stuck resurrecting frogs forever) and

Cordelia, who previously thought herself the weakest of the witches, turned out to be

the Supreme. This is how the story concluded, and fans of Misty/Cordelia were livid.

Going by the show's own rules, Misty's demise didn't make any logical sense. She

possessed the power of resurgence and had previously brought herself back from

death. Meanwhile, the Supreme has to command all Seven Wonders, one of which is

Vitalum Vitalis (the power to balance the scales between one life force and another).

Misty Day had to literally go poof so that there was no body to be resurrected! And

instead of making them a canon pairing, Ryan Murphy & Co. gave us another Big Gay

Tragedy. Well, we weren't having it. Hence "Vitalum Vitalis" became what is known as

a fixit vid.

[6.2] Since an obsession with Stevie Nicks was such an integral part of Misty's

character, we pulled from ohvienna's Misty/Cordelia fan mix the perfect song: a

mashup of Fleetwood Mac's "Rhiannon" + Sia's "Breathe Me." For the structure of the vid, we wanted to show how Misty and Cordelia's individual paths cross. Once

together, their combined energies were like a breath of life, which was visualized by

the timelapse imagery of the blooming flowers. We pulled from outside sources to add

some oomph to the one existing scene from the show. Layered underneath was, of

course, the subtext that Misty and Cordelia's love was also blooming.

[6.3] After Misty does the ritual that sends her to her frog hell, it was important for

us to show Cordelia actively trying to save her but ultimately proving helpless in the

matter. As Misty's body turned to ash in Cordelia's arms, we cut to the previously

established imagery of Misty burning at the stake. In the show, this scene was used to

visualize Misty's power as she brought herself back from a combusted state. But in the

vid we reversed it, showing instead what really happened to poor, sweet Misty in that

fire. For us, this was the fixit. While her soul was trapped in hell, her physical powers

of resurgence were rendered ineffective, and thus her body would naturally revert to

the state it was in had she never been able to resurrect herself in the first place: she

would burn and turn to ash, just like she did in Cordelia's arms. And that is why poor

Cordelia cannot bring sweet Misty back even with Vitalum Vitalis. This is still

heartbreaking, but at least it makes sense!

7. "Past the Feeling" by Anoel (2013, VividCon premiere)

Past the Feeling - Once Upon a Time fanvid (Regina, Regina/Em…

Video 4. "Past the Feeling" by Anoel (2013). Video source: Once Upon a Time (ABC, 2011–). Audio source: Mr. Little Jeans (cover of Arcade Fire's "The Suburbs"). Link:

http://anoel.dreamwidth.org/144239.html.

[7.1] When I first heard the song, it instantly pinged me as a Regina vid, specifically

focused on Swan Queen [from Once Upon a Time (ABC, 2011–)]. The main chorus

repeats the line "I'm moving past the feeling" and this well represents a big part of

Regina's story line: how she moves past her hurt feelings over her mother's killing of

her first love and the part that Snow White played in that. When Emma shows up as

the biological mother of Regina's adopted son, Henry, she becomes the catalyst for

Regina to have to overcome her resentment of Emma and again move past her old

destructive patterns through the bond Regina and Emma share over their love of

Henry. This is an example of a character vid that also functions as a femslash vid by

giving the Swan Queen relationship more emotional layers, showing why Regina starts

out resenting Emma but grows to form a partnership with her, and why this is so

meaningful on both a relationship level and a story level. This arc has led many Swan

Queen fans like myself to feel they are a destined, true love pairing on par with the

other "true love" heterosexual pairings on the show (like Prince Charming/Snow

White) and inspired us to create fan works and interact with the creators to

demonstrate this, as I tried to do in this vid.

[7.2] Regina and Emma's dynamic is a great example of the enemiestolovers

romantic trope, with their initial interactions antagonistic but full of flirting looks, rough

touching, and growing obsession with each other that comes across as strongly

femslashy—I tried to highlight this aspect particularly in the beginning of the vid. On

top of that, their interaction takes on a destined quality, not only because of how both

of them came to have Henry in their lives but also because of their magical powers,

which help them protect Henry together. I emphasize this in the vid through the

choruses, which provide a contrast to Regina and Emma's antagonism by showing

them combining their magical powers to work together to save Henry. Ultimately they

discover their magical bond as they pool their powers at the very end, taking their

relationship to another level. In this vid, I specifically tried to add more crossdissolves

than I usually do in order to highlight this symbolism and to make the emotions and

reactions of the characters clearer, as well as to enhance the aesthetics and fit the tone of the song.

8. "Lightning Field" by bradcpu (2012)

Legend of the Seeker - Lightning Field - Cara / Kahlan

Video 5. "Lightning Field" by bradcpu (2012). Video source: Legend of the Seeker (ABC, 2008–10). Audio source: Sneaker Pimps. Link:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/486197.

[8.1] For me, vid projects always start with a need to communicate specific feelings

or emotions. In this case, it was the deep sense of yearning that defined Cara and her

relationship with Kahlan in Legend of the Seeker (ABC, 2008–10). Cara was kidnapped

as a child, tortured, and brainwashed. She reluctantly joined the heroes of the show in

season 2, and we watched as those walls slowly fell. The irony is that much of that

happened because of the nurturing relationship she built throughout the season with

her sworn enemy, a woman whose touch is deadly to her. As their relationship

evolves, Cara goes from begrudging (and unwanted) hero, to friend, to guardian, to

selfsacrificial third wheel, to regretful and borderline suicidal. It was a complex

relationship and one that was uniquely compelling, in a painfully beautiful way. The

point here was just to express that.

[8.2] I tried to do that by grounding the viewer in Cara's point of view. In many

cases, that meant framing scenes with storm clouds or flashbacks to her past to show

how a look or a touch made her feel, since one of (adult) Cara's defining qualities is

that her face betrays very little emotion. In other cases, it meant using metaphors like

flowers or a rising sun to show how she sees Kahlan. That extended to the sex scenes

between Kahlan and her canon lover, Richard, which I positioned around shots of Cara

having sex with another member of their group before sacrificing him and finally

herself in order to protect Kahlan. That segment includes an episode in which Cara is

secretly dying while trying to conceal her body's decay from Kahlan.

[8.3] I see the vid less as an alternate universe narrative and more about

emphasizing what's hinted at in canon. Honestly, I didn't have to do a lot. Everything

in the vid happened on screen, often in the same chronological order as the vid. It was

just a matter of positioning the most relevant shots next to each other and adding

some visual representation of each emotion.

9. "Gimme Sympathy" by beerbad (2014)

Bunheads - Gimme Sympathy - Michelle & Sasha

Video 6. "Gimme Sympathy" by beerbad (2014). Video source: Bunheads (ABC

Family, 2012–13). Audio source: Metric. Link:

http://beerbad.livejournal.com/359878.html .

[9.1] While not having any canonical F/F relationships, Bunheads (ABC Family, 2012–

13) was a show begging to be reinterpreted by femslashers. Literally 100 percent of

the main cast were female characters, and the show's focus was always on the

growing relationships between girls and women of different generations, coming

together and helping each other and finding their own strength. The relationship

between dance teacher Michelle and her student Sasha was the highlight of the show

for me, as relationships between female characters of different ages who are not

related are very rarely given such attention in media. The canonical Michelle/Sasha

relationship inspired me and filled me with so much emotion that I knew I wanted to

vid them, and in the process take things one step further by presenting them as a

femslash pairing.

[9.2] Michelle and Sasha's connection is so evident on screen, and they were given

plenty of scenes together in the canon of the show, so it wasn't difficult to imagine an

added romantic/sexual element in the relationship. Since it's so easy to see their

chemistry visually, I knew I would have a lot of material to work with and subtext to

exploit when I made my vid. In vidding Michelle/Sasha, it was not a big stretch to take

all the wonderful platonic scenes between them and put them in the context of

femslash. I did also edit together several scenes to make them Michelle/Sasha scenes,

such as when they're on the phone with each other, which is something I have a lot of

fun with when I'm vidding subtextual relationships.

[9.3] Bunheads was a show with a very small fandom, and Michelle/Sasha was never

a hugely popular femslash ship, so vidding was the perfect form of artistic expression

for me to both process my own emotions about the show and the ship while also

creating something fun and accessible for folks who aren't familiar with it. The lack of

creating something fun and accessible for folks who aren't familiar with it. The lack of Bunheads fan works in general, coupled with the lack of a vocal fandom to interact

with, really fueled my vidding as an outlet for my love! I hope my vid will inspire

lovers of F/F relationships—especially of the teacher/student or mentor/protege variety

—to give Bunheads a try!

10. "I Do Adore" by kiki_miserychic (2014, VividCon premiere)

I Do Adore - Bubbleline - Adventure Time

Video 7. "I Do Adore" by kiki_miserychic. Video source: Adventure Time (Cartoon

Network, 2010–). Audio source: Mindy Gledhill. Link: http://kiki

miserychic.livejournal.com/229638.html.

[10.1] I watch a lot of cartoons and was pleasantly surprised to find a subtextual

femslash relationship on Adventure Time (Cartoon Network, 2010–). While not

outright confirmed in canon, Princess Bubblegum and Marceline have been confirmed

as a ship in interviews and such. I curated a femslash vid show for VividCon, a

convention devoted to the practice and appreciation of vidding, and wanted to create

something that would add more diverse sources to the playlist. I have a collection of

music I want to eventually vid that I listened to, and when I heard this song, I thought

of Princess Bubblegum and Marceline.

[10.2] It's interesting to vid a cartoon as opposed to the liveaction source that I

typically use in that different illustrators draw the characters with their own individual

style. A lot of cartoons tend to have set character looks. The structure of Adventure

Time makes vidding minor characters easier than most television shows because they

tend to focus on a couple of characters in each episode. I pulled from the Princess

Bubblegum and Marceline–focused episodes and additional episodes where they were

in the background as part of the ensemble. Toward the end of the vid, I manipulated

the clips with the inclusion of a book page titled "How to Kiss a Princess" taken out of

context, to give the impression of a more textual romantic relationship without a lot of

special effects on the source.

[10.3] I think representation in cartoons is extremely important and making this vid

was important to me. Had young me seen this vid and cartoons like Adventure Time

and Steven Universe (Cartoon Network, 2013–), I am certain I wouldn't have had as

many identity issues growing up.

many identity issues growing up.

11. "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Mithborien (2015)

Gamora & Nebula | Everybody wants to rule the world

Video 8. "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Mithborien (2015). Video source: Guardians of the Galaxy (Marvel Studios, 2014). Audio source: Lorde. Link:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/5263511.

[11.1] While I really enjoyed Guardians of the Galaxy (Marvel Studios, 2014) movie,

I was disappointed we never got more backstory about Gamora and Nebula—Gamora

especially, being one of the core protagonists, but we were only introduced to her after

she had already made the decision to go against her family and steal the orb. I also

really liked Nebula's line "of all our siblings, I hated you the least," which implied a

particularly interesting relationship between them.

[11.2] I actually like them so much that I walked out of the movie theater already

planning a fan vid in my head. Sadly, it took me a while to find a song and actually

finish the vid, but I was certainly inspired by their relationship from the beginning.

Luckily, my delay in making the vid ensured I was able to include a deleted scene

between Nebula and Gamora that went into their backstory a little further as well as

including an awesome shot of them getting up in each other's faces. It was actually

this shot that tipped their relationship from being platonic into somewhat incestuous in

my mind.

[11.3] The main issue I faced with making this vid was that I ran out of footage to

use. Gamora and Nebula were in few scenes together to begin with, but there was also

a lack of scenes of them separately that proved useful for the vid I was trying to

make. I ended up having to crop and resize a number of clips so I could exclude the

men in them and just focus on Gamora and Nebula.

12. "Hurricane" by Laura Shapiro (2010, Escapade premiere)

Video 9. "Hurricane" by Laura Shapiro (2010). Video source: Battlestar Galactica (SyFy, 2004–9), Farscape (Nine [Australia], 1999–2003), The L Word (Showtime,

2004–9). Audio source: Joan Osborne. Link:

http://laurashapiro.dreamwidth.org/296130.html. Password: showme.

[12.1] This vid was born of a deep, unfulfilled need to read Starbuck/Aeryn fan

fiction [ Battlestar Galactica (SyFy, 2004–9), and Farscape (Nine [Australia], 1999–

2003)]. Two hot pilots with serious mommy issues and frustrating boyfriends, both

with strong tendencies toward independence and unhealthy ways of expressing their

emotions, meet in a Space Bar® for a zipless fuck. Both characters operate in

universes that are largely free from the sexist constraints of our world. Both come

from military cultures where women are assumed to be as capable as men, and both

are in heterosexual relationships where they get shit done and the men are the

emotional ones. And they love to fly. I latched onto that to set up the vid's plot, but

also to say something about flight, escape, freedom.

[12.2] At first I was only thinking of the eyebrowmelting hotness of the pairing, but

once I began plotting out the vid, I realized that I needed to use parallel structure to

introduce each character, partly because the verse lyrics didn't immediately lend

themselves to the sex part of the plot, but also because most viewers would not be

familiar with both characters.

[12.3] The clipping and overall editing process were relatively smooth and painless.

But it was my first constructed reality vid, and the technical challenges were

considerable: the shows' color palettes are nothing alike, and I knew I would need to

bring in outside footage ( The L Word [Showtime, 2004–9]) for the sex scenes. The

hardest thing was erasing the men. My favorite moment of the vid was the most

technically challenging to produce: when Aeryn rolls off Starbuck at the end of the sex

sequence, she's originally rolling off of a dude. I had to mask him out, frame by frame.

I'm really glad I did, though; that clip is so satisfying to me now.

[12.4] It was important to me to build the vid without faked kisses or the like. I

wanted to use pure editing to tell the story. The only time you see two bodies in the

frame together, it's L Word footage. Aeryn and Starbuck are never in the frame

together. What you think you see is from the juxtaposition of clips alone.

13. "Hands Away" by chaila and beccatoria (2011, WisCon

premiere)

Video 10. "Hands Away" by chaila and beccatoria (2011). Video source: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (Fox, 2008–9), Fringe (Fox, 2008–13). Audio Source:

Interpol. Link: http://chaila.dreamwidth.org/96595.html. Password: play.

[13.1] "Hands Away" is a vid for a show that doesn't exist, sparked by the incredible

potential of two worldsaving female leads not just in the same narrative space but

also in a romantic relationship with each other. The vid was born when two Internet

besties, wielding editing software, accidentally came up with the idea of two of their

favorite fictional women connecting, despite boundaries of time, space, and television

networks. Sarah Connor ( Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles [Fox, 2008–9])

and Olivia Dunham ( Fringe [Fox, 2008–13]) were rare female leads on science fiction

television shows. They were each the center of their shows' stories and mythology,

each responsible for saving their respective worlds, sublimating personal happiness to

duty. Telling a sincere but impossible love story between Sarah and Olivia, combining

their narrative power together into a shared story where they might be in love, was

exciting and powerful and downright sexy.

[13.2] The visual and thematic parallels between the two characters and their stories

helped inspire the idea of Sarah/Olivia as a relationship. The parallels and mirroring

both paint the epic backdrop of a shared universe and create intimacy by showing how

alike the characters and their stories are, and how much they would understand each

other. Flashes of manipulated footage put them in the same scenes, repurposing

footage from the shows or the actors' other work to create moments of solace,

attraction, or affection between Sarah and Olivia. Their stories are meant to tangle

attraction, or affection between Sarah and Olivia. Their stories are meant to tangle together, set to an impressionistic song whose few lyrics don't matter that much,

beyond creating a mood as the two women search, find, and lose each other,

separated by their missions but linked by the way they feel about each other. For us

as the vidders, the plot didn't matter as much as the endless possibility that results

from Sarah and Olivia connecting, crashing their complex and powerful stories and

worlds into each other, anchored always by how desperately they reach for each other.

The show never actually existed, but for the space of the vid's three minutes, it does.

14. "The Coming Out of Quinn Fabray" by jarrow (2011)

[https://vimeo.com/32143485]

Video 11. "The Coming Out of Quinn Fabray" by jarrow (2011). Video source: Glee (Fox, 2009–15). Audio source: Michael Convertino (Bed of Roses soundtrack).

Password: faberry.

[14.1] This project is different from any other vid I've made. At the outset, I was

creating what I called a "scene reconstruction." However, upon its completion, I

realized I'd gone beyond that and created, effectively, a video fan fic that told an

actual story. As I had new ideas for scenes to manipulate—either by working around

preexisting conversations or creating brandnew ones with dialogue pieces—I built a

new chapter, so to speak. When it reached 10 minutes long, I realized it didn't have to

just be random scenes strung together—I could create a narrative by arranging them

intentionally. That was when the project really came alive and started toward what it is

today: Quinn's comingout story through a romance with Rachel, told over 18 minutes.

[14.2] The original objective was simple: Use material from Glee (Fox, 2009–15) to

"prove" that Quinn was gay using a combination of canon and convincing

manipulations. As a Faberry (Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry) 'shipper, Quinn's potential

lesbianism is the premise of their hypothetical relationship. I was able to use the

canonical evidence of Quinn's queerness as a foundation for the vid (because she looks

longingly at Rachel a lot) and then create new conversations to show what could be if

only the show would go one step further. This project was successful because so much

fodder already existed in canon, but the excitement (and challenge) lay in the fact that

Faberry is ultimately a fanon relationship. Much to my delight, this became an instant

hit on Tumblr—by far my most popular vid ever—and is still treasured by the fandom

as a unique and special contribution. I hope, by watching this video, other viewers will

better understand what Faberry shippers saw in Quinn and Rachel's interactions. This

is the Glee story we wanted; this is Glee as we saw it.

Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Symposium

Where the femslashers are: Media on the lesbian continuum

Mel Stanfil

University of Central Florida, Orlando, Florida, United States

[0.1] Abstract— Some texts are femslashier than others. Drawing on Alexander

Doty's argument that television shows with primary relationships between women

are "lesbian sitcoms," I argue that media driven by relationships between women

are "structurally lesbian media" that generate femslash fandoms.

[0.2] Keywords— Homosociality; Lesbian potential energy; Structurally lesbian

media

Stanfill, Mel. 2017. "Where the Femslashers Are: Media on the Lesbian Continuum."

In "Queer Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue,

Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.959.

[1] It is widely acknowledged that femslash is a minoritarian form of shipping,

outnumbered in fandom at large by heterosexual pairings and m/m slash, though

there are some fandoms where femslash holds its own with these other forms of

shipping or even dominates (note 1). Some scholars have gestured toward the early

lack of compelling women characters as driving m/m slash (Jenkins 1992), and others

have identified the subsequent increase of wellrounded women in media as enabling

femslash (Russo 2010). At this end of history, there are many complex women

characters (though fewer after the rash of women characters killed off in spring 2016),

but despite some change, the overall pattern, in which only certain, specific fandoms

are femslashdominant, remains.

[2] Here, I argue that there is something about these texts that, as Rosalind Hanmer

(2003, 86) argues about Xena: Warrior Princess (1995–2001), "hails" queer women:

something about these texts makes them femslashier than others. This is not the

variety of defense of slash that might be shorthanded as "one, two, three, four, it's

really there; we're keeping score"—the argument made by slash shippers that they are

simply uncovering actual homoerotic subtext really in the text (note 2). Neither is my

point here an instantiation of its counterpart, the very worthy argument that might be

summarized as, "five, six, seven, eight, don't assume the text is straight" that inveighs

against default heterosexuality (note 3). Instead, drawing on Alexander Doty's (1993)

argument that Laverne and Shirley (1976–1983), The Mary Tyler Moore Show (1970–

1977), Designing Women (1986–1993), and The Golden Girls (1985–1992) should be understood as "lesbian sitcoms" because the primary relationships in them are

between women, and men as love interests are generally transient and not central to

the ongoing development of the story or characters, I argue that all media (not just

sitcoms) that center on or are driven by a relationship between women are structurally

lesbian media, and that to locate structurally lesbian media after the Internet is to

locate femslash fandoms.

[3] The concept of structurally lesbian media, as Doty's "lesbian sitcom" before it,

relies on Adrienne Rich's (1993, 239) concept of the "lesbian continuum": "a range—

through each woman's life and throughout history—of womanidentified experience,

not simply the fact that a woman has had or consciously desired genital sexual

experience with another woman." In her 1980 essay "Compulsory Heterosexuality and

Lesbian Existence," Rich (1993, 239) proposed that we use lesbian continuum "to

embrace many more forms of primary intensity between and among women, including

the sharing of a rich inner life, the bonding against male tyranny, the giving and

receiving of practical and political support," and other womantowoman relationships

(note 4). This is not the same as saying the characters in these shows really are lesbians (or any other identity), nor that their interactions really are intended to be

perceived as sexual, nor that these relationships really are queer representation—any

of that would move into the sexual lesbianism Rich termed "lesbian existence." It is,

rather, a description of the mechanics of these texts and the ways they are centered

on relationships between and among women. Thus, Doty (1993, 42) argues, "in mass

culture reception, at least, the idea of a lesbian continuum might be adapted and

expanded to include those situations in which anyone identifies with or takes pleasure

in the 'many…forms of primary intensity between and among women.'" Doty describes

the shows he discusses as "lesbian sitcoms" because they are structured around, and

audiences "identify with" or "take pleasure in," the centrality of women to each other's lives, and I argue that the texts that generate large femslash fandoms are those that

produce this identification and pleasure.

[4] Structurally lesbian media has three main, interrelated characteristics: primary

homosocial intensity, transient heterosexuality, and homosocialhomosexual slippage.

Henry Jenkins (1992, 187) explains that "slash originated as a genre of fan writing

within Star Trek fandom in the early 1970s as writers began to suggest, however

timidly, that Kirk and Spock cared more deeply for each other than for any of the

many female secondary characters who brush past them in the original episodes." This

idea that the ostensibly homosocial bond is the most important in characters' lives,

and more so than explicitly heterosexual ones, is also shown in more contemporary

texts such as Supernatural (2005–), but it hasn't been taken seriously that there is a

reason that "'classic malemale buddy series'…have often produced slash fandoms

(Tosenberger 2008, 1.2). Where the most important relationship in the text is samesex, I argue, there shall you find slash in volume, and in the very few media objects where the primary intensity is between women, this is femslash.

[5] Homosocial primary intensity takes various forms. In Xena, for example, the

XenaGabrielle dyad was the core of the show. Other characters came and went, but

the two ladies were what it was about, and I argue that this is why XenaGabrielle

shipping vastly drowned out any other pairing: Xena was a structurally lesbian show in

its focus on relationships between women as primary. Similarly, Rizzoli and Isles

(2010–2016) was a structurally lesbian text because it centered on the titular

characters and their relationship. To take perhaps unexpected examples, recent

Disney films Frozen (2013) and Maleficent (2014) have central relationships between

women, and there is substantial femslash about those relationships; this is despite the

respectively literally and figuratively incestuous nature of those woman–woman pairs

that might otherwise be expected to dampen interest, which may speak to a shortage

of structurally lesbian media to choose from. Despite its otherwise conservative gender

and sexual politics, ABC fairytale drama Once Upon a Time (2011–) has, for most of its

run, been a structurally lesbian television show, driven by the developing relationships

between and among its three lead women, Emma Swan, Snow White, and Regina

Mills, from strangers to enemies to allies to family—and indeed "Swan Queen," the

relationship between Emma Swan and Regina, the Evil Queen, has, at various points in

the last six years, been the largest femslash fan base on the Internet.

[6] In accordance with the primary intensity in these texts being samesex,

heterosexual relationships may exist in structurally lesbian media, but they are not the

most important ones. As Christine Scodari (2012, 343) argues, "if canonical

homosociality between men is a catalyst for traditional slash, it is not threatened

merely by male/female romance but by a female character's centrality in the

narrative." Because love interests are peripheral to the narrative in these homosocialbond frameworks, they're also produced as peripheral to the characters, and so such heterosexuality does not threaten the centrality of homosociality. This was certainly

true of Xena—men came and went in both of the women's lives. As much as Anna of

Frozen is marriagecrazy at the outset, she immediately tosses aside her new fiancé

when she needs to go in search of her sister. Similarly, Emma and Regina have had

men as love interests during substantial portions of Once Upon a Time, but the big plot

and emotional beats have often been with each other (though this has changed in the

fifth and sixth seasons), and so it is unsurprising that at AO3, Swan Queen stories

outnumber those for any of the show's heterosexual pairings, and nearly both of the

women's canonical heterosexual pairings put together (note 5).

[7] This core homosocial bond and merely perfunctory heterosexuality mean there's

always a potential for homosexualhomosocial slippage that must be managed. As

Jenkins (1992, 203) describes it in the case of m/m slash he examines, texts "must

also repress the specifically sexual dimension of these relationships." Julie Levin Russo

(2010, 46) contends that "tropes like sudden onscreen boyfriends may function as

overdetermined markers of the places where lesbian desire most threatens to erupt."

Indeed, it's quite possible to be both a structurally lesbian text and a homophobic,

gaypanicked one. The need to push lesbian existence back into the lesbian continuum

—to desexualize and deemphasize the relationships between women—can drive an

almost hysterical insistence that such women are merely close friends. This is so

common as to be a meme: just gals being pals (note 6). The impulse also manifests in what Doty (1993, 42, n. 9) identifies in an endnote as "straight culture's careful

maintenance of the line between homosociality and homosexuality." There is much

extolling of the value of platonic love between women, and routine demands of "Why

do you have to sexualize things?" The existence of a continuum—that these two forms

of womantowoman relationship exist in relation to one another, and can slide into

one another—is terrifying for homophobes but vital to femslashers.

[8] By contrast, queerbaiting arises when show production personnel recognize the

homosocialhomosexual slippage and give it a helping nudge rather than suppressing

it. This is a situation in which they have no interest in actually letting the relationship

in question between women reach lesbian existence—sexual lesbianism—rather than

staying on the lesbian continuum—women's primary relations to women—but they will

write and direct and act and edit in such a way as to push toward lesbian desire in

order to attempt capture of fan attention, affective attachment, and labor. Rizzoli and

Isles was notorious for this, from scripting to blocking to promotion, and open about

the intent behind having the two actors touch and express care for each other.

Queerbaiting, then, attempts to edge closer to lesbian existence while remaining

plausibly deniable, exploitatively mining the lesbian continuum's affective resources.

[9] Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (1985, 2) famously theorized "male homosocial desire,"

"using 'desire' in a way analogous to the psychoanalytic use of 'libido'—not for a

particular, affective state or emotion, but for the affective or social force, the glue,

even when its manifestation is hostility or hatred or something less emotively charged,

that has shaped an important relationship." The structural lesbianism of the media I

describe here is the libidinal glue that holds them together, and as in Sedgwick's

(1985, 2) case, "how far this force is properly sexual…will be an active question." How

sexual these relationships are indeed varies from text to text, but they mostly stay on

the nonsexual side of the lesbian continuum rather than passing into lesbian existence.

There is, however, the potential at every moment for affect to break through into

desire, for subtext to become text, to go from implicit to explicit, becoming lesbian

existence and actuality. The text carries that lesbian potential energy like a

compressed spring. It may or may not ever become kinetic in the media object itself,

but fans can run their communities on it either way.

Notes

1. See destinationtoast (2016) and Tumblr staff (2015) for quantification of the most

shipped and ficed couples of 2015, as an example.

2. For descriptions of this argument, see Jenkins (1992) and Allington (2007).

3. See, for example, Åström (2010), Jones (2002), and Tosenberger (2008).

4. In saying that all "primary intensity" between women should be framed as lesbian,

Rich (1993, 240) was making a political move, calling on ostensibly heterosexual

women to recognize their kinship to lesbians on the basis of their deep emotional ties

to other women, asking them to "consider the possibility that all women…exist on a

lesbian continuum," because this would let women "see ourselves as moving in and

out of this continuum, whether we identify ourselves as lesbian or not," in order to

band together more effectively toward feminist causes rather than being divided by

the specter of lesbianism.

5. As of March 26, 2017.

6. Rundowns of the meme can be found at Meme Documentation (2015) and Buzzfeed

(Karlan 2015).

Works cited

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Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. 1985. Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial

Desire. Revised ed. Columbia University Press.

Tosenberger, Catherine. 2008. "'The Epic Love Story of Sam and Dean': Supernatural,

Queer Readings, and the Romance of Incestuous Fan Fiction." Transformative Works

and Cultures, no. 1. http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2008.0030.

Tumblr staff. 2015. "Tumblr 2015 Year in Review—Most Reblogged Ships." Tumblr

2015 Year in Review, December 4.

http://yearinreview.tumblr.com/post/134751774307/mostrebloggedships.

Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Symposium

The surface of women

Lucy Irene Baker

Griffith University, Nathan, Queensland, Australia

[0.1] Abstract— This essay examines the range of gender designations, particularly those

referring to women (as a class), within the research I conducted on genderswap fan work.

The survey I did as part of that research had 295 participants, who were provided a shortanswer field to explain their gender identity. The vast majority can be considered as being in the class of "women," but the ways in which they define themselves offer a significant

expansion to the surface that "women" can be conceived to cover.

[0.2] Keywords— Feminism; Gender; Transgender

Baker, Lucy Irene. 2017. "The Surface of Women." In "Queer Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.879.

[1] My research focuses on fan work that shifts and changes gender between adaptations

of existing works (regendering and gendercreative fanwork), and as part of that research, I

surveyed and interviewed fans. The prevalence of women within fandom is well known and

researched, from BaconSmith to Jamison; however, the tendency of earlier studies to

describe primarily heterosexual, white, and cis respondents is mired in expectations about

gender and sexuality. The assumption that (transformative) fandom is populated mostly by

straight white women is part of why I chose to allow an open response for gender in my

survey. That assumption has proven somewhat false about sexuality; would it prove

similarly fallible in the case of gender?

[2] Discussing the David Duchovny Estrogen Brigade mailing list in 2005, Rhiannon Bury

reasoned, "It is unlikely that female fans who identified as lesbian would join a list whose

name, however playfully or ironically, foregrounded heterosexual desire" (2005, 22). This

reasoning ignores sexuality's long history as a variable and codified performance that does

not tidily line up with our current labeling system. However, sexuality is increasingly

respected as an identifier in fan studies, as can be seen particularly in work like "Cunning

Linguists: The Bisexual Erotics of Words/Silence/Flesh" (Lackner, Lucas, and Reid 2006) and

the collections Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of the Internet: New Essays and

The Fan Fiction Studies Reader (Hellekson and Busse 2006, 2014), which reflect society's

increasing awareness that the usual labels for sexuality do not clearly illustrate the varieties

of sexual interest. We are seeing the beginning of a shift: where examination of sexuality

was once thought unnecessary, because the motivations for sexual actions seemed clear,

now such examination is a clearly valuable facet of quantitative research. Although academic

research has both contradicted and supported those earlier findings of hetero dominance,

fan research has repeatedly revealed a clear proportion of nonheterosexual women; the

blogs Destination: Toast! (http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/) and The Slow Dance of the Infinite Stars (http://centrumlumina.tumblr.com/) particularly have taken broad samples of

fandom and archives. Out of interest in the gender breakdown, and in order to determine if a

similar shift was occurring with gender, I offered survey participants the opportunity to

explain their gender to me. Their responses, and the associated data, form the basis of this

essay.

[3] Gendercreative works—encompassing regendering, omegaverse, mpreg, and other

variations—do not form a large part of fannish work, although they are seen by many people

as evidence both of creativity and of puerile sexual interest (which is why fans interested in

such works are sometimes described as "rotten" in China, and "trash" and "garbage" on Tumblr). The disproportionate psychological space occupied by these works in the minds of

fans and antifans alike is testament to the transgressiveness they engage in both within and

outside fannish cultures. As Busse says, "These stories are not only hot and allow our

beloved sex objects to get and stay together in bonded bliss but they also interrogate some

of the issues and prejudices of our day" (2013, 571–72). It seems logical that these works

would primarily be created by and for similarly gendercreative fans, but my survey shows

that those who used standard gender identifiers and those who did not were equally likely to

consume them, with creators slightly more likely to use nonstandard gender identifiers.

What piqued my interest most was the way gender was constructed by my respondents.

[4] What all respondents had in common, of course, was their willingness to participate in

my survey about gendercreative fan works. Most belonged to a class that could broadly be

described as female; either they outright identified their gender this way, or they located it

within a broader spectrum, using phrases like "mostly female" and "afab" ("assigned female at birth") to describe their gender identity. Approximately onefifth of all women and

womenadjacent respondents described their gender in a way that separated them from the

category "female" or particularized it in some fashion. I am sympathetic to the desire to do so; my own discomfort with gender asserts itself periodically, in behaviors ranging from

teenaged chestbinding to my current b/Butch appearance, and there is no way to explain

this gender performance and identity construction within the highly codified structures of the

gender binary. Even claiming a gender identity of "other" does not tell the story sufficiently.

It certainly does not help explain why I read what I read, or write what I write, given the

expectations laid upon gender.

[5] My survey was only available online, publicized via Twitter, email, Tumblr, and other

social networks. The respondents came from a variety of educational, economic, language,

and racial backgrounds, although they tended to be from the Englishspeaking West, the US

particularly, and to be highly educated. It is tempting to standardize the gender data; after

all, the responses "woman," "demigirl," "female," "cisfemale," "lesbian," "queer femme,"

"lady i guess," "primarily female," and "genderfluid mostly female" could all be considered under the class of "woman," or at least "female," in order to offer a quantitatively "clean"

delineation of gender in the analysis. However, these nonstandard responses (all of which

are listed in Table 1) offer a way of looking at the shattered surface of womanhood (note 1), a disparate class nonetheless considered "lesser" by mainstream communities and corporate

entities, affecting treatment in the work, reading patterns, responses to works, and so on.

However, it is difficult to identify an experience common to all those classed as "women,"

except being seen as "other." The intersectionality of the class "women" is revealed by the term's use with modifiers describing race, trans status, and sexuality.

Table 1. Answers to "What Gender Do You Identify As?"

Agender

Androgynous

bigender (female and nb/masculine)

Cis female

cis lady

Cis woman

cisgender female

Demigirl

Deminonbinary

Female

Female (demigirl/genderqueer)

female (with a strong streak of genderqueer)

Female, more or less

female/genderless

Female/Genderqueer

Fluid

Genderfluid

Genderfluid (biologically female)

Genderfluid; mostly female right now

Genderqueer

Genderqueer afab

girl/penguin/??

I am antigender

I reject gender as a concept, but society deems me female.

lady, i guess.

Male

Male/Agender

Masculine Genderqueer

Neutrois

Nonbinary

Nonbinary—demigirl

Nonbinary (agender)

Nonbinary/Androgynous

nonbinary/butch

None

None (agender)

Primarily female

Primarily female

Queer

queer femme

Questioning

Transgender

transgender/agender (they/their pronouns)

Transmasculine

Woman

woman I suppose (not something I'm paying much attention to on internal level)

[ Some respondents intentionally left the space blank. ]

[6] This shattering of the categories presents categorization difficulties to researchers,

particularly within an online environment. That is not to say the gender(s) chosen are false,

but to highlight the multiplicity of identities people find themselves inhabiting online as

expressions of themselves and their truths, particularly within the overlapping subcultural

elements that make up what Morimoto terms the "contact zones of fandom," where a

singular interest binds people together from an "infinite diversity" (Morimoto 2015). I also want to highlight the way this makes data analysis fraught with a kind of bowdlerized gender

binarism—removing the subcategories of "woman" in order to present a more cohesive

dataset makes a kind of sense, even as it replaces that deep and broad category selected by

the respondents with the putative "whole" of a gender binary, or even a trinary, no matter how flexibly that third status lets us shift between categories and identities. The onefifth of

womenadjacent respondents who identified themselves with nonstandard gender terms

would be lost, their gender identification swallowed by those larger categories.

[7] The assumption of a static genderclass, in and of itself, is the genesis of gender

policing that gendercreative fan work can interact with. A gender binary sees women as a

class identified by femininity (with allowed deviations) and men as a class identified by

masculinity (again with allowed deviations). Within fandom, it is divorced from sexual

behaviors in multiple ways, but is reinscribed in others. Respondents often derided this

binary. In their survey responses, they often described fan work that strengthens the wall

between those two genders, or that reifies a kind of gendered performance of sexuality (by,

for instance, featuring feminine bishies or sexually receptive and passive males, "bottoms"), as "less interesting" than work that creatively intersects with gender as a concept. They also often consider such work to be fetishizing the gender binary, having more in common with

sexual roleplaying and dressup than with actual gender identity. This use of gender as a

means for fetishized sexual performance, without either an honest claiming of the fetish or a

coherent examination of gendered sex and performance, garners fans' disdain; they see it as

appropriating gender politics without giving due consideration to the sociopolitical

importance of the act of regendering the existing characters.

[8] Gender expression as integrity forms a part of this disparate surface—the shattered

pieces reflect better expressions of "woman" than the whole, ones with more meaning to the respondents than the word "woman" can offer, even as they become part of the class of

women by virtue of not being men. This absorption into the class of women intersects with

the management and "cleaning" of data by overriding respondents' attempts at integrity in

favor of a meaning that may or may not be their intent. While this shift may make analysis easier, it also ignores the facets of gender highlighted by the terms "cis," "demi," and

"femme." The urge to standardize data in order to fit it into the shape expected has

historically not served minorities or subaltern groups well, particularly in research. The

nuances afforded by these categories of womanhood offer a way to look at the surface of

womanhood in contemporary culture.

[9] The new wave of gender criticism, with facets of trans* activism, feminism, racial

studies, and sociology, invites us to explore the intent of those who police, reify, produce,

and reproduce these binaries in media and in culture. Gender forms the foundational

element of society in a way that is not yet fully understood; investigations into brain

structure, hormones, and physiology are providing new and provocative complications of

what was once considered to be a discrete binary. Fandom, rather than simply being a

reflection of the media it focuses on, is a site where the questions those complications raise

can find creative praxis alongside personal recovery and reimagining. Gendercreative

adaptations, though contentious, can rework an original property alongside its archontic

versions, can meditate on gender, and can critique media, gender, and fandom itself. Junot

Diaz notes that "if you want to make a human being a monster, deny them, at the cultural

level, any reflection of themselves" (Stetler, 2009), and thus his work seeks to provide

mirrors for those unreflected and made monstrous populations of minorities and the subaltern. A personal revelatory experience offers a necessary reflection to soothe that monster, albeit in a fractured surface.

Note

1. Djuna Barnes, in a letter to Emily Coleman, says, "There is more surface to the shattered

object than the whole," and this conceptualization has guided my investigation of gender

identity within the data I have collected (Barnes 2003, xi).

Works cited

Barnes, Djuna. 2003. The Book of Repulsive Women and Other Poems. Edited with an

Introduction by Rebecca Loncrain. New York: Routledge.

Bury, Rhiannon. 2005. Cyberspaces of Their Own: Female Fandoms Online. Digital

Formations 25. New York: Peter Lang.

Busse, Kristina. 2013. "Pon Farr, Mpreg, Bonds, and the Rise of the Omegaverse." In Fic: Why Fanfiction Is Taking Over the World, edited by Anne Jamison, 562–73. Dallas, TX:

Smart Pop.

Hellekson, Karen, and Kristina Busse, eds. 2006. Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the

Age of the Internet: New Essays. Jefferson, NC: McFarland.

Hellekson, Karen, and Kristina Busse, eds. 2014. The Fan Fiction Studies Reader. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press.

Lackner, Eden, Barbara Lynn Lucas, and Robin Anne Reid. 2006. "Cunning Linguists: The

Bisexual Erotics of Words/Silence/Flesh." In Fan Fiction and Fan Communities in the Age of

the Internet: New Essays, edited by Karen Hellekson and Kristina Busse, 189–206. Jefferson, NC: McFarland.

Morimoto, Lori [teaandliminality]. 2015. "'Fandom in/as Contact Zone,' by Teaand

Liminality." Fan Meta Reader, May 28. http://thefanmetareader.org/2015/05/28/fandom

inascontactzonebyteaandliminality/. Originally posted on April 16, 2014.

Stetler, Carrie. 2009. "Junot Diaz: Man in the Mirror." NJ.com, October 27.

http://www.nj.com/entertainment/arts/index.ssf/2009/10/junot_diaz_man_in_the_mirror.html.

Originally posted on October 26, 2009.

Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Symposium

On defining yuri

Erica Friedman

[0.1] Abstract— The term yuri, referring to lesbianthemed Japanese animation and

comics, is both descriptive and divisive, shaped by creators and industry and by

different audiences within fandom. The story of yuri is the story of a genre driven

forward and backward between conflicting requirements and heterogeneous

audiences.

[0.2] Keywords— LGBT community; Japan; Publishing; Social Media

Friedman, Erica. 2017. "On Defining Yuri. " In "Queer Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures, no.

24. http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.831.

1. Introduction

[1.1] Yuri, a genre of Japanese comics, animation, and related media focusing on

lesbian themes and content, is unlike the four main demographically focused genres of

Japanese media. Without a single, discrete source, yuri is the product of disparate

creators and audiences with conflicting needs, tropes, and conventions of storytelling.

With such incompatible demands, the different audiences (i.e., female, male, straight,

gay) who read, watch, and create derivative material in yuri fandom often lose sight of

the roots of yuri, while publishers promote properties that are marketable to a

minority male audience rather than to the majority female audience (note 1).

[1.2] To understand how yuri reached this point, it's useful to understand that its

sources have a point of commonality (lesbian themes) but lack a shared purpose.

2. Herstory: Japanese social politics and media

[2.1] In the early 20th century, a sociopolitical movement called the S movement

was formed by Japanese women. The letter "S" stood for shoujo, sister, schoene, and even sex, but among some members, S also stood for Sappho (Robertson 1992, 427).

Their desire to effect change took artistic form as they established a uniquely Japanese

girls' culture, even as they looked to the West for cues on fashion and lifestyle (Dollase

2008, 339). Like the Lavender Menace of the women's liberation movement in the

1970s in the United States, the separatist and/or homosexual members left or were

driven away from the larger S movement throughout the 1920s.

[2.2] Japanese girls' magazine publishers modulated this new girls' culture through

an externally imposed community, one that idealized the new consumer culture of the

early 20th century (Thorn 2008). As the popularity of manga as entertainment and

lifestyle grew, these girl's magazines retained a consumer culture profile but also

featured comics designed to highlight desired qualities for Japanese girls—smiling

through hardship and selfsacrifice and effort on behalf of the group (Sievers 1983,

22).

[2.3] Women radically altered the world of manga as artists in the late 1960s,

pioneered by the group known in English as the Magnificent 49ers. They became the

first women to draw comics specifically by and for women and included sexual and

gender minority themes in their work (Thorn 2008). Hagio Moto drew Toma no Shinzo

( Heart of Thomas [1974]) with gay elements, and Riyoko Ikeda (note 2) created several key manga which deal with lesbian love and included transgender characters in

her work. Her stories, Oniisama E ( Dear Brother [1975]) and Claudine (1978) both feature crossdressing women, and Claudine can be interpreted as either gay or trans.

49ers Igarashi Yumiko and Yamagishi Ryouko both explored samesex love between

women in, respectively, Paros no Ken (1986) and Shiroi Heya no Futari (1971).The

latter work can be considered the first yuri manga, as it drew from many of the

conventions of girls' literature and samesex romance used or established by

influential S writer Yoshiya Nobuko and thereby cemented these as tropes for future

yuri manga (Yoshiya 2003).

[2.4] The first known formal lesbian community was founded in Japan in 1971,

Wakakusa no Kai (Fresh Green Club) was named to literally represent the fact that it

was a grassroots organization (Sawabe 2007). Wakakusa no Kai did not disband

completely until the mid1980s. A separate group, Studio Regumi, was founded in

Wakakusa's ashes in 1985 (Subramanian 2007) to be, according to their Web site,

"Japan's first Lesbian assembly." (http://regumi.sakura.ne.jp/retsushin/ayumi

3/ayumi1).

[2.5] The year 1971 also saw the creation of Japan's first commercial gay magazine,

Barazoku. The editor, Ito Bungaku, included a page for lesbians, which gave

information on how to get in touch with lesbian organizations. In an editorial, he

named gay men barazoku (rose tribe) and lesbians yurizoku (lily tribe). Yuri is the Japanese word for "lily," and so the lily flower became the de facto symbol for lesbianthemed media (note 3).

[2.6] Japanese manga, well established by the 1970s, is at the forefront of political and artistic discourse in alternative manga magazines such as Garo magazine

(Holmberg 2010). Just as their S forebears had found their voices through letter

writing, poetry, short stories, and novels centered around community in girls'

magazines, manga was engaged by the lesbian community in Japan.

[2.7] After the massive comic event known as Comiket had formed in 1975 (Comic

Market Committee 2008), Itou's word Yurizoku was shortened to yuri and appropriated

by comic artists to describe not lesbians but lesbian sex. The imagery of the lily had

attached to lesbians permanently but not in a way that was comfortable for lesbians.

[2.8] The creation of Comiket and the spread of small presses and selfpublished

comics, known as doujinshi, opened up a new door to expression for sexual and

gender minorities to create stories for themselves. Early doujinshi and minicomics

gave Japanese lesbians a chance to tell their stories outside the confines of editorial

constraint. Artists like Amamiya Sae, Takashima Rica, Ang, and Morishima Akiko

created comics to express their own personal narratives, explicitly lesbian for lesbians,

completely separate from popular pornographic comics featuring lesbian sex for male

consumers. Lesbian stories for lesbians had finally found a home.

3. What girls want, what boys want, what publishers want

[3.1] As the Magnificent 49ers had inspired early lesbian doujinshi artists, those

artists inspired a new generation. By the 1990s, commercial publishers had reentered

the manga market with stories of sexual and gender minorities. When the wave of

political and social activism dissipated in the postwar bursting of the Japanese

economic bubble, the bulk of stories were cautionary. Lesbianism was associated with

pathology, with depression, suicide, and madness. Commercial publishers were willing

to show lesbian stories—but not for a lesbian audience.

[3.2] Following the success of any popular manga series with implicit or explicit

lesbianism, publishers pushed out a wave of similar stories that cashed in on nowestablished tropes but without any explicit lesbian identity. The popular light novel series Mariasama ga Miteru (1998–2012) was a gamechanging franchise with strong

explicit roots in the S novels of the early 20th century, the midcentury S manga, and

stories of sexual and gender minorities of the 1970s, tied together with welldeveloped

characters and a fantasy setting of an oldfashioned Catholic school. The series was

published in a magazine for young women, hearkening back to the 1930s girls'

magazines. Marimite also became the springboard upon which dozens, if not hundreds,

of similar series, both implicitly ( Kannazuki no Miko) (note 4) and explicitly

( Strawberry Panic! ) yuri, were launched—for a straight, male audience (note 5). By

the time publishers considered the idea of an audience for purely yuri content in 2003, there were enough artists in the field to sustain a magazine (note 6).

[3.3] In 2007, Ichijinsha, publisher of the second yurifocused magazine to be

published in Japan, Yuri Hime, split the magazine into two— Yuri Hime, which was

meant to cater to a female audience, and Yuri Hime S, designed to appeal to a male

audience, with more explicitly sexualized views of female bodies and dress, a practice

referred to in the Anime News Network's encyclopedia as fan service. ("Readership

Data Analysis" 2008) Ichijinsha incorporated a simplified art style called moe

(Galbraith 2014) which rehashed popular, safe themes of young schoolgirl romance

and avoided adult or realistic narrative.

[3.4] The focus on the male audience continued in Comic Yuri Hime with Kurata Uso's

Yuri Danshi series, which follows the adventures and fantasies of a yuri fanboy. James Welker (2014) has written about this series as a metareview of yuri fanboy types and

tropes of being a male fan; however, until the inclusion of recent side stories, Yuri

Danshi focused on male fans and their needs and desires around yuri but left women

out of the narrative that portrays them. In recent chapters, Kurata has created a yuri

story, but one that highlights readers' imagination of what modern relationships based

on tropes of S relationships of the 20th century might look like.

[3.5] From 2011 to 2014, yurifocused magazines increased from one to three (note

7). In all three, yuri relationships showed lesbian content (girls in love) without lesbian

identity. However, lesbian identity in yuri manga increased as manga artists came out.

Out lesbian manga creators, such as Nakamura Ching (in an interview by Erica

Friedman published on Okazu on August 8, 2009) and Takemiya Jin (in an interview

with Erica Friedman published on Okazu on June 2, 2013) included lesbian culture,

slang, and life in their yuri, outside the idealized commercial yuri romance. However, despite resistance from publishers and researchers, creators and fans inextricably

mesh yuri and lesbian identity.

4. What is yuri?

[4.1] Corporate sales, creator identity, and audience heterogeneity lead yuri to an

awkward place in terms of genre identity. Is yuri the schoolgirl romance created by

men for a male audience who consider love between girls pure, or is it the girl's

romance that has roots in S literature for a female audience who fondly remember

their days admiring upperclassmen at allgirls schools? Or is it for lesbians, whose

stories are nominally acknowledged in narratives of selfawareness of love for a

member of the same sex or feelings of being different, without any use of the word

lesbian? The heterogeneity of creator and audience causes difficulty in both definition and scholarship. Who gets to define yuri?

[4.2] Fans, almost inevitably, have their own terms (note 8). Fan organization Yuricon has taken the broadest possible look at yuri, which both includes lesbianism

and acknowledges nonlesbian sources, that is, admiration ( akogare), platonic

romance, or intense emotional connection. Fan language is free to shift and change

with fashion and need, so that it often runs ahead of both commercial and research

terminology, hand in hand with creators.

[4.3] Shamoon (2012), in her Passionate Friendship: The Aesthetics of Girl's Culture

in Japan, warned readers to avoid reading reallife lesbian Yoshiya Nobuko's work as

lesbian even when it reflects an intimate relationship between two women. Frederick

(2013) has noted the irony of not acknowledging a lesbian's lesbian work as lesbian.

[4.4] Maser (2013) created a whole new term for yuri romance, so that lesbian

identity need not apply. Despite the plethora of terms already in existence—girls' love,

yuri, shoujoai, onna no kodoushi—Maser stated that existing terms do not create the

distance from lesbianism that researchers need in order to objectively understand yuri.

[4.5] Again, the heterogeneity of yuri is the single overarching characteristic of the

genre. As researchers seek to limit and define yuri, fans seek to broaden the definition

and push it forward.

5. Yuri overseas

[5.1] Once yuri leaves Japan, the term stops needing definition at all. Audiences that

compose yuri fandom have adopted yuri as a term that means any narrative of love

(romantic, sexual, intimate or not) between women. European anthologies of comics

about lesbian romance have tagged themselves as yuri without need for further

explanation (see, for instance, the Kickstarter Web site at Indiegogo for "Freya

Sequential Love Stories" 2015).

[5.2] The concept of yuri has spread from Japan to overseas and from overseas

fandom to nonJapanese creators who want to express their own lesbian narratives.

While commercial publishers have stuck with more broadly appealing nonidentity

narrative, there are leaks driven by internal pressure. Morishima Akiko's work in Comic

Yuri Hime, Takashima Hiromi's work in Pure Yuri Anthology Hirari, Takemiya Jin's work for Hakusensha, and Nakamura Kiyo's autobiographical manga, all have forgotten to

shy away from explicitly lesbian discussion.

[5.3] Yuri in 2016 is a genre created from mutually exclusive desires and different needs. Manga creators tell stories based in manga culture tropes rooted in 20th

century lesbian community and life; commercial publishers sell to nonlesbian

audiences; researchers seek to codify from a distance; and fans want stories of their

own fantasies and realities. New waves of lesbian identity, with new storytellers, shape

and reshape the genre as culture shifts. Yuri is constantly in flux.

6. Notes

1. Citing poll results from Yuri Hime, ComiPress reported on a 2006 poll on readership of Ichijinsha Publications ("Readership Data" 2008). This news was greeted by Yuri

Hime magazine editorinchief Nakamura with dismay. "Don't forget male fans," he

said in an editorial when the survey was released in the March 2007 issue.

2. Japanese names appear in Japanese format—family name followed by given name—

with this one exception. Riyoko Ikeda's name, when written in Western text, is always

presented in Western format.

3. LOVE MAGAZINE, October 2014. Fbooks. A page titled "Yurizoku no Heya" (the lily

tribe's room) solicited letters from lesbians and gave lesbians a way to connect that

was reminiscent of the letters pages from Girls' magazines of the 1930s.

4. Kannazuki no Miko (2004–2005), a series by the artist Kaishaku, was serialized in Shounen Ace by Kadokawa Shoten in 2004–2005 as a seinen (for men) title; it

includes rape along with all the earlier girls' literature tropes.

5. Kimino Sakurako's Strawberry Panic! (2003–2007) was published by Media Factory in 2004 originally as a series of short stories; it was later expanded to an anime,

manga, and novel franchise, all with an intended audience of adult men. Like the

series Kannazuki no Miko, it includes nonconsensual and coercive relationships (and

incorrect explanations for lesbianism, such as a neglectful father) sprinkled in among

the idealized romantic schoolgirl romance.

6. The first yurifocused magazine, Yuri Shimai, published from 2003 to 2005 by SunSun Publishing, was eventually sold to Ichijinsha and relaunched as Yuri Hime in

2005. For a detailed review of the relaunched magazine, see the post at Okazu (2005),

October 28 http://okazu.yuricon.com/2005/10/28/yurimangayurihimevolume1/.

7. The two new magazines were Pure Yuri Anthology Hirari from Futabasha 2010–2014

and Tsubomi from Houbunsha Publishing 2009–2012.

8. Bangin's blog Japanese Words of Anime Fans was a fascinating glossary and history

of such words from 2007 to 2015 https://bangin.wordpress.com/.

7. Works cited

Comic Market Committee. (2008) 2014. "The Early Years of Comic Market." What is

Comic Market? http://www.comiket.co.jp/infoa/WhatIsEng201401.pdf.

Dollase, Hiromi Tsuchiya. 2008. "Girls on the Home Front: An Examination of Shōjo no

tomo Magazine 1937–1945." Asian Studies Review 32 (3): 323–339.

https://doi.org/10.1080/10357820802294172.

Frederick, Sarah. 2013. "Review of Passionate Friendship: The Aesthetics of Girls'

Culture in Japan, by Deborah Shamoon." Mechademia, no.9.

http://mechademia.org/reviews/frederick/.

Galbraith, Patrick. 2014. The Moe Manifesto: An Insider's Look at the Worlds of Manga,

Anime, and Gaming. Tokyo: Tuttle Publishing.

Holmberg, Ryan. 2010. Garo Manga: The First Decade, 1964–1973. New York: The

Center for Book Arts.

Maser, Verena. 2013. "Beautiful and Innocent, Female SameSex Intimacy in the

Japanese Yuri Genre." PhD diss., Universität Trier.

"Readership Data Analysis of Ichijinsha Publications." 2016. ComiPress: Manga News

and Information, June 25. http://comipress.com/article/2008/06/25/3603.html.

Retrieved 23 February 2016.

Robertson, Jennifer. 1992. "The Politics of Androgyny in Japan: Sexuality and

Subversion in the Theater and Beyond." American Ethnologist 19 (3): 419–42.

https://doi.org/10.1525/ae.1992.19.3.02a00010.

Sawabe, Hitomi, 2007. "'Wakakusa No Kai': The First Fifteen Years of Japan's Original

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Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Symposium

Unseen international music idol femslash

Elaine Han Lin

[0.1] Abstract— One sector of femslash appears to have developed in relative

isolation from the rest. This sector is international music idol femslash.

[0.2] Keywords— Fan community; Music; Real person fiction; RPF

Lin, Elaine Han. 2017. "Unseen International Music Idol Femslash." In "Queer

Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue,

Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.926.

[1] A post on Tumblr says simply, "The lesbians of tumblr just travel like a flock from

fandom to fandom." As of mid2016, it had over 7,000 notes. Another continues the

bird metaphor, saying, "lesbians just migrate from fandom to fandom depending on

the time of the year. like gay birds." It had over 60,000 notes. A popular addendum is

a GIF depicting a flock of flamingos moving from a space marked The 100 to one

marked Fear the Walking Dead, referring to how fans followed actor Alycia Debnam

Carey to the latter show (where she does not play a queer character) after her

character on the former show was killed off. AfterEllen has an article titled "Lesbian

Loyalty: Why We'll Follow Some Actors and Writers Anywhere" (Hogan 2011),

speaking of how queer women go beyond just hunting down every whiff of media

representation to keep tabs on the careers of actors and creators long after their first

queer role or production.

[2] Both online conventions like FemSlashCon and more traditional ones like Thank

Goodness It's Femslash (TGIF/F) offer panels devoted to singing the praises of

diversity and representation in fiction. Congoers testify about how fictional ships and

characters were instrumental in their own identity formation, how they learned of their

own queerness.

[3] But some areas remain relatively segregated. Realperson shipping remains as

controversial as ever, with both TGIF/F and FemSlashCon declining to discuss the

topic. International nonEnglishlanguage media is dependent on the production of

subtitles or the release of an English translation to get some attention in Englishspeaking fandom. Only a few animated ships seem to penetrate the greater femslash consciousness. Only one of those, Haruka/Michiru, is from a source that is not in

English, and its show, Sailor Moon (1992–97) was broadcast as a Saturdaymorning cartoon all over the world, dubbed into local languages. Put all of that together, and

the most niche femslash category would have to be realperson fandom in languages

other than English.

[4] Such a fandom exists, and it is quite robust. It's just not connected to the

anglophone sphere that the term "femslash" usually refers to.

[5] Music idols aren't a foreign concept to America (note 1). My generation grew up in the mid1990s, with the Spice Girls, Britney Spears, NSYNC, the Backstreet Boys.

Our adolescence also saw the next wave, with the likes of Miley Cyrus, Ariana Grande,

and Taylor Swift. Shipping music idols isn't a new thing either. Fanlore

(http://fanlore.org/) maintains 19 subcategories and 38 pages under the "Music RPF"

category.

[6] But as a geeky Asian American, instead of paying attention to the American pop

mainstream, I wandered my way through anime into watching girls around my age

singing and dancing on stages in Japan and Korea: Jpop and Kpop idols.

[7] Shipping idols together is a common pastime in Asian idol fandom. The first

episode of SNL Korea featured a skit recreating the events of a famous boy band fan

fiction story. There's international academic scholarship on idol femslash (Yang and

Bao 2012). Idol shipping is fairly popular even outside of Asia. On the highest ranked

international Kpop fan site, Allkpop (http://www.allkpop.com/), articles have titles such as "10 of the Most Popular KPop FanFictions Out There," "11 Ships You Wish

Were Real," and "7 Times Hani Proved to Be Totally Shippable." On the Jpop fan

forum site JPHIP (http://forum.jphip.com/), there are two forums dedicated to idol pairings and about half a dozen forums and archives dedicated to idol fan fiction. The

lesbiansubtextinkpop Tumblr posted over 2,300 posts from 2011 to 2013. On the

Archive of Our Own (AO3; https://archiveofourown.org/), there are over 6,000 fan stories tagged Jpop, over 60,000 tagged Kpop, and several dozen tagged Cpop.

[8] The idols themselves are aware of and deliberately play up to fans' shipping

interests, sometimes directed to do so by their management and marketing

departments and sometimes not. The most popular male and female members of the

mixedgender Jpop group AAA sang a series of love song duets across multiple

albums. Music videos and concert skits had them playing a couple (note 2). Notably,

however, the kiss that actually occurred in a concert was between two male members.

The Kpop boy band TVXQ released two DVD box sets that each included a disc

devoted to a segment titled "Couple Talk," in which each combination of members

discussed why fans had paired them together and promoted their supposed closeness

to each other. Popular Jpop girl group AKB48 has had at least 14 different pairs of

members perform the song "Oshibe to Meshibe to Yoru no Chouchou," which describes a lesbian affair. Performances include a kiss at the end, with some girls going for a

visible liplock instead of hiding the act behind suggestive head tilts.

[9] One Tumblr poster mused on the motivations behind such shipping, especially

considering that most femslash shippers appeared to be straight fans: "For me, it's

obvious why people might spend their time looking for homoerotic subtext to Kpop:

there is an implied intimacy within Kpop (between idols and fans but also between the

idols themselves) that is not so much present in Western pop. Intimacy being one of

the main qualities I look for in art, this is probably one big reason I gravitate towards

it" (occupiedterritories, Tumblr, June 21, 2012). The poster also touched on the usual

interest in the love lives of celebrities that drives tabloid sales.

[10] For me, shipping Asian pop idols was mostly just the application of standard

geek passion to my particular fandom. The vast wells of available source material

enabled me to relate intensely to, and project my imagination onto, the subjects of my

interest. There weren't just music videos and concert performances, but also TV

variety show appearances, specialty events like sports tournaments, and behindthescenes footage, which really meant that a camera had been set up backstage at concerts and at photo shoots for the idols to perform shenanigans in front of while

waiting to be called up. These were real people pursuing their dreams and playing out

real relationships right in front of my eyes. These were group members spending the

majority of their days in each other's company, and their synergy was far more critical

to their success than it was in typical coworker settings. I got to see more of these

peoples' lives and relationships than most normal people ever get to see of their actual

friends'.

[11] Furthermore, everyone involved in idol fandom—idols and fans alike—were very

much aware of how important physical attractiveness was to an idol's popularity.

There was no taboo against fans of any gender publicly crushing on or just lusting

after an idol online. In Asia, men are the primary fans of female idols, but in the

transnational Englishlanguage fandom, idol fans were seen as feminized, and those

insecure in their masculinity thus avoided the fandom. As a result, the Englishlanguage idol fandom contained a sizable female presence. This meant that there were many female fans saying, of various female idols, "I'd go gay for her." So within

certain idol fan communities, femslash was a means through which female fans could

explore queer expressions of identity without being scrutinized for it (snsd_ffa,

LiveJournal, July 19, 2011).

[12] Asian idol femslash was not so different from traditional fictional media femslash

except that the canon was real, and perhaps more relevantly, there was a steady

supply of indepth source material, more than a fictional production could have ever

provided. In an informal anonymous survey, idol fan fiction authors tended to see little difference between idol fan fiction and regular fan fiction, except that adherence to

characterization was stricter in the former (snsd_ffa, LiveJournal, November 10,

2010). They also considered the benefits of representation in idol fan fiction to be

similar to those of representation in traditional fan fiction. Some fans have been

inspired by the apparent queerness displayed by idols to be more open about their

own sexuality (pinkwota, LiveJournal, March 14, 2008).

[13] But idol shipping remained firmly in the fantasy realm. Fans did not have to fear

that a writer would screw up the characters' characterization, but industry executives

might meddle behind the scenes. Fans might have oodles of canon, but it would never

be confirmed. Most female idols go on to marry a man after they retire from idoling.

Even as Korea's and Japan's paparazzi leap at the chance to break celebrity scandals,

just like in the West, outing someone as homosexual remains a taboo (Pann 2016).

Gal pals forever.

[14] Despite its popularity, idol shipping is as controversial as any RPF. When I

searched the Kpop fan site Seoulbeats for the term "shipping," five of the first 10

results were editorials critical of the practice, specifically samesex shipping. Another

relegated fan fiction to the realm of guilty pleasures.

[15] So, as stated before, Asian idol shipping is a niche within a niche fandom, all but

ignored within traditional anglophone femslash. AfterEllen contains two posts under its

Kpop tag, only one of which might be tangentially relevant to shipping. The site has

no Jpop tag. Autostraddle's sole Kpop post does not mention shipping, and Jpop has

a single mention, in an interview with an American band. Searches on geekmedia

Web sites return even sparser results since those sites are focused on narrative

storytelling. One fan noted that of the top 100 femslash pairings on AO3, the only

characters from nonnarrative media came from women's soccer RPF (centrumlumina,

Tumblr, July 8, 2015). In the archive for 2015's Femslash Exchange, there's one entry

for the anime Love Live! School Idol Project (2013–) and one entry for American actor

RPF.

[16] Meanwhile, the AsianFanfics archive contains over 800,000 entries. The primary

fan site for the Kpop girl group Girls Generation contains over 200 topics and 290,000

comments in its Soshi Pairings forum, and includes over 7,000 topics and 870,000

comments in its fan fiction forum. Unsearchable and uncountable accounts across all

sorts of social media platforms (forums, individual fan sites, Wattpad, Tumblr,

LiveJournal) tweet and blog and post and reblog their favorite ships, out of sight of the

rest of fandom. And the weekend after attending TGIF/F in 2016, I was flying right

back to Houston to see Jpop girl group Morning Musume, with a completely different

social circle.

Notes

1. One might think of Beatlemania, and before that, Frank Sinatra's "Bobby Soxer"

fangirls. Before their more famous idol debuts, Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake

were members of the Mickey Mouse Club. An earlier iteration of the club had produced

teen idol Annette Funicello, who would become known for her beach party films with

Frankie Avalon. The connection to Asian idol fandom would be made years later by

Crisp (2009).

2. Kimitsu (2009) considers why some fans are so attached to the pairing of the male

and female AAA members.

Works cited

Crisp, Quentin S. 2009. "Annette Funicello: Modest Mouseketeer and Ideal Idol." Ray

Mescallado Archives, February 13. http://intlwota.com/raysarchives/2009/02/annette

funicellomodestmouseketeerandidealidol/.

Hogan, Heather. 2011. "Lesbian Loyalty: Why We'll Follow Some Actors and Writers

Anywhere." After Ellen, August 19. http://www.afterellen.com/tv/91440lesbian

loyaltywhywellfollowsomeactorsandwritersanywhere.

Kimitsu. 2009. "Black, White, and Gray." Ray Mescallado Archives, April 10.

http://intlwota.com/raysarchives/2009/04/blackwhiteandgray/.

Pann. 2016. "Rumors of an Exclusive Media Report on a Same Sex Idol Couple."

Netizen Buzz, March 12. http://netizenbuzz.blogspot.no/2016/03/pannrumorsof

exclusivemediareport.html.

Yang, Ling, and Hongwei Bao. 2012. "Queerly Intimate: Friends, Fans and Affective

Communication in a Super Girl Fan Fiction Community." Cultural Studies 26 (6): 842–

71. http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/09502386.2012.679286.

Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Symposium

Coming out on Grey's Anatomy: Industry scandal, constructing a

lesbian story line, and fan action

Tanya D. Zuk

Georgia State University, Atlanta, Georgia, United States

[0.1] Abstract— This analysis focuses on a series of industry scandals that created

a need for and the development of a lesbian story line on Grey's Anatomy (ABC,

2005–), resulting in the creation of a lesbianfocused fan group dedicated to the

lesbian pairing, Erica_Callie on LiveJournal. The resulting constructed representation

portrays authentic lesbian and bisexual characters on mainstream broadcast

television, promising inclusion to those who identify with these characters.

[0.2] Keywords— Authenticity; Discourse analysis; Emotional realism; Fan studies;

Identification; Knight/Washington scandal; LGBT studies; Online ethnography;

Production

Zuk, Tanya D. 2017. "Coming Out on Grey's Anatomy: Industry Scandal,

Constructing a Lesbian Story Line, and Fan Action." In "Queer Female Fandom,"

edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue, Transformative Works and

Cultures, no. 24. http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.980.

1. Introduction

[1.1] During the 2006–7 television season, the production team and cast for Grey's

Anatomy (2005–) dealt with a series of unfortunate industry events that significantly

affected the writers' room, cast, and ongoing story lines of the show. An actor uttered

a homophobic slur, which received wide media coverage, and which ultimately led

Grey's Anatomy to create a compelling, truetolife lesbian story line.

[1.2] This essay examines the discourse surrounding these events, including news

reports and audience reaction to the story lines developed in response to the scandal.

The LGBT fan community I examine here is Erica_Callie, a LiveJournal (LJ) community,

which was highly active during the 2008–9 TV season, with over 1,800 individual posts

and tens of thousands of comments.

[1.3] The production response to reallife events relies on underlying productionculture knowledge of media concepts, such as authenticity, audience identification, and emotional realism, as a remedy for the damage inflicted by the scandal on both the

show and the affected LGBT audience. The development of the lesbian story line in

Grey's Anatomy was an act of industry public relations; the story line was constructed

to develop and resonate with LGBT audiences.

2. Inciting industry incident: The Knight/Washington scandal

[2.1] The introduction of a major lesbian story line on Grey's Anatomy began not in

the writers' room but on set with the use of a slur (figure 1). The instigating event

occurred on October 9, 2006, when the actors Isaiah Washington (who plays Dr.

Preston Burke) and Patrick Dempsey (Dr. Derek Shepherd) had an argument on set.

Washington was overheard calling cast mate T. R. Knight (Dr. George O'Malley) a

faggot (Wyatt 2007a). News of the incident spread quickly as entertainment

magazines, news programs, and major newspapers reported the exchange.

Washington publicly apologized to Knight in a press release the next week. On October

19, 2006, Knight for the first time made a public statement regarding his sexual

orientation, confirming that he was gay. There were no additional press releases from

any of the parties involved in the incident.

Figure 1. Detailed timeline of industry events, story points, and fan response. An

interactive version is available (http://www.tiki

toki.com/timeline/entry/667278/ComingOutonGreysAnatomy/). [View larger

image.]

[2.2] On January 15, 2007, Grey's Anatomy won a Golden Globe award for best

television drama. Washington broke from the cast lineup, approached the press

microphone, and denied ever calling Knight a faggot while using the offensive word yet

again ("Sound Bites" 2007). Washington's outburst tainted the win by reinvigorating

the original scandal. The resulting media frenzy marginalized not only Knight but also

the efforts of the cast and crew. After the second incident, Washington fired his press

agent, made yet another public apology, met with the president of GLAAD, Neil G.

Giuliano, and entered counseling for his behavior (Wyatt 2007b). Washington was not

fired outright, but his contract was up for negotiation, and his placement on the

program was not assured.

[2.3] In late May, Washington released a public service announcement (PSA) created

in conjunction with GLAAD and the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network

(GLSEN), which aired on ABC, to further address his behavior (video 1).

Video 1. "Isaiah Washington PSA," pride77777, YouTube, May 24, 2007; "ABC Debuts Isaiah Washington PSA for GLAAD and GLSEN."

[2.4] However, producer Shonda Rhimes deemed Washington's efforts insufficient,

and his contract was not renewed. Washington's eventual departure and the events

that led up to that decision were directly responsible for the program's collaboration

with GLAAD on the development of a new story line for season 4. This lesbian story

line was an act of industry public relations, constructed to address LGBT audiences'

concerns regarding representation.

[2.5] Nikki Weiss and Trish Doolan, filmmakers and GLAAD representatives,

collaborated with the program's producing and writing staff to develop a romantic

story line featuring Callie Torres (played by Sara Ramirez) and Erica Hahn (Brooke

Smith) for season 4. They also spoke with the actresses about portraying lesbian and

bisexual identities. Weiss and Doolan stated that the production team "didn't want to

stereotype anything" ("Behind the Lesbian Story Line on Grey's Anatomy, " 2008) and asked for personal examples for reference. The season 4 cliffhanger, Callie and Erica's

first kiss, began the only lesbian/bisexual relationship with "regular" characters on

network television at that time (note 1). The success of these characters and the story

line is attributed to the detailed, welldeveloped, and authentic representations that

Grey's Anatomy constructed; the program created a set of characters and experiences

designed for a specific audience to identify with.

3. Authenticity and emotional realism

[3.1] Creating quality representations involves the concept of authenticity or

verisimilitude. Defining authenticity is subjective; Charles Lindholm describes it as "the

leading member of a set of values that includes sincere, essential, natural, original and real." The function of authenticity is to provide discernible, if ineffable, qualities

through which people can create social groups that provide members with "meaning,

unity and a surpassing sense of belonging" (2008, 1). The Grey's Anatomy producers,

writers, and cast, through their collaboration with GLAAD, actively pursued the ideal of

authenticity when developing the new queer story line by leveraging firstperson

accounts and LGBT advocates at all levels of production. Notably, Ramirez and Smith's

connection with GLAAD's Weiss and Doolan enhanced their performances, making

these representations emotionally resonant.

[3.2] In their analyses of fandom communities, Ien Ang and Henry Jenkins both

focus on the visceral reaction of the individual to the media text. Ang defines the

concept of "emotional realism" as truth of feeling (1984, 41). Emotional realism, when

found in actors' performances, intends to be read as emotionally authentic. The

audience validates this authenticity by establishing an emotional connection. Henry

Jenkins (1992) argues that emotional realism is constructed by the audience through

identification with the characters. Representations become authentic for the viewer

when he or she identifies with the characters and situations on screen. Grey's Anatomy

purposefully constructed story lines and characterizations meant to appeal to a specific

minority group as authentic.

4. Erica's epiphany and Brookegate

[4.1] The development of the Callie/Erica romantic story line occurred over the

course of two seasons, featuring several episodes devoted to pivotal moments in their

relationship. The episode 4.13 "Piece of My Heart" features Callie's resistance to her

attraction to Erica. In 4.16–17 "Freedom," Callie and Erica begin awkwardly courting.

In 5.04 "Brave New World" and 5.05 "There's No 'I' in Team," Callie goes to friends for romantic advice regarding her new relationship. Though Callie is clearly the dominant

character, it is Erica's sexual awakening that is the culmination of the story line.

[4.2] In 5.06 "Life during Wartime," Callie and Erica have sex. In the morningafter

scene, both Erica and Callie have a sexual revelation—but not the same one. Erica

describes it as an epiphany, like "needing glasses" as a child. However, Callie does not

share this revelation; instead, she is alienated by Erica's sexual awaking (video 2).

Video 2. "You Are Glasses!," hobegregg, YouTube, November 3, 2008. Erica Hahn (played by Brooke Smith) and Callie Torres (Sara Ramirez), Grey's Anatomy 5.06 "Life

during Wartime."

[4.3] These two diverse experiences of a single shared experience are common for

individuals discovering their sexual orientation (Stevens and Wunder 2002). Broadcast

television does not typically attempt representations of this sort; instead, characters

are introduced as already established in their LGBTQ identity, or the comingout

process is glossed over quickly (note 2). Grey's Anatomy, however, depicted awkward moments and struggles in finding a queer identity in a way that was both authentic

and distinctive.

[4.4] The framing of the actors' performance and the melodrama presented in the

scene emphasize the importance of the narrative moment. The camera creates

distance between the characters and highlights the emotional impact of Erica's

epiphany. David Thorburn asserts that "television melodrama is an authentically

popular art" that derives its popularity from the simultaneous presentation of ordinary

reality and heightened emotions that are rarely presented in everyday life but that

specifically allow for a connection between audience and performance (2000, 606).

Erica is consistently in closeup, which accentuates the subtleties of the actress's

performance and heightens the moment's emotional impact. The camera frames Callie

in a wider shot than Erica, creating distance between the characters both physically

and emotionally. The scene's filmic language directs viewers to identify with Erica's

performance and to experience her feelings of emotional distance and rejection. The

scene ends with a filmic punctuation as Erica's closeup abruptly changes to a long

shot that includes Callie, thus creating a void between the characters. This

foreshadows the distance growing between the two characters' mental spaces—and

ultimately the demise of their romance.

[4.5] In 5.07 "Rise Up," Erica and Callie have a disagreement over a patient scandal

from 2 years ago, which Erica has only now become aware of. The conflict quickly

dissolves into an argument about their relationship. In this scene, Erica and Callie start

the conversation in a series of medium shots and shot/reverse shots. As Erica

becomes increasingly angry, her medium shot tracks into a closeup while Callie

remains in a medium shot. Erica's argument is based on a simple sense of morality

that has created a binary: good versus bad, white versus black. She sees no moral

middle ground in the situation and believes that Callie must side with her in the

decision to report the hospital's error.

[4.6] This moral binary quickly shifts to a romantic one, when, at the climax of

Erica's tirade, she says, "There is no gray area here…You can't kind of be a lesbian." It

is only here that Callie's reverse shot tracks into a closeup. Callie's response is

simple: "Yes, I can." Erica turns to leave, and the camera cuts to a long shot of her

walking into the night. Erica has broken up with Callie; she has left Seattle Grace

Hospital only one episode after declaring her orientation as "so gay."

[4.7] Indeed, Grey's Anatomy eliminated Erica the episode after her spectacular

comingout scene and after only 25 onscreen episode appearances; Smith had a

maincast contract for the season, and her final episode was only the seventh of the

24 scheduled. Though her relatively short run on Grey's Anatomy limited her newly

realized representation of a lesbian identity on television, her emotionally authentic

representation energized fans to create LJ communities devoted to the character and

her relationship with Callie. Smith's firing and Callie and Erica's breakup was dubbed

Brookegate by fans of the couple in the LJ community Erica_Callie.

[4.8] Moderators of the Erica_Callie community eloquently sum up the shock of the

announcement felt by fans in a statement made January 30, 2009:

[4.9] The Erica_Callie community was stunned at the seemingly cavalier

attitude towards an important depiction of lesbian and bisexual women on

television. Having viewed Erica Hahn's beautiful coming out monologue only

the week before, we were even more invested. It felt very personal. (LJ,

rhyfeddu)

[4.10] In November 2008, two community moderators, Aly and Alicia, began an

online scrapbook where community members could email or post their appreciation of

Smith, the character of Erica, and the representation of a lesbian voice on broadcast

TV (figure 2). The "Scrapbook for Brooke" posts have the most comments in the 6

year history of the community, aside from live reaction posts. Aly and Alicia created

video blogs of their efforts to create a physical scrapbook to share with the

community. They also shared Smith's response to the tribute in a locked membersonly post. This call for action, the overwhelming response from the fandom, and the interaction between fans and the show (via Smith) document the strong fan

identification.

Figure 2. Cover for fan page "A Scrapbook for Brooke," a tribute to the actress, Brooke Smith, who played the character of Erica Hahn. Smith was fired one episode

after her character's comingout scene. [View larger image.]

[4.11] In January 2009, the moderators created a special entry permanently linked

in their layout: "Scrapbook for Brooke" (http://erica

callie.livejournal.com/98949.html). This tribute includes graphics and quotes from

community members, such as the one shown in figure 3.

Figure 3. Example of an entry in the Erica_Callie LiveJournal "Scrapbook for Brooke"

by bandwidth_limit, November 4, 2008. [View larger image .]

[4.12] The lesbian representations of Callie and Erica were considered to be

authentic by the members of this community. The identification was so strong that the

couple's breakup and Smith's firing caused emotional distress and passionate

responses from community members. The response critiqued the ideological message

that ABC was broadcasting, supported the representation of lesbians on the show, and

thanked the actress who helped create a representation on television that they could

identify with. Unlike the prevalent "lesbian kiss" sweeps trend, which features a oneoff and shortlived lesbian romance to boost ratings (Heffernan 2005), Callie's exploration of her sexual identity does not end with her breakup with Erica but

becomes an ongoing aspect of her character.

[4.13] Callie continues pursuing her queerness throughout her time on Grey's

Anatomy, including a longterm relationship with Arizona Robbins (played by Jessica

Capshaw) that lasts for six seasons before ending in divorce and joint custody of their

daughter. Even after the end of her marriage, Callie continues to attempt lesbian

relationships. She eventually leaves GreySloan Memorial Hospital (formerly Seattle

Grace) to pursue a relationship with Penny Blake (Samantha Sloyan) in New York at

the end of season 12 (Ramirez had requested an exit from the show).

5. Conclusion: Fan call for action

[5.1] The existence and quality of minority representations in broadcast television

are particularly important for communities that are still fighting for legal and social

equality. A variety of lesbian and bisexual primary characters, as well as LGBT

recurring characters and LGBTthemed episodes, enhance diversity on Grey's

Anatomy. Unlike the majority of televisual history, where representation was cobbled

together with subtext and slash fan fiction (such as Xena: Warrior Princess,

syndication, 1995–2001), Grey's Anatomy and its direct antecedents, ER (NBC, 1994–

2009) and Buffy the Vampire Slayer (WB, 1997–2003), kicked off the current rise in

canonical LGBT representation on TV. It is therefore fitting that the founding members

of the Callie_Arizona LJ community directly call for inclusion:

[5.2] Now we know that it's time for lesbians to be portrayed on network

television as something other than the token best friend or guest star. It is

time for lesbians to be at the forefront of story lines the same way that

heterosexuals are. (February 2, 2009)

[5.3] LGBT fans of Grey's Anatomy hold the production, writing team, and network

responsible for providing highquality, complex, and authentic LGBT characters on the

show. Likewise, fans call for the expansion of LGBT representation in programming to

include characters that are more than stereotypes and sidekicks. Fans continue to

highlight the inadequacies of lesbian portrayals on broadcast television: the fan uproar

over the death of Lexa (Alycia Debnam Carey) on The 100 (CW, 2014–) serves as an

example of the resurgence of the "bury your gays" trope (note 3). However, programs such as Grey's Anatomy provide some hope that equality in representation is possible.

6. Notes

1. There have been a few lesbian relationships previously on primetime network

television: Willow and Tara ( Buffy the Vampire Slayer, seasons 4–6); and Kerry

Weaver with Kim Legaspi and then Sandy Torres ( ER, seasons 7–10). Callie's onscreen relationships are visible longer than their predecessors and do not fall prey to the "bury your gays" trope.

2. Examples of broadcast shows featuring LGBT characters include Will & Grace (NBC, 1998–2006), Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Modern Family (ABC, 2009–), Glee (Fox,

2009–15), and Ugly Betty (2006–10).

3. Twentyseven, or 22 percent, of all LGBT characters on broadcast and cable

television were killed off in the 2015–16 season, causing fans to rally and to create

LGBT Fans Deserve Better (http://lgbtfansdeservebetter.com/) and the Lexa Pledge

(http://lgbtfansdeservebetter.com/pledge/), devoted to improving LGBT

representation and creating a voluntary production code (Framke, Zarracina, and

Frostenson 2016; GLAAD 2015).

7. Works cited

Ang, Ien. 1985. Watching Dallas: Soap Opera and the Melodramatic Imagination. New

York: Methuen.

"Behind the Lesbian Story Line on Grey's Anatomy. " 2008. AfterEllen.com, June 15.

http://www.afterellen.com/tv/33378behindthelesbianstorylineongreysanatomy.

Framke, Caroline, Javier Zarracina, and Sarah Frostenson. 2016. "All the TV Character

Deaths of 2015–'16, in One Chart." Vox, June 1. https://www.vox.com/a/tvdeaths

lgbtdiversity.

GLAAD. "Where We Are on TV Report, 2015." 2015. GLAAD, October 23.

http://www.glaad.org/whereweareontv15.

Heffernan, Virginia. 2005. "Critic's Notebook: It's February. Pucker Up, TV Actresses."

New York Times, February 10. http://www.nytimes.com/2005/02/10/arts/critics

notebookitsfebruarypuckeruptvactresses.html?_r=0.

Jenkins, Henry. 1992. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture.

New York: Routledge.

Lindholm, Charles. 2008. Culture and Authenticity. Malden, MA: Blackwell.

"Sound Bites: Global Blunder." 2007. Weekly Variety, January 22–28.

Stevens, Tracey, and Katherine Wunder. 2002. How to Be a Happy Lesbian: A Coming

Out Guide. Asheville, NC: Amazing Dreams Publishing.

Thorburn, David. 2000. "Television Melodrama." Television: The Critical Review. 6th ed. New York: Oxford University Press.

Wyatt, Edward. 2007a. "Anatomy of an Insult: ABC Is Stung by an Actor's Antigay

Slurs." New York Times, 22 January.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/01/22/arts/television/22grey.html.

Wyatt, Edward. 2007b. "ABC TV Star Is Seeking Counseling after Epithet." New York

Times, 25 January. http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?

res=9F0DE0DC163FF936A15752C0A9619C8B63.

Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Symposium

Bisexual erasure in queer sci-fi "utopias"

Victoria Serafini

California State University, Ful erton, California, United States

[0.1] Abstract— I discuss the paradoxes of queer representation in contemporary

science fiction television by analyzing bisexual female protagonists of the CW's The

100 (2014–), BBC America's Orphan Black (2013–), and SyFy's Wynonna Earp

(2016–). Queer female fans engage in femslash to make sense of the utopic

intentions of executive producers who attempt to create better queer representation

through labelless premises that deemphasize queerness.

[0.2] Keywords— Science fiction; Television

Serafini, Victoria. 2017. "Bisexual Erasure in Queer SciFi 'Utopias.'" In "Queer

Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue,

Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.1001.

[0.3] I will remember how to write your name, Clarke, but do not delude

yourself into thinking I would change my way of living for you because you

fell from the sky with lust for a utopia that does not exist.

—nightshifted, "(I Wanna Be) Your Left Hand Man"

1. Introduction

[1.1] Contemporary science fiction television attempts to create queer utopias in an

effort to articulate what a postqueer world may look like. Here I consider science

fiction programming as an example of "utopia as a stage" (Muñoz 2009, 99). I am

particularly interested in how content creators frame their narratives in worlds/utopias

that could be and how this struggle between the real present and the fictional future

proves to put queer female fans in a paradoxical position when consuming such

programming.

[1.2] Bisexual fans additionally have to deal with a larger realworld social

phenomenon, bisexual erasure, a process that works to enforce the belief that

bisexuality is not a legitimate sexuality or simply does not exist (note 1). The term was coined in 2000 by legal scholar Kenji Yoshino, who notes that "bisexuals are

invisible in modern American society and that this invisibility arises from erasure

rather than nonexistence" (388). Unlike Yoshino, however, I assert that the invisibility

of bisexual characters on television may be a combination of both erasure and

nonexistence because there are so few bisexual characters on television. In fact,

bisexual characters, compared to gay and lesbian characters, are very few, and those

that do exist are often depicted stereotypically (note 2).

[1.3] An illustrative example is that of the character of Clarke Griffin (Eliza Taylor),

the protagonist of CW's scifi program The 100 (2014–) . Despite using dystopian

tropes, executive producer Jason Rothenberg has insisted that the world of The 100

leans toward utopia in terms of its representations of sexuality. Rothenberg refuses to

use sexuality labels in the program, which some critics have praised as being

"progressive" and "groundbreaking" (Peitzman 2016). Despite these claims,

Rothenberg's evasion of definitive labels may actually contribute to the erasure of the

program's bisexual protagonist.

[1.4] In contrast with the example of Clarke are those of the characters Cosima

Niehaus (Tatiana Maslany) and Delphine Cormier (Évelyne Brochu) of BBC America's

Orphan Black (2013–). Unlike The 100, Orphan Black is a scientific/technological

utopia that embraces sexuality labels, which becomes problematic for Delphine when

she is labeled a lesbian by her girlfriend and others. Science fiction programs like The

100 and Orphan Black allow producers to envision better worlds and allow queer

female fandoms to question their relationship to their televisual representations by

actively engaging in femslash and social media activism. We see bisexual fans "lust for

a utopia that does not exist," but what happens when they paradoxically reject the

utopias given to them in these scifi programs?

2. Dystopic world with utopian ideals

[2.1] In the world of The 100, sexuality labels do not exist. Rothenberg admits this is

"the way I wish our world was" (Li 2016). But is a labelless world the best way to

represent and be inclusive of different sexualities on television? On the one hand, the

refusal to use labels can create an egalitarian premise where sexuality is not the

defining quality of a character. However, it can also be a way to evade discussions of

sexuality and thus promote bisexual erasure by taking away the opportunity for selfidentification for bisexual characters. Without labels, and thus verbal cues, audiences must rely solely on visual and narrative cues to decode sexuality on The 100.

[2.2] Clarke's sexuality has long been an issue of debate among fans of The 100.

During the first and second seasons of the show, Clarke has a male love interest, Finn

(Thomas McDonell), whom she is shown having sex with. After Finn is sentenced to

death by Commander Lexa (Alycia DebnamCarey) for massacring one of Lexa's

people's villages, Clarke mercy kills him to save him from being tortured to death.

Finn's death marks a truce between Clarke and Lexa's people. As they burn his body

on a pyre in 2.09 "Remember Me," Lexa reveals that she once lost someone special:

"Her name was Costia." Lexa advises Clarke that to get over Finn's death, she must

accept that love is weakness.

[2.3] After this canonical expression of Lexa's homosexuality, fans began to ask

Rothenberg to confirm Lexa's sexual orientation, even though such labels are not

permitted in canon. Why were fans so insistent on a label? With so little representation

in the media, queer women constantly search for any possible representation, and

they engage in subtextual femslash to make up for this lack of canon representation.

Thus, when asked by a fan whether Lexa was a lesbian, Rothenberg tweeted, "That's

what we'd call her in the real world. In #the100 we just call her HEDA [Commander]"

(Twitter, @JRothenbergTV, July 28, 2015).

[2.4] This example illustrates the struggle between the dystopian world of The 100,

the utopian ideals set by the producers, and the struggle for positive queer

representation sought by fans of the show. The 100' s utopian premise falls short when

fans and producers on social media sites cannot avoid the imperative to put labels on

supposedly labelless characters.

3. Legitimizing bisexuality through visual cues

[3.1] Now that we have seen how Rothenberg constructs Lexa's homosexuality, let's

consider how he frames questions of Clarke's bisexuality. In 2.14 "Bodyguard of Lies,"

Lexa admits to caring for Clarke, going against her personal mantra: love is weakness.

Clarke is shocked and storms away. Clarke later apologizes: "Maybe life should be

about more than just surviving. Don't we deserve better than that?" Lexa sighs,

"Maybe we do," before kissing Clarke, who kisses Lexa back. This marks an important

turning point in Clarke's character development: until now, Clarke has focused only on

the survival of herself and her people; within this context, the kiss could be interpreted

as a manipulative move by Clarke. Yet seeing Clarke as manipulative is puzzling when

we consider that being manipulative is a stereotype of bisexual individuals. However,

because Clarke lives in a postqueer world, can we reject the stereotype by separating

her bisexuality from her manipulative nature?

[3.2] To fully legitimize Clarke's bisexuality, Rothenberg included a scene in the

season 3 premiere in which Clarke has a onenight stand with Niylah, a woman who

runs a trading post. In an interview, Rothenberg admitted that he chose a female

partner over a male partner because he felt "like it needed to be clear that she

[Clarke] is bisexual" (Ryan 2016a). Bisexuality can thus only be legitimized on television by visually depicting a character having sex with people of two different

sexes. Rothenberg noted, "She [Clarke] just wants to escape her pain…she's not

feeling bad—she's feeling sexual, and that's a good thing" (Peitzman 2016). One

female blogger on a feminist media site wrote, "The portrayal of Clarke…plays away

from these shallow stereotypes, while not denying her an active sex life" (Bitch Flicks,

September 24, 2015). Again, there is a tension between stereotypes and depictions of

queer sexuality in The 100, which is made extremely complex by Rothenberg's selfproclaimed egalitarian premise.

[3.3] Even though the program's labelless premise does not allow Clarke to selfidentify as bisexual, this does not take away from the fact that Clarke's queerness is canon. One fan, who identifies herself as bisexual in her post, wrote this on Tumblr:

"Here was a bisexual character who simply…existed…Her bisexuality wasn't her sole

defining characteristic, but it was also an essential and important part of her identity"

(whovianfeminism, March 19, 2016). Queer female fans thus simultaneously and

paradoxically emphasize queerness and deemphasize queerness. I now turn to how

this paradox is also apparent in programs that use sexuality labels.

4. A world full of labels: The better alternative?

[4.1] Unlike The 100, Orphan Black presents itself as a utopian world that embraces

sexuality labels. However, like The 100, producers of Orphan Black have worked to

assure fans that sexuality is not the most interesting thing about a character, nor

should it be (note 3).

[4.2] The portrayal of female bisexuality on Orphan Black is convoluted. Let's first

consider Delphine's girlfriend, Cosima Niehaus, a fellow PhD student studying

evolutionary development. According to Tatiana Maslany, executive

producers/cocreators John Fawcett and Graeme Manson told her that Cosima is

bisexual. In an interview, Maslany said she "could feel it [Cosima's bisexuality] in the

writing even when it wasn't explicit," and she felt that "she [Cosima] identifies as

bisexual, and very much understands her sexuality as a spectrum from a scientific

viewpoint…Cosima just loves people" (Anne 2013). Yet Cosima never selfidentifies as

a bisexual woman, instead using the labels "gay" or "lesbian" to describe her sexuality.

There is a discrepancy between what the producers label a character as and what the

character selfidentifies as in the program's world, much like Rothenberg and his use

of labels on Twitter to describe characters on The 100.

[4.3] The word "bisexual" is only used once in Orphan Black, when Delphine admits to Cosima, "I have never thought about bisexuality [until you kissed me]. I mean, for

myself…But as a scientist, I know that sexuality is a spectrum. But you know, social biases, they codified attraction. It's contrary to the biological facts" (1.08 "Entangled

Bank"). After this, Delphine never references her sexuality; Cosima and her friends

label her as lesbian or gay.

[4.4] Even though sexuality on Orphan Black is determined through a combination of

visual and verbal cues, wrongly labeling a character's sexuality is problematic and can

also work to produce bisexual erasure. Labels do not automatically make for better

bisexual representation even though verbally acknowledging bisexuality as a legitimate

sexuality is extremely important to many bisexual members of the fandom. Like

Clarke, Delphine's character is riddled with bisexual stereotypes (mainly Delphine's use

of manipulation). Can we excuse these stereotypes as simple characterization in a

queer utopia where sexuality doesn't matter?

5. Conclusion: Queer female representation after the

"disposable spring"

[5.1] The dead are gone, Clarke. The living are hungry.

—Lexa, 2.09 "Remember Me," The 100

[5.2] Queer female fans who engage in femslash fandom on sites such as Tumblr and

Twitter seek validation from producers and writers who are paradoxically in turn being

blamed for invalidating the experiences of said fans through the "bury your gays"

(BYG) trope. Maureen Ryan (2016b) dubbed the spring 2016 television season the

"disposable spring," noting the high death rate of sexualminority characters.

According to a list compiled by Vox (and later by LGBT Fans Deserve Better) (note 4), queer women (bisexual/gay) constituted 10 percent of the total deaths on television

during the 2015–16 season despite accounting for less than 4 percent of the total

characters on television (Framke, Zarracina, and Frostenson 2016; LGBT Fans Deserve

Better 2016). Many show runners who have killed off queer women have claimed that

doing so does not contribute to the BYG trope because their characters were more

than their queer identities. To these producers, their utopic views on queerness seem

to separate them from being blamed for using stereotypes and tropes because their

characters "just happened" to be queer (note 5).

[5.3] Many queer female fans have pointed to SyFy's Wynonna Earp (2016–) as the

end of the disposable spring and the start of a promise for positive queer

representation on television. Wynonna Earp, a Canadian scifi western about a woman

who must rid her town of undead demons, features a queer female couple with a

happy ending (at least as of season 1). Waverly Earp (Dominique ProvostChalkley),

sister of Wynonna (Melanie Scrofano), breaks up with her boyfriend and starts a

relationship with the town's deputy, Officer Nicole Haught (Katherine Barrell). When

Nicole is shot in the season's finale episode (1.13 "I Walk the Line"), she lives because

she is wearing a bulletproof vest. Many fans on social media sites called the scene a

satirical take on the BYG trope (figure 1). This scene is the antithesis to Lexa's death

scene in 3.07 "Thirteen," which aired 3 months before, in which Lexa is killed by a

stray bullet to the stomach only minutes after finally consummating her relationship

with Clarke.

Figure 1. A satirical take on Wynonna Earp's season 1 finale episode, 1.13 "I Walk the Line." In this fanmade GIF, Nicole throws away the bullet caught in her bulletproof

vest as her girlfriend, Waverly, cries out in relief. The bullet is changed to "BYG" (bury your gays) to symbolize Nicole's (and executive producer Emily Andras's) challenge to

and rejection of the BYG trope

(http://lenaluthcr.tumblr.com/post/146471221672/nicolethrowingthebullettrope

away).

[5.4] Emily Andras, executive producer of Wynonna Earp, has refused to label

Waverly's sexuality (though most fans have agreed that Waverly is bisexual). Yet

when asked in an interview about Nicole's sexuality, Andras confidently replied, "She's

definitely L [L in LGBT]. She's full L" (Snarker 2016). Even in this fanacclaimed

utopia, Wynonna Earp seems to find it easy to accept with certainty Nicole's

homosexuality but has a hard time with the ambiguous nature of Waverly's potential

bisexuality. Ironically, fans do not seem to be concerned with this. Instead, they are

just happy that WayHaught (Waverly/Nicole Haught) is canon and alive. Fans trust

Andras in part because she was an executive producer on Lost Girl (2010–15), a

Canadian scifi show with a bisexual lead and one of television's only queer female

happy endings.

[5.5] Is Andras's Wynonna Earp the utopia queer female fans have been searching

for? Is it a space (or perhaps a stage) where queer women live and love without

tropes? This depends on how future seasons of the program address Waverly's

sexuality. In the meantime, queer female fandoms engage in a sort of paradoxical

femslash, wishing for a world in which queerness is not the defining characteristic of

television characters, yet also wanting characters who embrace their queerness.

Muñoz reminds us that "utopia is an idealist mode of critique that reminds us that

there is something missing, that the present and presence (and its opposite number,

absence) is not enough" (2009, 100). Will it ever be enough for queer female fandom,

or will these fans always be lusting for this queer utopia, to no avail?

6. Acknowledgment

[6.1] I extend my most sincere gratitude to my mentor, Hunter Hargraves, who

encouraged and assisted me throughout the writing process.

7. Notes

1. Though Yoshino (2000) is credited for coining the term "bisexual erasure," he does

not give a clear definition of it. Thus, for a definition of bisexual erasure, I instead

used that of the Gay and Lesbian Alliance against Defamation (GLAAD)

(http://www.glaad.org/bisexual/bierasure).

2. See GLAAD's "Where We Are on TV Report—2015"

(http://www.glaad.org/whereweareontv15), 26, for a full numerical breakdown of

bisexual characters on American broadcast, cable, and streaming television in 2015–

16.

3. This refers to an exchange between Rachel (Tatiana Maslany) and Cosima in which

Rachel interrupts Cosima and Delphine as they kiss and says, "So, you're gay." Cosima

replies, "My sexuality's not the most interesting thing about me" (2.02 "Governed by

Sound Reason and True Religion").

4. LGBT Fans Deserve Better is a (politically charged) movement/activist group

created by fans (after Lexa's death on The 100) in an effort to increase awareness

around the BYG trope/queer media representation

(http://lgbtfansdeservebetter.com/). The movement has created a fundraiser for the Trevor Project (raising more than $137,000) and written the Lexa Pledge

(http://lgbtfansdeservebetter.com/pledge/).

5. To see how producers have processed fans' reactions to the death of queer

characters on The 100 and Orphan Black, see Rothenberg's (2016) "apology" to the fandom, written 3 weeks after Lexa's death, and Maslany's (who is also a producer on

Orphan Black) and Manson/Fawcett's addressing of Delphine's "death" in the season 3

finale (Patch 2016).

8. Works cited

Anne, Valerie. 2013. "Tatiana Maslany Gives Us the Scoop on the Orphan Black Clones

and Cosima's Bisexuality." AfterEllen, May 24. http://www.afterellen.com/general

news/107651tatianamaslanygivesusthescoopontheorphanblackclonesand

cosimasbisexuality.

Framke, Caroline, Javier Zarracina, and Sarah Frostenson. 2016. "All the TV Character

Deaths of 2015–'16, in One Chart." Vox, June 1. http://www.vox.com/a/tvdeaths

lgbtdiversity.

LGBT Fans Deserve Better. 2016. "All Dead Lesbian and Bisexual Women on TV:

2015–2016." LGBT Fans Deserve Better, March 31.

http://lgbtfansdeservebetter.com/blog/2016/03/31/burytropesnotus2016edition/.

Li, Shirley. 2016. "Why Defining Clarke's Sexuality Marked a 'Turning Point' for The

100. " Entertainment Weekly, February 17.

http://www.ew.com/article/2016/02/17/the100clarkebisexuality.

Muñoz, José Esteban. 2009. "Stages: Queers, Punks, and the Utopian Performative."

In Sexual Cultures: Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity, 97–113.

New York: New York University Press.

Patch, Nick. 2016. "Tatiana Maslany Laments Reaction to (Spoiler's) Death."

TheStar.com, April 11.

https://www.thestar.com/entertainment/television/2016/04/11/tatianamaslany

lamentsreactiontospoilersdeath.html.

Peitzman, Louis. 2016. "The Show That's Breaking New Ground for Queer

Representation." BuzzFeed, January 21.

https://www.buzzfeed.com/louispeitzman/howthe100becameoneoftvsmost

radicallyqueershows?utm_term=.lfn7dno54z#.hv3rx1D965.

Rothenberg, Jason. 2016. "The Life and Death of Lexa." Jason Rothenberg, March 24.

https://medium.com/@jrothenberg/thelifeanddeathoflexa

e461224be1db#.z7pqpwxau.

Ryan, Maureen. 2016a. " The 100 Showrunner Talks Clarke's Sexuality, Lexa's Return

and Season 3 Stakes." Variety, January 21. http://variety.com/2016/tv/features/the

100season3clexaclarkebisexual1201685357/.

Ryan, Maureen. 2016b. "TV's Disposable Spring Makes Westeros' Winter Seem Tame."

Variety, April 18. http://variety.com/2016/tv/news/tvdeathsgameofthrones

1201755683/.

Snarker, Dorothy. 2016. " Wynonna Earp Creator Emily Andras Talks WayHaught

Survival." AfterEllen, June 2. http://www.afterellen.com/tv/490411wynonnaearp

creatoremilyandrastalkswayhaughtsurvival.

Yoshino, Kenji. 2000. "The Epistemic Contract of Bisexual Erasure." Stanford Law

Review 52 (2): 353–461. http://dx.doi.org/10.2307/1229482.

Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Symposium

Once Upon a Time in queer fandom

Sandra Strauch

Humboldt University of Berlin, Berlin, Germany

[0.1] Abstract— I approach the topic of queer female fandom through the television

program Once Upon a Time (2011–) and its femslash fan fiction in order to

investigate how fans explore queer scenarios and deal with narrative weaknesses of

the canon story line.

[0.2] Keywords— Fan fiction; Femslash; SwanQueen; Television

Strauch, Sandra. 2017. " Once Upon a Time in Queer Fandom." In "Queer Female

Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue, Transformative

Works and Cultures, no. 24. http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.929.

1. Rediscovering the Evil Queen through fan fiction

[1.1] Fandom can mean many things: community, creativity, agency, freedom,

sexuality, queerness, and so much more. We are fans, collectively and individually;

some of us are even brave or foolish enough to devote not only our free time but also

a part of our professional lives to fandom. Here I explore the SwanQueen fandom of

Once Upon a Time (2011–) and its potential to bridge the gap between fan and

scholar, for me personally and perhaps for other (aca)fans as well. I explore the

relationship between SwanQueen femslash fan fiction and its reimaginings of the Evil

Queen we know from fairy tales that we may have encountered as children and that

still accompany us today. I ask questions of how fannish lesbian or queer versions of

Regina Mills, the Evil Queen, and her relationship to Emma Swan, the Savior, can take

on issues of sexuality and consent. In this sense I am not introducing entirely new

concepts or theories of fandom studies; rather, I am attempting to explain how

femslash fan fiction is a way to enter into a complicated, passionate, and ambiguous

relationship with the material we are presented with. I also attempt to explain what

queer female fandom means to me and where I see transgressive potential that has

changed my view on something as traditional and patriarchal as fairy tales.

[1.2] The character of Regina Mills is a fan favorite. This popularity is in part due to

the versatile interpretations fans can ascribe to this new incarnation of the Evil Queen.

Even in earlier versions of the Evil Queen, I and many other fans were more fascinated

by this character than any of the princesses. As one critic noted of the Disney films Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937) and Cinderella (1950), "Both films

concentrate with exuberant glee on the towering, taloned, ravenhaired wicked

stepmother; all Disney's powers failed to save the princes from featureless banality

and his heroines from saccharine sentimentality. Authentic power lies with the bad

women, and the plump cozy fairy godmother in Cinderella seems no match for them"

(Warner 1995, 207). The audience of Once Upon a Time is presented with a new

version of this bad woman, the powerful Evil Queen.

[1.3] This time, however, the TV program also provides a multilayered backstory that

has not only turned Regina into a fan favorite but also attempts to explain how she

even became the Evil Queen and why her hatred for Snow White runs so deep. For

several episodes of the first season, fans waited patiently for the explanation of why

Regina went as far as killing her own father in order to enact the Dark Curse, only to

be presented with a story of puppy love and yet another evil mother. Young Regina

was in love with the stable boy, but her mother, a vindictive woman hellbent on

climbing the social ladder, did not agree with the relationship. Instead she arranged a

marriage between Regina and the king, using Princess Snow White as bait in her ploy.

Regina had no interest in marrying the king and planned to run away with her stable

boy. Snow White caught them in the act, and Regina made the young girl promise to

keep her affair with the stable boy a secret. Of course nothing went according to plan.

Snow White spilled Regina's secret to her villainous mother, who then killed the stable

boy and robbed Regina of her one true love.

[1.4] Fans did not seem satisfied with this explanation, and, as is often the case with

disappointing and incomplete narratives, other writers took it upon themselves to

expand on these ideas and shift the focus from the spilling of a secret by a young girl

toward the abusive relationship between Regina and her mother, as well as the

marriage into which she was forced. Elizabeth Wanning Harries's theory of

transliteration as a mode to transform old narrative patterns is instructive here. By

using transliteration, authors "play, rather, on our memory of salient images, often

apparently peripheral details, transforming them into new centers of meaning" (2001,

136). These new centers of meaning are the dark yet intriguing scenarios that Once

Upon a Time fan fiction and femslash authors use to delve further into untold depths of

the story and attempt to explain and underscore Regina's transformation into the Evil

Queen. As a result of her own mother's meddling, Regina was forced to marry a man,

the king, three times her age to become Snow White's stepmother. The TV program

completely ignores the implications of such a medieval marriage between an old king

and his young bride. But fan fiction writers do not shy away from exploring this

particular family constellation, which has been at the center of many a fairy tale. How

much must Regina have suffered finally to plot and orchestrate the king's murder?

What happened to drive her to such extremes? Fan fiction writers logically extrapolate the clues provided in the program through the lens of femslash, uncovering parallels to

samesex desire in that they explore the differences between being forced into a

"proper" union versus the desired improper one.

2. Reading between the lines

[2.1] In SgtMac's story "Stop" (2016), this particular phase of Regina's past is

discussed when "a night of passion between Regina and Emma ends up turning into an

opportunity for the two of them to discuss the traumas of their sexual pasts and to

then set boundaries in their still very young romantic relationship with each other."

Already in the author's notes the reader is warned of the content of the story and the

nonconsensual relationship between Regina and King Leopold. This socalled trigger

warning is not only a sign of awareness and willingness to deal with the underlying

issues of a television program but also hints toward fans' own experiences and care for

fandom and potential readers. Furthermore, Regina's history with the king and her

loveless marriage is often used as a backdrop in femslash for explaining her actions,

her issues with relinquishing control, and specifically her reservations or dislikes in

sexual situations. In "Stop," Regina interrupts her moment of sexual pleasure with

Emma because Emma has been restraining Regina bodily, not knowing that this

passionate embrace would bring back painful memories:

[2.2] Yesterday, she would have just closed her eyes and told herself to

focus on the feel of Emma's warm reassuring hands, and the softness of her

lips as they traced their way down, and both of those things would have

been easy for Regina to do. Today, though, she sees flashes of something

behind her eyes every time she closes them.

[2.3] Tonight, she hears a door closing and hears footsteps approaching,

and they're too heavy to be Emma's—Emma doesn't walk softly or

gracefully, but she has never walked like that. Tonight, the hands holding

her wrists above her head send her back fortyfive years and she can't.

[2.4] She just can't.

[2.5] "Stop," Regina whispers. And then says it again. Louder, almost

frantic. Pleading, even.

[2.6] Emma ceases her movement and her touches almost immediately,

frowning (perhaps no one is as attuned to that word as Emma is, and it

makes Regina wonder about all of the things in her lover's background and

history that she's never really had the courage to ask her about). (chapter 1)

[2.7] The topic of consent is of utmost importance here, and "Stop" illustrates how fan fiction can deal with it in a selfaware fashion. In the canonical story line, Regina

enters into heterosexual relationships, first with the Huntsman and later with Robin

Hood, but her arranged marriage is never a topic that is brought up by either party.

Even when her mother returns for one last attempt at regaining her former glory, the

fact that she forced her daughter to marry a much older man remains a nonissue. Of

course, a television program on ABC dealing with fairy tales—a program that is

supposed to attract audiences from a wide range of age groups—will likely never

attempt to disentangle all the subtext that has been hinted at in canon; yet the gaps

obviously leave fans unsatisfied as they take it upon themselves to explore these

silences. Femslash is not only an outcome of this dissatisfaction but also a hopeful

glance at how fans deal with veiled topics. SwanQueen creates a space where female

concerns, even queer distress, are not merely brushed aside but discussed and dealt

with—discussions that I and other fans find pleasurable in many ways.

3. The wicked stepmother

[3.1] Although Regina's past as King Leopold's young bride is frequently

acknowledged and discussed in femslash fan fiction, Regina is also coded as an erotic

character, charged with dark sexuality and the potential for more than vanilla sex. One

fic that well addresses the lossofinnocence trope and the imagining of "deviant"

sexualities is "The Wicked Stepmother" by seriousish (2012), which is rated mature. It

breaks with conventions even as it bends them forward and backward; readers'

comments note that it is "strangely appealing," with readers who "simply could not

stop reading." The crossing of queerness, fandom, and sexual identities is especially

vivid in this story. Teenage Emma is seduced by an older, stepmotherlike Regina who

wants to spite her cursed nemesis, Snow White. Emma is drawn into a romantic and

sexual relationship that cannot be easily defined; it leaves the reader wondering what

exactly the nature of their liaison is. Red Riding Hood, or her Storybrooke counterpart,

Ruby, is also a part of this threefold affair as she serves as a catalyst for Emma's

eventual surrender to Regina's charms. This fan fic plays with many popular tropes,

from the age gap between the three women to the BDSM scenes; it does not shy away

from reimagining these characters as sexual beings who take and grant pleasure. By

staying within canon boundaries and depicting Regina as a strong, villainous woman

who acts completely outside of stereotypical and heteronormative ideals, the

characters explore deviant sexualities in the form of varying BDSM practices.

Additionally, the author's notes provide a few tongueincheek comments and show

that the story is a kink fic that doesn't take itself too seriously with its canonbending

reimagination of the Evil Queen.

[3.2] However, the value of this interpretation lies in the reversal of traditional roles women traditionally occupy in fairy tales. Purity—a virtue in the stories of Snow White

or Red Riding Hood—is subverted in favor of an exploration of queer sexualities that

defy normative traditions and frameworks. "The Wicked Stepmother" is also an

example of how Once Upon a Time has opened up traditional fairy tales for queer

readings and transformations, whether to explore deviant sexualities or to reinterpret

the wicked stepmother as a queer trope with erotic dimensions. In a few lines,

seriousish has wonderfully combined both the queer reinterpretation of Regina's

character and the notion that other Enchanted Forest inhabitants are in some respects

no less deviant than the Evil Queen herself:

[3.3] "I am the Evil Queen," Regina retorted, almost wistfully. Like

someone would say they were an amputee. "I always will be. I'm just

something else as well."

[3.4] "What?"

[3.5] "Yours."

[3.6] Emma buried her head in her hands for a long moment before

standing. "God. I'm so fucking pissed at you. This is like finding out I live in

a town full of psychos and no one ever told me. The nextdoor neighbors

have sliced people's heads off and think thirteenyearolds should be married

off to fucking Prince Humperdink, they just don't remember it, do they?"

(chapter 36)

4. Conclusion

[4.1] SwanQueen femslash challenges the unspoken assumptions of heteronormative

marriage and the innocence or purity of heroines versus the poisonous evil of their

wicked counterparts. Stories such as SgtMac's "Stop" or seriousish's "The Wicked

Stepmother" provide insight into the diverse positions of a character and explore these

versions as queer multiplicities of sexuality and trauma. These literary engagements

with the canon text are part of queer world building and challenge notions of identity

and sexuality by creating new contexts. Fleshing out characters with meaningful

backstories is one aspect that fan fiction excels at. I sometimes find it difficult to

distinguish between canon and fan fiction: the fan fiction stories supply important facts

that explain situations, behavior, and tropes in such a way that they enrich, even

improve, the canonical story line.

[4.2] SwanQueen fandom provides a space for diverse queer female explorations.

Queer female fandom has inspired me and encouraged me to see that thoughtful

discussions and depictions of sexuality and trauma are possible. I wasn't born at the right time to understand the chemistry between Xena and Gabrielle when Xena:

Warrior Princess (1995–2001) first aired, but I enjoy going back and looking at how

femslash writers before me have opened up these ongoing discussions of queer female

love—and, perhaps following in their footsteps, I continue in their vein, writing about

women on television who are queer in my eyes and in my stories. I inhabit my

fandoms, including SwanQueen, Bering & Wells (from Warehouse 13 [2009–14]),

Jessica Jones (from Jessica Jones [2015–]), and Lexa and Clarke (from The 100

[2014–]) and their depictions of strong, multilayered women. I read Tumblr posts

talking about queer female fandom and find acceptance. And I hope that the future

holds more queer women on screen, with less violence enacted upon them and more

kisses, smoldering glances, and everything in between.

[4.3] Looking at SwanQueen femslash is only one way of combining my fannish

interests and my academic aspirations. As an academic, I want to encourage and be

encouraged to work in this field. As a fan, I want to read stories and share my

arguments and thoughts. Once Upon a Time and SwanQueen fic provides me with an

access point to start writing new versions of old tales and to show that each new

reiteration is another new beginning—a new "once upon a time."

5. Acknowledgments

[5.1] I would like to thank Beth Capper, Lynne Joyrich, and Ramsey McGlazer for

their invaluable insights on the first version of this article. I also want to express my

appreciation to the Once Upon a Time and SwanQueen fandoms; thank you for all

those wonderful fics that have kept me up at night.

6. Works cited

Harries, Elizabeth Wanning. 2001. Twice Upon a Time: Women Writers and the History

of the Fairy Tale. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

seriousish. 2012. "The Wicked Stepmother." Once Upon a Time fan fiction.

FanFiction.net, November 21.

SgtMac. 2016. "Stop." Once Upon a Time fan fiction. FanFiction.net, February 27.

Warner, Marina. 1995. From the Beast to the Blonde: On Fairy Tales and Their Tellers.

New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux.

Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Book review

By any media necessary: The new youth activism, by Henry Jenkins et al.

Al ison McCracken

[0.1] Keywords— Civic engagement; Digital media; Fandom; Participatory culture;

Politics; Youth media

McCracken, Allison. 2017. By Any Media Necessary: The New Youth Activism, by

Henry Jenkins et al. [book review]. In "Queer Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin

Russo and Eve Ng, special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.1084.

Henry Jenkins, Sangita Shresthova, Liana Gamber-Thompson, Neta

Kligler-Vilenchik, and Arely M. Zimmerman. By Any Media Necessary:

The New Youth Activism. New York: NYU Press, 2016, hardcover, $29.95

(352p) ISBN 9781479899982; e-book $19.86 (58780 KB), ASIN

B0171WAJAA. Full text available online:

http://connectedyouth.nyupress.org/.

[1] By Any Media Necessary is a major contribution to media and cultural studies

scholarship, both for the significance of its subject matter and for those involved in the

project. This foundational, timely volume argues that some kinds of youth participation

in the digital media sphere represent a new and significant form of political activism

that has been unrecognized or trivialized by the public at large. It is the product of 6

years of research by Henry Jenkins and his team at the MacArthur Foundation's Youth

and Participatory Politics (MAPP) research network housed at USC. While there are

many such digital projects around the country focused on youth Internet use (it seems

that every research university has one), MAPP and the Connected Learning Research

Network are the two most prominent of these, and both are well funded by the

MacArthur Foundation's Digital Media and Learning Initiative (DML). By Any Media

Necessary is the second offering of the NYU book series "Connected Youth and Digital

Learning," also supported by the DML.

[2] Jenkins is famous for his previous fielddefining interventions in media studies,

particularly Textual Poachers ([1992] 2013) and Convergence Culture (2006). Both of

these works focus on the intersection of corporate mass media and fandom, with the

latter specifically addressing the proliferation and changing nature of these meeting

points in the Internet era. Jenkins was especially interested in the way in which the

increasing accessibility of the Internet made the voices, critiques, and creative

production of young fans more visible to each other, providing them with new

opportunities for peertopeer education, mutual support, and civic engagement. The

potential of this participatory culture has remained a central interest for Jenkins and

the subject of much of his published work since (note 1). He and his team's mission here is to extend the idea of participatory culture into the political realm, examining

how for many youth within the United States political change is being promoted

"through social and cultural mechanisms rather than through established political

institutions" (2).

[3] The volume is both introductory and foundational on this subject and offers both

theory and praxis. In two substantial chapters, Jenkins and MAPP director Sangita

Shresthova think through the larger questions posed by the project, such as how to

conceive of and map the relationship between cultural and political youth media

activities; they offer a variety of frames for analysis, many of which are applied and

further developed by the authors of five fascinating, very different case study

chapters. Elisabeth Soep, senior producer at Oakland's YouthRadio, provides an

equally thoughtful afterword. Although By Any Media Necessary's various chapters are

by individual authors, the volume's authors are collaborators, and they all use the

term "we" to reflect their collective composition. However, given that the volume

highlights media activities by demographically varied, multiply identified USbased

youth, it does seem important to point out that Jenkins's collaborators are an equally

heterogeneous group that includes people of color and immigrants. The resulting text

is unusually cohesive because of rather than despite its collective nature; it is

ideologically consistent across chapters, and the collective's attention to the realities of

social difference is a structural component of the project. It's baked into the cake.

[4] Indeed, By Any Media Necessary is valuable not because it promotes one

particular conclusion about the connection between culture and politics but because it

does not. The collective's position—to borrow the title and argument of fellow scholar

danah boyd's recent valuable study of youth social media use—is that "it's

complicated" (boyd 2014). By Any Media Necessary's tremendous worth is in the depth

and richness of the conversation, the establishment of the scholarly playing field, the

detailed documentation of often ephemeral youth activity (products of years of

research), and the often inspirational quality of much of that activity. Case study

authors employ multiple methodologies in their research, combining indepth

interviews, ethnography, and textual and material analysis in a number of ways. They

grapple with the social diversity of their youthful subjects (including the widely

divergent personal stakes involved in their media use), the variety of their media

activities, and the shifts in digital technologies, youth organizational structures, and

national politics that constantly impact their studies.

[5] It is impossible to read this book outside of our present dystopian context, which makes the work its authors are doing in drawing attention to youth media practices all

the more vital. What this collective's compelling case studies make very clear is that it

is through these nontraditional modes of communication and within these new media

spaces that a great deal of youth civic participation and politicization is happening. The

collective effectively refutes the critiques often leveled at clicktivist youth that paint

them as apolitical and shallow. They make the excellent (and chillingly accurate) point

that media activities such as shared popular culture material and informal peertopeer

civic education across media have assumed a greater political weight because other

forms of youth civic education (such as traditional educational institutions) have

broken down. Participatory culture is what many young people have instead, and they

use it to teach, support, and encourage each other in ways that adults dismiss at their

peril. The urgency of the book's title, an adaptation of the phrase "by any means

necessary" popularized by Malcolm X, seems especially appropriate in our current

climate, and it is one of several ways in which the collective draws connections

between the activities of today's youth and those of the 1960s. Previous politically

active youth were likewise disappointed with consensus politics and were inspired by

the counterculture; the two groups informed each other, and these authors suggest

that similar kinds of cultural/political amalgamations are at work now but in new forms

that must be understood, valued, and utilized by progressives. The collective provides

examples of many youth activist organizations today that are successful because they

offer young people multiple points of entry, including popular culture and participatory

forms that have proved very successful in sparking civic engagement (64).

[6] Henry Jenkins provides the hefty and dense 60page introduction to the subject

in the book's first chapter. To his credit, Jenkins is selfaware of his position as a fielddefining scholar and he takes full advantage of it, offering an exhaustive review and analysis of the scholarship and activism that has helped shape the collective's thinking.

This is a distinctly interdisciplinary study that draws on the work of (among others)

digital culture and media studies scholars, social and communication theorists,

historians, and media and youth activists. Among the many ideas on offer, some

clearly have had greater impact on this project than have others. In particular, the

collective's concept of the civic imagination, introduced by Jenkins, frames a great deal

of their work. The term was inspired in part by a 2008 talk given by author J. K.

Rowling (2008) in which she called for her public to "imagine better" by linking

imagination to empathy for persons "beyond the bounds of [one's] own experience."

The phrase "imagine better" has inspired a great deal of fan activist engagement, and

the authors here combine this ideal with communication studies scholar Peter

Dahlgren's concept of the "civic" as "an engagement in public life…for the public good"

(37). This definition works well for Jenkins because of its broader application to the

motivations as well as the practices of youth who may or may not identify politically

but who participate in cultural and educational activities within their communities. The authors employ the concept of the "civic imagination," then, to describe how youth are

utilizing the language and symbols of popular media to envision alternatives to

seemingly intractable social realities and therefore also begin to "imagine themselves

as active political agents" (29). For example, notes Jenkins (citing Zimmerman's

research), undocumented youth frequently adapt superhero images, such as illegal

alien Superman, as figures of personal and collective empowerment.

[7] Sangita Shresthova's chapter, "'Watch 30 Minute Video, Become Social Activist'?:

Kony 2012, Invisible Children, and the Paradox of Participatory Politics" foregrounds

the activity of a single youthfocused organization. Invisible Children was founded by

three US college students in 2003 to create awareness of civil unrest in Uganda and, in

particular, the plight of child soldiers. Leaders frequently employed the language of

popular culture and social media to get their message out, culminating in their

phenomenally successful YouTube video Kony 2012, which was seen by more than 100

million people in its first week. However, the attention to this video—both supportive

and critical—overwhelmed the group's leadership, and Shresthova examines this crisis

to understand the kinds of challenges such youth networks face in "promoting change

through participatory politics" (77). Her detailed analysis—the product of years spent

working with IC organizers and the youth activists inspired by them—provides a useful

model for future researchers. She identifies key points of paradox in the organization,

such as the group's struggle to maintain control of its messages and initial goals while

supporting a large, diffuse, intensely engaged youth population eager for ways to

more fully participate.

[8] Both Neta KliglerVilenchik's chapter "'Decreasing World Suck': Harnessing

Popular Culture for Fan Activism" and Liana GamberThompson's chapter "Bypassing

the Ballot Box: How Libertarian Youth Are Reimagining the Political" focus, like

Shresthova, on the participatory activities of largely white, privileged youth. Kligler

Vilenchik's chapter foregrounds the charity and human rights organization The Harry

Potter Alliance (about which Jenkins has also written) and the Nerdfighters, a

subcultural community advocating charity, education, and positive values that is led by

selfdescribed "Vlog brothers" and multimedia producers John and Hank Green

(Jenkins 2012). KliglerVilenchik's is the only chapter that focuses specifically on the

complexities of "fan activism," a term that the collective uses to refer to both fan

political participation and civic engagement (such as charity work). She again invokes

the concept of civic imagination to describe how fans use fantasy to both envision

social change and to feel empowered themselves. She notes that fans are well

positioned for politicization because they already have communities built around the

kinds of intense affective investments that often drive political action, which has

greatly facilitated the organization of HPA and the Nerdfighters. HPA is the most

prominent of these civicminded fan groups, with chapters in 300 community

institutions nationwide and abroad; its members engage in a wide variety of cultural,

educational, philanthropic, and more traditional political activities that often overlap

and converge. Perhaps surprisingly, Liana GamberThompson's study of libertarian

youth (the Student Liberty Movement) demonstrates how their media activism also

incorporates fannish affective behaviors (centered around favorite philosophers).

Unlike fan activists, however, they reject conventional political practices entirely and

focus on making change through informal educational activities, especially online

learning. GamberThompson provides a useful discussion of the generational shift

represented by this selfnamed "secondgeneration" of libertarians, who,

paradoxically, do receive the financial support of some traditional libertarian think

tanks.

[9] The largely white, middleclass privilege of both the libertarians and the fan

activists gives them the advantage of social power and reach, but, as the authors

observe, their demographic homogeneity has unintended consequences of exclusivity.

In regard to fans, for example, KliglerVilenchik observes that the taste cultures

uniting Nerdfighters (and HPA) are classed and raced in particular ways that inhibit

more diverse membership. She develops this important point by drawing from Pierre

Bourdieu's (1984) and Daniel Dayan's (2005) work on the formation of "taste publics"

and "identity publics" to suggest how common experiences, backgrounds, and

references connect these overwhelmingly female, white, and middleclass fans in ways

that can make others (especially people of color) feel unwelcome. Surprisingly,

however, KliglerVilenchik does not discuss the way in which these young fans' often

intense feminist and LGBTQ affiliations and commitments—often actualized and

developed within these communities—have prompted them to engage in a variety of

forms of civic engagement, as scholars of youth media fandom such as Louisa Stein

(2015) have detailed. Making feminist politics a larger part of the conversation here

would certainly enrich KliglerVilenchik's analysis, as shared feminist and LGBTQ

identifications often help fans to make connections across class and racial lines.

[10] The next two chapters, Sangita Shresthova's "Between Storytelling and

Surveillance: The Precarious Public of American Muslim Youth" and Liana Gamber

Thompson and Arely M. Zimmerman's "DREAMing Ctizienship: Undocumented Youth,

Coming Out, and Pathways to Participation," shift away from voluntary political

engagements by young people to groups of youth whose bodies are always already

politicized in the United States: American Muslims and undocumented DREAMers. They

represent "precarious publics," youth more in need of empowerment but also more at

risk in making their voices public. Shresthova describes how culture and politics are

always conflated for American Muslims, a fact that, she argues, has both advantages

and disadvantages. Although she makes clear that there are plenty of intracommunity

differences, the fact that youth are already situated within an organized, politicized community means that their cultural work is legitimized (and often supported) by

more established, traditional advocacy groups. At the same time, however, young

people's desire to express themselves and to correct public misperceptions of Muslims

—primarily through sharing their stories and critique via videos—is threatened by their

constant surveillance and is always tied to the changing national political climate

toward Muslims. Like American Muslims, DREAMers are also balancing the risks and

benefits of public participation, and they have also found that video confessionals

(coming out as undocumented online) have been a powerful way of feeling heard and

creating community. The authors argue that this group is "enacting citizenship" in new

ways by making "creative use of new media to put a new face on civil rights activism

in the 21st century" (187). They demonstrate how this group's moving videos united

the community and led directly to the establishment of a national civil rights

movement on the ground, making the point that "affective and tactical elements"

operated together and were "mutually reinforcing" (187). Under the new

administration, however, DREAMer activity is particularly precarious, as DREAMers

have become subject to abrupt shifts in legislation, policing, and internment or

deportation.

[11] Indeed, these two chapters are especially poignant and troubling after the 2016

presidential election. Our current national emergency makes both what this book does

and what it does not do seem even more significant. As is Jenkins's wont, By Any

Media Necessary gives short shrift to the limits of youth media activism in corporatecontrolled media (the recent death of Vine, an app widely used by youth of color, provides an object lesson in such precarity). The book's most glaring absence,

however, is a complete lack of attention to rightwing/altright youth media activities.

While Jenkins admits in his introduction (following scholar James Hay) that

participatory politics can be employed for either progressive or reactionary ends, there

are no examples or citations regarding the latter, which promotes the impression that

such activity is fairly minimal. Yet the fact that the presidential vote was so clearly

divided among American millennials suggests that there is a great deal of political

activity by reactionary youth (fueled by young media activists such as those at

Breitbart News). Humanitiesbased, qualitative media scholars (myself included) have

long neglected the close study of current rightwing media activity because it is

inevitably very difficult, depressing, and increasingly dangerous. Although individual

feminist media scholars have done some brave and important work addressing public

media attacks on women (such as in gamergate), it is unclear to me whether research

into the media use of reactionary youth in particular is being funded institutionally to

the degree that this study has been. If it isn't, it should be.

[12] This absence, however, does not make By Any Media Necessary any less of a gift for scholars and students across disciplines (and, I hope, beyond the academy). It

will be enormously valuable for scholars in media and popular culture studies, cultural

studies, critical race/ethnic studies, and American studies. While the introduction

seems addressed to graduate students and above, the individual case studies are very

accessible for undergraduates, and each stands on its own. I am looking forward to

teaching these chapters, and I am particularly appreciative of the fact that the entire

book is available for digital access, as are all the books in this series. I am hopeful that

this book will do much to ensure our greater attention to and understanding of youth

media practices—and sooner rather than later.

Note

1. Jenkins coauthored the volume Participatory Culture in a Networked Era in 2016, an extended conversation with fellow digital media scholars Mizuko Ito and danah boyd,

that functions well as a companion to this book. See also Jenkins et al. (2009).

Works cited

Bourdieu, Pierre. 1984. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste.

Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

boyd, danah. 2014. It's Complicated: The Social Lives of Networked Teens. New

Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

Dayan, Daniel. 2005. "Mothers, Midwives and Abortionists: Genealogy, Obstetrics,

Audiences and Publics." In Audiences and Publics: When Cultural Engagement Matters

for the Public Sphere, edited by Sonia Livingstone, 43–76. London: Intellect.

Jenkins, Henry. (1992) 2013. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory

Culture. Updated twentieth anniversary edition. New York: Routledge.

Jenkins, Henry. 2006. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New

York: New York University Press.

Jenkins, Henry. 2012. "'Cultural Acupuncture': Fan Activism and the Harry Potter

Alliance." In "Transformative Works and Fan Activism," edited by Henry Jenkins and

Sangita Shresthova, special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 10.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2012.0305.

Jenkins, Henry, Mizuko Ito, and danah boyd. 2016. Participatory Culture in a

Networked Era. Cambridge, MA: Polity Press.

Jenkins, Henry, Ravi Purushotma, Margaret Weigel, Kate Clinton, and Alice J.

Robinson. 2009. Confronting the Challenges of Participatory Culture: Media Education

for the 21st Century. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Rowling, J. K. 2008. "The Fringe Benefits of Failure, and the Importance of

Imagination." Harvard Gazette, June 5.

http://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2008/06/textofjkrowlingspeech/.

Stein, Louisa L. 2015. Millennial Fandom: Television Audiences in the Transmedia Age.

Iowa City: University of Iowa Press.

Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Book review

Girls' feminist blogging in a postfeminist age, by Jessalyn Keller

Alice Marwick

Data & Society, New York, New York, United States

[0.1] Keywords— Activism; Feminism; Gender; Social media; Youth

Marwick, Alice. 2017. Girls' Feminist Blogging in a Postfeminist Age, by Jessalyn

Keller [book review]. In "Queer Female Fandom," edited by Julie Levin Russo and

Eve Ng, special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.1072.

Jessalyn Keller, Girls' feminist blogging in a postfeminist age. London:

Routledge, 2015, hardcover, ₤95 (198p) ISBN 978-1138800144, e-book,

₤24.49 ISBN 9781315755632.

[1] Jessalyn Keller's first book, Girls' Feminist Blogging in a Postfeminist Age, is a

qualitative examination of teenage girls who blog about feminism, based on interviews

with bloggers and content analysis of their blogs. Keller, assistant professor in the

department of communication, media, and film at the University of Calgary, is situated

in the nascent field of girls studies and, alongside scholars like Emma Renold and

Jessica Ringrose, is doing fascinating work on digital feminist activism. As her research

makes clear, many studies of activism focus on communities where male experience is

considered normative and women are shunted to the side; even scholarship on

feminist activism usually presumes adult experiences. Thus, because of their gender

and age, girls are often unheard and invisible in discussions of both activism and

feminism. Given this landscape, Keller is interested in how girls produce a political

culture that is rooted specifically in their subjectivity as girls, reflecting their

experiences as teenagers, students, and burgeoning feminists. Using a cultural studies

approach, Keller places blogging within a continuum of girls' mediamaking practices,

from scrapbooking and diaries to zines and fan fiction. She argues that blogging resists

neoliberal postfeminist discourse that reduces feminism to an individual series of

choices, instead giving girls space to simultaneously acknowledge structural

oppression and structural power. The book theorizes a politics of affect that will be

familiar to anyone immersed in online culture. The author argues that the friendships

and warm feelings that come from participating in and claiming a group identity are in

themselves political.

[2] At the time Keller did her research, the feminist blogosphere consisted of a

handful of famous blogs like Jezebel, Feministing, and Racialicious, surrounded by a

sprawling network of lessertrafficked blogs written by a wide diversity of women,

including Keller's participants, who identified explicitly as girls. These young women

used writing to explore a wide variety of feminist issues, often taking an explicitly

didactic or pedagogic approach to teaching themselves and their peers about women's

history, feminist theory, or famous feminist figures. (I love Keller's insight that most

teenage girls are primarily students, so this point of view is fully understandable

viewed in that context.) Community was part and parcel of blogging and intrinsic to

the experience. Feminist girl bloggers read each other's blogs, linked to each other's

posts, wrote letters, and chatted on comment sections and within platforms like

Tumblr. Blogging enabled young women to explore their budding feminist identities in

community with other girls at the same stage. Keller makes entries into these

networked counterpublics in various ways, examining how young women perform

feminist identities online (chapter 1), describing girloriented activism (chapter 2),

mapping the collective practices of young feminist bloggers (chapter 3), discussing

their engagement with women's history (chapter 4), and assessing the strategies of

publicness adopted by and the media reception of famous teenage bloggers like Tavi

Gevinson of Rookie Magazine (chapter 5).

[3] Historically, what is considered activism privileges the experience of white,

middleclass men, be they union members or hippies. Feminist history, critical race

theory, and cultural studies have created a parallel history of forms of resistance and

political participation that may not look exactly like the protest march or the strike;

Dick Hebdige's work on subculture remains relevant. But Keller points out that even

practices thought of as subcultural or counterhegemonic often exclude the experiences

of girls. Girls may live far away from urban centers, lack transportation or income that

affords participating in protests, or lack the subcultural capital to adopt resistive

identities. If girls are able to participate in adultcentric notions of activism, they may

be working in a structure created by adults and for adults that fails to recognize young

people's issues. Moreover, girls are usually treated with a mix of protectionism and

condensation even by deeply progressive people; either they should be protected from

public spaces, or they are too silly or frivolous to participate fully.

[4] In contrast, Keller's account of girl activism encompasses consciousness raising,

media making, and education, positioning activism as part of Angela McRobbie and

Jenny Garber's concept of "bedroom culture" (McRobbie and Garber [1976] 1993;

McRobbie 1990). McRobbie and Garber criticized British cultural studies for focusing on

the activities of young white men in public (hippies, mods, skinheads) while ignoring

or dismissing girls' cultural productivity. They argued that girls are often discouraged

by their parents from participating in the public sphere. Instead, they are literally and

figuratively confined to their bedrooms, private spaces where it is safe for young

women to express anger or frustration. As Linda Duits explains, bedroom culture

demonstrated that "the domain of the girl was the home; the personal that feminism

aims to make political, visible" (2008, 16). McRobbie and Garber were making a

feminist intervention into youth subcultural studies; Keller's participants are making a

youth intervention into feminism from the bedroom. It is the bedroom where girls'

recent media making has taken place, including diaries, 1990sera zines made with

scissors and tape, and 2000sera fan fiction created on laptops. But like the postal

service or the online fan fic archive, blogs provide a distribution network that

simultaneously allows connection and collaboration with likeminded others.

[5] This collaboration and community make feminist blogging resistive to

contemporary articulations of postfeminism, "a cultural sensibility" that Keller argues

is characterized by "a shift from objectification to subjectification; an emphasis on

surveillance, monitoring, and selfdiscipline; a rhetoric of individualism, choice, and

empowerment" (13). Postfeminism is an ultimately individual, neoliberal discourse,

denying structural inequality and emphasizing work on the self and personal success

as empowering—which for me is personified by Charlotte in Sex and the City (1998–

2004) screaming, "I choose my choice!" when criticized by her friends for quitting her

job upon marrying a wealthy man. However, the bloggers in Keller's study did not

discount the importance of individual activity; indeed, they saw publicly articulating

feminism as crucial to resisting stereotypes. While attempting to separate oneself from

the "hairy, manhating lesbian" trope can reinforce heterosexist, homophobic norms,

we must be mindful of girls' location in sexist, often hostile environments, such as

many secondary schools. Feminist identities, located outside the acceptable realm of

heterosexual expression for teenage girls, were often interpreted by peers and parents

as threatening. Keller relates that girl bloggers found that simply identifying publicly as

a feminist and finding other young women with similar politics was a deeply affirming

and pleasurable act. At the same time, this restricted participation in the young

feminist blogosphere. Keller's participants were primarily white and middle class; she

suggests that perhaps the restrictive nature of feminist stereotypes made it difficult for

girls already denied privileged race or class subjectivities to experiment with

nonhegemonic femininity.

[6] The social life of blogging is where Keller begins to theorize a politic of affect and

Internet community—although I think this needs to be pushed further. As she notes

early on, she characterizes feminist girl blogs as networked counterpublics, drawing

from Nancy Fraser's concept of "subaltern counterpublics" as alternatives to a

bourgeois, Habermasian view of the "public sphere" (1990), and Mimi Ito (2008) and

danah boyd's (2007) theories of networked publics, which describe the discourse and

deliberation that take place via social media and earlier technologies. Keller writes:

[7] Girl bloggers are best understood as networked counterpublics, forming

networks around particular discursive feminist identities and issues, coming

together, dissolving, mutating, and reconvening in a fluid manner…

understanding girl feminist bloggers as networked counterpublics both allows

us to better understand how contemporary feminism is being practiced, as

well as provides a politicized language with which to talk about girl bloggers.

(80)

[8] Keller makes a convincing case that social protests like Slutwalk are only

intelligible from within these counterpublics, which discussed slut shaming at length.

The event must be contextualized within discussions criticizing rape culture, dress

codes, and victim blaming; when taken out of that context, these discussions may be

misinterpreted. Still, what is most interesting about networked counterpublics is the

affective dimension of such activism. There are some lovely moments in the text

where the sheer pleasure of feminism comes through in the bloggers' words, in blog

posts that bubble with excitement about attending a feminist event, or gushing

interview segments about the importance of feminist friendships. (This pleasure is

rarely acknowledged, let alone discussed, in popular discussions of feminism.) While

Keller examines the importance of these friendships and emotional connections to

blogging practice, her short overview of the affective dimensions of girl feminism is

fascinating and ought to be taken up by other scholars.

[9] This book provides a thorough overview of scholarship related to girls' activism,

blogging, and young feminism. It would be an excellent resource for scholars

investigating related issues within fan studies, Internet studies, and media or cultural

studies. However, Keller's study has its limitations, which are primarily

methodological. While Keller's participants are located within the same network, their

voices, for the most part, remain singular. Thick description and ethnographic

moments might have enlivened the text, as would have behindthescenes

examinations of letters or attendance at inperson events. It would also benefit from

diverse voices. Although locating the book within the feminist blogosphere enabled

Keller to dive deeply into a situated set of practices, examining queer girls, girls of

color, or girls with disability active in different blog communities would have opened

up a lot of possibilities.

[10] Blogging is no longer the buzzword that it was in a decade ago, and Keller's

participants have moved on to graduate school, professional careers, and feminist

identities beyond those of girl or student. But for a new generation of young women,

digital feminist activism is thriving. Many young feminists have moved to Twitter,

Snapchat, Instagram, and Tumblr, where they learn about feminism, form the same

affective attachments documented by Keller, and rapidly engage with current issues,

from high school dress codes to transphobia. This work is increasingly urgent in a

political climate where the 2016 election seemingly affirmed rape culture, and where

online communities inculcating misogynist thought are tied to global networks of white

nationalists. Keller, in this book and in some of her other recent work (Keller and

Ringrose 2015; Keller, Mendes, and Ringrose 2016; Winch, Littler, and Keller 2016),

provides important reminders to recognize and affirm young people's political work,

even when it comes in the form of selfies, memes, or hashtags.

Works cited

boyd, danah. 2007. "Why Youth (Heart) Social Network Sites: The Role of Networked

Publics." In Youth, Identity and Digital Media, edited by David Buckingham, 119–42.

Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Duits, Linda. 2008. MultiGirlCulture: An Ethnography of Doing Identity. Amsterdam:

Amsterdam University Press.

Fraser, Nancy. 1990. "Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of

Actually Existing Democracy." Social Text 25/26:56–80.

http://dx.doi.org/10.2307/466240.

Ito, Mitzuko. 2008. Introduction to Networked Publics, edited by Kazys Varnelis.

Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. http://www.networkedpublics.org/book/introduction.html.

Keller, Jessalynn, and Jessica Ringrose. 2015. "'But Then Feminism Goes Out the

Window!': Exploring Teenage Girls' Critical Response to Celebrity Feminism." Celebrity

Studies 6 (1): 132–35. http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/19392397.2015.1005402.

Keller, Jessalynn, Kaitlynn D. Mendes, and Jessica Ringrose. 2016. "Speaking

'Unspeakable Things': Documenting Digital Feminist Responses to Rape Culture."

Journal of Gender Studies. In press.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/09589236.2016.1211511.

McRobbie, Angela. 1990. Feminism and Youth Culture from "Jackie" to "Just

Seventeen." London: Palgrave Macmillan.

McRobbie, Angela, and Jenny Garber. (1976) 1993. "Girls and Subcultures." In

Resistance through Rituals: Youth Subcultures in Postwar Britain, 2nd ed., edited by

Stuart Hall and Tony Jefferson, 209–22. London: Routledge.

Winch, Alison, Jo Littler, and Jessalynn Keller. 2016. "Why 'Intergenerational Feminist

Media Studies'?" Feminist Media Studies 16:557–72.

http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/14680777.2016.1193285.

Transformative Works and Cultures, Vol 24 (2017)

Book review

International perspectives on shojo and shojo manga, edited by Masami

Toku

Nicol e Lamerichs

HU University of Applied Sciences, Utrecht, The Netherlands

[0.1] Keywords— Anime; Fandom; Transnationalism

Lamerichs, Nicolle. 2017. International Perspectives on Shojo and Shojo Manga,

edited by Masami Toku [book review]. In "Queer Female Fandom," edited by Julie

Levin Russo and Eve Ng, special issue, Transformative Works and Cultures, no. 24.

http://dx.doi.org/10.3983/twc.2017.1038.

Masami Toku, editor, International perspectives on shojo and shojo

manga: The influence of girl culture. New York: Routledge, 2016,

hardcover, $96.45 (268p) ISBN 978-1138809482; e-book, $54.95 (13538

KB) ASIN B00YY63KQM.

[1] As a visual medium, manga is influential in Japan and beyond. Manga developed

in Japan after World War II as entertainment for children, but eventually broadened to

address different age groups and genders. Since then, manga have been split into two

broad categories: comics for girls (shojo) and comics for boys (shonen). Shojo manga

were influenced by a longstanding history of girls' magazines since the Meiji era,

which portrayed girls with beautiful big eyes and slender bodies. Shojo manga are

unique. Unlike comics for boys, they do not focus on fighting, power, or ambition, but

can be understood more as comingofage stories. Shojo manga emphasize romance

and being in the world, and favor social relationships. Even when these stories are set

in fantasy worlds, or involve superheroes or magical girls, love remains a common

theme. The aesthetic and narrative differences between shojo and shonen have great

effects on readership, fandom, and authorship that are worthy of study.

[2] Broadly speaking, the popularity of manga, anime, and gaming has been the

subject of many manga studies by Japanese and nonJapanese scholars. The first

American book on manga, Manga! Manga! The World of Japanese Comics (Schodt

1983), was published over 30 years ago. Since then, manga has been studied from

different angles, focusing on its reception, fandom, visual aesthetics, transmedia

qualities, and localization. International Perspectives on Shojo and Shojo Manga

(2016), edited by Masami Toku, is a timely, global collection that examines manga and its culture. It pays specific attention to an underexplored genre of manga, namely

shojo manga. These comics cater specifically to girls, and have a long history that has

partly influenced Japanese views on girlhood. Shojo manga are unique, and wellreceived abroad. As the first collection that focuses specifically on this genre, International Perspectives on Shojo and Shojo Manga has a lot to offer to those who

study comics and their transnational reception.

[3] This collection offers a critical and global view on manga beyond the borders of

Japan. The book consists of three parts. The first part offers local perspectives on

manga culture. The second focuses on global perspectives on manga, and is written

primarily by nonJapanese scholars. These essays discuss the influence of manga on

other countries, such as Taiwan, Indonesia, and the United States. The third part is a

rather exceptional section that offers profiles and interviews with renowned shojo

manga critics and artists.

[4] Rather than discussing the chapters individually, I want to address several

themes that emerge in this collection. The first is that shojo manga can be a powerful

tool for media literacy. Several of the scholars, including Masami Toku herself, discuss

the merits of the pictorial style of manga, and how this influences children. In her

chapter, Toku integrates a case study of a young boy, Theo, and traces his interest in

manga and the development of his manga style. This chapter shows that manga is

more than a set of visual tropes, it is a form of media literacy and an aesthetic that

influences youth. She argues that shojo manga influences children's aesthetic

development, and plays an active role in how they view the world. This is also stressed

in the chapter by Michael Bitz, who ran an afterschool program in North America in

which atrisk students were encouraged to create their own graphic novels. By drawing

comics, these children could explore their own life stories and find their voice.

Interestingly, most students mimicked manga styles rather than American comics. Bitz

explains that it was difficult for children to relate to the perfect superheroes from

American comics, and that it was easier for them to identify with the realworld

problems that were depicted in manga.

[5] A second theme that emerges is the construction of girlhood, and how this

representation was affected by girls' comics within Japan. Shojo manga heavily favor

romance over fighting, and emphasize cuteness and beauty. Cuteness is the essence

of shojo, as Nozomi Masuda writes in her chapter: "The Japanese word and concept of

kawaii ('cute') has become popular in East Asia and Europe as a result of manga and

anime and related merchandise. Japan may be a unique country in that kawaii is

everywhere in Japan and is loved by people of all ages and genders. The kawaii culture

developed alongside shojo (girls') culture, with shojo manga as the benefactor" (p.

23). She writes that that the category of "shojo" was constructed in Japan's modernization process. After the middle Meiji era, a modern education system was

developed that separated male and female students in middle and high schools. The

concepts of "shojo" and "shonen" related to this division and the consumption society.

Boys and girls were conceived of as different target groups. Since the first Shojokai,

published in 1902 by Kinkodo, many shojo magazines were published that catered

specifically to girls. In the postwar era, many of these magazines slowly started to

incorporate comics, which drew from a particular visual style that was already

developed in the shojo magazines. Popular illustration styles from the magazines, with

big eyes and slender bodies, were adopted in the 1970s by famous mangaka such as

Riyoko Ikeda.

[6] Cuteness, in other words, slowly became a prominent theme in shojo manga.

This collection unpacks the kawaii culture around shojo manga primarily through the

formal analysis of comics. TsuchiyaDollase analyzes one of the most influential shojo

manga characters, Sakura Momoko's Chibimarukochan (1986–1996). The titular

character is an eternally cute little girl, a thirdgrader nicknamed "Chibimaruko" (small

round girl), who grows up in the 1970s. She is understood as kawaii, but Tsuchiya

Dollase emphasizes this is a special brand of cuteness. Unlike other shojo characters,

her cuteness does not stem from weakness, or a need to be protected by a male hero.

"What makes Maruko's kawaii interesting is that the flaws of her personality and

unfeminine qualities make her cute," the author emphasizes (p. 45). She is a cute

little character, and sometimes a bit silly, which brings readers close to the author.

This is not a romantic cuteness, but a silly cuteness that brings Japanese women

together. Other authors also note that kawaii is a complex, and multifaceted concept.

Masuda argues that today, kawaii culture has become less about visualizing or

merchandising specific characters, and has extended to embodiment in Japan and

elsewhere (pp. 29–30). Through street fashion, Japanese youth embody cuteness by

wearing cat ears, colored contact lenses, and Lolita dresses. They remind us that

manga visuals are not only flat representations, but that manga itself is a participatory

medium, which is also reenacted. Contemporary cuteness, in other words, is visceral.

[7] As a third theme, many of the chapters explore the inclusivity of shojo manga.

While romance may be considered the main theme of these comics, many of them

focus on love in a broad sense. Yukari Fujimoto writes about Sailor Moon and its

controversial reception in other countries. LGBT themes were important in the

Japanese version of the anime, but often censored outside of Japan. In Japan,

however, these themes were influential in fandom and also boosted the prominence of

samesex romances in mainstream manga. Many fan comics ("dojinshi") in Japan

inspired by Sailor Moon emphasized canonical and noncanonical LGBT romances. In

addition to this chapter, Kazumi Nagaike focuses on the popularity of "boys' love" in

shojo manga, or samesex romance between men. This genre is popular among

women, but Nagaike interviewed gay men to see how these manga affect the men's

identity politics. He argues that boys' love can also be the subject of queer reading,

and become a powerful tool for gay readers. Inclusivity, however, does not just pertain

to LGBT issues. Shige Suzuki shows that manga can also be an agent of change by

representing autism. By closely reading the manga With the Light, Suzuki argues that

manga can be persuasive, and represent difficult social issues. Prior to this manga,

autism was rarely discussed in Japan, but this manga made people aware of

disabilities. Suziki explains, "Tobe's With the Light contributed to Japanese society by visualizing the issue of autism that would otherwise have remained marginal, if not

invisible" (p. 51). These chapters argue that comics are a powerful tool for social

communication and have potential for social change.

[8] Finally, it becomes clear from this collection that manga is best understood as a

transnational phenomenon that is no longer restricted to Japan. JinShiow Chen

examines how Taiwan has developed its anime and manga fan culture and its own fan

comics scene. Cheng Tju Lim also offers an overview of manga's influences in

Southeast Asia, and provides examples from manga published in Indonesia. Finally,

Frenchy Lunning reads shojo characters as universal figures. Her chapter is a

manifesto for shojo culture and its beloved characters and tropes. She unpacks shojo

manga through the concept "kyara," a complex way of referring to characters as they

become symbols, and spill over into merchandise and visuals. Kyara refers to a kind of

protocharacter, shaped by visuals rather than by a narrative herself. Perhaps the best

example of this is Hello Kitty, who is more a mascot than a character. Lunning

explains, "the shojo character of shojo manga is an excellent example of a kyara. The

shojo has eclipsed her manga form to become a complex, multilayered, transnational

compendium of commodities that circulate in the realms of advertising and packaging,

illustration and art, toys, and girls' accessories" (p. 88). While this may seem negative,

Lunning is by no means critical of the mass consumption of shojo imagery. In fact, she

sees this as a powerful kind of femininity. Girls and their culture are now

acknowledged in the patriarchy of Japan and beyond. The shojo character is an agent

of positive change. "She is now ubiquitous, transnationally exchanged, and she has

begun to inject the feminine into culture. Having gained admittance, she has stealthily

brought in her siblings—the adult female heroines of gaming, the gay guys of yaoi,

and the transgendered hero/heroines of manga—all as subjects in her family of forms"

(pp. 98–99).

[9] The last part of the book consists of unique interviews with shojo mangaka and

critics. This will interest fans as well as scholars, since several prominent mangaka

from the 1970s are included. The authors of the earliest boys' love comics, Moto Hagio

( Heart of Thomas) and Keiko Takemiya ( Kaze to Ki no Uta) provide their views on the

craft and the development of shojo manga throughout the years. This is very

interesting reading material and worthy of studying further in some form. I wish the

editor had written a conclusion to these interviews or done more to position them. This

data is unique, but readers need to be informed of manga culture to fully understand

and judge the statements of these artists and critics.

[10] International Perspectives on Shojo and Shojo Manga is a unique book that

emphasizes the cultural specificity and historicity of shojo manga, as well as its

circulation outside of Japan. It does justice to shojo's unique imagery, and stands out

for its close readings of manga narratives. This is an ideal collection for fan scholars to

use to gain more indepth knowledge about manga as a medium, and its reception.

The book's case studies include fan comics inside and outside of Japan, and show that

manga is above all participatory. The collection is the first of its kind, and will

undoubtedly be of interest to scholars of comics, fan works, and media at large.

Moreover, it sheds light on the complex transnational dynamics of media and fandom,

of which manga is a pivotal example. The aesthetics of girlhood and cuteness in Japan

cannot be compared to how girls are represented in any other country. In this sense,

Western countries may learn a thing or two from Japan. In the United States or

Europe, we readily dismiss things that are "girly," "cute," or even feminist, but in Japan, cuteness is embraced by all, and can be a powerful agent of social change.

Document Outline

Transformative Works and Cultures, No. 24, special issue, Queer Female Fandom (June 15, 2017)