Bisexual Invisibility and Erasure

The following essay is part of CRUSH, a zine edited by Kat Pruss and published in September 2017 as part of Toronto’s inaugural Bi Arts Festival.

At least twice this year, a right-wing politician in North America has used the Queen song “We Are the Champions” to celebrate a victory—Donald Trump, when he won the U.S. presidency, and Andrew Scheer, when he was nominated leader of the Conservative Party of Canada. The irony was not lost on many. In both cases, people quickly took to social media to highlight the oddity of a conservative using a Queen song to celebrate his triumph. The faux pas, many argued, was owing to the fact that Queen’s frontman, the late Freddie Mercury, was gay. The problem with this is that Freddie Mercury never professed to be gay. He had relationships with both men and women. In fact, Mercury wrote the song “Love of My Life” about Mary Austin, a woman. For me, these reactions highlighted the problems of bisexual invisibility and bisexual erasure—that is, when bisexuality is ignored or dismissed because it is not seen as a real or valid sexual identity.

The fact that Freddie Mercury is known to have had relationships with men is sufficient for some people to define him as gay. But if Mercury himself never said that he was gay, why would we label him as such? It is important to note that Freddie Mercury was not very political, and he was not interested in discussing his sexual orientation with the press. That was his right, as it is everyone’s right to decide how to self-define and whether to share this information. Although he never came out as bisexual either, he did have romantic relationships with both men and women. Therefore, it is worthwhile reflecting on why so many of us assume that same-sex attraction strictly means homosexuality.

In the book Bi: Notes for a Bisexual Revolution, Shiri Eisner (2013) suggests that among the many assumptions about bisexuality, the most popular one may be that it simply does not exist. Consequently, there is an “impression that bisexuality doesn’t appear in popular culture (or indeed anywhere) because it really doesn’t exist. This also causes people to ignore (erase) bisexuality where it does appear for that very same reason (What you know is what you see)” (p. 37). In other words, we tend to define a person’s sexuality on the basis of what we think we know about them. Not everyone who is bisexual, pansexual, or otherwise non-binary in their attractions (hereinafter bi+) comes out in the same way that people who are gay or lesbian do. And indeed, some simply cannot due to the risks involved. Ask anyone who has tried to tell people that they are bi+ and you will hear stories about being told some of the following:

“You’re just going through a phase.”

“Pick a side!”

“If you haven’t slept with a guy and a girl (or sometimes, if you haven’t had relationships with both guys and girls), how can you know?”

“You’re greedy!”

“I can’t trust you to be faithful to me.”

Just as it is for people who identify as gay and lesbian, coming out as bi+ can be difficult. As the examples above indicate, such a declaration can be met with doubt, denial, or suspicion. And once a bi+ person has relationships out in the open, their sexual orientation will usually be defined according to whom they are with—again, as Eisner (2013) states, “What you know is what you see.”

My observation is that bisexual invisibility and erasure are related to the phallocentrism inherent to patriarchy. In other words, one’s sexuality is defined according to one’s proximity to the penis. Consider the term “gold-star lesbian”—that is, a woman who identifies as a lesbian and has never slept with a man, as if that somehow makes her purer than a woman who has slept with one or multiple men. Accordingly, if a bisexual woman is dating a man, she will be defined as heterosexual. She may, however, be seen as someone who occasionally has sex with women, but probably as a performance she puts on to arouse heterosexual men. Furthermore, if a bisexual man is dating a man, he will be defined as gay, and any attraction he might have to women will be dismissed or ignored because others will look at him and see a gay man.

Besides being erased, bisexuality is sometimes demonized. The perceived threat of bisexuals is due to the fact that bisexuality is commonly equated with promiscuity. A popular assumption is that since bisexuals are attracted to more than one gender, they could never be faithful to one partner. While it is important to acknowledge that everyone has a right to sleep with as many or as few people as they want to, and to embrace or reject the idea of monogamy, it is insulting to be told that your ability to be attracted to people of multiple genders makes you untrustworthy. Yet many of us have heard someone nonchalantly admit, “I would never date a bisexual.”

The messaging in popular culture does not help. Entertainment is replete with examples of not just erasure but also outright bi-antagonism. The TV series The L Word (2004–2009) immediately comes to mind (“Bisexuality is gross”). Most commonly, there are the storylines about people leading double lives, as in the film Brokeback Mountain (2005), or leaving their spouse of many years to be with someone of the same sex, as in the Netflix show Grace and Frankie (2015– ). Such characters are always framed as gay—as if bisexuality does not exist.

Just this past Pride Month, there was an example of bisexual erasure. A popular joke arose on social media that the ‘B’ in LGBTQ+ stands for Babadook (a character from an Australian horror film). The joke started as a way to mock people who forget that bisexuality exists, especially considering that Pride was the culmination of work by bisexual and transgender activists, such as Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, and Brenda Howard. But this joke morphed as people began sharing memes of the Babadook in front of the rainbow flag. People soon began referring to him as a “gay icon” without making any reference to bisexuality. So, despite starting out as an attempt to promote bisexual visibility, this joke eventually erased bisexuality.

In addition, as part of a larger discussion on the appropriateness of heterosexual allies participating in Pride, there was some debate about the place of bi+ people at Pride if they planned to be accompanied by opposite-sex partners. This discussion was disappointing because it reinforced monosexism and cissexism (prejudice or discrimination against transgender people). Many overlooked trans people who may appear cisgender to others and assumed that bi+ women would necessarily be romantically involved with cisgender, heterosexual men. Notably, I saw no mention of the possibility of a bi+ man dating a woman—but this is pretty standard, since bi+ men are almost always erased and labelled as gay. While I agree with the argument that bringing straight people into LGBTQ+ spaces can cause problems, I was baffled that it seemed incomprehensible to those defending this safe space that that bi+ people of varying genders might be in relationships with each other.

The above examples suggest how pervasive bisexual invisibility and erasure are. No one dominant group should speak on behalf of LGBTQIA+ people. We come from innumerable backgrounds and have a diversity of lived experiences. Therefore, we have a responsibility to listen to each other, learn from each other, and work together to ensure that all marginalized and vulnerable people enjoy their rights. I believe every aspect of identity is political. Thus, my queerness is certainly political. Everyone has the right to define who they are for themselves and should be able to choose if and when to share that information. When it comes to sexuality, the desire to understand what people are is natural. The problem is that our understanding of what people can be is incredibly limited.

Love is love?

In school, an English teacher pointed out that the opposite of love is not hate but indifference. This would be reinforced time and again by teachers as the years passed. But this perspective is not one that I hear often anymore. We cling to the love–hate binary without recognizing how problematic it is. While hate is obvious, indifference is subtle, because it simply means not caring about or noticing something. While I do subscribe to the belief that we need more love in the world, is hate really the biggest problem facing those of us inhabiting one or more of the countless “other” categories? Systemic problems are far less in your face than hate and, therefore, are much stronger barriers to liberation and equity.

The message that “love is love” is a very popular one during Pride Month. Allies use it to show that they care about LGBTQ+ people and our rights, and some queer people use it to affirm their humanity in a world that has long told us we are disgusting, abominable, and even criminal. As well-intentioned as it might be, the phrase “love is love” has become something of an annoyance to me as a queer person. I find it reductive and reeking of respectability. My sexuality is not just about whom I love; it is an integral part of who I am that has helped shape my politics, my opinions, my tastes, my philosophies, and of course also whom I physically and romantically desire. It isn’t one part of me and it isn’t about anyone but me. This is why I cannot reconcile boiling down my sexuality to whom I love, and why I don’t appreciate that being done on my behalf.

“Love is love” reminds me of my youth, when I felt the need to argue why others should accept me. This would involve me defying the budding radical in me by trying to persuade heterosexuals that I was just like them, only attracted to girls. I grew out of that rather quickly. And Radical Queer was born. This is a nickname/pseudonym I used in my youth that I think I’ve earned the right to reclaim at this stage of my life. We all wish to be loved and accepted by our family, friends, and whomever we are attracted to, but what about people who yearn for societal acceptance? This is where I see a problem.

As the popular social media user and writer known as Son of Baldwin recently pointed out, ideology is greater than identity; too many people are fighting for power instead of liberation. This is why homonormativity was spawned. This is why so many people believe that same-sex marriage is the benchmark of liberty. This is why the history of Pride is so easily forgotten. This is why Black Lives Matter continues to be demonized in general and specifically for their demands relating to Toronto Pride. This is why so many privileged people—especially white people—are supporting the notion that armed police are entitled to participate in the Pride parade. Obtaining societal acceptance means proving to the powerful that you’re like them, and that includes being indifferent to other people’s liberation.

Given the focus on the issues of the most privileged members of the so-called community, some might be surprised to know that 2016 was a record year for violence against LGBTQ+ people in North America. Beyond the Pulse massacre that took the lives of 49 almost exclusively racialized people (we also don’t know how many of those 49 deaths and 53 reported injuries the 300 police officers who stormed the nightclub had a hand in), racialized LGBTQ+ people were disproportionately victims of homicide last year. And this year is not looking good either. Human Rights Campaign reports that 13 trans people have been murdered so far in the United States, most of whom were racialized trans women. Domestic violence, homelessness, and mental health are just a few other issues that go largely ignored by the mainstream. Where does “love is love” account for the basic struggle to survive?

The subtlety of indifference also manifests in monosexism (the assumption that everyone is attracted to one sex or the belief that bisexuality and pansexuality don’t exist), which is something that I personally deal with regularly. The heterosexual–homosexual binary is constantly reinforced. While we all know what the ‘B’ in that acronym means, bi+ people are often erased from the image of queerness. This is actually happening as I write this. A popular joke arose this Pride Month on social media that the ‘B’ in LGBTQ+ stands for Babadook (a character from an Australian horror film, for those who aren’t horror buffs). The joke started as a way to mock people who forget that bisexuality is a thing, considering that Pride was the culmination of work by bisexual and transgender activists. But now this joke has morphed into yet another example of erasure, as monosexuals share images of Babadook in front of the rainbow flag and refer to him as a “gay icon” without making any reference to bisexuality.

We can also see the erasure in the phrase “love is love” in its exclusion of people who are aromantic. Some people assume the ‘A’ in the longer acronym LGBTQIA stands for ally—because heaven forbid nice straight people not be centred! In fact, it means asexual/aromantic. We tend to overlook these valid identities because North American culture in particular emphasizes romantic love and sex. So, here, if you are not seeking either or both of these things, you are outside the norm. Actually, that is the definition of queerness—all the more reason why ace and aro people should be celebrated in the queer community. In this vein, “love is love” removes the individuality from a person’s identity and connects it to the pursuit of romantic love. This is the same thing that has been done to heterosexuality—reducing that identity to some Disneyfied quest for a happily ever after that will make the person feel complete. So, if it has overtaken the dominant group, it should come as no surprise that this has been put on queer people too, as homosexuality has gained increasing acceptance. I’ve seen the result of this in queer spaces, where love is celebrated instead of identity. It’s a bit like Valentine’s Day in that respect. What about people who aren’t in committed relationships? Are they less valid? And what should queer people’s relationships look like?

As part of the larger discussion on the presence of straight people at Pride, there was a more focused debate recently on Twitter about the place of bi+ people at Pride if they are there with opposite-sex partners. This discussion was very disappointing because it reinforced monosexism and cissexism (prejudice or discrimination against transgender people) by overlooking trans people who may appear cisgender to others and relied on the assumption that bisexual and pansexual women would necessarily be romantically involved with cishet men if they were with someone of a different gender. Notably, I saw no mention of the possibility of a bi+ man dating a cis woman. But this is pretty standard; bi+ men are almost always erased because they are assumed to be actually gay. While I agree with the argument that bringing straight people into LGBTQ+ spaces can cause problems, it seemed incomprehensible to those defending their safe space that queer people would be attracted to other queer people across genders—i.e., that bi+ people of varying genders might be in relationships with each other. I suppose this bothered me so much because attraction to queerness irrespective of gender is the basis of my sexuality.

Coupling should not be the standard for validating or determining a person’s sexual orientation. My journey to self-acceptance and understanding has been long and essential to my well-being. But it has been my journey. This doesn’t mean that the love and acceptance I’ve received in my life haven’t been immensely important to me—even life altering. It’s that they didn’t make me love and accept myself; I had to get there on my own. So, I wonder, if we focus on love and define ourselves according to a partner, what implications does that have for coming to terms with ourselves as queer people? The positivity this Pride Month has been abundant, but the visual representation of queerness has overwhelmingly involved representations of romantic relationships.

The following provides a basic graphic representation of one interpretation of sexuality—emphasis on basic.

If “love” is the benchmark, does that mean that support from allies, and even the dominant gays and lesbians in the community, is conditional on coupling and commitment (the one person of the same sex)? Where does that leave polyamorous people; people who aren’t, or maybe don’t want to be, in a relationship; people who unashamedly enjoy sex, but not love, with multiple partners; people who are genderqueer; people who are intersex; people who are asexual; people who are bisexual and homoromantic? I could go on. The point is that those under the LGBTQIA+ umbrella are highly diverse in all aspects of identity. While “love is love” might sound affirming and inclusive to some, to me, it removes politics from queerness and negates the vast majority of us.

Whiteness is the problem

The debate in response to Hal Niedzviecki’s insulting editorial “Winning the Appropriation Prize” in the recent issue of Write magazine, which was intended to spotlight the work of Indigenous writers, shows that we don’t have a diversity problem in Canadian media but a whiteness problem.

The issue of inclusion/diversity is one that surfaces often in relation to print and TV media. For years, the public has been complaining about the lack of visible minorities on the CBC, for example. An important discussion on the CBC between Jesse Wente and Jonathan Kay on May 13 sheds light on the real problem.

As Jesse Wente points out right away, Canada itself is an example of appropriation. This is something that tends to remain unacknowledged by anyone who isn’t an Indigenous person. Canada is a colonial settler state; we live on stolen land, where the colonial perspective dominates any discussion of history, past or ongoing. Indeed, our government continues to push the idea that we should be celebrating 2017 as the 150^th anniversary of this country’s existence. What? Apart from the obvious fact that this landmass we call “Canada” existed long before 1867, does Confederation generally get the average Canadian excited? I know it’s what Canadians celebrate every July 1^st, but I’m not sure they all know that colonialism is what they’re celebrating. So, why exactly is a government that purports to be committed to truth and reconciliation so eager for us all to participate in insulting Indigenous peoples further by extending the one-day annual celebration to the whole year?

Jonathan Kay, who is no stranger to controversy, reinforces his social location throughout his commentary in the CBC video, as he tends to do. He accuses the Writers’ Union of Canada (TWUC) Equity Task Force of trying to shame Niedzviecki and commends less strident voices for critiquing Niedzviecki in a way that Kay finds more appropriate. Let me clarify what I’m getting that: Kay chooses to use his first minute of airtime (1) to admonish the TWUC Equity Task Force for being mean to the white editor who used his position to undermine the purpose of the issue of the magazine and (2) to tone police, which includes applauding those whom he perceives as the good detractors. Kay then goes on to criticize the TWUC Equity Task Force again for going after Niedzviecki for being racist, as if he had said “something that was akin to neo-Nazi propaganda.” Kay also admits that he did not like the editorial either because it was “flippant about a serious subject and insulting, given that the issue itself was about Indigenous writers.” This highlights a common problem in the discussions surrounding racism in this country. Many seem to be under the impression that racism means only using racial slurs and promoting or committing violence against racialized people. This is why Jonathan Kay could criticize the editorial on Saturday despite having chosen to put himself in the middle of the “Appropriation Prize” controversy on Twitter on Wednesday: he seems to believe that he is one of the good white people.

But nothing about whiteness is good. This is something that has to be acknowledged if we are to truly change how this country operates. By continuing to focus on diversity and inclusion, we continue to uphold whiteness, because demands for representation and inclusion allow white people to continue in their role as gatekeepers. Between minutes 6:40 and 7:48 in the CBC video, Jesse Wente sheds light on this problem.

At this point, Jonathan Kay tries to distance himself from the controversy by clarifying that he wasn’t one of the people who offered to put up money for the “Appropriation Prize.” So, once again, we see the narrative of the good white guy creep in. But as I stated above, Kay actually chose to insert himself in this controversy in the first place by taking to Twitter to criticize those reacting to the offensive editorial. That he did not offer to donate to fund this fictitious prize is not the point—and, in fact, in highlighting this, he chooses to centre himself in the larger debate. It is somewhat ironic, then, that good guy Jonathan Kay did not use his position to tell the other white editors/writers that they were being insulting, if that is what he truly believed at the time. It is easy to apologize for not calling them out after contemplating the reactions to their statements. Yet Kay shows his unwillingness to listen by continuing to use this CBC platform to chide the TWUC Equity Task Force for accusing Niedzviecki of racism.

As Jesse Wente asserts, we need to move past apologies and reach a point where we see real change, and we must “move beyond conflating free speech debate and artistic expression with ongoing colonial appropriation.” After all, the popular accusation is one of political correctness run amok any time whiteness is called out for doing what whiteness is meant to do—centre and uplift itself as if it is innately rational, righteous, and meritorious.

Interestingly, Kay unwittingly underlines the problem of whiteness when he reassures us that the first issue editors discuss at meetings is diversity. In other words, the media has always been controlled by white people and continues to be controlled by white people, who have the privilege of selecting which other voices they will allow to enter their space. This matter was most recently visible in the case of columnist Desmond Cole’s resignation from the Toronto Star, whose gatekeepers seem to have had a problem with his activism.

It is unfortunate that we are still in an environment where Jesse Wente has to participate in such discussions with the likes of Jonathan Kay, and that he must do so with such composure. If Wente were to express himself in a way that the white establishment deems impolite, he would no longer have a voice in mainstream media. And that is the crux of the diversity matter: no matter how many diverse faces and voices are out there, well-off white people continue to make the decisions. We do not need to work harder at diversity and inclusion; we need to replace the system so that whiteness is no longer synonymous with decision-making in this country. And since those who belong to the establishment are so fond of the idea of people coming up based on merit, surely they won’t object to such a change.

Home Staging of Goa

My last essay hit a nerve with a Scottish reader, who argued that after living in Goa for five years, he should be considered a Goan. This is despite the fact that he doesn’t socialize with Goans; he claimed that this is irrelevant. I responded that being viewed as a Goan is not a question of time spent in Goa but of engagement with the place. Engagement is a critical topic, as Goa is treated like a reward for those with money, who have fuelled the demand for investment property or who have chosen to abandon the rat race for a quiet life here. Add to this the numerous domestic and international tourists, who occupy different spaces that tend not to include Goans. As I have already argued (see above-cited essay), this is how hospitable Goa is—you can pretend there are no Goans here.

A travel blog called Inditales.com is an example of both the lack of engagement with Goa and the erasure of Goans that I observe whenever I’m here. The author of the blog, Anuradha Goyal, has written pieces on the North Goan villages of Aldona and Assagao that read less like the insights of a traveller and more like advertorials—that is, paid ads masquerading as opinion pieces (sticking with the theme of selling off Goa, here is an example from 2007). Goyal states on her blog that she has lived in Goa for more than three years, and yet she writes about Goa as if she has just visited for the first time, with no prior knowledge of it. The descriptions portray a surface-level interaction, with no probing to learn about these villages or the people who inhabit them. Even more striking are the photographs. The only people in the few images that contain human figures are far in the distance, faceless and nameless. And yet in this absence of signs of life are photographs of well-preserved churches and homes. So, while their existence might be overlooked, these villages evidently have inhabitants.

(House in Aldona; Source: realestateIndia.com)

This reminds me of a day last fall, when I was taking a walk around downtown Hamilton. As I made my way through the MacNab Street bus terminal, I passed by a large tour group whose professionally dressed participants were sporting name tags and holding clipboards. Not wanting to stare, I glanced briefly and made out the word “Toronto.” Interesting, I thought. I heard the tour guide inform them about the history of the buildings towering over them. Later on, I ran into this same group again on James Street North. Now more curious about what they were up to, I slowed my pace and detected a turn in the tour guide’s script. Instead of highlighting the history of the neighbourhood, the subject was the neighbourhood’s potential. It hit me: this was a group of developers looking to acquire property in this already gentrified neighbourhood. The gentrification of my hometown is a topic on which I’ve written before. This particular street was already reinvented as an artists’ hub, and now it is undergoing a transformation into a downtown-Torontoesque neighbourhood of restaurants and condominiums. The advertorials selling Hamilton to investors have been churning out of Toronto’s newspapers for years. A city that was once known for its affordable detached homes and green spaces is being increasingly concretized to allow developers to make money. As I eavesdropped on this tour guide’s sales pitch, I wondered if these people noticed or cared that the space they were coveting is already inhabited.

This brings me back to Inditales. The images of the houses in the blog posts remind me of real estate advertisements. Realtors in Canada advocate home staging to enhance the likelihood of selling one’s house. The basic rules of home staging are that the premises must be pristine and lacking in personal touches, to make it easier for potential buyers to envision themselves filling that space. Thus, instead of providing information to would-be vacationers, these posts on Inditales exhibit the home staging of Goa. The blog is guilty of subtly conveying the idea of Goa as a vacant plot through its envisioning of the state as a land of quaint, almost empty villages.

(Like Inditales, selling an empty Assagao on a real estate website)

Of course, the erasure of Goans from the Goan landscape is nothing new. I remarked once in a comment on a Facebook post (Sept. 7, 2016) about the habit of referring to houses of a particular style as Portuguese, as if they were never—and are still not—inhabited by Goans. It had occurred to me that this terminology reinforces the idea that when the Portuguese withdrew from Goa, it was deserted. No wonder, then, that acquiring one of Goa’s old “Portuguese” houses offers so much prestige. In fact, I was told once by a local that there is a saying: “You’re not a proper Delhiite until you own a house in Assagao.”

(Home in Assagao marketed as a Portuguese house; Property Management Group – Goa) 

In tandem with the promotion of the construction and sale of second homes in Goa, the tourism industry plays its part in catering to the desire to acquire a piece of Goa. Look at the following ad.

The third line, “At your very own Goa,” begs the following question: To whom does Goa belong? Not only does the ad invite tourists to visit Goa; it suggests an entitlement to claiming it for themselves. In Goa, where does tourism end and colonization begin? Furthermore, the ad promotes Goa on the basis of its Catholic identity, in stark contrast to the larger vision of India as a Hindu nation.

Vishvesh Kandolkar recently wrote a poignant opinion piece in The Goan (Feb. 9, 2017) on engagement with monuments. In it, Kandolkar argues that while the local Goan Catholics continue to use these monuments, to the average tourist, they appear to be relics from a bygone era. This argument serves as a microcosm for the greater issue of engagement with Goa. The colonial history of Goa is primarily acknowledged for its sales appeal through promoting stays in “Portuguese houses” and visits to old Catholic churches, with an emphasis on their Iberian character. However, any further mention of the imprint of Portuguese colonialism is discouraged. After all, as the Goa Tourism Development Corporation ad tells us, all of this belongs to the Indian consumer. Although tourism and consumption go hand in hand, this promotion of possessing the territory in question is something I haven’t encountered anywhere else.

(Source: lonelyplanet.in, Photographer: Jeremiah Christanand Rao)

The question of how we consume Goa is one that I have been pondering for a while now. I use the pronoun “we” because I recognize that I am not exempt from this. I am but a visitor to this beautiful land, and though my relationship with Goa is a long one, and I have been writing on local issues for some time, it occurred to me that I have been guilty occasionally of romanticizing Goa and of wishing for what I remember from “the good ol’ days” to be preserved for my own benefit. However, over years of personal and intellectual growth, I have come to understand that there is no such thing as “the good ol’ days”; one person’s comfort and pleasure always come at the expense of someone else’s. For that reason, nostalgia is harmful. It can blind you to the problems that others face. And willful blindness to others’ problems and to the capitalist system that creates them is as bad as actively promoting the consumption of Goa for short-term gain or pleasure. Those who recognize the erasure of their identity should seek ways to forge solidarity and assert their presence by demanding that we—the insiders and outsiders—all engage with Goa.

Modern colonial encounters

The term “expatriate” is an interesting one. It may mean one living outside one’s native country, but in practice, it seems to apply only to certain people. For instance, one never hears this term associated with the Goans and Indians working in the Gulf States. Indeed, it is reserved for white people. I remember reading an article about this unequal linguistic treatment in The Guardian some time ago. When I was working in Bombay, I had a British colleague who would meet up for drinks weekly with members of an expat community. Such people always seemed to me to be creating their own upper class, white world in India, complete with servants—a rather colonial way of living.

Similarly, I’ve observed white tourists converging in Goa. Fortunately for them, Goa is a very hospitable place. Supporting my years-long observation that Europeans in particular prefer to build their own communities in Goa, I once stumbled upon a Facebook page whose European administrator declared that he was “home”. What followed were photos composed of mostly white people on Goa’s beaches, with a few Indian tourists in the background. I wondered where the Goans were in this vision of Goa.

I have noted that some such “expats” expand their circle to elite Indians who have houses here. The latest example of this played out on a recent visit to MOG (Museum of Goa) in Pilerne. A C-grade band was performing. This is nothing extraordinary, as any foreign musician who comes to Goa will have the red carpet rolled out for them—although Goa has so many of its own excellent musicians. The crowd comprised people from different parts of India and the world. Despite the presence of families with young children, some attendees were brazenly breaking the law by smoking pot—as this is what some visitors associate with Goa. The scene at the bar was typical: The white woman pouring the drinks was chatting with the white customers; she did not notice my Goan friend—although he is a man of decent height—standing directly in front of her, trying to get her attention. She did, however, notice a white man who approached the bar around the time that she decided to end her conversation. My friend politely informed her that he had been waiting; she apologized and took our drink order—but she seemed to struggle to understand his accent. Since contact with Goans seems to happen only on a need-to-do basis, she could very well have been unable to decipher what he was saying.

Yes, Goa is very hospitable. So accommodating a place is this that if you want to pretend the Goans don’t exist, you can do that with little protest. We know that Goa is regarded by many as a playground of sorts, but beyond this, spaces in Goa and depictions of Goa that are void of Goans feed into the notion that Goa was an empty place after the Portuguese left in 1961. This is a useful exercise for those from the Indian mainland, but what do foreign tourists have to gain from this?

Take food as an example. There is a common misconception overseas that India is a predominantly vegetarian country. Over the years, I have answered many questions about this from curious Canadians, and they are always shocked to learn that I was a vegetarian until I moved to India in 2007. More than the meat itself, the call of the masala was too seductive to ignore, and I fell off the wagon—hard. Indeed, I know very few strict vegetarians in India. However, I did have an American colleague in Bombay who had a preference for eating in “pure veg” restaurants. She said that she wanted to avoid the possibility of meat contaminating her food. For high-caste Hindus, however, the term “pure vegetarian” can have a different meaning. I used to wonder why I would see dairy on the menu in some vegetarian restaurants in India, and I recently got my answer from a knowledgeable friend. Since caste was almost never discussed in Bombay, I was oblivious for years about how significant the concept of purity still is when it comes to food. Although it may refer to the contents of the food on the menu, “pure vegetarian” can also mean that no one from a lower caste has prepared the food. There is another common misconception abroad that the caste system is no longer relevant in the lives of Indians. Therefore, a visitor is unlikely to think about the politics of food in India. This is despite the fact that fatal conflicts over beef have been reported in the international media. Perhaps because it is also widely believed that everyone views the cow as sacred, and therefore abstains from eating beef, such violence is met with apathy, as it is seen as a logical punishment.

In the areas of Goa that are popular with tourists, like Ashvem, the number of restaurants boasting a vegan menu seems to have grown over the years to cater to the white tourists. In tandem with this, the yoga retreats and classes have increased. To the tourists, the beaches of Goa must seem like an ideal location to practice yoga, and as I stated above, the outside world tends to equate veganism/vegetarianism with India. So, this must all seem tightly interconnected and innocent. But this is the problem. By adopting practices they understand to be Indian (or Hindu), or compatible with what they perceive as “Indian” culture, and carving out their own isolated space in Goa, such tourists may be unwittingly endorsing soft Hindutva.

As I have highlighted in the past, the conceptualization of Indianness is very narrow. One wonders how visitors can continue to hold onto this idea after seeing different parts of this country first-hand. An incident that is fixed in my memory is when a European woman said “Namaste” to a Goan Catholic friend. My friend quickly informed the woman that this is not how we interact with each other in Goa. I have also been surprised to hear Westerners in Goa try to speak to locals in Hindi. Similarly, many people in Bombay and Canada have asked me if I learned Hindi during my time in India, as if that is the only language people speak here. One exception left a lasting impression on me. Last year, I was stuck at Pearson International Airport due to a technical issue that was delaying my Jet Airways flight. A long wait for a delayed departure is a good ice breaker, so there was a lot of conversing going on at the gate. I was speaking to an Indo-Canadian man travelling to Chandigarh, and when he learned that I was a regular visitor to India, he asked me if I could speak any Indian languages. He was the first person to phrase this question as such, and I appreciated it.

This brings to mind the controversy when Coldplay and Beyoncé released their video for “Hymn for the Weekend” (2016). Most of the criticism from the West was directed at Beyoncé for cultural appropriation. What these accusations failed to account for was the homogenized image the video was portraying of India. And while some rightly accused Coldplay of engaging in an Orientalist fetishization of India, this critique only went so far; it missed the nuances of the problem of portraying India as a Hindu country, and more importantly, an upper-caste Hindu country. The insightful article, “Hymn for the Weekend: India’s Got 99 Problems, but Beyoncé’s Not One”, highlights the problems of promoting this image of India in the midst of growing religious fundamentalism including atrocities committed against Dalits. As I stated above, all of this information is available in the digital age. That it fails to influence how Westerners shape their understanding of India only helps those who want a Hindu—rather than a secular—nation.

How can we westerners enjoy free movement throughout most of the world and continue to take it for granted, blissfully ignorant of—or perhaps indifferent to—the people in the places we visit? Just as no space is waiting to be discovered by European explorers, neither does a place like Goa—so rich in culture—need anyone from outside to come and revive it or introduce the locals to the arts. Why are only white people accorded the name “expatriate”? Because we are happy to continue our colonial encounters.

Does anything ever change?

My whole life, I’ve been hearing about how much progress we’ve made, whether the question is the status of Black and Indigenous lives, women’s rights, LGBTQ+ rights, immigrants’ rights, the lives of the differently abled, etc. But when I look around, something always seems amiss. Instead of seeing progress, or anything remotely resembling equity, I see a statement meant to shut up those who dissent. In fact, I think it’s an example of what they call gaslighting.

If you engage with social media, you’ve probably come across the term “gaslighting” before. It traces its origin to a play called Gas Light (1938), written by Patrick Hamilton. In the play, a husband psychologically abuses his wife, lying to her and making little changes in their home, and convincing her that she is imagining things when she notices his changes, causing her to question her own sanity. Essentially, gaslighting is manipulating someone by dismissing their feelings and perspective, to the point where they begin to believe things that are untrue. If you take a minute to think, you might realize how common this abusive behaviour is. I think all women and all racialized people have been gaslighted, likely many times, by people close to them, by acquaintances, by strangers, and by their society. It’s not always an overt attempt to psychologically abuse someone; it can be as simple as being told flat out that you’re wrong when you discuss or react to something that happened to you.

(Source: Chump Lady)

I live near a university, and I often stumble upon flyers, stickers, and graffiti in the area complaining about misandry and false rape allegations made by women. Such language is almost always the handiwork of so-called men’s rights activists (MRAs). The existence of that term is a gaslight itself, like the reactionary slogan “All Lives Matter”; if you believe that men, who literally control the world, are being disenfranchised, then how are you to ever feel compassion for anyone whom you don’t see as being like you? The latest find in my neighbourhood was a sticker stating that 80% of all suicides are committed by men, accompanied by the phrase “Men Matter.” Let’s leave aside that statement of the obvious (“men matter”) for a moment. Yes, men in Canada commit suicide at three times the rate women do. This is a problem. But how do the MRAs propose to solve it? If you peruse anything the self-professed misandry fighters post online, you’ll usually find a white male centred narrative that is very hostile to feminism and often to women in general. There is no questioning of patriarchy; I’ve never seen that term used in the antimisandry lexicon. Conversely, hypermasculinity is encouraged. Are they promoting the idea that men open up and discuss their depression, which might lead to suicide? It certainly doesn’t seem like it. So, it is for that very reason that I question their motives when they talk about the problem of suicide.

Let’s come back to this non-argument that “men matter.” When has this notion ever been challenged? The usual arguments one hears from the antifeminists and devil’s advocate types relate to child custody cases and education. Again, these are valid problems—and again what are those who are so outraged by these injustices doing to help those affected by this? Other common arguments concern domestic abuse and rape, including false allegations of rape. Again, what is the solution, besides demonizing people? Where are the resources targeting men who are seeking to escape abusive relationships or who need help dealing with PTSD resulting from sexual assault? Once again, this would require contravening the norms of patriarchy and encouraging men to actually talk about their feelings. And what about prosecuting the women who do make false rape allegations? Isn’t there a long history of white women falsely accusing Black and other racialized men of rape? My point is that when there is actual evidence to support the claims of the “men’s rights” camp, it makes little difference, if it conflicts with the patriarchal, racist position in which so many of these antimisandry warriors seem to be placed.

Cries of injustice that aren’t accompanied by compassion seem hollow to me. So, naturally, I view the purpose of MRAs as undermining feminists and pointing fingers at them for the problems that (white) men face. It may be easy to sit online and find statements made by random people that you can call examples of misandry, but how exactly is misandry working in the power structure to oppress men? I really would like to know. You know what I think? I think MRAs have no concept of what power is and how it works. Though they may spout statistics from time to time, and argue their position vehemently, such people have no interest in facts or helping anyone. Their function is to gaslight those who are discussing the lived realities of marginalized people. I would lump them in with the same people who complain about “reverse racism” (“Foul! You’re questioning my superiority over you!”).

Recently, the Government of Canada announced that there would be a woman on the new $10 bill. After hundreds of names were proposed, the decision was made. Not only would it be a woman; she would be a Black woman: Viola Desmond. On social media, the reaction was mostly favourable, but still mixed. Many white commentators had no idea who Viola Desmond was. I read a few comments on Facebook questioning why a historical figure from Nova Scotia had been chosen instead of someone with more pan-Canadian appeal. In fact, someone said, “Why not Laura Secord?” My response to that is that this is the only woman in Canadian history that anyone in this country ever hears about; it’s time to acknowledge that other women have existed. There was also a lot of contentment, as though this was a sign that Canada was finally making progress toward ending racial and gender inequality. This is, of course, what the Trudeau government—which has no Black Cabinet ministers—would like us to think too. In truth, I was initially excited about the news. Then I thought about it some more: a well-off, light-skinned businesswoman, who fought for her own right to sit where she wanted in a movie theatre, being commemorated as though she was the only person fighting for civil rights in Canada—sounds like the ideal Liberal poster girl and nothing more. I tweeted the following:

As writer Septembre Anderson has argued both on Twitter and in an audio essay for the CBC, this is nothing more than tokenism.

And not surprisingly, Anderson was subsequently harassed, abused, and threatened online.

So, what does it mean when someone expresses a feeling or shares an experience or observation and another person shouts them down with, “But things are much better now than they were before”? Is it so beyond our comprehension that change might merit immediacy? What are we waiting for? And why should anyone be content to wait for those with the power to give them their rights or to treat them as though they are human? Moreover, if change is happening in small increments—so small that some people don’t even feel it—why would someone believe that if they’re patient enough, things will not just get “better” but be just? And what does one have to gain by trying to convince someone else that things are much better now than they were before? I can’t help but perceive that as a means of shutting up anyone who would challenge the status quo.