Don’t know if you’ve heard about this or not, but just yesterday, the New York Times broke a groundbreaking story about bisexual men. They exist. And also unicorns.
Okay, I’m joking about the unicorns, but apparently bisexual men are real. Which will come as a shock to a lot of my friends – and when I say “a lot of my friends,” I pretty much mean the gay guys.
For some reason, gay men don’t want to believe in bi guys. We all seem to understand that female sexuality can be fluid, but the idea of a dude who gets turned on by chicks and dudes is anathema to us. I can understand this, to a degree. For many of us, the journey to GayVille included a pit stop in BiTown. Of course, the gentlemen who briefly disembarked from the Rainbow Train and donned a bisexual identity weren’t really bi – they just weren’t ready to make the whole trip in one fell swoop. And because of this, many of us are doubtful when a man takes the trip to BiTown and stays there.
The usual criticism of bi guys – beyond the fact that they’re fooling themselves and attempting to fool everyone else – is that they’re cowards. If so-called bisexual men were only brave enough to stand up to the scorn that heterosexuals dish out to the full-on gays, a certain segment of gay guys proclaim, they wouldn’t have to pretend that they get excited at the thought of a naked woman. And the proclamation usually ends there, because these are the gay guys who get nauseous whenever the notion of a naked woman enters their brains.
When the vapors recede, another criticism of bisexual men emerges: they’re just greedy. In fact, this kind of insatiable lust, one that includes both kitties and roosters, is so out of control, so ravenous, that it’s really more of a fetish than an actual sexual orientation. Of course, this is just a slight variation on the things that Tony Perkins and Pat Robertson say about us, but that’s completely and utterly beside the point … right?
The truth that is revealed by these blatantly false stereotypes is that many gay men (and by “many gay men,” I mean a completely unscientific sampling of my own friends) don’t really know any bisexual men. Or at least they don’t knowingly know them. And let’s face it – why would a bisexual man want to come out as such to a community of Kinsey Sixes? We haven’t exactly been all that welcoming.
The truth is that bisexuality is a sexual orientation, just like homosexuality and heterosexuality. Bisexual men (and women) did not choose to be bi. Like the rest of us, they were born that way. The truth is that bisexual men (and women) don’t lust after every person on the planet, in the same way that straight guys don’t find every woman attractive, and gay men can be very particular about the men that fall into the narrow category that is their “type.” The truth is that many bisexual men (and women) find a partner and settle down in monogamous or “monogam-ish” relationships. And the fact that this makes it harder for you to tell who’s bi and who’s not is your problem, not theirs. The truth is that it takes a lot of courage, not cowardice, to openly identify as a bisexual man these days.
And that, as they say ... is that.
About a year ago, a bunch of my friends started talking about a book they had just read. The book was called The Help. They told me it was funny, and touching, and a real page-turner. Then they put a button on the conversation: “You would love it,” they said – with the emphasis on the “you” and not the “love.”
And yet … I was scared of The Help. Because just as soon as I started hearing the accolades from my friends, I started reading about the controversies surrounding the book in the press. If there was a lot to potentially enjoy about this book, there was also plenty to be scared of.
I decided it was probably best for me to avoid The Help altogether. I didn’t have strong opinions about the book; after all I hadn’t read it. When friends would continue to ask, “Have you read The Help?” – I would say no, and when they pressed me, I would tell them why. When they would counter with arguments of their own, I wouldn’t argue back – again, we were talking about a book they had read but I had not. And still, I was not moved to pick up the book and read it.
Then … I saw the preview for the upcoming film.
It’s no secret that while I’m a fairly avid reader, I’m a huge movie buff. The trailer looked funny and touching, and everything my friends told me the book was. While the book was something I could ignore or put off, I knew I was going to see this movie at some point. And this presented a problem for me. If I saw the film version of The Help, I was going to have opinions about The Help, and if I was going to have opinions about The Help, I needed to know exactly what my opinions were based on. I was going to have to read this book.
And so, I read the book.
I can confidently say that reading The Help nearly destroyed my relationship. During the three days (yes, only three days) it took me to devour Stockett’s novel, I barely looked up from my Kindle. Dishes went unwashed, laundry went unlaundered, and all conversation in the house ceased. “Sssh,” I’d say. “I’m reading.”
The book was everything my friends told me it would be and nothing like I’d hoped it wasn’t. Well … almost nothing. While I loved the plot twists, characterizations, wry observations, and overall humanity of the story, I will confess right away that “Law have mercy” never stopped being annoying. Every time I read Stockett’s dainty Ebonics, I wondered – what would have been missed if she had instead written “Lord have mercy,” or “sure enough” instead of “sho nuff”? I’m fairly sure that I would have been able to detect three distinct voices even so. I don’t have much else to say on this topic, other than I really wish that Stockett had made a different choice.
And, as annoyed as I was, I wasn’t so annoyed that I didn’t devour the book over the course of three evenings, much to Shorebird’s dismay. Honestly, I don’t know how well Stockett captured the interior landscape of a black domestic in Jackson, Mississippi during the 1960’s, but I cannot deny that the characters leapt off the page. They reacted to their situations in complex ways that nonetheless made psychological sense.
I think what I was really afraid of was that The Help would join other works of literary or cinematic art, such as Dangerous Minds or The Blind Side, in a category of books, films, and stories that I call the Tale of the Nice White Lady. The Tale of the Nice White Lady centers on a white woman who was born without the ability to form biases against people who are different from herself. Unlike you or I (or the inevitable awful, horrible, evil white people who surround her), she knows in her soul that all human beings are equally human, but that some people require saving, and that she’s just the Nice White Lady to do it. Nice White Ladies in books or movies make white people who read those books and watch those movies feel a whole lot better about themselves, mostly because they’re encouraged to identify with those Nice White Ladies, rather than examining their own privileges and prejudices. White people who enjoy the Tale of the Nice White Lady leave the theatre (or put down the book) feeling good about themselves, but not necessarily motivated to do anything to make a difference in the world. Nice White Ladies piss me off.
Skeeter, one of the narrators of The Help, is indeed a nice, white girl. But unlike the Nice White Ladies described above, she’s not immune to having some blind spots around race and her own privileged position in society. Stockett doesn’t do much to hide the fact that – at her core – Skeeter is an ambitious young writer – much more interested in publishing her first book than empowering a group of black domestics. When she asks the maids she knows to tell her their stories so that she can compile them into a controversial book that she hopes will launch her career, she is initially surprised when they refuse. They live in a world that she doesn’t understand and can't relate to. When the maids finally agree to tell their stories, they don’t do it because Skeeter has persuaded them; rather, it is presented as an act of personal courage. Yes, it helps the privileged white girl write her book – but they’re more concerned with, at long last, telling the truth. And yes, Skeeter risks a little – her standing among her white neighbors in the Junior League – but this is nothing compared to what the black women of the novel are willing to risk. Stockett knows this, and so do her readers.
This isn’t to say that there aren’t things about Skeeter to admire. She is the only white woman in the entire story who seems to have ambitions beyond marrying a nice white (rich) boy. Initially, she feels very sorry for herself, mostly because she’s a woman in a man’s world. As the story progresses, she learns that she has privileges she had never considered, and that while her oppression based on gender doesn’t make up for her privilege based on skin color, neither does her privilege make up for her oppression. The two simply co-exist, neither one being cancelled out by the other. Of course, the black women she aligns herself with have privilege with regard to neither race nor gender – something the reader is free (if not deliberately encouraged) to ponder while reading.