You Will Live Through My Agony, Damn It
November 2003
Winnie the Pooh is a great big 'mo.
Why not? Every other kiddie character is.
It's all clearly part of our get-em-while they're young agenda. Indoctrinate from the age of two.
Harry Potter is queer, pundit Michael Bronski pronounced one summer. The four-eyed wizard-in-training lives in a closet -- literally, located under the stairs.
"Harry's differentness make him an outcast in his own family," Bronski explained in his analysis. "He is physically, emotionally, and mentally mistreated by the Dursleys. Their cruelty is calculated and dangerous -- he is, in essence repeatedly queer-bashed by them. And as in so many coming out stories, Harry is confused by his secret desires.... Harry only begins to understand when his true nature is explained to him..."
Creator J.K. Rowling has said that Harry is not gay. But so what? It's about what we want.
Truth is that the angst-ridden youngun's feelings are exactly those of any confused teenager. He needs to create a new identity apart from his family, his hormones are a mess, he is unsure of who he is and of his powers and talents. He wants desperately to be different.
At that age, didn't we all say that no one understood us? And this before I even realized I was a lesbian.
But we mature gay men and lesbians have claimed the torture of being a teenager for our own. And only for us. It's the torture of coming out. It's our culturally defining moment, and we're obsessed with it.
It can limit our identities as adults. And it makes it easy -- a requirement, even -- for us all to co-opt... well, everything connected to the agony and ecstasy of youth.
And so we have, somewhat pathetically, tried desperately to do so. (And confused hetero kids should resent it -- some of it's theirs -- but they're too messed up to notice that we've taken it over.)
SpongeBob SquarePants has been outed. Macho Tinky Winky's purse was a dead giveaway. (Well, a bigoted Christian nut came up with that one first, but by God, we grabbed on fast and wouldn't let go.) The Ann of Green Gables books are riddled with lesbo-erotic imagery. Even Asterix and Obelix spend all their time together; two guys who have occasional crushes on girls, but who always return to each other after a quickie.
Tintin's pretty-boy looks shock the old drunkard Captain Haddock off the sauce. A sobered-up Daddy then uses his surprise inheritance to pay for Tintin's every need.
Oh, if only every hustler could be like Tintin, and retain his fresh-faced looks -- and power -- forever.
Even though more and more teens are coming out without any of the trauma that their elders went through, us oldsters won't let go. In fact, we'll deny that things are better, because we still believe that much of our identity comes from our pain.
So in solidarity with my lit-crit colleagues, and in allegiance to the insecure need to claim ever more and more of mainstream culture as ours, I say: It is time we brought Winnie the Pooh into the fold, loudly and proudly.
After all, Pooh is a Bear, and the obese and mustachioed Obelix has borne the burden all alone long enough. (Asterix is too skinny to be a proper bear -- he's more of an otter, really.) So perhaps this reclaiming of a bear will help push us forward, as a community.
Winnie -- quite the girly name -- is surrounded by males. Owl, Eeyore, Rabbit, Christopher Robin, Roo. Only Kanga is a real woman, and she's the perfect fag hag: taking care of everyone; there when needed; left out otherwise.
Pooh's life is very un-ordinary. It's fabulous, even. He seeks out bees -- for their stingers? He loves honey. He sings songs -- he's a very creative sort. Pooh goes on expotitions to far-off places, just as we run off to the gay village. And he ends up hanging with a group of odd creatures and outcasts trying to build community.
You might think that Pooh's not all that smart. But in fact he's merely stymied by a culture he doesn't quite understand. He's perfectly in his element when surrounded by his pals and fellow homosexuals.
Of course, the downside is that bigots will be excited by the idea of being able to connect homosexuality with pooh (coprophilia). But fetishists must also be welcomed into our happy lesbian and gay family. We will make no excuses for Pooh.
I had written as far as this when Piglet looked up and said in his squeaky voice, "What about Me?"
"My dear Piglet," I said, "the whole column is about you."