Between the Margins by Socks Whitmore
In September of 2020, the news about the Academy’s new diversity requirements for Best Picture candidates sparked both celebration and debate. Some people were bitter that it would now be harder for their cishet white male stories to earn accolades, even though the actual guidelines are so basic, it’s almost embarrassing not to meet them. Members of marginalized communities were excited, but also aware of the loopholes that major production companies could use to skirt systemic change, as well as other barriers that could still prevent marginalized voices from making it to the Oscars. Even with this not insignificant change to the system that is Hollywood, there is still a mountain to climb before being able to see oneself on the silver screen is a guarantee for individuals of every background.
When you are a writer from a marginalized background, be you a screenwriter, a novelist, a playwright, a poet, or something that lies betwixt, it often falls to you to tell your identity’s stories—knowing full well that you will have to fight harder than others for an audience. As a white agender/gender-nonconforming person, I have struggled to convince my non-queer family to watch Disclosure or Pose with me; though the reason for their rejection is rarely put into words, it’s clear they view these stories as too ‘topical’ and not ‘relevant’ to them. The fact that this media even exists has been revolutionary for young TGNC (Trans/Gender Non-Conforming) people, who just a decade ago had few authentic references in media for trans stories of any kind. However, because the financial ability to create mass-distributed content is often bound to privilege, the fight to produce stories like this is an uphill battle against white cis disinterest. As of 2020, the closest thing to a trans musical to reach Broadway is Hedwig and the Angry Inch (which, to be clear, is canonically NOT a trans musical), perhaps in no small part due to the numbers game that is Broadway theaters and ticket prices. If trans people can’t afford to attend the show and cis audiences can’t see its ‘relevance’ to them, what chance would a trans show stand against Wicked or The Lion King?
This contributes to a larger dilemma faced by writers of oppressed backgrounds, oversimplified into this binary decision: to tell stories unapologetically rooted in culture and identity, or to pen a ‘conventional’ narrative with a not-unreasonable number of non-cishet/white/neurotypical/able bodies as its players? As marginalized authors, we often feel like it is our sacred duty to write identity stories in order for them to exist and do good. After all, identity stories need to be told, and told authentically (read: not made casually by cishet/white/neurotypical/able-bodied people to profit off of an identity outside their own); not only so ‘minority’ groups in the audience can witness and relate to three-dimensional leading roles, but to provide the ‘majority’ group masses with the opportunity to learn about the impact of oppression and become aware of privilege barriers. The public NEEDS access to authentic art centered on sex workers, immigrants, gender transitions, disability rights—all that good stuff. But of course, even though in recent years works like Moonlight and Tangerine have been able to garner acclaim, the risk of up-and-coming storytellers writing “identity pieces” is to be told their entire practice is too ‘topical’ to sell, and to try getting a nine-to-five instead. As marginalized authors, it seems that we are expected to do the grunt work of social change in spite of society’s structural inclination towards sending our drafts back with a squinty smile and a “That’s nice, but it’s not what we’re looking for right now.”
Enter another problem: ambassador fatigue. It is SO taxing to be charged with telling your culture’s stories in the face of constant rejection, all the while surrounded by far too many white/cishet/able-washed versions of your stories going on to uncomfortable amounts of success. And when you’re in your writer’s group, or a rehearsal room, or a meeting at work, and you’re the only one in the room who doesn’t check off a certain privilege box, that weight is all the more present. No one else is going to correct pronouns, or call out an ableist term, or demand people stop referring to racial stereotypes. Just existing in your identity can use up precious spoons, and yet working on this identity-driven screenplay or musical book or novel will require you to dive even deeper into generational trauma and baggage. Sometimes you can get tired of being your identity, and just want to be you. Is it a cop-out to write that conventional story with more BIPOC and TGNC folks than the Hallmark version?
NO. Writing a boy-meets-boy-meets-boy or a wheelchair-bound Hero’s Journey or a Filipino (non-transphobic) Harry Potter is just as vital as The Color Purple or a cease-and-desist letter to M. Night Shyamalan asking him to never make another film about mental illness. Our identities are not less important when they exist beyond the plot. In fact, as long as you avoid tokenism and are writing multi-faceted characters from a rainbow of backgrounds, you are doing some of the most important work of all: illustrating that we exist, normally, just like white cishet neurotypical able-bodied folks do. We exist beyond our trauma. So maybe that other script those producers are looking at with the all-white roommates in the all-cishet apartment building in the all-able-bodied city is a little… unrealistic.
I think in a way, any story we write is an identity story. Our identities aren’t like stickers that we can peel off and leave curled up on the floor for a while. (Though as a trans person who experiences dysphoria, that sticker thing does sound kinda nice.) No matter what kind of narrative you find yourself drawn to writing, your identity will shape it into something that could only come from you. Something authentic. Something necessary. And even though crafting that story may require resilience and courage, the world will be a little richer for you having told it.
Socks Whitmore (they/them/theirs) is an agender/gender non-conforming human and a Los Angeles-based multidisciplinary performer, composer, and storyteller. Their greatest bodies of theatrical work include the full length-show We Are Here (New Voices Project winner 2019) and Pass: A Coming of Self Musical (working title).You can hear their voice and musical talents in projects like the Penguin Random House Narwhal & Jelly audiobook series and the fiction podcast Georgie Romero Is Done For, or enjoy their writing talents in projects like the indie game Georgia and the anthology podcast A Moment of Your Time. For those who are curious, they hold a BFA Performer-Composer degree from the California Institute of the Arts (CalArts) with minors in Digital Arts and Creative Writing. Learn more on their website, https://sockswhitmore.com, or follow them on socials @sockswhitmore for their latest adventures in being a professional overachiever.