Good Luck, Babe!

Growing up, I wasn’t really sure what “queer” was.

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My family was always supportive, but I wasn’t surrounded by it in my everyday life. Media representation of queer individuals was limited, and it wasn’t until late in high school that I finally saw representation that actually resonated with me.

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In middle school, I was afraid of it. The people I chose to surround myself with acted as though homosexuality was something to be frowned upon. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. My beliefs didn’t exactly align with theirs, but they were my friends. What they were saying couldn’t have been too terrible, right?

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For our sixth-grade science project, two friends and I designed advanced glasses that differed from standard prescription glasses. I have no recollection of how these worked (I’m pretty sure they didn’t) or the science behind them, but we ended up winning second place, so we must’ve done something right.

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The project itself was fun, but the process of getting to the finish line was messy. As three middle schoolers, we weren’t the best at being rational or agreeing with each other. Part of the assignment was designing a logo for our product, which led to some conversations regarding what was “appropriate.” At that age, I wasn’t aware of a rainbow being used as a symbol of pride. Instead, I thought they were fun, cute and colorful, and would look cool above the glasses for the logo.

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I suggested this, but it wasn’t well-received. One of the girls in my group told me we couldn’t use a rainbow in our logo because it meant gay, made her uncomfortable and went against what she believed in.

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At this point, I hadn’t even started questioning my sexuality. I never really had crushes, except for the guys I heard other girls saying were cute. When people asked who my celebrity crush was, I always answered “David Bowie,” because he was the only male celebrity I could think of. Elementary school me definitely got some weird looks for that one. Looking back, the honest answer would have been Jade West from the show “Victorious.”

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Despite not really understanding what my friend was saying about the rainbow, I knew something was off. But I didn’t say anything – honestly, I never thought much of it until recently. Earlier this semester, I called the other girl from that trio to catch up, as she’s still one of my closest friends. During our conversation, I asked her about it to make sure that’s actually what our former friend had said. She confirmed it, and now, looking back, I find it hard to believe she said that. It’s something that stuck with me, and honestly, I think it might be part of why I was so scared to admit to myself that I wasn’t heterosexual. I was terrified of what my friends might think.

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The thought first crossed my mind in seventh grade on my way to study hall. I can’t remember exactly why or how, but I know I sat in the back of the class that day. I vividly remember thinking to myself over and over, “I can’t be gay,” while holding back tears. Looking back, it sounds dramatic, but it was truly scary. I even struggled to tell my parents, who I knew would be nothing but supportive. I was so terrified that I couldn’t even bring myself to tell my therapist – I made my mom come in and tell her for me.

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My first real exposure to the LGBTQ+ community was a second cousin of mine. She was the first person in my family to come out as queer, and talking to her helped me understand my identity. I started to feel more comfortable with it. I remember her telling me how she loved the person I was becoming. I wonder if she knew how much that meant to me. However, she lived in California, so staying in contact was difficult.

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At a family wedding, she told me how interesting it was that we were the only two openly gay people in our family. We spent a lot of time together at the wedding; bonding and talking about different music (lots of Kesha and Lady Gaga talk). It was comforting knowing I had her by my side.

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The COVID-19 pandemic was a big turning point in understanding my identity. Having the isolated time to focus exclusively on myself was definitely a contributing factor. However, the pandemic was also right around when I got into “Saturday Night Live,” (SNL) and discovered Kate McKinnon.

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McKinnon has been a role model of mine for some time now. I thought she was funny, so I watched a lot of her filmography and interviews. I remember watching an interview where she discussed realizing she was gay after watching Ellen DeGeneres. She talked about how DeGeneres inspired her and was her first real introduction to the idea of gay people being on TV and helped her realize that she could do it herself.

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McKinnon mentioned being a lesbian in a few of the interviews I watched, and looking up to her was part of what made me realize that I was, in fact, a lesbian. For a while, I thought I might have been bisexual, but in my case, I think I was scared to admit that I’m not attracted to men at all.

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I started tuning into “SNL” as it aired every week at 11:30 p.m., and at the time, McKinnon was on the show. One night, she led the cold open with a bit called “What Still Works.” In the sketch, she interviewed various figures (portrayed by her cast mates), such as Marjorie Taylor Greene, a GameStop investor, O.J. Simpson, Mark Zuckerberg and Tom Brady. By doing this, she hoped to figure out if anything in the United States actually still worked. It’s a hilarious bit, and she concluded that most things she investigated, except for maybe Tom Brady, did not work. At one point, she interviewed Jack Dorsey, who asked McKinnon if his beard worked. She replied, “It’s working in terms of keeping me a lesbian.”

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While it was meant as a quick joke, it was one of the first times I heard someone refer to themselves as a lesbian on national television. It meant even more coming from someone I admired so much. Her openness about her identity was something I rarely saw in the media I consumed, and it helped me not only feel comfortable with who I am but proud to embrace it.

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I will forever be grateful to Kate McKinnon.

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In more recent years, I have discovered different music artists who sing about their experiences as part of the queer community. I had been listening to Girl in Red for a while and later found other artists like Reneé Rapp, Chappell Roan, Towa Bird and more. Recently, Billie Eilish, someone who I have been a longtime fan of, has begun singing about her queer experiences as well. When I was younger, the closest thing I had to LGBTQ+ music was “I Kissed A Girl” by Katy Perry, which, although fun and catchy, does more harm than good and feeds into stereotypes.

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I remember when “Born This Way” by Lady Gaga came out. That was my first introduction to genuine, positive queer music. The song’s message was to be proud of who you are because you were born that way for a reason. It’s powerful.

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Just love yourself and you’re set/ I’m on the right track, baby/ I was born this way.

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This past May, I dragged my dad to see Chappell Roan in concert. I saw her as an opener for Olivia Rodrigo in March, but her music immediately spoke to me, and I needed to see her again — especially since that set didn’t include “Good Luck, Babe!” The song describes an experience Roan had as a queer woman and how denying feelings doesn’t make them go away. I desperately needed to hear it live.

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My dad has pretty much become my go-to plus one when it comes to my lesbian artists’ concerts. When it was time for “Good Luck, Babe!” I asked my dad if he could record it. I love having videos to reflect on from concert experiences (yes, I actually watch them), but unfortunately, filming can often take you out of the moment. For this song specifically, I needed to be fully there, fully present.

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And I was.

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Being in a crowd full of fellow queer people screaming the lyrics was one of the most impactful, powerful moments of my life. It taught me to be proud of my identity. I don’t know if I ever told my dad this, but while he was recording, tears streamed down my face as I looked at the beautiful community I was surrounded by.

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You’d have to stop the world just to stop the feeling.

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I left the venue feeling complete. I felt whole, and I felt seen. Thank you, Chappell Roan.

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Over the past few years, canonically queer characters have become present in many different television shows and films. In season three of “Stranger Things,” they introduced Maya Hawke’s character, Robin Buckley. Toward the end of the season, Robin came out as a lesbian, admitting to Steve Harrington that she was attracted to girls.

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It was one of the first times I saw a gay character on screen whose whole storyline wasn’t centered on their sexuality, and their sole purpose wasn’t for comic relief – it was refreshing.

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This has become more common since then, but Robin was one of the characters who first introduced me to positive representation of queer fictional characters in television. It was especially impactful being in a show that I’d already been watching for years.

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For the past few weeks, I have been watching Marvel’s “Agatha All Along.” Kathryn Hahn’s Agatha Harkness and Aubrey Plaza’s Rio Vidal have a charged romantic history that’s prominently featured in the series. The second-to-last episode features the first lesbian kiss in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, a huge milestone.

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The show has a variety of queer characters and stories, but it’s not what the show is centered around. Instead, the characters are just normal people who happen to be queer. This is my favorite type of representation – I love it when LGBTQ+ characters are normalized instead of just being the stereotypical, funny side character. It’s more real. It’s more genuine.

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As much as I love fun, silly queer films like “But I’m a Cheerleader” and “Bottoms,” the entire focus of those movies is being gay, and the storylines are centered around just that. Now, a lot of films are starting to incorporate queer characters without making it the main focus of the film. It’s still not perfect, but it’s a step in the right direction.

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Becoming confident in myself and proud of my identity wasn’t an easy journey. Growing up, queerness wasn’t something talked about, so I never understood it. As I’ve gotten older, music, television and film have worked as vessels to help me understand who I am.

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If I could go back in time and tell seventh-grade me one thing, I would tell myself that everything would be okay. I would tell myself that it isn’t something to be afraid of – it’s something to embrace.

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Besides, I’m on the right track, baby/ I was born this way.

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