The Demise of Bury Your Gays

Volatile queer representation on screen is so common that there are coined phrases to tag such mistreatments. These include "Bury Your Gays," "LGBT Fans Deserve Better" and movements like the "The Lexa Pledge" (Carbone). With an incredible amount of attention and fan focus on these issues, large-scale shows such as the CW's The 100 and Hulu’s The Handmaid's Tale have been publicly accused of blatant exploitation through the deaths of specifically queer and minority characters. This mistreatment is more than just what is on screen and creates a toxic, consumable environment in the industry and to those who view it. Ultimately, when a character’s demographic is poorly represented to begin with, to then kill off that character is absurd and counter-productive to a culture that is already prone to such violence. The idea that media content does not affect mass culture or public perceptions is simply untrue, and ignorance of this leads to an already alarming rate of violence against these communities as seen with the death of The 100’s Lexa, and its resulting backlash. The 100, a show following a group of teenagers from space, banished to a post-apocalyptic earth to test its inhabitability featured a recurring character named Lexa (Alycia Debnam-Carey). She was first introduced in the series’ sixth episode of the second season, titled “Fog of War.” She was known as “Heda,” meaning Commander, who led a group of allied clans on Earth. She was known as a fierce but fair leader and warrior, quickly becoming a fan-favorite, who was also openly queer. On March 3, 2016, The 100, aired an episode titled, "13." In this episode, a stray bullet killed Lexa after sleeping with another queer character, Clarke (Eliza Taylor), just a few scenes before. Aside from the fact that she died, these two details concerning her death are particularly disturbing. The cause of her murder was a stray bullet, shot without thought or intention, a sinister metaphor for the ways that queer characters are thought of or valued within media, as if her death was simply a side effect or accidental byproduct of unrelated 3 circumstances. Lexa's murderer would not be held responsible, nor would any true blame be placed in regards to her death. The timing of her death is also symbolic, as instances of queer death or torture often come after a point of personal happiness or achievement. The consummation of Lexa and Clarke's love for one another came moments before being ripped away. Fans saw this as a pure betrayal, particularly intense because The 100 championed itself as a beacon of positive representation, being the first network show to feature a bisexual main character. This outrage was not sparked by just the loss of a character, but for the unnecessary manner it occurred through an accidental one-off bullet and the specificity of what Lexa represented in the queer community, an unfortunately repeated pattern in television. Such portrayals of queer characters and communities on screen have proven to be inherently false and offensive depictions that deeply affect viewers. A staggering majority of queer characters are either met with violence, rape, and murder, or stripped of the right to be happy, which is disproportionately awarded to their straight counterparts. A few of these characters include Poussey Washington of Orange is the New Black, Barbara Kean from Gotham, Annie Kaplan from The Blacklist, Monica Gallagher from Shameless, and Mia Rochland from Rogue (Carbone). All of these characters were murdered, all within the same 2016-2017 television season—far too frequent to be a coincidence. This trend was not new this year and even directly followed the deadliest recorded year for queer women in 2015-2016, “who accounted for 10% of all deaths on TV, a number highly disproportionate with the rate of representation” (Carbone). To further violate an already poorly represented community by unnecessarily killing its characters is an alarming depiction of how society views these communities. 4 Outside just the scope of on-screen depictions, the LGBT community is a major target for hate crime—specifically defined as criminal acts or violence that is “motivated, in whole or in part, by the offender's bias against a race, religion, disability, sexual orientation, or ethnicity/national origin” (Hate Crime). Violence against this group for simply existing within an identity has been a major issue in The United States alone, where LGBT people are “the most likely targets of hate crimes” (Park and Mykhyalyshyn). The statistics of these crimes are staggering; 20-25% of lesbian and gay identifiers experience hate crimes, and continued violence against transgender people are so strong that life expectancy is only 35. These numbers are likely not even entirely accurate as many hate crimes go unreported because “victims are fearful of outing themselves to family members or employers … and most crimes are not reported to the police, and those that are reported are not classified as hate crimes by local jurisdictions” (Park and Mykhyalyshyn). Feeling unable to even report violence shows how unsafe and vulnerable queer communities truly are. The terrorist attack in Orlando, Florida at Pulse nightclub where 49 people were killed was the deadliest attack against LGBT people in US history. The location of the massacre and motivation of the terrorist irrevocably define it as a hate crime. These statistics and this horrific attack are in no way equal to the death of a character, but when all occur in the same year, all in spaces that promise safety and freedom to marginalized communities, whether it be a nightclub or a television show, the LGBT community is repeatedly shown that violence is a byproduct of their identity. It is created in the writers’ room, fuelled by a society driven by heteronormativity and patriarchal values, and then carried out on-screen. This demonstration of power through violence in the media is representative of the way many minority groups face violence in life, and misguided ideas about entire groups of people lead to deaths similar to Lexa’s. The privilege 5 of not only being able to enjoy television but to also see a positive reflection of personal identity is almost exclusively granted to non-marginalized groups—direct violence in media is one of the starkest examples. We are not past systematic violence against queer people as a society, nor should we pretend to be by normalizing it in our media. Queerbaiting in Sci-Fi With increased visibility of queer characters in the media, such as Lexa, comes an equal response from queer communities who identify with those representations. Since there is a lack of queer characters on screen, queer fan communities often flock to any individual show, film or platform that produces these representations. This stems from desperation for content, and due to scarcity, even if a minor character or storyline reflects a marginalized identity, viewership is warranted. These fan groups have often found community through social media platforms including Twitter and Tumblr tools that help amplify voices and interest in shows or characters that would not have been able to before. Through this movement, media industry executives and producers have begun to understand this niche and very passionate assemblage of fans. They then exploit these groups in order to help garner more support for a particular show or production without any real intention of portraying authentic queer characters; this strategy to solely gain certain viewership has been coined “queerbaiting,” or the practice of hinting at, but never actually depicting, queer-romantic relationships. Creators have found this to be a no-risk plan of action precisely because these marginalized groups have no other outlets for representation and because of this, will gift the content with attention and views, as seen with The 100. This practice is not limited to, but heavily used within the science fiction genre, where the genre itself often becomes a popular defense. 6 Science fiction shows including The 100 claim that in a world categorized by death and destruction, no characters’ safety is guaranteed, therefore content should not be responsible for violence concerning oppressed groups. This argument would be valid if it were true, however, one of the most common tropes within dystopian stories is the disproportionate amount of minority to majority deaths. Some of these recent character deaths include shows like Vikings (2013- ), The Walking Dead (2010- ), and Sleepy Hollow (2013-2017). As the numbers of these specific dead continue to rise, there becomes a “sneaking suspicion that certain characters on the TV landscape wear a Cloak of Invincibility” (Ryan). White-straight men are less likely to die, while the deaths around them are only “used to prod [their own] growth or vengeance” (Ryan). Clearly, the writers and creators of these deaths only see minority characters as expendable, yet use the blanket statement that “anyone could die” to reject criticism. Similar themes to what transpired with Lexa are found in The Handmaid’s Tale. This show is also set in a post-apocalyptic America, and run by a totalitarian government that only sees women as property or means for reproduction. In the episode, “Late,” an openly queer character was explicitly murdered on screen. Coming after a sentence to death for being gay, Martha (Laura Wilson) is hanged from a crane as her lover, Ofglen (Alexis Bledel), watches tied and gagged in the back of a truck. The brutal death is shown through a tracking shot, and the moments leading up to the event feature two women helplessly taken to a fate they cannot escape, unable to even speak to one another. The way that science fiction often “portrays dominant conventions, practices and structures as normative” (Johnston 30), such as the killing of minority characters, is ultimately a disservice to the genre as a whole. This is not to suggest that science fiction should be a happy-go-lucky depiction of reality, it can still be gritty, intense, and unflinching, yet grounded in inclusivity. At its best, science fiction “creates a new or expanded worldview” (Johnston 1). So when the only people who 7 die are criminals, queer, and people of color, it sends incredibly damaging messages to viewers and fans, particularly jarring for those who identify with these characters. Lexa and Martha are perfect examples, and it is not unusual for a queer person’s death to be deemed unimportant, where happiness will always be met with some form of despair (Dowling, Rothenberg). Queerbaiting, though blatantly opportunistic and deceitful, is a double-edged sword; as shows pander and give attention to audience groups, viewers’ power is validated. It is an inadvertent signifier that queer people’s dollars and viewership are worth just as much as straight people’s. Through creators' acknowledgment of these queer communities, enough to write in "bait," there is a direct reflection of the influence these queer communities have. This power was extremely amplified after Lexa’s death on The 100; the showrunner, Jason Rothenberg, lost over 10k followers on Twitter in less than 24 hours after the episode aired; hashtags or topics on Twitter including #LGBTFansDeserveBetter and “CW Stop Jason Rothenburg” earned world-wide trends and over 100k retweets; the following week’s episode was an all-time low, with viewer count dropping to 1.25 million from the previous week’s 1.39 million; a donation page for the Trevor Project in Lexa’s name has raised over $170k with more than 4000 donations, and a movement called “The Lexa Pledge” urges creators to sign a pledge denouncing queerbaiting, a promise to work towards inclusive, honest representation (Jamal). Queer audiences have begun to gain and recognize their own agency in ways that impact more than just fandom. This is a demand to be understood and a direct reflection of how deep-rooted the issue is and for change to occur. Queerbaiting has become an almost common occurrence throughout modern media, though through this growing power, many queer communities are forcing creators to think past conventions of genre or trope. These viewers will not be taken advantage of through intentionally misleading representation, and as seen through 8 The 100, will force creators to see the consequences. If they want to continue to use the advantages of a committed community, they must follow through with inclusivity. Intersectionality Poor representation is an issue that affects more than just one category of queer, but essentially every identity that is not white, straight and male. Known as intersectionality, this idea “highlights the need to account for multiple grounds of identity when considering how the social world is constructed” (Crenshaw 2), complicating the idea of a single-layered identity. Intersectionality does not focus on one dimension of identity such as gender, race, or sexuality, but confronts a multiplicity that reflects dynamics in power structures. Poor representations often come with a neglect to understand intersectionality, resulting in blanketed depictions of characters and projecting sameness, even within complex identities. In the context of representation and marginalized characters on screen, there is a hierarchy of oppression that increases in severity in relation to how oppressed a particular character is within society; there are queer people, and then there are queer women, and then there are queer women of color. How much on-screen punishment a character “earns” is directly correlated to how deeply they may satisfy such a checklist of traits. This cycle is a continuous invalidation of as many marginalized groups as possible, striving to only depict negativity and exclusion to distance audiences who do not fit the mold of a heteronormative society. Judith Butler, the author of Gender Trouble, discusses many issues related to the binary of heteronormativity and societal stigmas that the perpetuation of gender performance manifests. She states “ ...the law produces and then conceals the notion of ‘a subject before the law’ in order to invoke the discursive formation as a naturalized foundational premise that subsequently 9 legitimates that law’s own regulatory hegemony” (Butler 3), to clarify how power structures intentionally dismiss or actively avoid marginalized people to argue the lack of an issue. Specifically, a racist, patriarchal and heteronormative society creates the issue of marginalization by profiting from its power structures and then refuses to address the problem when it is culturally manifested. However, those who do not fit the categories deemed relevant within society exist whether or not they are validated. Validation, though, lacks substance unless it breaks down the structure that created its need. Butler also discusses how “the universal person and the masculine gender are conflated” (Butler 13), formulating a sense of normalcy within the identity of white, straight men and the idea that all else is deemed alternative. Butler notes that the identity viewed by society as “normal” is usually the one that holds the most power and consequently deems what is “other” (Butler 14). This speaks to the larger power structure of the patriarchy and reflection of fear for anything that is contradictory. From this fear stems anger and violence, or in terms of creator content, anger and violence towards certain characters on screen. Systemic oppression does not simply stop at straight vs queer or white vs non-white, but is decidedly more intersectional and comprehensive. Historically, validation and pursuit of social justice have followed this hierarchy as queer rights campaigns began with white, gay men in the 1980s, lacking any notion of a broader queer audience, including women or people of color until much later, as marriage equality and trans rights became culturally relevant in the mid-2000s. In this search for equality, a constant starting point of those least oppressed perpetuates such oppression and the power structures that need dismantling. It is a fair point to state that all characters should be treated equally and within the same sphere of creative control, while treatment in this context is not necessarily only good things 10 happening to everyone all the time, but a basis of respect in terms of story, character development, and significance; however, this notion is often misconstrued as eliminating all differences, which is ultimately problematic, as the topic of color-blind casting; an issue that molds into the wider scope of queer representation through the multiplicity of the LGBT community. Many people involved with the industry view color-blind casting as a new trend that is diversifying Hollywood. For example, a Deadline article titled “Pilots 2015: The Year of Ethnic Casting” shows a reporter’s explanation of the “uptick” of non-white casting, using backhanded compliments and critiques of actresses such as Viola Davis and showrunner Shonda Rhimes. She describes these women’s careers as “hot [commodities]” or a “current wave of ethnic programming” (Andreeva), entirely invalidating them as anything other than a check on a diversity list. This type of commentary categorizes the inclusion of non-white characters as a fad without identifying long-lasting effects or its inherent flaw of lacking specificity. At its core, this assurance of “diversity” is ultimately counterproductive and does not serve the purpose it seems to promise in avoidance of the problem instead of working to fix it. In a perfect world, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and gender would be irrelevant, with storytelling at the forefront of all production; though our world is fundamentally flawed with power structures firmly in place, confirming the issues of diversity are not only important but essential to all content. Color-blind casting or creation without genuine thought of inclusion negates the specificity of those not benefiting from a patriarchal, heteronormative society where anything not categorizable as straight, white and male is alternative. In other words, while it is important to not simply create stories to check off minority characters, it is more important to focus on how these characters may serve to contradict and fight systemic power dynamics in an honest and informed perspective. 11 Kristen Warner, author of The Cultural Politics of Colorblind TV Casting interrogates the paradox of what it means to cast without color. Proponents of diversity in media have become more culturally popular and genuinely viewed as a step towards progress; however, it is an “overly simplistic act” (Warner 131). Diversity alone does not fully embody positive representation as it negates why representation exists in the first place. The rejection of authenticity and specificity in minorities does nothing but cloud content with watered down experiences. Warner describes the experience of people of color who “want to belong and desire to believe in the collective ‘we’ but who, on the other hand, also recognize that the cost of joining is that their difference cannot be acknowledged and, what is more, that even to suggest that difference might be important would transform them into instigators of racial division” (Warner x). Hollywood sees inclusion so reductively that it is only “focused at the level of physical difference” (Warner 132) Warner argues that meaningful inclusivity is not centered around skin color, but individual experiences beyond what is white. She proves the consistent paradox created by shows that boast their service to diversity when casting non-white actors, like Bonnie in The Vampire Diaries (2009-2017), as devaluing race and turning it into a large, ambiguous idea of normalcy. This sense of normalcy or default is directly related to whiteness. There is a critical difference between promoting spaces with multiplicity in identity and “universalized character types synonymous with white mainstream values [that] displace the racial and ethnic specificity of the actors portraying them” (Warner 2). Similarly, color-blind casting also seems to condone the practice of casting white actors for perceived non-white parts in its name. This argument stems from the idea that if actors of color may be cast in traditionally white roles, like an entirely non-white cast of Founding Fathers in Hamilton (2015- ) or the casting of a black Hermione in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child 12 (2016- ), then the same should be said for the white actors being cast in non-white roles. This again ties back to the notion that if society lacked oppression and institutionalized power structures that argument would be valid. Since that is not, in fact, the world entertainment exists in, casting white actors for non-white parts is essentially white-washing, or the erasure of nonwhite identity with what is seen as “normal”: the white experience. You can’t argue for equality by propping up behaviors or practices that continue to instill marginalization and otherness. Color-blind casting, misguided attempts at diversity and a general ignorance of deeply rooted issues in identity are ways in which poor on-screen treatments and representations are perpetuated. These subjects are especially harmful when fronted with the guise of good intentions as those in power claim they are working to solve issues when they are simply working superficially in ways that will garner media praise or attention and do not look more deeply at comprehensive change. Warner argues that there is little hope for successful colorblind casting in a post-racial world, though fighting against ignorance and striving for specificity in inclusion would be steps in the right direction. The queer community and its reflected depiction in media is not a single-layer issue, and must be considered for the importance of intersectionality in order to properly pursue representation. A dangerous belief in diversity or color-blind casting leads to an erasure of what gives definition to those who do not identify as white, straight and male. This pursuit, included in the LGBT community, can only stem from an understanding of specificity or distinction rather than the idea that sameness trumps difference. Starting Somewhere With any cultural shift or intention of altering norms comes the task of understanding 13 where to start. There has been an increase of queer representation on screen within the last decade as more characters that contradict traditional depictions are more prominent in the mainstream; these include major network shows like NBC’s Will & Grace (1998- ), HBO’s Game of Thrones (2011- ), and How to Get Away with Murder (2014- ) on ABC. These examples could be a case to state that with more visibility, comes better representation and a step forward. While visibility is important, the quality of that visibility determines its societal productivity and unfortunately, not all representation that has been on screen is good representation. It is difficult to condone and accept characters that wear the label of queer or women or non-white and yet are treated in ways that perpetuate the systems they are created to contradict. Warner explains this pitfall as the necessity for writers to see “representation [as] complex and require forethought before assuming characterization and storyline affect everyone the same” (Warner 155). This idea directly rejects the notion of stereotype and trope, as representation is not a “zero-sum game” (Warner 155). Simply having a minority on screen, often stereotyped or non-specific, is not enough to satisfy viewers, as much as some creators would like to believe. However, many viewers do not have an option of rejecting poor representations and unfortunately must decide between poor representation and no representation. This choice that queer audiences must face is ultimately whether or not content, a show, or a character is viable enough to support. Should the fact that an underrepresented identity exists on screen be cause to overlook other potential problematics? Rejection or refusal to lend support to a show containing queer characters may inadvertently send a message to creators and industry executives that these shows or characters are inherently unviable, which is entirely untrue. For example, in season two of CW’s Supergirl (2015- ), an entire season long coming-out arc was written for one of the main characters, Alex, and by the end of the season she was engaged to 14 another queer character, Maggie. However, just four episodes into the next season their engagement and entire relationship came to an end. Producers cited contract and scheduling issues with actors, though dropped ratings and poor reviews may speak otherwise. This fear of needing to support all representation produced, or else the community will be pushed to the wayside, is where the difficult line of “needing to start somewhere” comes into play. It is okay as fans and viewers to maintain accountability and honesty for all forms of representation, especially those who are traditionally underserved. Alexander Doty, the author of Making Things Perfectly Queer, discusses the complexity of queerness and how queer identifiers can be socially influential outside of just a physical act. He argues that culture as a whole may be seen through a queer lens and “to identify as a queer means to be politically radical and ‘in your face’: to paradoxically demand recognition by straight culture while at the same time rejecting this culture” (Doty xiv). While queer people are inherently a minority and do not conform to the majority, the presence of this community is unavoidable and critical in the larger scale of culture. To push through previously established normative behaviors and ideologies means asserting inherent differences into the normative ideology, and refusing to allow room for misinterpretations or appropriations, thus promoting “the process of queer identity formation” (Doty 7). Valued queer representation goes beyond the scope of simply allowing a queer person to exist, but to understand how and why a queer person exists within the scope of a heteronormative society. This is historically counter to the mainstream idea of identity within Hollywood where, universally, the only perceivable behavior is straight. Doty discusses that within a patriarchal, heterosexual society, the interests of that society include a media that “should want to devalue any potential site of [queer] pleasures in 15 mass culture” (Doty 41). Essentially, when vying for constructive, meaningful counterculture representation, you are radicalizing society as a whole. The notion of needing to start somewhere is important to the conversation, though does not mean poor representation should be void of criticism. The argument for proper representation is intricate and complex, and will certainly not end with an anything goes baseline. Doty also argues that mass culture is constantly being influenced by queer culture, whether that influence is acknowledged by the masses or not, often left “[in] the shadowy realm of connotation (Doty xi). Despite this, queer identities have helped shape and transform modern society for centuries, by generating “a completely fresh aesthetic—in fashion, of course, but then also in dance and cinema and theater, and ultimately in popular culture” (Abraham). More specifically, figures like Oscar Wilde and his refusal to maintain traditional gender roles, the origins of the style of dance known as vogue by Harlem drag queens, or Doty’s analysis of sitcoms like I Love Lucy (1951-1967) have all helped cause cultural shifts, though very rarely awarded credit.. Doty notes that queer creators in the media are intrinsically part of this influence and a fight towards viewing queerness beyond subtext and interpretation is vital. A queer person should not exist within a show as a tick-mark or permission to claim a diverse cast. These representations need to be meaningful and understood without appropriation, otherwise, “straight culture [may] use queerness for pleasure and profit … without admitting to it” (Doty xii). This ultimately leads to repeated patterns of exploitation. For example, Disney's live-action remake of Beauty and the Beast garnered massive hype and praise when the film's director revealed that LaFou would have an "exclusively gay moment" (Romano), brandishing the title for the first gay Disney character. Despite the hype, publicity, and outrage over this comment, the reality of LaFou’s "gayness" was nothing more than a split-second scene of 16 potentially queer subtext. LaFou made subtle remarks towards his male companion Gaston, which may suggest an un-requited crush or hint at his sexuality, and there is a brief moment of the character dancing with another man moments before the credits role. This left many viewers, advocates and opponents alike, asking “that was it?” By declaring the existence of a queer character, Disney’s supposed first, to then completely under deliver is an example of how manipulative industry executives and media treat the queer community and its hopes of representation. Because this issue is prevalent throughout a majority of the creative process, it is important to analyze its perceived source, before ever hitting screens. Behind the Camera Michelle Mama, a queer writer, and director who helped champion the Lexa Pledge in 2016 understands the climate of queerbaiting and invalid representation as ever-evolving. She saw first-hand the pushback and refusal of creators of The 100 and other projects to make a commitment denouncing such harmful tactics. Ownership and self-importance in creation often overrule a need to service universal audiences, despite proof of such monumental backlash. Mama found an effective way to get writer’s attention is essentially belittling their content. Blatantly describing storylines or characterizations that follow trope and stereotype as “poorly constructed and lazy” (Mama) is how she believes progress will come about. If creators and executives won't listen when social value is at stake, they certainly will when told their work is uninformed; which, when following such tired tropes and stereotypes, it is. Mama believes that "change starts in the writers' room," (Mama) and focusing these stories at their core in honest, productive ways will lead to a more positive future on screen. The most important tool a creator can have is a “unique point-of-view that deserves to be heard” (Mama). Whether it be an 17 experience as a woman of color, a closeted teenager or a transgender activist, all identities that inform society outside the norm should be valued and given a place on screen. Because this idea essentially goes against the grain of history and the cultural status quo, it is not easy to follow through. Mama understands this as a time to “passionately advocate for change at a fundamental level” (Mama), specifically in the places where content creation begins. Ultimately, power of production and expression on screen is left to those behind the camera as creators. These creators, as writers, producers, directors, heads of casting and showrunners, maintain the ability to tell stories as from their perspective, in service to a narrative and individual agency. A majority of these positions are held by straight, white men. According to The Writer’s Guild of America, only 29% of employed television writers are women, and only 13% of writers are minorities (Deggans). This obvious exclusion and reliance upon one perspective is a reflection of patriarchal value and its concentration within media through the demonstration of what, or who, is significant and should be serviced in society through created content. Although there are characters and depictions that differ from the straight white male category, the mind behind crafting those characters often does not, causing a monumental disconnect between creator and character. This is not to say that writers are unable to write from outside their own sphere of identity, but when doing so, there should always be outside influences that are involved and experience the intended perspectives. When this does not happen, there is an exponentially higher chance for stereotyped and trope depictions to become representation. Creators may not set out intentionally for this to occur, but intentions are not what ends up on screen and responsibility for what audiences see, and the larger social issues that condone such content, is reserved for those who are in power. 18 Many creators reject the idea of social responsibility, citing creative ownership or simply revert to service of their own story, whether or not that result is beneficial to cultural issues like queer representation. This includes Rothenberg who stated, “In [The 100], all relationships start with one question: ‘Can you help me survive today?’ It doesn’t matter what color you are, what gender identity you are, or whether you’re gay, bi or straight” (Rothenberg). Bruce Miller, the showrunner of The Handmaid’s Tale had similar sentiments, claiming “[The Handmaid’s Tale] is operating on a different plane than [the Bury Your Gays] conversation” (Dowling). This sense of ultimate control with little regard to social repercussions is exactly what harmful representations are born of. A perceived threat to influence or authority, particularly within creative communities, in order to shed light on marginalization, is usually met with immediate, instinctive rejection or a that-is-not-my-problem mentality. Creators don't often think their sphere of work should align with cultural relevance and choose to only focus on how their characters participate within the frame of their story world. A false sense of ownership, stemming from very narrow and trivial worldviews, prevents the progress of representation within marginalized groups. No matter how desperately creators wish to believe, no form of art exists in a vacuum. Everything adds to the conversation of society whether it be beneficial or detrimental. All creators should be socially conscious and actively fight towards oppressive power structures through their art, using privileges that helped them gain a platform to dismantle systemic injustices. “Art attempts to dismantle power, otherwise, it is simply propaganda” (Esposito). 19 Conclusion The “Bury Your Gays” trope and similar poor representations are examples of how the media, and Hollywood as a whole, must change in order to move forward, and leave behind an ultimately destructive historical reverence. The status of Hollywood has always been thought of as malleable or ever-evolving; with an industry propelled by culture, the only constant has to be change. This has resulted in multiple revolutions or transformations, often referred to as an overtaking of a New Hollywood “emerging from the Old” (Lucia 87). Most of these New Hollywood emergences are defined by aesthetic, style, cinematic grammar, and technology. For example, the era of Hollywood Renaissance, which “stretched roughly from 1967 to 1976,” (Lucia 88) boasts a large collection of content that many modern filmmakers cite as a source of creative inspiration, and a traditional canon or Classicism. While these films’ contributions to the world of cinema and entertainment should not be diminished or overlooked, this sense of obsessive remembrance is often over glorified. When studying and identifying what exactly targets the revolutionary nature of a period such as the Hollywood Renaissance, its defining characteristics are internalized and minimal; the change was how stories were being told, not who was telling them. Creators, those in power, and even the portrayed stories were almost exclusively of the same demographic. These changes were never in identity or storytelling at its core. Variations of similar stories told by variations of the same person does not truly rectify a revolution. This value of sameness, is how tropes like “Bury Your Gays” are perpetuated. The consistency and intense reverence of this system strengthen exclusivity within Hollywood. If what critics, professors, creators and audiences continuously point back to as great or valued is inherently white, straight and male, the resulting message is that white, straight and male are what should be aspired to. This standard is holistically limiting and reductive when 20 compared to the vastness of experience and identity of humankind. No single demographic should hold the accessibility and opportunity to tell stories. The way forward, and essentially the new cultural epoch, should not be a group of young white men succeeding a group of older white men, but an entirely new era of inclusivity. This is by no means an unachievable objective, and cultural shifts within the entertainment industry have already begun effective change. While there have been multiple, notable pitfalls and obstructions to queer representation on television, such as The 100, these instances are not entirely negative. Discourse is power; meaning the ability to call out mistreatments within a marginalized community renders the opportunity to then speak back in ways that will create change. The repercussions of these events are what will remain important and lasting because of this power. The Lexa Pledge has encouraged creators to write and develop more thoughtful content, the response of showrunner Jason Rothenberg has encouraged those in power to not make the same mistakes, and donations to The Trevor Project under Lexa’s name demonstrates the tangibility and honesty of how poor representation affects real people. It has been proven that the continuation and validation of this pushback when entire groups are ostracized or simply used as a ratings ploy will not stop. Creating space is another incredible tool that those within minority communities can do and have been doing for decades within the industry. When a creator, actor, writer, producer or anyone involved in a project asserts power in themselves as an advocate for or, more importantly, an identifier of, an underrepresented group there is a path left for those that come behind, creating room and opportunity that was not possible before. Such trailblazers include Ellen Degeneres, who came out on her hit sitcom, Ellen, in 1997, RuPaul, the host of RuPaul’s Drag Race since 2009, Todd Haynes, the director of films I’m Not There (2007) and Carol (2016) and Laverne Cox, a trans activist appearing on the Netflix show Orange is the New Black. Without the 21 beginnings of these individuals and a multitude of others like them, with simply their public presence as a political act, later further representative progress would not exist. It isn’t difficult to acknowledge and appreciate the space these creators have made in context with even the most recent television awards seasons. Lena Waithe was the first ever queer, African-American woman to win an Emmy in 2017 for best writing in a comedy series for her work on the Netflix show, Master of None. Not only was simply her win important, but the episode credited, “Thanksgiving,” revolves around Waithe’s real coming out story, giving viewers an intimate look at what her experience was growing up. Another important win was for outstanding writing for a limited series to the Black Mirror episode “San Junipero,” which depicts a bi-racial romance between two women and a happy ending. These two awards in largely popular categories are helping to further define the benefits and quality that come from telling honest, diverse stories. An assertion of importance and a demand to be recognized is where speaking truth to power leads, inevitably proving that creating space can cause reflective, cultural shifts. To quote Waithe, “The things that make [the LGBT community] different, those are our superpowers - every day when you walk out the door and put on your imaginary cape and go out there and conquer the world, because the world would not be as beautiful as it is if we weren’t in it” (Dockterman). Despite these recent achievements, the most important and persistent question is whether or not progress is sustainable. The transformative nature of Hollywood does not necessarily mean its change will be ameliorative or follow growth, and small pockets of positive representation may not last through a season. It cannot be negotiable whether or not this answer comes from natural industry trends or a passing fad for profit, but must be found in a constant conversation and relentless attention to who and what is being created. Those within the industry 22 must keep each other accountable and continue to inform what is constructive as well as what is demonstrative on screen. Passivity or ignorance is not acceptable, and now is the time to push, relentlessly, until poor representation and minority mistreatment is an issue of the past. New generations will outnumber the old and with it a more comprehensive understanding of identity.

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