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Plenum 2,1 (2105) pgs. 1-29
Copyright © Breanna Hudson. All rights reserved.
“[I FEEL] SAFER IN MY IDENTITES”:
PERCEPTIONS OF SEXUALIZED SPACE
AND SAFETY IN SEATTLE
Breanna Hudson
Department of Geography
University of Washington
ABSTRACT: Matters of safety and vulnerability in the public sphere have
dominated much of the discourse in both everyday queer media and scholarship in
queer geography, as lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer (LGBTQ)
individuals continue to face often violent discrimination in public spaces. This
project, while acknowledging the difficulty other researchers have discovered in
conceptualizing queer space, addresses a gap within queer geography. Little
research has been done to analyze the contradiction that lies in the
conceptualization many individuals have of “queer spaces” as sites of safety and
sites of increased vulnerability. Therefore, this research explores how sexualized
spaces are identified, how safety is conceptualized for queer individuals in
differentially sexualized spaces, and examines how these different
conceptualizations interact to create contradictory spaces of safety and
vulnerability. Personalized maps were used to deconstruct a static geography of
sexualized space in Seattle. Qualitative interviews with LGBTQ-identified Seattle
residents were coded and thematically analyzed for patterns of how subjective
geographies of un/safe are constructed by queer individuals. This research
highlights the importance of lived experiences in understanding how space is
categorized and perceived, as well the need for ontological safety to play a larger
role in the overall conceptualization of queer vulnerability.
KEY WORDS: sexualized space; queer space; safety; Seattle
Plenum 2,1 (2105)
Introduction
Queer geography is a growing discipline that has largely focused on queer
spaces, that is, oft contested spaces where queer people exist “in opposition to”
(Oswin, 2008: 89) heteronormative spaces. This tension is reflected in the focus
research has often taken when examining queer people and space, especially public
space. Three issues have taken precedence: harassment, protest, and the place of
public affection or eroticism (Nusser and Anacker, 2012). For queer people, the notion
of safety within queer spaces has been especially important, as the absence of safety in
a hetero-normative and -supremacist society has largely been the catalyst for the
creation and seeking of queer-oriented spaces.
However, safety within such spaces has also proven to be a complicated matter
as queer spaces have been found to be contradictory sites of both safety and danger.
While this research has been important in understanding more about how queer
people experience public space, especially spaces that are overtly queer such as
“gayborhoods” or exist in aggressively anti-queer communities, the notion of a distinct
boundary between spaces – be they public and private, queer and heteronormative has been challenged (Nusser and Anacker, 2012; Bell, 1995; Duncan, 1996; Hubbard,
2001; Bouhilette and Retter, 1997).
However, while these boundaries may be dynamic and fluid, there is ample
evidence to suggest that they heavily influence how the spaces are perceived for the
individuals who inhabit them. Perceptions of safety are of particular interest because
“actual” experiences of threat and danger, often captured in police statistics, only offer
a limited view of how violence impacts queer individuals. Further, this data often only
captures physical violence. The absence of other types of violence, such as ontological,
fails to capture both accurate understandings of “actual” and perceived violence.
This research project bridges the gap between the theorized ambiguous
boundaries of space and the lived experiences of queer people within them by
constructing a new “queer” geography of Seattle wherein the boundaries between
queer/heteronormative and un/safe spaces are transient and overlapping. Furthermore,
this research develops a deeper understanding of how “safety” is conceptualized and
therefore experienced differently for queer individuals in queer- and heteronormativeidentified places. By doing so, I expand our knowledge of queer experiences in public
space, especially as they relate to visibility and vulnerability, two often complementary
components of navigating the predominately heteronormative public sphere.
Nusser and Anacker (2012) believe that “studies of queer spaces alone do not
help us understand how everyday space affects queer people” (pg. 175). I argue that
they also limit our understanding of queer safety. By moving away from the binary and
static definition of distinct and separate queer and heterosexual spaces and toward an
understanding of public space as more subjectively experienced both as sexualized
and safe, we are able to gain more insight into what “everyday space” is for queer
people. Though this “everyday space” is ordinary, in other words, it is a space queer
people inhabit as part of their daily life, this knowledge of the “everyday” for queer
people is not, making it an important addition to queer geographic scholarship.
Literature Review
Queering Language; Queering Place
2 Breanna Hudson: “[I feel] safer in my identities”
The language used to describe and talk about sexual minorities in many
disciplines has become increasingly complicated as the discourse has shifted toward a
more critical understanding of identity. Whereas “gay” had once been a common
catchall phrase for all sexual minorities, terms such as LGBT and queer have come to
replace it in a myriad of different ways. While LGBT, an acronym for lesbian, gay,
bisexual, and transgender, has been used as a more general but inclusive descriptor for
non-heterosexual, as well as non-cisgender, individuals, queer as a descriptor has come
to encompass more than just one’s sexual or gender identity (Nash, 2011; Nash, 2013;
Oswin, 2008; Nusser and Anacker, 2012).
Although queer can, and often does, function interchangeably with LGBT
(Nusser and Anacker, 2012), it can also stand in “critical relation” (Oswin, 2008: 92) to it
as its usage seeks to claim identities that transcend normative binaries such as
heterosexual and homosexual, man and woman, and at times, even white and nonwhite (Oswin, 2008; Nash, 2013). Queer, then, seeks not only to challenge normativity
as it is predominately framed by heteronormativity 1 (Browne, 2006), but also
homonormativity, i.e. the normalization of white, middle class, assimilationist identities
within LGBT culture (Nash, 2013; Bell and Binnie, 2004; Fox and Ore, 2010).
Because of this complicated discourse, the definition of queer spaces is equally
convoluted. While there have been efforts to understand and analyze queer space as
separate from “gay” and “LGBT” spaces (Nash, 2013; Oswin, 2008), most research
does not differentiate between them. Therefore, while queer space can and does exist
both separate from and within other non-heteronormative sexualized spaces, it is most
often theorized in a similar fashion, that is, spaces that are appropriated by individuals
who fall under the broad “queer” umbrella.
Space and place have historically been important parts of queer identity
formation, but the origin of modern queer spaces, especially so-called queer villages or
neighborhoods, is most often cited as a result of the Stonewall Riots in New York City
in the late 1960s2 (Valentine and Skelton, 2003; Doderer, 2011). Since then, queer
communities have increasingly become part of the Western urban landscape (Doderer,
2011; Oswin, 2008; Rushbrook, 2002; Skeggs, 1999).
Queer space, though increasingly abstract in both definition and formation, is
often synonymous with queer neighborhoods, i.e. spaces in which queerness is visible
in the landscape both through the presence of queer bodies and queer-owned and frequented establishments (Oswin, 2008; Skeggs, 1999; Moran et al., 2001). This is
usually achieved through a combination of noncommercial and commercial social space
(Doderer, 2011; Nash, 2013), though some queer neighborhoods are also sites of
residential concentration (Nusser and Anacker, 2012; Bouthillette, 1997). Therefore,
modern gay spaces are frequently defined as sites of consumption (Bell and Binnie,
2004; Doderer, 2011; Nash, 2013; Rushbrook, 2002), especially for gay white men
(Moran et al., 2001; Nusser and Anacker, 2012; Rushbrook, 2002; Skeggs, 2010).
However, queer spaces can also be defined as temporary spaces queer bodies inhabit
(Hubbard, 2001; Rushbrook, 2002; Moran et al., 2003) in ways that only covertly disrupt
1
Browne (2006) defines heteronormativity as “the normalisation of man/woman as
opposites meant to come together within heterosexual relationships that are based on specific
class and race-based relations” (pg. 886).
2
The Stonewall Riots were a social movement and backlash against a police raid of the
Stonewall Inn specifically and police violence against LGBT communities, generally.
3 Plenum 2,1 (2105)
the heteronormative landscape. Whether these spaces are relatively permanent or
temporary, they act as sites of celebration and affirmation (Hubbard, 2001; Valentine
and Skelton, 2003) where queerness is allowed (Corteen, 2002) and individuals are
“safe” to express their sexualities (Nash, 2011, Corteen, 2002; Doan, 2007; Fox and
Ore, 2010; Valentine and Skelton, 2003).
“Safe” Space
There is debate within scholarship about whether queer spaces are indeed safe
spaces for queer people. Though many researchers cite safety as one of the benefits of
queer spaces (Doan, 2007; Moran et al., 2001; Myslik, 1996; Nusser and Anacker,
2012), much of the rhetoric around safe spaces for queer people does not discuss
queer spaces. Rather, the construction of “safe spaces” is often centered on the
experiences of queer people in heterosexual spaces, especially within education, i.e.
schools and classrooms (Weems, 2010; Stengel and Weems, 2010; Alvarez and
Schneider, 2008; Fox and Ore, 2010). There is also an emphasis on youth, as they are
not only the ones who are navigating the unsafe academic spaces of secondary school
and universities, but also are denied access to many queer establishments because of
their age or lack of monetary resources.
Though these “safe spaces” are rooted in particular places, they are also
“imaginary” (Stengel and Weems, 2010: 505) spaces that reflect the people that
inhabit them more than the places they inhabit, though perceptions of that space can
further influence feelings of safety (Weems, 2010). “Safe” spaces, in the way they are
currently conceptualized, are inherently transient and dependent on the identities of
the people who make up the spaces, making perceptions of safety increasingly
complicated. For example, some researchers examine the way safe space functions for
those who may be queer-identified but are not homonormative. For them, they are
“safe” as queer people but not as people whose class backgrounds and racial
identities
differ
from
the
norm
(Fox
and
Ore,
2010).
The literature highlights how both “safe spaces” and queer spaces blur the
boundary between public and private, which further complicates the perception of
safety in these spaces (Stotzer, 2010; Duncan, 1996; Hubbard, 2001; Moran et al.,
2001; Bell, 1995). “Safe spaces” are contradictory places that inhabit the public and
private spheres because they are within public places, yet need to create a boundary
between what is public – and therefore heteronormative (Bell, 1995; Duncan, 1996) –
and what is private and queered space. Queer spaces often attempt to accomplish the
same thing, but as part of the urban landscape, the distinction between what is private
and public becomes difficult to establish and regulate.
Historically, queer people have been forced to experience their private lives in
public as a result of oppressive societal norms (Bell, 1995; Hubbard, 2001). Shifting
social attitudes toward queer people has allowed them a more visible public existence.
However, the persistence of heterosexual as normal and therefore invisible within space
has continued the equation of queer visibility as a private matter, something that has
led to tension between queer visibility and heterosexual people in heteronormative
spaces (Duncan, 1996; Valentine, 1996). There has also been tension between queer
people and heterosexual visibility in queer spaces. Queer people often view “public”
queer space as their private space and reject the “invasion” of heterosexual people
within it (Corteen, 2002; Moran et al., 2001, 2003; Skeggs, 1999).
There have been attempts to establish and regulate these perceived boundaries
– private and public, queer and heterosexual – for both sides. In heterosexual spaces,
the actions of queer people can be punished through physical and ontological violence
4 Breanna Hudson: “[I feel] safer in my identities”
(Browne et al., 2011; Swim et al., 2007) and forceful exclusion (Valentine, 1996). In
queer spaces, there is an attempt to regulate who can access said spaces through
things such as bouncers at bars and proof of “membership” (Moran et al., 2003), but
such actions are limited to privately owned places; other space, such as sidewalks
within queer neighborhoods, are more public and therefore more difficult to regulate.
Safety in Queer Spaces
The shift in public opinion and therefore a shift from an underground to visible
queer existence has, perhaps paradoxically, been shown as a major factor in queer
vulnerability (Moran et al., 2003; Myslik, 1996; Skeggs, 1999; Stotzer, 2010). While the
visibility of queer spaces has allowed them to become places of community
(Rushbrook, 2002; Skeggs, 1999; Doan, 2007;) and identity formation (Valentine and
Skelton, 2003; Doderer, 2011), it has also made them targets of heterosexist violence in
two ways.
In a more indirect manner, the formation of queer space has led to the strict
policing of queer appearance as a determinant of “belonging” in such spaces (Moran
et al., 2003; Valentine and Skelton, 2003). Such an appearance, determined by both
queer and heterosexual ideas of queer people, has constructed a visible queer identity
that allows queer people to fit in to queer spaces while simultaneously making them
visible outside of it (Valentine, 1996; Swim et al., 2007). Studies have shown that being
identified as queer by perpetrators of heterosexist violence is often the catalyst for this
violence (Valentine, 1996; Corteen, 2002; Valentine and Skelton, 2003; Swim et al.,
2007). In a more direct way, the concentration of queer people within queer spaces
makes it easy for perpetrators to find their victims (Duncan, 1996; Moran et al., 2001,
2003; Valentine and Skelton, 2003; Stotzer, 2010).
Despite these vulnerabilities related to queer-identified spaces, research has
found that these spaces can be thought of as safe, even when they are public and
highly visible (Moran et al., 2001, 2003; Browne and Lim, 2010; Corteen, 2002; Doan,
2007; Nash, 2011; Myslik, 1996). In this context, safety is defined in many different
ways – it can be thought of as places where queer people are with people they feel are
safe (Corteen, 2002), comfortable being themselves, i.e. queer and presenting as such
(Corteen, 2002; Doan, 2007; Nash, 2011), expressing queer affection (Nusser and
Anacker, 2012), or simply the absence of visibly straight people (Moran et al., 2003).
In some cases, queer spaces were thought of as safe even when the subjects
acknowledged the absence of things they identified with safety, whether physical or
ontological. For example, in a study of white gay men in Washington, D.C., participants
overwhelmingly found Dupont Circle, a queer-identified neighborhood, to be “safe
[and] non-alienating” (Duncan, 1996: 8). This was despite the notable presence of
property and violent crime, some of which was known to be anti-queer (Myslik, 1996).
In the studies that examine the perceptions of safety in queer space in depth,
there is diversity in how queer space is defined. For Moran et al. (2001; 2003), their
studies of queer space examine both an identified “gay village” in Manchester, UK and
a loose network of queer space in Lancaster, UK. In both studies, the threat of a
heterosexual presence is what was identified as one of the key variables that made
queer people feel unsafe in queer spaces. Even if the heterosexuals were identified as
non-violent, their presence itself was a form of violence. There were also notable
gender differences, as gay men were more likely than lesbians to find Manchester's gay
village unsafe, especially those who had close contact and were familiar with the area.
5 Plenum 2,1 (2105)
Both, however, overwhelmingly found Lancaster to be safe, despite it lacking a
concentration of queer people. They also found that perceptions of danger were more
influential than experiences of danger in Manchester, while experiences of violence
played more heavily into perceptions of safety Lancaster.
For the individuals in Myslik's (1996) study, which strictly defined queer space in
Washington, D.C. as Dupont Circle and the rest of the city as heterosexual, their
feelings of safety were defined by lack of signs of disorder, the presence of pro-gay
sentiment and feelings of power and control within the neighborhood, even as they
acknowledged their vulnerability within it. Nusser and Anacker's (2012) findings echo
these sentiments, although their study does not draw the boundary between queer
and heterosexual space as distinctly as others and emphasizes the role of other people
in space, whether they are queer or heterosexual, as a a defining characteristic of that
space.
Shortcomings of current research
Although these studies add crucial knowledge to our understanding of queer
safety in queer spaces, there remain gaps in the knowledge that are important to fill.
Understandings of queer and un/safe spaces have been explored in a number of
complex ways, but rarely have these understandings been deconstructed through rich
qualitative data. Further, none of the studies have examined queer and non-queer
spaces side-by-side to complicate the current understanding of what “safe” means in
queer spaces, and indeed, even what “queer” means in queer spaces. Only Msylik
(1996) tries to get an in-depth understanding of how queer spaces can be perceived
simultaneously as both spaces of safety and danger. However, previous research also
cautions the clear and pre-determined distinction made between heterosexual and
queer space as Myslik had, and although Nusser and Anacker (2012) do not make this
distinction, their study takes place in a city where a queer neighborhood doesn't exist,
making the lack of distinction between sexualized spaces a necessity. The absence of a
more fluid understanding of spatial boundaries creates a further need to deconstruct
both queer space and queer safety, as our daily geographies blur the boundaries
between space and therefore our perception of safety in ways that have not been
researched previously.
Other methodological limitations remain necessary to address in current
research. None of the studies previously discussed were racially diverse – the
participants in Nusser and Anacker's study were 4/5th white, Msylik's population was
entirely white men, and neither of Moran et al.'s studies mentioned race at all. In the
spirit of queer studies, wherein queer means not only in opposition to heteronormative
but also in opposition to the homonormative narrative that is prevalent in much
research, there remains a need to understand safety through the experiences of nonwhite queer individuals.
As previous research has found (see Fox and Ore, 2010; Logie and Rwigema,
2014), non-white queer individuals experience queer spaces in ways that white queer
people do not, as they not only have to interact with homophobia and heterosexism
but also racism from those both outside and within these spaces. Given that people of
color make up approximately 37 percent of the American population (U.S. Census
Bureau, 2013), the absence of their voices in queer research represents a crucial gap in
knowledge. Further, a recent poll by Gallop found people of color were more likely to
identify as LGBT than white people (Gates and Newport, 2012). Therefore, not only are
6 Breanna Hudson: “[I feel] safer in my identities”
overwhelmingly white queer samples limiting, they are also an inaccurate
representation of the queer community in the United States.
Additionally, none of the studies were set in an American city like Seattle, which
embodies Richard Florida's “creative city” concept as a place that is youthful, politically
liberal and highly tolerant of diversity. Seattle is also unlike places such as Kansas City,
Missouri and Washington, D.C. because, despite lagging behind San Francisco in the
percentage of population that identifies as LGBT – 13% versus 15% (Turnbull, 2006) – it
recently overtook San Francisco as the city with the largest concentration of gay-couple
households (Balk, 2013). Such a political and social atmosphere, particularly as an
atmosphere that is implicitly thought of as safe for queer people, is missing in the
research on perceptions of safety in public spaces by queer people.
This study therefore seeks to create new constructions of sexualized and
un/safe space within queer theory/geography. In particular, I examine the
contradictions in perceptions of safety through a more fluid construction of sexualized
geographies. Additionally, I seek to use “queer” as both a critical lens from which to
understand subjective geographies and a synonym for the identities that play a strong
role in shaping them. By bridging these definitions, I seek to bridge the personal with
the theoretical and shed new light on “everyday space” for queer people. To do this, I
ask three questions: How is sexualized space identified by queer individuals? How is
safety conceptualized for them in spaces identified as queer or heterosexual? How do
these interact to create “safe” places of increased vulnerability?
Methods
Participants
The participants of this study are queer (i.e. non-heterosexual and/or
cisgender3) identified people between the ages of 18 and 30 who live in the city of
Seattle. Though the experience of older and younger queer individuals are worthwhile,
I chose this age group based on the assumption that they use “queer” space in a way
that is different for those younger or much older than they are. They were chosen using
non-probability sampling, which was initially judgment sampling through
communication with queer organizations and networks throughout Seattle before
snowball sampling was used. Snowball sampling allowed me to access parts of the
population that were not connected to any formal queer networks, and allowed me to
gain trust with the participants as well. It was also helpful in making sure the
participants were as racially and ethnically heterogeneous as possible as I made it clear
that I was primarily seeking participants of color.
Seven participants between the ages of 20 and 24 were interviewed, two of
whom were white and five who were people of color (including 2 of Latin descent, 2
East Asian, and 1 Black). Of this population, three identified as women, three as men,
and one as genderfluid4; two identified as lesbians, two as gay men, one as pansexual5,
3
Cisgender is a gender identity in which one's identity matches the behavior or role
society deems appropriate for the sex they were assigned at birth (“Definition of Terms”).
4
Genderfluid is a gender identity in which one's identity is fluctuating and moves
between genders (“Definition of Terms”) 5
Pansexual, also known as omnisexual, is a sexual orientation defined by attraction to
those of all gender identities (ibid).
7 Plenum 2,1 (2105)
one as queer and one as demisexual 6 ; further, two identified themselves on trans
spectrum.
Measures
Data was collected in three ways: first, participants filled out a brief demographic
form listing their age and how they identify themselves with regards to race, class,
gender identity, sexual orientation and neighborhood of residence. All of these
questions were open-ended so participants did not feel limited in how they were
allowed to identify.
Then the participants were sent a link to a blank map of Seattle and asked to
map out the places they identify as heterosexual and queer within the city using the
Google Maps Engine interface. Google Maps Engine, now called Google My Maps, is a
free, online mapping interface which allows users to create custom, multi-layered maps
using the Google Maps interface. Using the online software, participants could draw
polygons around the locations they had identified with relative precision. They could
also add notes to the map if they wished to do so.
Following the mapping exercise, there was a loosely structured interview in
which participants were asked how they perceive safety in public spaces (e.g. “Do you
think there's an expectation of safety in a public space?”) and if this was different for
places they had identified as queer versus places they had identified as
heteronormative. Because the interviews were loosely structured, participants were
encouraged to take the conversation where they felt comfortable to possibly draw out
previously unknown or unexamined variables and aspects of safety not yet identified
within the research. The interviews lasted from 30 to 75 minutes, and were audio
recorded pending participant consent. The interviews were transcribed verbatim and
then coded, first through open coding and then followed by axial coding to define the
themes found during the original round of coding. Participants were assigned
pseudonyms during this process.
Because the map data was created on Google Maps engine, some manipulation
was needed to produce data that could be displayed on one map. The different layers
– queer, safe and unsafe – were downloaded from the original maps as KML files. Then
using Esri ArcGIS and the spatial analysis toolbox, the KML files were converted into
layer files that could be displayed on the same map. None of the map data used was
provided from other sources; however, some of the polygons that extended beyond
the boundaries of the city of Seattle were clipped, as data outside of the city limits was
either the result of spatial inaccuracy or irrelevant to the study (some participants, for
instance, drew polygons for places in the nearby suburbs).
Limitations
Because my sampling methods relied on formal and informal networks to
contact and connect with people, it is possible that those who were less connected
with the queer community were not part of my participant pool. Another possible
limitation is that snowball sampling created a participant pool that was heterogeneous
in some ways, such as race, but homogeneous in regards to other identities such as
6
Demisexual is a sexual orientation defined by sexual attraction only to those one first has a strong emotional connection with (“What is
Demisexuality?”).
8 Breanna Hudson: “[I feel] safer in my identities”
class, as most of the participants identified as middle class. Likely related to this, all but
one of the participants were either college students or college graduates. While I do
believe that the lack of educational and class diversity in my participant pool has
affected my results, the diversity otherwise prevalent has added depth and value to my
data.
Another important limitation to note is the limited geography of the
participants. Because most participants were not from the city of Seattle and lived in
the University District, their “view” of Seattle was very university-centric. Many of the
examples given by the participants of their everyday spaces were in and around the
University of Washington campus. The other areas that participants were familiar with
were largely popular neighborhoods that function as destination neighborhoods for the
city, e.g. downtown, Capitol Hill, Ballard, etc. Therefore, while there was a richness of
information about these neighborhoods, there was a distinct lack of information about
neighborhoods in other parts of the city, namely those that were extremely north or
south. Though these areas are largely residential in nature and perhaps do not offer the
same sort of commercial resources available in the neighborhoods more familiar to the
participants, the inclusion of them would have offered a richer, more complex view of
the city of Seattle as a whole.
Finally, I would like to acknowledge how my own positionality has influenced my
analysis of the data. As a resident of Seattle and the University District my own
preconceived ideas about Seattle have created a less visible, though no less
meaningful, subjective geography. So too have my experiences navigating public space
as a queer black woman in a city that, as many participants have noted, can be defined
in a plurality of ways by white masculinity. I have done my best to understand the
experiences of others, particularly those who are not necessarily cognizant of their own
vulnerability, and to reflect what they have shared with me in a form most true to their
lived experiences.
“Queer” Seattle
Seattle, the largest city in the state of Washington, is particularly unique
compared to the county, state and nation in its household makeup. While families
make up more than half of all households in the city, only approximately nineteen
percent of all households have children under eighteen, the second lowest percentage
for large cities in America7 (Turnbull, 2010). Forty-one percent of all households are
comprised of only one person (“About Seattle”). Of major cities in the United States,
Seattle is also one of the whitest, with a population that is approximately 70% white
(Cima, 2013). And as previously acknowledged, 2.6% or one in every seventeen Seattle
couple households were same-sex couples. While a small percentage, and only .1%
higher than San Francisco, it is a stark comparison to cities such as Colorado Springs,
Colorado and Fort Worth, Texas, where less than .3% of couple households were
identified as same sex (Balk, 2013).
Seattle also has a queer presence that reaches beyond the individual
household. As Knopp and Brown (2003) have observed, “Gay and lesbian and queer
community and cultural life are particularly well-developed in Seattle” (pg. 414). In fact,
they go so far as to say that Seattle's queer cultural life is similar to that of San
7
For comparison, San Francisco, the city with the lowest percentage, had eighteen
percent versus thirty percent in the nation as a whole (Turnbull, 2010).
9 Plenum 2,1 (2105)
Francisco, a city that is well-known and perhaps defining of what queer cultural life is in
the United States. For Brown and Knopp, the existence of Capitol Hill, a “vibrant queer
commercial core area” (pg. 415) not unlike San Francisco's Castro district and the
abundance of queer organizations, networks and institutions makes Seattle “arguably
one of the 'queerest' cities in North America” (pg. 415). It is also a very visible one. For
instance, Seattle's PrideFest, an annual parade and festival celebrating the queer
community that takes place in the downtown core, is one of the largest in the country
with upwards of 120,000 attendees in 2013 (“Latest News”).
Although Seattle has a vibrant and visible queer community, this has not always
translated into being a safe place for queer people. In fact, according to at least one
report, the “LGBT community has experienced the largest amount of hate crimes” of
any vulnerable group in Seattle (“Hate Crimes...”). Hate crimes against queer people
have been documented and reported as recently as April 2014 (Herz, 2014), with
incidents in 2014 alone ranging from violence against individuals and at least one arson
at a gay nightclub (Thompson and Broom, 2014). Though anti-queer hate crimes have
occurred in the city, they have been found to be especially prevalent in Capitol Hill and
open public spaces such as Volunteer Park 8 (Boog et al., 2011). The increased
vulnerability felt by Seattle's queer community in Capitol Hill can be seen in both their
awareness and their efforts to protect themselves through the creation of Q-Patrol,
now called OutWatch, a citizen patrol group “aimed at preventing gay-bashings and
violence in Seattle’s gay neighborhoods” (Cohen, 2014).
While official police hate crime statistics can offer some insight into the
experiences of safety for queer individuals, they are ultimately limited in their capacity.
A survey by the Seattle Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgendered (sic) Commission
found that although 58 percent of respondents had experienced anti-queer
discrimination or harassment within seven years, 89 percent of those did not report the
harassment or discrimination to the police (Boog et al., 2011). This can partially be
explained by the tension between the police and queer populations who have faced
homophobia and transphobia when reporting incidents to the police. Therefore, while
police statistics offer grounded knowledge, this knowledge cannot be said to
accurately reflect the vulnerability of queer individuals in Seattle.
Violence and vulnerability also cannot solely be reflected in concrete
experiences of anti-queer discrimination or harassment. Perceptions of safety are not
only rooted in the experiences of the individuals but of the community; for many, the
absence of experiences of anti-queer violence does not negate feelings of vulnerability,
as they hold an awareness that they are vulnerable not as an individual but as a
member of the queer community. According to Young (1990), it is through this group
membership, rather than individual experiences of violence, that violence can often be
defined for oppressed groups.
It is with this in mind that I move toward a more critical understanding of the
geography of Seattle, as a subjectively experienced and often contradictorily defined
place of safety, vulnerability, queerness and heteronormativity. By looking at the data
from the personalized mapping exercises, I first lay out a spatial understanding of
where such places exist in Seattle for participant and delve deeper into the idea of
Seattle as both a queer and safe city. Then I deconstruct how participants have come
to know spaces as queer, heteronormative and the possibility of neither. Following this,
the paper turns to an analysis of how safety is differentially conceptualized, and the
8
10 Volunteer Park is located in the Capitol Hill neighborhood.
Breanna Hudson: “[I feel] safer in my identities”
ways in which identity – of space, others and the self – influence perceptions of
sexualized space, safety and belonging, and the implications of such for queer
individuals in sexualized spaces.
A New Geography: Sense-of-Place Mapping
“[Seattle is] more queer than a lot of other cities” (Julia, participant #7).
“Queer Seattle”, though ideologically unbound by spatial borders, was
identified as having very little geographic range by participants (see figure 1). The
primary place identified by multiple participants was Capitol Hill, a central Seattle
neighborhood closely linked to the local queer community through the existence of
queer establishments such as bars and community centers. However, even the “queer”
space of Capitol Hill was contestable, as there were only a few sites of overlap where
multiple participants thought queer space was within the designated boundaries of the
neighborhood9. And while some participants saw a large part of Capitol Hill as queer,
others saw queer space as limited within the neighborhood, identifying only the area
near the Pike/Pine corridor, a heavily commercialized area, or even just Broadway, a
largely commercial arterial street that runs through the neighborhood.
The other queer areas of the city that were identified were not related to
specific neighborhood identities but rather personal experiences that held strong
emotional connections for the participants. Some places, such as those in South Seattle
along Rainer Avenue and Ravenna Park in North Seattle were identified by a
participant as associated with the particular spatiality of a queer relationship they had
had rather than a wider queer community.
Other places, notably in the University District, a neighborhood in Northeast
Seattle around the University of Washington campus, were associated with campus
resources such as the Q Center, a queer resource center located in the Husky Union
Building, and the Ethnic Cultural Center, a resource and community center for students
of color on campus.
Notable absences in this subjective geography of “queer” Seattle as defined by
participants were neighborhoods such as downtown Seattle, Ballard and Fremont, as
they are associated with youth and cultural tolerance much in the same way that the
University of Washington campus is, given their relatively young populations and active
commercial districts (White, 2008). Other absences include West Seattle and much of
South Seattle. While these absences, as noted previously, may reflect a lack of
familiarity with these areas on the part of the participants, it is also worth recognizing
that both West and South Seattle are largely residential and therefore may not have
the resources nor the commercial draw that is typically associated with identified queer
spaces.
“I would say for the most part like a lot of Seattle is very safe [...] in general Seattle
seems like a very safe city to me” (Adam, participant #4).
9
It is perhaps worth noting that the boundaries of Capitol Hill as defined by the city of
Seattle were not available to the participants as they created their personalized maps.
Therefore, the relative precision of “queer” spaces being defined within said boundary reflects
a cultural understanding of the boundaries of Capitol Hill rather than the predetermined
designation of them.
11 Plenum 2,1 (2105)
“Safe” Seattle was more wide-ranging than queer spaces, but it too had a
specific geography (see figure 2). Again absent were West and South Seattle; however,
much of Central Seattle, including downtown Seattle and the Central District, was
identified by at least one participant as being a space safe. Multiple participants also
identified Capitol Hill; however, other participants did not identify it, and the range of
“safe” was more spatially limited than the “queer” space previously noted in the
neighborhood. However, “safe” and “queer” spaces though distinctly different in their
geographies were generally overlapping, reflecting a connection held for individual
participants and participants as a whole between queer and safe spaces.
The University District remained a meaningful place for participants, a finding
not surprising given that most also resided in the neighborhood. However, unlike
Capitol Hill, the scale at which people thought of the University District as “safe” was
large relative to the scale at which people thought of the neighborhood as “queer”.
Instead of solely identifying campus resources, participants generally saw the entirety
of campus, along with the residential and commercial areas west and north of it, as
safe, including much of the neighboring Ravenna neighborhood.
The other “safe” places identified also varied from queer spaces in that they
were not seemingly connected to any personal experiences outside of a general
familiarity with the city. Outside of Central Seattle and the University District, the other
“safe” spaces were natural spaces, specifically the Burke-Gilman trail, a mixed-use
recreational trail that runs along the waterfront in North Seattle, and Discovery Park, a
large park in the Magnolia neighborhood.
Curiously, this geography can be seen as dissonant with the way participants
spoke of safety in Seattle in generalized terms. For most participants, there was at least
a baseline expectation that Seattle was a safe city, especially when it came to physical
harm. As one participant put it, “[There is] a certain sense of safety, at least, an
expectation that you know it's not going to be okay to assault anyone” (Julia,
participant #7). Others articulated it in a more complex way – “There's an expectation
of physical safety in an extreme […] to the point where we alter our geographies and
spaces [by] adding light, adding police […] there's a need for visual feelings of physical
safety (Kevin, participant #5). It remains that this perception of overall safety is not
reflected in their subjective geographies.
“There's definitely [...] flaws in like how safe it is” (Adam, participant #4).
Geographies of safety were further complicated by the way participants both
mapped and thought of “unsafe” spaces. Unsafe spaces were found to be the most
contestable, both in terms of where individual people identified them, as there was
only one site of overlap between the perceptions of unsafe spaces, and in the overlap
between previously identified categories and spaces (see figure 3). For instance, parts
of central Seattle and the University District that were identified as safe by some were
identified as unsafe by others. And although West Seattle was still left without any
identified spaces, one participant designated a large swath of South Seattle as an
unsafe space. Like queer spaces, unsafe space tended to be smaller and more specific,
though not always.
Other place identified as unsafe included part of Belltown, a neighborhood just
north of downtown Seattle, as well as Capitol Hill along the Pike/Pine corridor and a
swath of North Seattle that includes much of Wallingford, Fremont and Ballard. Also
12 Breanna Hudson: “[I feel] safer in my identities”
included were the previously mentioned overlaps: part of the Central District, and
areas in the University District, namely Greek Row, a residential area just north of
campus populated by fraternity and sorority houses, and the Intramural Activities
Building (IMA), the university athletic center.
Participants were perhaps the most open about how they identified unsafe
spaces, even in the absence of their subjective mapping. Though they spoke about
generalized safety in terms of physical violence, for many, “unsafe” was complicated by
differential ideas of safety, race and gender. For instance, for many participants, Greek
Row was a site of vulnerability because of their beliefs about who lived there, namely
young white men often under the influence of alcohol. For others, Greek Row, as well
as neighborhoods like Fremont and Ballard, was a reflection of rigid heteronormative
social norms that did not allow them room to express their identities as queer people.
In other areas, however, being “unsafe” reflected beliefs of high crime rates – not
necessarily in the form of anti-queer violence, as one might expect, but generalized
violent and forceful crimes, e.g. assault and burglaries.
In the coming sections, I will delve deeper into how these geographies of safety
are often related to geographies of sexualized space. However, before doing so, it is
necessary to understand how individuals construct geographies of sexualized spaces,
both queer and heteronormative.
“Knowing” Sexualized Spaces
The presence of Capitol Hill as a neighborhood with a LGBTQ identity may
suggest the importance of the built environment in the identification of queer spaces.
However, while the built environment does play a role, for participants, it was more of a
passive actor against which social relations were acted. The main identifier for queer
spaces both in and out of Capitol Hill was the people who inhabited it, reflecting the
temporary nature many participants noted. As one participant succinctly said, “Queer
spaces are defined by who's there” (Jordan, participant #6). Others echoed the
sentiment almost exactly: “Where there are a lot of queer people” (Julia, participant
#7), “Where there is a concentration of queer folk” (Kevin, participant #5), and “[the]
amount of queer people using a space probably is like the number one way I identify a
space as being queer” (Adam, participant #4).
This presence of queer people was further complicated by what it meant to be
identified as queer. While there was a reluctance to define visible queerness10(“It's hard
to identify a queer person, I don't really have one image of them” (Michelle, participant
#2), it was clear that participants could construct what a queer body would look like.
Whether vague like a “generally non-normative presentation” (Leah, participant #3)
and “certain styles of clothing and certain haircuts” (Jordan, participant #6) or specific
like “the undercut […] the jacket with like the studs” (Michelle, participant #2) and
“blue or pink hair […] piercings and tattoos” (Mark, participant #1), there was general
consensus about how people could present themselves to be read as queer.
It was not only queer bodies, however, but also queer actions that helped
people identify queer people and therefore queer spaces. Some noted a certain
consciousness about the queer experience as an identifier. One participant remarked,
for example, “If people ask you pronouns […] that makes it seem more like a queer
10
“It's hard to identify a queer person, I don't really have one image of them” (Michelle,
participant #2).
13 Plenum 2,1 (2105)
population” (Jordan, participant #6). More so, however, visible queer relationships and
desires, e.g. a woman mentioning her girlfriend, two men kissing, an individual
expressing same-sex attraction, tended to define queer actions that enabled
participants to identify queer spaces.
These expressions of queer affection, while defining queer space for some, also
demonstrate how there must be a cultural “knowing” or understanding of queer
spaces beyond the individual. Queer space cannot be known only through the bodies
and actions of others; it must also be known before these bodies and actions can
inhabit it. As Bouthillette (2007) put it, there is a “reproduction of gay spaces…the
ways in which the gay identity of the neighborhoods is maintained and recognized by
[the population]” (pg. 223). For participants, this recognition centered around the
reputation of a place as queer-oriented or queer-owned, or around the reputation of
the event taking place as of queer interest, e.g. a slam poetry event11.
This is not to say that the built environment did not play a role in identifying
queer spaces, especially those that had some degree of permanence such as a
community center or a club. The built environment was especially important in the
advertisement of queer spaces in the absence of people through “stickers about
anarchy or safe safes” (Mark, participant #1), “the rainbow or the bear flag, or leather”
(Michelle, participant #2), “posters” (Leah, participant #3) or simply “if they have
[queer] in the title of the space” (Julia, participant #7). It also often defined the
boundary between what participants considered between “private” and “public”
space, allowing a distinction of queer-identified spaces from other sexualized spaces
that were part of the otherwise same landscape.
While obvious at times, such as the rainbow flag and its widespread cultural
understanding as a symbol of gay pride (Heinz, et al., 2002), even the built
environment could be complicated by a more intimate knowledge. One participant
made a particularly astute observation about identifying gay bars, showing how a
queer aesthetic transcends the body: “there's this general feminized symbolism that's
used in a lot of queer or gay male bars […] all the signage and commercial materials
use colors and fonts that would reflect a very [camp] portrayal of a gay male” (Kevin,
participant #5). But these features of the built environment were not so much about the
built environment itself as they were about offering a backdrop against which “queer”
could be performed through the intentional placement of identifiers.
The passivity of the built environment could be understood another way: queer
space as an appropriation of heteronormative space. As one participant said, “A space
has to be explicitly queer to be designated queer whereas the norm is to assume that's
a hetero [sic] space” (Mark, participant #1). Though, as Binnie (1997) has noted, “space
is not naturally authentically 'straight' but rather actively produced and
(hetero)sexualized” (pg. 223). This production of heteronormativity is constant and
normalized in American society. Therefore it is against heteronormative space that
queer spaces come to exist.
However, even if the heteronormatization of space is ubiquitous, the
identification of heteronormative space was as dynamic as queer spaces, if not more
so, reflecting the societal tension between heterosexual as both the natural norm and a
performed and produced identity. This dynamism also brings attention to the fact that
heterosexual spaces are at times both sexualized and desexualized (Hubbard, 2000).
11
14 There is an active slam poetry community in Seattle that has a strong queer presence.
Breanna Hudson: “[I feel] safer in my identities”
For most participants in this study, heteronormative was understood to be the
default of any space until proven otherwise. Unlike queer spaces, which heavily rely on
the presence of queer people and actions for definition, heteronormative spaces were
defined largely in the absence of heterosexual people. That is, heteronormative was
framed as a social norm and understanding of what was acceptable behavior within
that framework. This acceptable behavior was articulated as heterosexual behavior, i.e.
the fact that heterosexual behavior was allowed, rather than unacceptable queer
behavior, and could be seen as a more passive production of heteronormativity.
However, participants were also cognizant of the fact that heteronormativity
could be more actively produced in a space, and this production took a more
embodied form. For example, one participant made a distinction between
heteronormative spaces and “places that are strictly targeted toward heterosexual
encounters” (Michelle, participant #2). Actively heteronormative spaces were not only
about the acceptability of heterosexuality but the expectation of it placed on the queer
body. This heteronormativity was not limited to a heterosexual sexual orientation but
also to a normative gender presentation and, at times, the normalization of anti-queer
sentiments and aggression.
Places that were thought to be actively produced as heteronormative included
gyms, heterosexual bars, Greek Row and gaming communities, given how gender
normativity was thought to be an important feature of fitting into them. Active
heteronormativity was also tied to rigid masculinity but not femininity, reflecting the
relative inflexibility of the masculine social identity. Furthermore, though participants
did not often speak of racial identifiers12, their choices – particularly when it came to
Greek Row and gaming communities – reflected racialized masculinities as whiteness
dominates both those spaces and our collective imagination about them.
Defining Safety
While physical safety was a concern for some participants when talking about
public safety generally, participants rarely if at all mentioned it when speaking of what
safety mean to them in relation to sexualized spaces13. Instead, discussions of safety
centered almost entirely ontological safety, or “the certainty of belonging to, being
part of, and being accepted by a determined group” (Altamirano, 2008: 23) or in a
certain space, broadly defined as comfort and captured by three categories: sense of
self and belonging, social identity and visibility, and societal rules and expectations.
And though these categories were overarching in all spaces, they were also
conceptualized differently depending on the type of sexualized space participants
identified.
Participants expressed feeling safe in queer spaces for a number of reasons.
One of the primary reasons was that they felt comfortable and affirmed as a queer
person in them. While this was at times expressed as simply as “knowing” there were
12
It could be argued that the absence of racial markers is in fact a reflection of one, as
whiteness is the default and rarely named as a racialized identity.
13
This absence may at least partially be explained by Seattle's reputation as a relatively
safe city. Although it does see its fair share of violent crime, it is low compared to other major
US cities. In 2012, the metropolitan area was ranked “third most peaceful city in America”
(“Seattle Ranked...”), falling behind the Cambridge, MA and New Brunswick, NJ metropolitan
areas.
15 Plenum 2,1 (2105)
other queer people around, a lot of this affirmation came in the form of not feeling like
an “other” as a queer individual. As one participant put it:
“I feel like particularly comfortable [in Capitol Hill] […] It feels like you're surrounded by
people who just like kind of get it. I mean, it's not like I don't love all my straight
friends and stuff but it just feels like a little bit more like, I don't know, 'Oh, this must
be what it's like for the majority of the population to be gay' because it's not
something we always think about consciously but it's always something that it's in the
back of our minds” (Adam, participant #4).
Other participants framed it similarly, noting that they felt comfortable because
they did “not fear[] judgment or ostracization because of not belonging to a certain
normal” (Kevin, participant #5). Because of this, they felt like they were able to be open
and “authentic” in their identities. As one participant said, “I can actually talk about
myself in queer spaces” (Mark, participant #1). This was particularly important because
this authenticity was something they felt like they were denied in heteronormative
spaces, either because of social norms or because of fear of being visible as a queer
person. Being visible in a queer space, though, was something participants desired to
the point of being frustrated when it did not happen. This visibility was thought of in
terms of both being recognized as a queer person and being represented as one, i.e.
feeling like their particular sexual orientation or gender identity was validated and
valued in the space. Participants also noted that being able to have this variety of
identities and relative freedom of expression with their sexuality and gender that was
not necessarily available in heteronormative spaces was comfortable and “safe” to
them.
Much of the opposite was said to be true about what it meant to be safe in
heteronormative spaces. Unlike in queer spaces, there was no expectation of
belonging as a queer person these spaces. This did not always make the spaces feel
unsafe. Rather, safe took one a more complex means for different individuals. For
some, “straight spaces aren't safe […] they're just spaces that you're in” (Michelle,
participant #2). For others, while they felt “safer in my identities as a queer and trans
person” in queer spaces, they did not feel unsafe in heteronormative ones.
Complicating safety further, one participant said of their experiences: “I always feel
safe in heteronormative spaces because I'm assertive and I'm not willing to let anybody
compromise that” (Jordan, participant #6).
However “passing”14 was a common theme in participants' responses. Contrary
to how they felt in queer spaces, not being visible as a queer person was a lot of what
made being in heteronormative spaces safe. It was only if they were “found out” as
queer individuals that their safety was compromised. There were limits to how much
they could “pass” and remain comfortable, however. For participants, it was one thing
to realize a heteronormative identity was being placed on them and another for them
to have to actively perform that heterosexual identity. Though not comfortable enough
to consciously hide their queerness, as one participant made note of, performing
heterosexuality was a violation of the “authentic” self whose presence, for many, came
to define comfort in queer spaces.
Safety was also different in heteronormative spaces in that it was not passive or
given to the individuals. As the quote from participant number six shows - “I'm
assertive and I'm not willing to let anybody compromise that.” Although
14
Passing in this context means being able to be read as heterosexual and/or cisgender;
not being read as queer in heteronormative spaces.
16 Breanna Hudson: “[I feel] safer in my identities”
heteronormative spaces were characterized as safe, participants may not have always
expressed action in creating that safety akin to the way participant number six had.
Hiding queerness was another way participants created a sense of safety for
themselves in heteronormative spaces. However, in creating safety by consciously
hiding their queer identities, participants were giving their “authentic” selves up, rather
than gaining the comfort of authentic expression normally afforded them in queer
spaces.
Defining Threat
When speaking of safety, it is further necessary to turn our gaze to what is
unsafe, that is, what makes a place dangerous and who is in danger, as it orients us
toward participants' perceptions of vulnerability. Like safety, danger was also a fluid
concept. Instead of being defined by the space – though at times it was – danger was
generally defined by the identity of the person perpetrating the act. For participants,
there was a great deal of overlap that complicated what it meant for queer to be safe
in ways that heteronormative was not. However, unlike safety, threat took a more
embodied form, transcending boundaries between what was queer and what was
heteronormative. Participants' perceptions of what was threatening can be best
summed up in this quote: “There's physical danger. I've never experienced that, but I
know it's a possibility, um, but I think more than that it's just like danger of being
judged, of like not being accepted, of people saying things that are like dehumanizing
or just awful” (Julia, participant #7).
As mentioned, this idea of danger was not restricted to either heteronormative
or queer spaces or heterosexual or queer people. In some ways, they could all embody
a type of “danger” at certain times, in certain places, given certain bodies. For
instance, participants were likely to posit whiteness as threatening in any environment,
echoing experiences of queer people of color found in other studies (Logie and
Rwigema, 2014). But this whiteness was also gendered, as white masculinity proved
more concerning than white femininity. When mentioned, white femininity at worst
presented a discomfort, while white masculinity, on the other hand, was connected to
more overtly violent disturbances, e.g. aggressiveness and drunkenness. And while this
was thought of as threatening to queer populations in general, it was also
acknowledged that there were particular queer bodies that were more vulnerable to
being harmed, such as women, people of color and people on the trans spectrum,
given their marginalized positions in both mainstream society and queer communities.
Additionally, given that safety was associated with flexible social norms, the presence
of rigid social norms, particularly those that led to individuals being read as not
belonging in a particular space or with certain populations, was associated with danger.
When participants did speak of heterosexual threat specifically, it was just as
likely to be disembodied as it was connected to individuals' actions. There was an
absence of an explicitly homophobic figure or even intentionally homophobic acts. For
some participants there was even an absence of the possibility of such a figure,
because for them, for something to be threatening meant that the threat had to be
unexpected. As one participant put it, “There's no person who can disrupt your
feelings of safety or comfort [in heteronormative spaces] because they don't exist”
(Michelle, participant #2). In other words, because heteronormative spaces were not
perceived as not safe, at least from this participant's perspective, they could not
become unsafe. For others, the safety of heteronormative spaces was more nuanced,
17 Plenum 2,1 (2105)
as they believed “heteronormative spaces obviously can be a threat depending on like
how heteronormative [they are]” (Jordan, participant #6), echoing the distinction made
between spaces that were passively or actively heteronormative. Still, whenever
participants spoke of heterosexual people in heteronormative spaces, there was a habit
of removing their own body from being threatened or vulnerable. For instance, when
they spoke of anti-queer language, it was either mentioned as slang, i.e. part of a
normalized but unintentionally homophobic vocabulary, or against an unknown other,
rather than personal harassment. This largely related to participants understanding of
their ability to “pass” in heteronormative spaces and the veneer of safety it allowed.
It was only when heterosexual people were in queer spaces that participants
expressed any particular negative relations, but these were expressed mildly as
discomfort or annoyance – “When I'm in a queer space [and] I see someone I read as
straight, I feel very annoyed by it” (Michelle, participant #2). In contrast to the
positioning of white masculinity as a dominant threat, these straight people were often
explicitly described as female. The presence of straight men in queer spaces was either
not spoken of or written off. One participant believed straight men would not be in
queer spaces, because to do so would make them feel anxiety about their masculinity.
Another thought that queer spaces were “very off-putting for a lot of straight [people]”
(Adam, participant #4), not because of any homophobic intentions but rather their
unfamiliarity with queer culture.
Queerness was not immune from being threatening, but it was tied up in a
more complex relational understanding of power and identity. People were not
vulnerable as queer, as they primarily identified in relation to heteronormativity. Rather,
they were vulnerable as multiply marginalized queer people. As one participant
explained,
“One of my trans friends was saying that she was in the Q Center and she heard a
bunch of lesbians talking about how they hate penis, which is horrible for her like as a
trans woman who dates women to hear that, um, in a space that [is] supposedly safe
for her […] Transmisogyny is a thing so like in that sense it's not really any different
from non-queer spaces. You can still be racist, you can still be sexist” (Julia, participant
#7).
Even though this echoed sentiments about race and gender that were prevalent
in heteronormative spaces, they were threatening not because they were expected but
because participants expected differently. Take, for instance, the assertion that
“anybody who like tries to police what it means to be queer is weird and annoying […]
those people can be less safe I feel” (Jordan, participant #6). This policing of identity is
seen as the norm in heteronormative spaces, but it goes against the expectations of
how open and accepting participants imagined queer spaces. As another participant
put it,
“I think queer spaces have almost a responsibility to be more accepting of people
within our community [...] and I think that when those spaces don't do that I think that
it's like we're really like dropping the ball and like we're like negating our responsibility
[…] That makes those spaces dangerous for queer people who are looking for a sense
of comfort and like they come to these space and don't get that” (Adam, participant
#4)
But perhaps what established queerness apart from heteronormativity the most
was the intimacy with which participants acknowledged threat. Though there were
those who said there was nothing that was unsafe for them in queer spaces, they still
had an understanding of what was threatening in them and how they could embody
18 Breanna Hudson: “[I feel] safer in my identities”
that threat. For example, one participant observed, “I think I'm more likely to be
dangerous than in danger in queer spaces” (Mark, participant #1). Much like this
participant, others remained sensitive about their presence and actions in queer spaces
in a way they were not in heteronormative spaces. This sensitivity occurred, for two
participants, by acknowledging the potential threat of their gender identities,
remarking, ”I know that like my masculinity can be harmful for other queers” [Mark,
participant #1], and, “I know [I’m] the not the best person in queer spaces; I mess up
around pronouns sometimes” [Jordan, participant #6]. Others recognized the potential
threat of their race in queer spaces. For example, Kevin, participant #5 said, “I know I
come from a place of privilege […] I can't be wholly authentic in a queer space
especially if it's for people of color because I don't have – I have to be very conscious
of what I'm doing and what I'm saying because I want to be respectful of that space
and keep it safe”. Another participant commented more generally about the conscious
need to embody safety, meaning “being a safe person for other people [and having a]
fear of violating the safety“ (Leah, participant #3).
While this sensitivity expands “threat” in queer spaces, it arguably shows a
degree of safety and belonging unseen in heteronormative spaces. By being able to
acknowledge and act on the ways in which they personally make a space safe or
unsafe, participants implicitly showed that they did not have to be as sensitive about
their own vulnerability.
“Safe” Places of Increased Vulnerability
First, it is important to acknowledge the contradictions held within and between
individual perceptions of safety and danger in queer spaces. There was not always
consensus about what people thought of as safe or queer. Likewise, individuals’
perceptions of safety or threat were often complicated by them as they explained how
they conceptualized, say, a queer space as safe before they teased out how queer
spaces often failed to live up to this standard of “safety”. This does not invalidate the
experiences of queer spaces as safe spaces. However, it does introduce a need to be
more critical of the language used to talk about this safety. Queer spaces and the
queer people who inhabit them did not always categorically fit into an individual's
perception of safety, but they did always exceed feelings of safety in heteronormative
spaces. Therefore, rather than thinking about perceptions of queer and
heteronormative spaces as a binary of safe versus unsafe, we can think about them on a
spectrum of safety, where queer exists as “safe” in relation to an at times unsafe but
always less safe heteronormative.
So how does this stand to be true when queer spaces make people more
vulnerable? Part of this contraction lie in how “vulnerable” is being defined in both
scholarly literature and mainstream media. Though not always, the dominant discourse
of safety for queer individuals often focuses on physical and other forms of what could
be considered “reportable” violence, e.g. verbal harassment and discrimination. This
discourse can be seen mostly easily in the correlation of anti-queer violence with hate
crimes, defined as:
“maliciously or intentionally causing physical injury to a […] person, causing physical
damage, to or destruction of the property of the […] person or threatening a specific
person or group of persons and placing that person, or members of the specific group
of persons, in reasonable fear of harm to person or property because of his or her
perception of the victim’s [...] sexual orientation or gender identity” (“Hate Crimes”).
19 Plenum 2,1 (2105)
This focus is understandable, given that these sorts of incidents are the most
tangible for the individuals who experience them and for those who wish to act on
them. However, as previously noted, these types of incidents only partially reflect the
experiences of violence queer people encounter, given the overwhelming rate at which
incidents are not reported to the police and other authorities (Boog et al., 2011). It also
falls short in that it does not cover the types of violence experienced by queer people
that do not have legal consequences.
Furthermore, reportable violence does not reflect how participants thought of
or at least prioritized their experiences and conceptualizations of violence. Even if they
were more vulnerable to this type of violence in queer spaces, especially queer spaces
that are highly visible to the public like much of Capitol Hill, it was not as influential in
shaping their perceptions of safety. Instead, ontological safety was given preference in
discussions of safety and threat in queer and heteronormative spaces. Given that queer
spaces were found by the participants, as well as in other studies (see Myslik, 1996), to
often be the only spaces where this type of safety was available to them, it becomes
increasingly clear why queer spaces are first safer before they are ever considered sites
of increased vulnerability. This can be succinctly summed up in the words of a
participant discussing safety in queer spaces: “I feel safer in my identities as a queer
and trans person” (Mark, participant #1).
This safety can also be understood through the differential constructions of
sexualized space, which could be placed not only on a spectrum of safety but also on a
spectrum of public-private. This is not to say that unsafe spaces were always public and
that private spaces were always safer, but that public spaces were often defaulted as
heteronormative and queer spaces often blurred the line between public and private.
While there were some public queer spaces, these spaces were almost always
temporary, such as an event or other gathering of queer bodies happening in an
otherwise non-queer space for a specified period of time. On the other hand, places
that were permanent, such as the queer resource center at the University of
Washington or a queer-identified bar, were not always private but they were not
considered public space either. For participants, public spaces were hard to pin down –
as one participant succinctly said, “I don't know how I would I define public space”
(Julia, participant #7). However, public spaces were often idealized ideas of space that
was “available to every member of the public” and were not policed to keep anyone
out. Private spaces were equally complicated. Some participants said that private
spaces were solely spaces that were “privately owned” (Adam, participant #4; Kevin,
participant #5), while others felt that private spaces were any space that was
exclusionary in any matter, informally or otherwise.
This idea of public was implicitly sexualized as heteronormative, given the
reasons they framed queer spaces as other than public space, particularly through the
idea of a space being exclusionary. Participants heavily acknowledged the fact that
there was rarely a place for visible queerness in heteronormative spaces. Curiously,
participants only posited queer spaces as being exclusionary. For instance, according
to one participant, “[Queer spaces] are usually like specifically designated to be aside
from public space,” even though they believed for a space to public it had to be
“accessible.” The fact that queer space needs to be set aside from this implicitly
heteronormative space did not make the heteronormative space private and the fact
that queer space was set aside made it less than public. Perhaps this is why another
participant believed that “most queer spaces are private spaces” (Kevin, participant
#5).
20 Breanna Hudson: “[I feel] safer in my identities”
Understanding this relationship between queer and private gives us another
perspective from which to understand the relationship between queer and safer. If
queer spaces are private, and private spaces are exclusionary, then queer spaces were
at least thought of as places that people, particularly non-queer people, could not or
did not access. This imagined boundary – though at times real, such as the difference
between one's queered private dwelling and the public sphere, – allowed participants
to think of queer spaces as safer because only people who were part of the group were
“allowed” to access it. Though this boundary could not keep threatening queer people
out of the space, as participants have shown, they held queer people and spaces to a
standard in which problematic behavior, while expected, was not acceptable and
something they could act on, even if only through their own actions. In these “private”
queer spaces, they have some agency to make the space safer. In “public”
heteronormative spaces, they do not.
Discussion/Conclusion
This research, through a qualitative analysis of Seattle, queer spaces and
conceptualizations of safety, only just begins to reveal a fraction of how complex
everyday space is for queer people. While it has, on one hand, revealed just how
subjective the experiences of sexualized spaces and safety are in Seattle for a small few
who interact with both on a daily basis, it has also shown how important these
subjective experiences are to how participants perceive the world. Further, it has
demonstrated how these experiences, though at times discordant, often come
together to form a collective understanding of what it means to navigate the world as a
queer person. Space – however it is sexualized, however safe people feel it is – does
not exist as a binary. Instead, it is tied up in a complex set of social relations that
encompass not only sexuality and safety but also gender and race. These relations
interact to create the contradictory nature both queer spaces and queer people have
been found to hold. However, these contradictions do not make queer spaces as safe
spaces any less real for the people who hold that to be true; they just complicate what
“safe” means.
This research also calls to attention what it means for queer people to inhabit a city
like Seattle. In many ways, Seattle is an American ideal for what a queer – or at least
queer friendly – city is, something that many of the participants agreed on. The
existence and vibrancy of Capitol Hill is a testament to that. But we cannot only look
toward Capitol Hill as a site of research if we want to understand what queer space is.
Capitol Hill holds importance for Seattle's queer community, but as this project shows,
so does the University of Washington campus, private homes, and—perhaps most
importantly—the spaces that exist as queer only at certain times with certain people.
Queer spaces are inherently as transient as one's daily geographies, and with them
sexualized spaces are constantly in flux, being challenged and reinforced. So, too, are
feelings of safety.
As queer geographic research continues to grow, it is important for the
conversation about safety to continue, as violence continues to dominate many of the
experiences of queer people in the United States. However, it is also important that
this dialogue about safety begins to place more weight on ontological safety, as it is
something queer individuals seek out, even when it compromises their physical safety.
Like physical safety, ontological safety has complicated geographical implications that
21 Plenum 2,1 (2105)
shape the everyday lives of LGBTQ people. But it is only when ontological safety is
considered that these everyday geographies begin to reflect the lived experiences we
seek to understand.
22 Breanna Hudson: “[I feel] safer in my identities”
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Figure 1: Queer Spaces in Seattle
27 Plenum 2,1 (2105)
Figure 2: Safe Spaces in Seattle
28 Breanna Hudson: “[I feel] safer in my identities”
Figure 3: Unsafe Spaces in Seattle
29