tv's instant queer relationships

Representation of queer sexualities and identities in entertainment and media has come a long way in recent decades: the majority of new scripted television series that are released nowadays have at least one queer main character, and we see more positive and normalized portrayals of queer relationships. With this greater amount of representation, though, I have come to notice an intriguing and slightly questionable trend in how some of these people and love stories are depicted in TV shows: putting them in new relationships almost instantaneously.

Throughout the past couple of years, I have observed that the storylines of many queer characters in TV series often immediately revolve around their dating life, more specifically their swift discovery of another character whom they are attracted to and eventually with whom they form a romantic relationship. I consider this illustration with how heterosexual characters are portrayed: they go through a mix of stories centered around not just romance but also workplaces, friends, cultures, and numerous other topics; and during those plotlines that are not love- or sex-centric, those straight characters have an equal chance of being either romantically involved with someone or totally single. A lot of queer characters, on the other hand, often find themselves written quite quickly into relationships, as if it needs to be made very clear right away that such characters are queer and their sexual orientations are one of their most important characteristics. While these queer characters do still get other non-romantic storylines, the presence of their relationships is still very prevalent throughout and tends to be a heavy driver behind their actions and decisions and the events that happen to them.

The most recent example of this pattern that I have witnessed is the relationship between supporting characters Fabiola and Eve on the teen-comedy series Never Have I Ever. In the show’s first season, high-school sophomore Fabiola comes to realize that she is a lesbian after discovering a newfound attraction to classmate Eve, and they eventually start dating and have a steady relationship throughout the second season. Of course, this is a perfectly valid trajectory, becoming aware of one’s sexuality through their attraction to a friend—but it’s also quite convenient for the plot when this acquaintance happens to also be gay, and also feels a mutual attraction, and also then agrees to be in a serious relationship with them. Outside of her sexuality, Fabiola’s character is most defined by her passion for robotics, but the majority of her actual storylines revolve around her newfound path as a lesbian.

Worth mentioning is the fact that Fabiola is the only main character in Never Have I Ever who is not straight, and other instances of queer characters landing in instantaneous relationships see the characters involved being the token gay cast members of their shows, as if to, once more, make their sexualities very clear right away. In the Spanish drama Élite, high schoolers Ander and Omar date each other—mostly monogamously, with a hiccup here and there—throughout four seasons. Again, there is nothing particularly wrong with depicting two characters who meet and fall in love; but there is a noticeable contrast between these two gay people existing in a romance throughout the majority of the series and most of the other mostly heterosexual characters who experience multiple relationships and hook-ups with different people. Then, in the procedural drama 9-1-1: Lone Star, firefighters Owen and his son T.K., who is gay, relocate to Texas, where T.K. meets policeman Carlos, the one other gay person in the cast, and they fall into a serious relationship for almost the entire three seasons of the show. While I am not as familiar with this series, it has been made evident to me that T.K. and Carlos’s love story is a very large aspect of the narrative, despite the show’s main focus being these rescue workers’ jobs.

But all of these examples beg the question: is this ongoing depiction of gay love necessarily a bad thing? I still insinuate that most of these queer character arcs are too fundamental—it comes across like TV writers don’t know how to depict gay people outside of putting them in storylines about gay relationships—but in this current era, should we be complaining at all? Because it is one thing to depict queer people simply existing as individual human beings, and it is another, probably much more significant, to show them in relationships with other queer people—and in this present time when many people in society still view gay relationships as wrong, it is universally important to simply show these relationships as normal and beautiful. And of course, examples of gay characters that aren’t always in monogamous romances also exist: I think about Travis the firefighter in Station 19, who dates a man in season 1 but breaks up with him and goes on to have a few flings and romances throughout the next few seasons; or David in Schitt’s Creek, who goes through a mildly messy string of casual connections before only truly getting a boyfriend in season 4. So perhaps there is more variety in queer characterizations in the media than I am being totally considerate of. While there are some ways that gay characterizations can be improved, we are fortunate to be in a time when gay characterizations can exist as much as they do now, with as much acceptance and appreciation as they get now, despite still backlash against general ideas about homosexuality and queer identities in our real society. Let us hope that queer representation in movies and TV still only goes in a positive direction in the future.

the privilege of avoiding politics

Six weeks ago in Minneapolis, a white police officer killed George Floyd, an unarmed black man, after pinning him down at his neck and refusing to let up when Floyd pleaded for breath and ultimately stopped responding after a few minutes. Video recordings of the incident spread on news outlets and social media, which sparked immediate, massive outrage and demonstrations from local and international communities calling for the officer (and his colleagues involved) to be convicted of murder and for ends to racial injustice and law enforcement’s brutality against black people.

I was overcome by sadness after watching the video of the innocent Floyd be first targeted for suspicious activity and then cruelly abused by someone who is meant to serve and protect people. I had certainly heard of the numerous instances of black men and women dying senselessly at the hands of police, but I regret to say that I had not thought much of the incidents then—certainly not from considering them anything less than tragedies, but rather due to a mindset that naively believed these events were partially accidental or that this problem had no solution. But, upon witnessing this malice explicitly and purposefully manifest in the form of Floyd’s murder, I suddenly felt tremendous sorrow about the perpetual fear of police that has plagued black communities for years and for not contributing before to help stop this mindless persecution and racist hatred.

It has been difficult to shed this perspective of indifference and ignorance that I, like many white and other privileged people, have held for most of my life. In the past, I generally had not engaged much with political discussion or action, mostly out of a lack of intelligence or interest (stemming from my lack of academic aptitude with history, current events, and social sciences). I didn’t necessarily think politics was unimportant, but I didn’t see the personal need to gain a greater understanding of the topic, as I didn’t acknowledge that I could possibly have any influence with the government and lawmaking. But being able to disengage from civic issues is an absolute freedom that many, including myself, take for granted; as a financially-sound, non-black person in America, I live without experiencing many of the basic struggles that other citizens endure. I certainly believe that is the humanistic duty of the powerful to empower the powerless, and a large part of that duty falls on us privileged citizens (especially under the poor political leadership we have currently).

As I have come to learn over the years—and as many have promptly acknowledged since Floyd’s death—there are multitudes of steps we as citizens can do to improve our governing bodies and the laws and values our society lives by: reaching out to officials and lawmakers, donating to advocacy groups and organizations, and most importantly, voting in all elections, local and national, to put the right individuals in charge. This time around, I have tried to be more active in supporting the solution, through calling elected officials and donating to organizations and paying attention to the circulating discussions about how policies and systemic powers need to change in order for these tragedies to cease.

It remains difficult to keep up the momentum to fight, for reasons already mentioned: uncomfortable discussions, not knowing what to say or how to speak up, or believing that grassroots efforts are futile. Sometimes, I find solace in my resolve to contribute to society in other ways, like through my ideas about fashion or my environmentally-conscious behaviors. But this is still a very privileged standpoint: there are communities literally dying at the hands of abusive, overpowered officials, and the least many of us can do is to help save lives.

a forced examination of my introversion

As of this writing, I have been working remotely at my job for nearly twelve weeks due to the enactment of shelter-in-place orders to slow the spread of COVID-19; and I have been residing in Minnesota with my parents for nine of those weeks, after agreeing that currently remaining in New York was less safe. As have millions of people worldwide, I have had to adjust drastically to an existence that involves staying at home as much as possible and minimizing interactions with other humans.

To most individuals who thrive on social events and spending time in public spaces, these restrictions feel understandably hellish; but when they were first imposed, I actually felt joy. This situation perfectly suits my tendencies to prefer hours alone over going out to see people. I knew I would miss physical socializing with friends, but I looked forward to this period of utter solitude to center and refresh myself and dive more freely into the hobbies I do by myself, particularly my blossomed creative outlet of sewing—and with this rejuvenation, I presumably would eventually be ready to wholly embrace the outside world again once shutdowns were lifted.

But after many weeks of this isolation and now anticipating several months more, my feelings about the circumstances have become foggier, in more ways than one. First is the more expected realization: being suddenly forced to be more alone than ever before has tested my endurance as an introvert and put into focus my basic need for diverse human contact (besides with my parents). Overall, my matured perception and acceptance of my reserved nature has given me a greater internal sense of happiness and fulfillment; but I of course need to balance that conception with the necessary joy that comes from external connections and spending time with people I love, outside of video calls and texting. Even the idea of dating, which was something I had decided to entertain as a New Year’s resolution, has become much a more appealing prospect that I think I’ll want to try seriously once physical contact is unbarred.

On the other extreme, though, is a more complicated revelation: without being fully allowed to be my introverted self, I am perhaps not totally capable of being a proper or satisfactory social being that truly desires outside contact. When I finally traveled to the Twin Cities, I left almost all of my belongings and my whole personal space behind. I say this mostly in reference to my sewing equipment: I no longer have my familiar machine and particular collection of fabrics and supplies that allowed me to produce things I was excited about (and while my mother’s older machine somewhat alleviates this loss, it has major limitations). Making clothes has given me more inner contentment than probably any other activity—and without the full freedom to engage with it, I find myself dissatisfied and frustrated with my current state of confinement, so this inadequacy makes me want to be even more isolated when cities reopen. And writing that thought feels quite ridiculous and selfish and maddening: how could these stay-at-home restrictions have possibly inspired me to see people even less than usual?

As many sources have iterated, all of these confounding sentiments are normal and expected during this event: a worldwide pandemic is a type of traumatic experience, and the disappearance of normalcy throws everyone’s senses of their wants and fears and behaviors into disarray. I certainly feel the joy that comes from staying home much more routinely and having this very extended visit with my family—but I also feel slightly scared that even this greater amount of isolation may not be sufficient enough to make me excited to return to public society. And none of this is to say that I don’t value my interpersonal relationships; but the awful truth is that giving those the most of my time is not a priority in my mind.

societal scrutiny on 'the orville'

One contemporary television show that I have become unexpectedly enamored with is Seth MacFarlane’s The Orville, a comedy-drama about the lives and adventures of crew members on an exploratory spaceship, the USS Orville, set a few hundred years in the future. I initially did not think much of the concept, as I am neither an avid viewer of science fiction nor a caring fan of MacFarlane’s other TV works; but one day last year, I casually watched an episode with a friend who liked the show, and to my pleasant surprise, I found appeal in its novel, genuine mix of everyday charm and epic adventure. Over the course of its two seasons, The Orville has quickly became one of my favorite current series, standing out as the only other-worldly tale amongst the handful of real-life-based comedies and dramas that I watch.

Many of The Orville’s episodes focus on traditional, epic science-fiction scenarios like extraterrestrial exploration and outer-space battles; but other major storylines, in a more toned-down, slice-of-life fashion, deal with social topics like love and sex and the workplace. I enjoy both of these types of narratives, though I gravitate towards the latter ones, due to how they provide much of the show’s humorous relatability and emotional groundedness. But it is this fusion of genres still that is important in making much of The Orville’s plotting work: it presents humanistic allegories through a fantastical lens, able to examine and deconstruct societal and cultural conventions through the unique inclusion of non-human civilizations.

My favorite episodes are those that explore the peculiar, or queer, if you will, nature of relationships in this futuristic setting. The aforementioned chapter I started with was season one’s “Cupid’s Dagger,” in which a male member of an alien race becomes sexually involved with both the crew’s captain, Ed, and commanding officer, Kelly. This being my first impression of the series, I was attracted to the quiet, unquestioned portrayal of queer intimacy, a small yet significant representation of fluidity that I appreciated. Another beloved installment of mine is season two’s “A Happy Refrain,” which explores the burgeoning courtship between the ship’s human doctor Claire and engineering officer Isaac, who is an artificial, robot-like lifeform purportedly incapable of emotion. Though such a bond is unusual, the episode allows it to develop organically with poignant intricacy and authenticity, as the two, like any couple, navigate the complexities of dating, romance, and even sex. I applaud The Orville’s eagerness to tell these simple but affecting narratives about differently-appearing relationships, utilizing the framework of science fiction but maintaining honest, meaningful sentiment.

Outside of these love stories, The Orville’s most noteworthy storylines are those that put up the harshest lens to real-life politics—and those revolve around the species from the planet Moclus. The Moclans are ostensibly a male-dominant species due to the rarity of female births, a fact first examined early in the first season when second officer Bortus and his mate, both Moclan males, bear a female child. The subsequent episode, “About a Girl,” involves a legal trial on Moclus to determine whether the infant will undergo sex reassignment surgery, divulging in further detail the Moclans’ superiority bias against females. The subject is expanded upon in season two’s “Deflectors,” which reveals that being attracted to females is a punishable crime on Moclus; such an idea so easily flips our world’s standard of heteronormativity on its head, illustrating what discrimination against heterosexuality looks like. Moclus’s culture is finally blown wide open in the later chapter “Sanctuary,” which reveals the existence of an entire colony of Moclan females on a hidden world, making for a compelling, universally-echoing political episode revolving around cultural traditions and prejudices, unjust laws and oppression, and the fundamental rights of living beings. More so than its ability to tackle ubiquitous topics like love and relationships, I admire The Orville’s ambitious and, I believe, successful execution of conveying such rich sociopolitical themes that resonate immensely with current issues in human society.

Between the above instances, its endearing and well-developed characters, and also some truly magnificent cosmic action scenes, The Orville manages to hold a place in my heart as a very special, extraordinary piece of entertainment. From a broader standpoint, the show is not perfect: at times, the writing can be questionable and distasteful, and the sillier gags can feel at odds with the weightier narrative material; and in the reviewing space, inevitable comparisons, positive and negative, are made to predecessors in the science-fiction genre, particularly Star Trek. But regardless of these challenges, I give credit to The Orville for the value it brings in this present era of human history: in the face of continually-thriving conservative ignorance, the series examines society with an open perspective, questioning what is customary and proposing freer, kinder images of existence. More fictional stories in entertainment ought to follow this model, as such is the true power of media: to not merely show what life is, but rather what it could and should be.