The Pennsylvania State University

The Graduate School

The Department of French and Francophone Studies

LIBERTÉ, ÉGALITÉ, VISIBILITÉ: CITIZENSHIP, SEXUALITY, AND

VISIBILITY IN STRASBOURG’S MARCHE DE LA VISIBILITÉ

A Dissertation in

French

by

Luke L. Eilderts

© 2011 Luke L. Eilderts

Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

December 2011

The thesis of Luke L. Eilderts was reviewed and approved* by the following:

Bénédicte Monicat Co-Chair of Committee Dissertation Advisor Professor of French and Women’s Studies Department Head

Barbara E. Bullock Co-Chair of Committee Special Outside Member Professor of French Linguistics

Meredith Doran Affiliate Associate Professor of French and Applied Linguistics

Vera Mark Assistant Professor of French, Francophone Studies, and Linguistics

Heather McCoy Senior Lecturer

*Signatures are on file in the Graduate School

iii ABSTRACT

This dissertation examines issues of sexuality, gender, and citizenship through the lens of the yearly summer event la Marche de la visibilité homosexuelle, bisexuelle et transgenre in the eastern French city of Strasbourg. The overarching question asks how this event impacts contemporary manifestations and discussions of minority communities within the French nation-state. In existence since 2002, the march presents a unique and engaging opportunity to illuminate the evolution of French ideas of “proper” citizenship roles through critical, theoretical, and empirical inquiry. As a public forum for overt sexual(ized) expression(s), the marche de la visibilité offers participants the opportunity to present themselves as a cohesive community, even where one may not necessarily exist in reality. By making themselves “visible” to spectators, participants are able to critique societal norms not only through linguistic signs but also physical presence. In order to provide a comprehensive study of the event and its impact upon contemporary manifestations of difference, this dissertation examines the marche de la visibilité from four different angles. First, by tracing the evolution of citizenship within the French nation-state, I uncover and emphasize not only its inclusionary but also exclusionary nature. Next, I turn to a discussion of the symbolic power associated with space and place. Taking inspiration from scholars such as Maurice Agulhon, James Lehning, and

Michel de Certeau, I build upon their work to frame my understanding of the ways in which politically motivated groups appropriate and actualize the spaces they occupy. I argue that through their repeated usage of the space, the marche de la visibilité is able to alter our normalized perceptions of the city. Following this discussion, I undertake an

iv analysis of a study I designed and conducted during the 2008 edition of the march. Here I employed a closed-question attitude survey where participants were asked to reflect upon their position vis-à-vis the march and its importance to them in order to discern any statistically significant differences between participants. What came to the surface were variations between self-identified gay men and lesbians. Overall, lesbians tended to view the march as more important in many ways, while gay men leaned towards more tepid responses. I interpreted this to be indicative of the relative invisibility of lesbians within the public sphere, where the opportunity to present themselves as lesbians to spectators represents a major perquisite. In the final chapter, I turn to an analysis of the linguistic messages displayed by participants and the power these messages have to either align or distance the message bearers with/from spectators in an effort to understand the discourses that are deployed in their attempts to gain political visibility. Shedding light upon an understudied facet of French and Francophone culture, this dissertation furthers our understanding of minority groups and the manner in which they appropriate, actualize, and transform debates of identity in contemporary France.

v TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF FIGURES ...... vii

LIST OF TABLES...... x

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS...... xi

Chapter 1 Introduction ...... 1

The Problem...... 2 Chapter Layout ...... 6

Chapter 2 Citizenship and the French Nation-State...... 14

Citizenship: What is it?...... 16 Founding Myths of Citizenship...... 18 Philosophical Origins of French Citizenship...... 24 Revolution and the Universal Citizen...... 26 The Third Republic and the Universal Citizen...... 31 The Public and the Private Sphere in France...... 33 Citizenship Problematized...... 37 Citizenship and Nationality ...... 39 Competing Paradigms of Citizenship: France and Germany ...... 48 Marshall and Citizenship Theory ...... 54 Sexual Citizenship...... 59 The “Other” Citizens: Women, Gays and Lesbians, and Immigrants...... 63 Sexual Deviants...... 65 Sexual Citizenship in Contemporary France...... 68 Displays of Difference in the Public Sphere: A Case for Gay Pride...... 72

Chapter 3 Pride, Visibility, and the Symbolic Power of Presence...... 75

Liberté, égalité, sexualité: Gay Pride in France ...... 76 Gay Pride: Beginnings and Translations ...... 81 Strasbourg and Gay Pride: Une histoire contemporaine...... 83 Pour une rhétorique de la marche: Agulhon, Lehning, and de Certeau ...... 100 Agulhon and the Symbolic Geography of the City ...... 105 How to be a Citizen: Lehning and the Symbolic Geography of the City...... 108 De Certeau and the Everyday: Parcours as Énoncé...... 110 Reading Strasbourg’s Marche de la visibilité ...... 115 The Sexual Citizen and the (Re)Claiming of Space ...... 131

vi Chapter 4 An Ethnographic Exploration of the Importance and Regional Specificities of Strasbourg’s Marche de la visibilité...... 139

Methodology...... 141 Sampling...... 146 Measures...... 148 Research Hypothesis...... 152 Discussion of Questionnaire Results ...... 156 Questions 1-8: Group Cohesion and Importance of the March...... 159 Questions 11-15: Goals of the March...... 164 Questions 16-20: Expressions of Sameness and Difference ...... 171

Chapter 5 Participants and Spectators: A Visual Analysis of the Marche de la visibilité...... 184

Methodology...... 185 Survey of Images...... 189 Participants and Sexual Citizenship ...... 200 Linguistic Messages and Sexual Citizenship ...... 206 Video and the Marche de la visibilité...... 247 Conclusion ...... 251

Chapter 6 Conclusion...... 255

Future Research ...... 262

Works Cited ...... 266

vii

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 3-1: Map, 2002 ...... 102

Figure 3-2: Map, 2004 ...... 103

Figure 3-3: Map, 2006 ...... 116

Figure 4-1: La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est importante parce qu’elle réunit la communauté homosexuelle, lesbienne, bisexuelle et transgenre ...... 160

Figure 4-2: Il est important que la communauté gay, lesbienne, bisexuelle et transgenre participe à la marche de visibilité ...... 162

Figure 4-3: Il est important que la communauté gay, lesbienne, bisexuelle et transgenre se montre comme un groupe uni le jour de la marche de visibilité ....163

Figure 4-4: La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est important à l’échelle urbaine ....164

Figure 4-5: La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est important à l’échelle régionale ...... 165

Figure 4-6: La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est importante à l’échelle nationale...... 166

Figure 4-7: La marche de visibilité est importante à l’échelle européenne ...... 167

Figure 4-8: La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est important à l’échelle mondiale ...... 168

Figure 4-9: Le but central de la marche est politique...... 169

Figure 4-10: Le but central de la marche est culturel ...... 170

Figure 4-11: Le but central de la marche est de s’amuser ...... 171

Figure 4-12: Il est important que la marche ait un message politique comme fondation...... 172

Figure 4-13: Il est important que je participe à la marche de visibilité ...... 173

Figure 4-14: Il est important d'avoir tous genres d'expression pendant la marche de visibilité...... 174

viii Figure 4-15: Il est important de questionner les limites pendant la marche de visibilité ...... 175

Figure 4-16: Il est important de choquer pendant la marche de visibilité ...... 176

Figure 4-17: Il est important de montrer que les participants sont comme tout le monde ...... 177

Figure 4-18: Pour participer à la marche de visibilité, on doit être gay, lesbienne, bisexuel ou transgenre ...... 178

Figure 5-1: 2002, S&M...... 190

Figure 5-2: 2002, Alsaranado ...... 192

Figure 5-3: 2008, Alsarando ...... 193

Figure 5-4: 2008, La Lune ...... 194

Figure 5-5: 2006, Émergence...... 195

Figure 5-6: 2088, Support Transgenre Strasbourg...... 196

Figure 5-7: 2007, LCR...... 197

Figure 5-8: 2005, Parti Socialiste Français...... 198

Figure 5-9: 2002...... 207

Figure 5-10: 2002...... 208

Figure 5-11: 2002...... 209

Figure 5-12: 2004...... 219

Figure 5-13: 2004...... 223

Figure 5-14: 2004...... 226

Figure 5-15: 2005...... 228

Figure 5-16: 2005...... 230

Figure 5-17: 2006...... 232

Figure 5-18: 2006...... 233

ix Figure 5-19: 2007...... 240

Figure 5-20: 2007...... 241

Figure 5-21: 2007...... 242

Figure 5-22: 2007...... 245

x

LIST OF TABLES

Table 4-1: Sampling...... 145

xi

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The completion of any undertaking of this length represents not only an achievement for the author, but also for those around him/her and the support that they offered during all the stages of the research and writing processes. First and foremost, I would like to thank my committee members. Barbara Bullock’s support and critical eye have been vital throughout the dissertation process. Without her guidance and encouragement, I am certain that I would never have been able to complete the largest undertaking of my graduate career. I would also like to thank Bénédicte Monicat for taking on so many added responsibilities. Her tireless reassurance in the final stages of this dissertation did not go unnoticed. To Meredith Doran, Heather McCoy, and Vera Mark, I extend my most sincere gratitude for being a part of my committee and for sharing your critiques, from which this work has greatly benefited. Finally, I would like to honor Lawrence Schehr, whose untimely passing represents a tremendous loss to family, friends, and the scholarly community. Although he was not able to see the dissertation in its final form, I am deeply honored to have worked with him. I would also like to thank the following people who influenced me in uncountable ways: Ardis Miller for imparting her passion for French language and culture; Sue Duerkop for giving me a love of writing; Leslee Poulton and Barbara Rusterholz for their innumerable hours of instruction, guidance, and friendship; Denis Provencher for taking me under his wing and letting me follow in his footsteps; Lawrence Williams for telling me how it is; Rachel Williams, Joshua Brown, Amanda Dalola, and Andrea Gatzke for inspiring me to be better; Kory Olson, Deirdre Sennott, and Fleur Prade for keeping me

xii sane all these years. I could not have come this far without the unwavering support of my family: my parents Jo Anne and Lloyd, and my sister Sarah. As one of the first people on either side of my family to pursue a university degree, I am very aware of the dreams that were put aside so that I may succeed. For this I am forever grateful. Finally, I would like to thank the faculty and staff of the Department of French & Francophone Studies for their guidance and support, the Penn State University Libraries for their efficient service, and the College of the Liberal Arts for the semester teaching release they provided. I would also like to thank my colleagues at the College of William & Mary for their support in the very final stages of this work. I can only hope that wherever I land after this will be as inspiring as my time there has been.

Chapter 1

Introduction

Since the time of the Biblical Sodom

and Gomorrah and classical Athens,

homosexuality has been associated with the city.1

The overarching questions of this dissertation are driven by research on sexual citizenship in contemporary France. These current discourses, recycling and redefining themes of the division between public and private spheres and of (anti-) communautarisme, continually challenge the notion of the universal citizen in France.

Yet they do so by interpreting France as a homogenous entity. We know very little, then, of how overt manifestations of the sexualized citizen are enacted and interpreted in areas that are visibly defined by their regional distinctiveness and where local identities may be publicly promoted. This dissertation asks: how are the French ideologies of citizenship and of the public and private spheres challenged or complicated when sexuality is broadcast publicly? Does the notion of sexual citizenship necessarily imply a separate

“communalism?”2 When open displays of sexual citizenship are embedded (or become

1 Robert Aldrich, “Homosexuality and the City: An Historical Overview,” Urban Studies 41, no. 9 (2004): 1719. 2 I follow Julian Jackson and his usage of “communalism” to render the idea of communautarisme in English. See his Living in Arcadia: Homosexuality, Politics, and Morality in France from the Liberation to AIDS (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009).

2 visible) within a specific regional community (in the current case, Alsace), are notions of citizenship and the divide between public/private spheres then doubly compromised?

Which discourses are triggered to either suppress or support displays of sexuality when it exits the private realm and enters the public sphere in national and in regional contexts?

This dissertation, based on contemporary critical research of sexual citizenship in France, transfers a national discourse to the regional stage by undertaking a semiotic and linguistic analysis of a regional, public event, Strasbourg’s Marche de la visibilité homosexuelle, bisexuelle et transgenre. Its goal is at once descriptive—through adding a much-needed source of empirical data to the discussion—and critical, examining the extent to which this particular gay festival can be interpreted as being discordant with concepts of modern French citizenship.

The Problem

French political philosophy since the Revolution, with a few detours along the way, has been to champion the idea of the universal citizen, which is often translated today under the political ideology term of French republicanism. This political ideology is part and parcel of the Republic, an official discourse by which the state legitimizes or denounces claims to full integration within France: “…[R]epublicanism depends upon a belief in citizenship as a national project in which individuals in fact will transcend their particular affiliations, towards full and foundational membership in a wider community

3 of citizens.”3 Enda McCaffrey equally states that citizenship in France depends on a kind of “forgetting” of difference by its citizens who believe in the good of a common identity: “The modern French state is founded on the notion of equality for all citizens regardless of difference. Inherent in this concept is the ‘oubli’ of difference in favour of a core of common citizenship that is shared by all.”4 Furthermore, Carl Stychin declares that in order to achieve this goal “…the preservation of a clear differentiation between the public and the private spheres” is required.5 Therefore in order to realize full citizenship in the Republic, there needs to be a clear distinction between the public and the private sphere: officially, one is a citizen of the Republic first and foremost in the public sphere where there should be no markings of “otherness.” In the private sphere one may take on markers of identity discouraged within the public space. However, scholars working within a feminist or post-modern framework have shown how the figure of the citizen unmarked by either gender or sexuality in theory has been marked upon them in practice.6 Or in other words, the universal citizen has been marked as male and heterosexual (and one could arguably go farther: of white European decent as well).

These ideas notwithstanding, the ideology of French republicanism is still well anchored

3 Carl F. Stychin, “Civil Solidarity or Fragmented Identities? The Politics of Sexuality and Citizenship in France,” Social & Legal Studies 10, no. 3 (2001): 352, original emphasis. 4 Enda McCaffrey, The Gay Republic: Sexuality, Citizenship and Subversion in France (Hampshire and Burlington: Ashgate, 2005), 109. 5 Stychin, “Civil Solidarity,” 352. 6 See Sylvia Walby, “Is Citizenship Gendered?,” Sociology 28, no. 2 (1994): 379-395; Diane Richardson, Rethinking Sexuality (London, Thousand Oaks: SAGE, 2000).

4 within the minds of its citizens.7 As citizenship is a central theme in this work, it is important to understand the foundations of this enterprise used to knit together heterogeneous groups into a nation.

In order to answer the questions set out before this project, this dissertation will approach them from several angles. In this respect, the work herein is located at the intersection between French studies and cultural studies. First, this study aims for a better understanding of French social and political culture in respect to gender and sexuality.

Indeed, this work strives to understand what truly makes the issues hitherto discussed

“French.” While it is difficult to remove oneself completely from the context within which one is surrounded, it is of vital importance not to conflate one’s cultural norms with those of another. It is in this respect that, while comparisons between the United

States and France are almost inevitable when it comes to issues of sexuality and its intersection with identity, it is nonetheless necessary to avoid judgments informed solely from a North American perspective. On the other hand, the desire to locate and uphold the notion of an “exception française” may be equally as perilous. It is important to unravel the object at hand in order to better understand how French gays and lesbians negotiate the society in which they live, and how this may offer variations of queer ways of being in late western modernity.

This work places itself within the field of cultural studies in that the approaches and methodologies employed are varied and interdisciplinary. First and foremost, the object of “gay pride” in the Alsatian capital is approached as a text to be read and

7 Stychin, “Civil Solidarity,” 352–354; Eugen Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France 1870-1914 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1976).

5 interpreted. Just like the written texts left behind and collected in personal or public archives serve as the basis for historians and their methodologies, gay pride in Strasbourg represents a text that can be read and interpreted. From the linguistic signs of the participants in the parade to the design of the floats upon which they dance; from the path of the march through the Alsatian capital to the organizations that take part, gay pride in

Strasbourg provides an interesting array of objects that will serve as a basis for this and future research projects. In fact, the visual aspects of the march and what they impart about the public/private divide in France are some of the overarching themes of this dissertation. To this end, great attention will be given to the actual physical manifestation of the march: participants, spectators, floats, banners, and the topography of its surroundings. Few if any in depth analyses of gay pride have been completed to date, and there exist no studies on regional gay pride parades in France.8 It is therefore the aim of this dissertation to add to the scholarship on the French city as well as the place of the public manifestations within the Republic. Furthermore, this dissertation endeavors to further our understanding of how (non-normative) sexuality is negotiated within the public sphere, a domain that has traditionally excluded sexuality, at least in theory. When sexuality is suddenly made “visible” to the light of day—as is the case with this mid-day manifestation—do participants reject or respect traditional French republican values? Do they accept a discourse that would have them cast off their difference, leaving it in the sacred private sphere so necessary to a nation-state that champions republican forms of

8 See Marianne Blidon, “La Gay Pride entre subversion et banalisation,” Espaces populations sociétés, no. 2 (2009): 305-318. Also, although not specifically focused on gay pride, Jeanne Robineau’s book represents the first book-length ethnographic inquiry into the idea of a “gay” community in Rennes. See Jeanne Robineau, Discrimination(s), genre(s) et urbanité(s): la communauté gaie de Rennes (Paris: Harmattan, 2010).

6 citizenship? Or do they embrace their difference in a more individualistic act that is often associated with an Anglo-American tradition? Through an in-depth analysis of the

“visible” elements of the parade, I will illuminate these questions.

While the visible elements of the parade offer an abundance of texts that will provide insight into contemporary French culture, especially in a border region that has influences from both sides of the Rhine, an analysis of these visible elements, while valuable, would present only part of an overall picture. To this end, ethnographic research was conducted in the form of questionnaires. The aim of this was to achieve a better understanding of how people involved in the gay and lesbian community of Strasbourg view the event. This was achieved through measuring participants’ attitude towards the parade. Much of the scholarship on citizenship and belonging to the French nation-state rests at a theoretical level; therefore there is a need for more first person accounts to see how theory is played out in practice. The goal of these questionnaires is to elucidate the connection between the received notions of French republicanism and how they are interpreted by people in their everyday lives. In the following section, I turn to the organization of this dissertation.

Chapter Layout

The overarching themes of visibility, belonging, and exclusion run throughout this dissertation. The theme of belonging to the nation, as well as participants’ relationship and interaction with the larger society, are an important part of this work. With this in mind, chapter two examines the institution of citizenship in France. Within the western

7 tradition, we locate the origins of citizenship in Ancient Greek and Roman society, where it has achieved mythical status. Throughout the ages, citizenship has been a malleable institution in that it has been equally applicable in disparate times, places, and praxes.9

With its long history and fundamental position within the nation-state, today we often gloss over its evolution, thereby misunderstanding many of its underlying characteristics.

Moreover, the breakdown between theory and practice has often resulted in frightening events, which underscores not only the inclusionary but also exclusionary nature of citizenship.10 In this chapter, I explore the evolution of citizenship with a focus on the binary nature of the institution, not only from a judicial but also a social point of view.

Indeed, while the issue of immigration has been at the forefront of studies examining citizenship practices,11 scholars working within feminist, gay and lesbian, and queer

9 See Peter Riesenberg, Citizenship in the Western Tradition: Plato to Rousseau (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1992). 10 For a historical inquiry into the chaotic trials that determined the citizenship status of thousands of Alsatians after their return to la mère patrie following the first World War, see Laird Boswell, “From Liberation to Purge Trials in the ‘Mythic Provinces’: Recasting French Identities in Alsace and Lorraine, 1918-1920,” French Historical Studies 23, no. 1 (2000): 129-162. 11 See Patrick Weil, Qu’est-ce qu’un Français? Histoire de la Nationalité française depuis la Révolution (Paris: Grasset, 2002); Catherine Wihtol de Wenden, ed., La Citoyenneté et les changements de structures sociale et nationale de la population française (Paris: Edilig/Fondation Diderot, 1988); Étienne Balibar, Nous, citoyens d’Europe ? Les frontières, l’État, le peuple (Paris: Éditions La Découverte, 2001); Étienne Balibar, Droit de cité (Paris: PUF, 2002); Gerard Delanty, Citizenship in a Global Age: Society, Culture, Politics (Buckingham Philadelphia, PA: Open University Press, 2000); Adrian Favell, Philosophies of Integration: Immigration and the Idea of Citizenship in France and Britain, 2nd ed., Migration, Minorities and Citizenship (Houndmills, UK: Palgrave, 2001); Miriam Feldblum, Reconstructing Citizenship: The Politics of Nationality Reform and Immigration in Contemporary France (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999); Wayne Hudson and Steven Slaughter, eds., Globalisation and Citizenship: The Transnational Challenge (London: Routledge, 2007); Ruud Koopmans et al., Contested Citizenship: Immigration and Cultural Diversity in Europe, Social Movements, Protest, and Contention 25 (Minneapolis: University of

8 frameworks are beginning to examine citizenship through the lens of gender, sex, and sexuality.12 By building a better understanding of the institution and its exclusionary

Minnesota Press, 2005); W. Kymlicka and W. Norman, “Citizenship for Some but not for Others: Spaces of Citizenship in Contemporary Europe,” in Theorizing Citizenship, ed. Ronald Beiner (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995); Michael Lister and Emily Pia, Citizenship in Contemporary Europe (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2008); Maxim Silverman, Deconstructing the Nation: Immigration, Racism and Citizenship in Modern France (London: Routledge, 1992). 12 See David Bell and Jon Binnie, The Sexual Citizen: Queer Theory and Beyond (Cambridge: Polity, 2000); Barbara Baird, “Contexts for lesbian citizenships across Australian public spheres,” Social Semiotics 14, no. 1 (April 2004): 67-84; David Bell, “Pleasure and Danger: The Paradoxical Spaces of Sexual Citizenship,” Policial Geography 14, no. 2 (1995): 139-153; David Bell and Jon Binnie, “Authenticating Queer Space: Citizenship, Urbanism and Governance,” Urban Studies 41, no. 9 (2004): 1807- 1820; Emilios A. Christodoulidis, ed., Communitarianism and Citizenship, Avebury Series in Philosophy (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 1998); David Evans, Sexual Citizenship: The Material Construction of Sexualities (London: Routledge, 1993); Phil Hubbard, “Sex Zones: Intimacy, Citizenship and Public Space,” Sexualities 4, no. 1 (2001): 51-71; Cristina Johnston, “(Post-)Queer Citizenship in Contemporary Republican France,” Contemporary French and Francophone Studies 12, no. 1 (2008): 89-97; Ruth Lister, Citizenship: Feminist Perspectives, ed. Jo Campling (New York: New York University Press, 1997); Ruth Lister et al., Gendering Citizenship in Western Europe: New Challenges for Citizenship Research in a Cross-National Context (Bristol, UK: Policy, 2007); McCaffrey, The Gay Republic: Sexuality, Citizenship and Subversion in France; Ibid.; Shane Phelan, Sexual Strangers: Gays, Lesbians, and Dilemmas of Citizenship (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2001); Denis M Provencher, “Tracing Sexual Citizneship and Queerness in Drôle de Félix (2000) and Terik el hob (2001),” Contemporary French and Francophone Studies 12, no. 1 (2008): 51-61; Denis M Provencher, Queer French: Globalization, Language and Sexuality in France (Hampshire and Burlington: Ashgate, 2007); Denis M Provencher and Luke L Eilderts, “The Nation according to Lavisse: Teaching Masculinity and Male Citizenship in Third- Republic France,” French Cultural Studies 18, no. 1 (2007): 31-57; Diane Richardson, “Sexuality and Citizenship,” Sociology 32, no. 1 (1998): 83-100; Diane Richardson, “Claiming Citizenship? Sexuality, Citizenship and Lesbian/Feminist Theory,” Sexualities 3, no. 2 (2000): 255-272; Diane Richardson, “Constructing sexual citizenship: Theorizing sexual rights,” Critical Social Policy 20, no. 1 (2000): 105-135; Carl F Stychin, “Sexual Citizenship in the European Union,” Citizenship Studies 5, no. 3 (2001): 285-301; Stychin, “Civil Solidarity”; Walby, “Is Citizenship Gendered?”; Sarah Waters, Social Movements in France: Towards a New Citizenship, French Politics, Society and Culture (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003).

9 nature, I am able to approach the subsequent chapters of this dissertation with these issues held firmly in mind.

Next, chapter three analyzes the city as the stage upon which gay pride in

Strasbourg plays. The city represents a privileged space in the study of citizenship since it is within this locus where people most often come together to exercise their rights to demonstrate as citizens.13 As the march winds its way through the streets of the Alsatian capital, the parade influences the space around it through its use of the city’s topography.

Where does the parade begin and where does it end? What significance do these loci have? Has it always taken the same path or has it forged new ones from year to year?

Through which neighborhoods does the parade go? And what significance do these neighborhoods play in the city? The theme of visibility plays a large role here: where is the parade the most visible to spectators? Where is it the least visible? Are these varying degrees of visibility indicative of how this manifestation functions within the public sphere, or about the street in which it finds itself at a given moment? The parade offers a variety of texts to be read and interpreted, and the role that it takes on as it ambles through the city is no different.

In this chapter, the work of scholars like Maurice Agulhon and James Lehning provide the underlying premise that the use and direction of public manifestations within the French city represent a powerful symbolic message. Both demonstrate in their respective works how the direction of Parisian marches in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries as well as the buildings or squares by which they passed carried with

13 Even groups traditionally associated with rural geography—José Bové, for example— come to the city to demonstrate their discontent with socio-political issues that threaten their livelihood.

10 them politically charged connotations.14 As Agulhon explains, marches by political groups tended to favor certain paths through Paris, thereby symbolically evoking important moments or memories of the past to strengthen their message. Although

Strasbourg does not carry with it the politically charged connotations that the Capital does, an analysis that takes as its basis the topography of the city in which the event takes place can prove to be very useful in understanding the underlying political messages.

Shifting from an examination of the city to the actors that bring the parade to life, chapter four employs ethnography to educe participant attitudes towards the parade.

During the summer of 2008, questionnaires were distributed to willing spectators and participants. The twenty-question survey asked participants to rate on a scale between one and seven their attitude towards the question/statement, where one represented total agreement and seven represented total disagreement. This method of gathering information by using a “closed” question attitude survey allowed the author to gather a maximum of information in a minimum of time and intrusion.15 This method is not without its own inherent problems and difficulties, however, and these issues will be discussed in more detail in the chapter itself. Nevertheless, the questionnaires will aid in providing a more complete picture of the attitude of the participants towards the march.

After analyzing first-person accounts of the French gay community as well as the survey of participants and spectators of the 2008 march, the fifth chapter shifts its gaze to

14 Maurice Agulhon, “Paris: La traversée d’est en ouest,” in Les Lieux de mémoire, ed. Pierre Nora, vol. 3 (Paris: Gallimard, 1997), 868-909; James R. Lehning, To be a Citizen: The Political Culture of the Early French Third Republic (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2001). 15 Howard Schuman, Method and Meaning in Polls and Surveys (Cambridge, MA; London: Harvard University Press, 2008), 30.

11 the physical manifestation of the march and its participants. This chapter aims to analyze the visible, that is to say the banners, the floats, and the participants. Furthermore, as the theme of visibility is central to this research, it is also imperative to discuss what is not visible in this parade. Geographically and historically, Strasbourg has often been at the periphery of the French nation-state. Its position at the border of France and Germany has, however, also brought it to the center of French culture (and German, for that matter). Before and after the annexation of the Alsace and the Moselle in 1871, these two territories were the focal point for national pride on both side of the Rhine: before 1871 the German Empires saw this region as a part of the greater Germanic nation, one that had been wrongly annexed by the French crown by Cardinal Richelieu in 1648 and that should be reintegrated into a pan-Germanic nation-state; for the French after 1871 the

Alsace-Moselle was a sore reminder of the fall of French military might and represented a breach of the integrity to the French nation-state.16 Furthermore, the annexation of the

Alsace-Moselle region for a second time by Nazi Germany served to reopen old wounds thought to be healed by the return of the regions as written in the 1919 treaty of

Versailles. With this rather tumultuous history, it is no surprise that the Alsace and the

Moselle hold an interesting place within the French landscape: on one hand they are geographically a part of the French nation-state, but they have not always been so especially in recent history. In this respect, Alsace occupies a liminal space, at once representing France but also as a reminder of its German ancestry. Language serves as a prominent reminder of this past, not only in place names, but also in the Alsatian dialect, still quite robust compared to other regional languages. Interestingly then, Alsatians are

16 See Boswell, “From Liberation to Purge Trials in the ‘Mythic Provinces’.”

12 already marked as “different” from the traditional French due to their history.17 If we return to the theme of visibility with these ideas in mind, how does this march and its participants negotiate their identity in respect to the French nation? Since language is oftentimes evoked as one of Alsace’s most distinct markers of “difference” in respect to the rest of the country, what role does language play? Is there evidence of languages other than French? If so, in what contexts are they employed? Through close reading, both semiotic and textual, this chapter will explore the relationship between the physical manifestations of the march and their meaning in the context of current cultural and political climate in France, paying special attention to the issues of borders and regionalism in the Alsace.

Finally, in the conclusion to this work, I offer a synthesis of the materials that have been analyzed in this dissertation. The varying texts and objects that have been studied—photographs, video, questionnaires—offer an engaging interdisciplinary perspective on citizenship, sexuality, and the city in which these themes manifest themselves in France today. Furthermore, as Robert Aldrich argues, through the study of cities where there is not already a high level of visibility—such that is found in world cities such as Paris, San Francisco, Sydney to name a few—we will gain a better understanding of how smaller, grass-roots organizations construct “community.” As

Aldrich writes, “Studies of smaller cities and those without a gay and lesbian reputation

17 Although they are already marked as “different,” from the rest of France, Boswell also points out that the people of the “lost provinces” were also made out to be the most patriotic out of all the regions of France. They stood as a shining example of Renan’s theory of “nation” in that Alsatians and Lorrainers chose France. Boswell writes that this caused many problems after the regions were reunited with France after World War I since many did not measure up to the mythical patriotism that had been thrust upon them.

13 will illustrate nuances in gay urban history, the particular traits that mark each city and the varying trajectories of development.”18 In so doing this dissertation contributes to the fields of French cultural studies, Gay and Lesbian studies, and Citizenship studies. To close, future research paths and applications will be proposed. And now let us begin this journey by turning to a discussion of citizenship practices in contemporary France.

18 Aldrich, “Homosexuality and the City,” 1733.

Chapter 2

Citizenship and the French Nation-State

This chapter aims to disambiguate some of the received notions of citizenship, nationality, and membership to the French nation-state with respect to gender and sexuality. The field of citizenship studies has grown greatly over the last few decades, especially with the development of the European Union (EU) and the growing permeability of national borders in Europe,1 as well as the effects of globalization and a post-modern understanding of identity. Especially throughout the nineteenth century, for example, the architects of the French nation-state have striven to homogenize its citizens through such national projects as free secular education, national language, military service, and a system whereby civil servants are routinely displaced from their region of origin.2 The French model of citizenship aims to erase difference by integrating its citizens into one mold. However, this model of citizenship has found itself under scrutiny: French integrationist ideologies have come under fire from post-colonial and post-modern theories of identity in that it can appear to ignore issues of race, gender, sexuality, and class by denying certain (minority) groups a voice. Those who defend

1 While the ability to move about has been enlarged for some, access to many countries in the European Union remains closed to a great number of people. 2 For Alsace, see generally Bernard Vogler, Histoire culturelle de l’Alsace (Strasbourg: La Nuée Bleue, 1994); David Allen Harvey, Constructing class and nationality in Alsace, 1830-1945 (DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2001); Philippe Meyer, Histoire de l’Alsace (Paris: Perrin, 2008). For an excellent article on the policies of reintegration employed by the French state after the return of the provinces perdues, see Boswell, “From Liberation to Purge Trials in the ‘Mythic Provinces’.” For France, see generally Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France 1870-1914.

15 these ideologies argue that people who feel disenfranchised by the stance of the French nation-state on citizenship are politicizing issues that create destructive boundaries between otherwise harmonious French communities. Others, however, point out that while various political and cultural apparatus that support republicanism portray it as a universal model, unchanging and forever stable, this simply cannot be the case: French republicanism evolves and transforms along with society, and because of this, it should not be difficult to conceive of a republicanism able to accommodate today’s post-modern society.3 Even more radically, scholars such as Marie-Hélène Bourcier contend that the

French Republic and republicanism are tools of white, bourgeois, heterosexual men aimed at keeping themselves in power and should be subverted.4

In this chapter, I endeavor to illuminate the issue of citizenship in the French nation-state in respect to gender and sexuality. Although the history of citizenship is not the focus of this chapter, it is important nonetheless to have a historical understanding of the evolution of the idea of citizenship, and to that end I begin this chapter with a brief overview of citizenship from Ancient Greece and Rome to its current form in contemporary France. Second, I examine the words “nation,” “nationalité,” and “citoyen” and how their definitions need to be clarified since, while they are similar, they are not synonymous. In the third part of this chapter I address the importance of the public and private sphere and their integral role in French republicanism discourse. Next I turn to the problems inherent within the institution of citizenship and the critiques of its

3 See Juliette Grange, L’idée de République, ed. François Laurent (Paris: Pocket, 2008). In this recent work, Grange argues that the idée de république borne out of the Revolution has been dead since the early twentieth century. 4 See Marie-Hélène Bourcier, Sexpolitiques: Queer Zones 2 (Paris: La Fabrique, 2005). Of special interest is the chapter entitled “Nique la Rep !” 35-82.

16 manifestation in contemporary France. While citizenship is most often associated with western democracies, and therefore is associated with the ideals of liberty and equality, this obscures the underlying fact that citizenship is also inherently exclusionary.

Furthermore, influential models for the study of citizenship, in their drive to provide a comprehensive examination of its evolution, have privileged a framework in which large portions of the population—most noticeably women, but also ethnic minorities and

“sexual deviants”5—were subsumed under a general category when, in fact, they do not fit the model constructed. At the end of this chapter I discuss the evolution of sexual deviancy in France and the key moments that illustrate its situation vis-à-vis the larger

French society. Finally, I make the case for the study of gay pride in respect to citizenship in contemporary France. With the understanding of citizenship practices in France, as well as how French republican discourse informs queer ways of being, gay pride provides an interesting lens through which I examine “Frenchness” in today’s twenty-first-century world.

Citizenship: What is it?

Citizenship is at once familiar and ambiguous. Scholars have approached the subject from various points of view, but one of the similarities among them is that citizenship is multivalent. Part of the difficulty in defining citizenship is that it is a concept whose theoretical bases and praxes are politically and historically polymorphous.

5 To highlight the outsider status accorded to non-normative sexualities, as well as avoid the inadequate term “gay and lesbian,” David Bell and Jon Binnie employ the term “sexual deviants.” See their book The Sexual Citizen.

17 In his historical examination of citizenship and its evolution from Plato to the period of the Enlightenment, Peter Riesenberg states that, “[i]t is very difficult to define citizenship in a few words. Although it is one of the oldest institutions in Western political thought and practice, it is not one of the easiest to grasp in a single comprehensive thought.”6

Understanding citizenship comprehensively, then, is a difficult task since it is constantly evolving and being fashioned into new forms. Riesenberg underscores this when he declares that “citizenship has been an ambiguous institution throughout history and that it has been compatible with many forms of political organization.”7 So while the form of government may change and subsequently redefine the role of the citizen, the actual idea of the citizen as individual remains applicable, thus complicating the possibility of a uniform definition. Similarly, Maxim Silverman affirms that “citizenship is a plastic term which can be used in a variety of ways to mean a variety of things. As a broad umbrella term which can incorporate the demands of diverse movements and associations, it inevitably contains conflicting and contradictory claims and discourses.”8 While

Silverman highlights the ambiguous nature of citizenship, he also touches upon one of its most salient qualities. It is within these contradictory discourses of citizenship that we may locate the common quality inherent in all its forms: while citizenship symbolizes inclusion within the body politic, it simultaneously represents exclusion for those who do not benefit from it. Citizenship drives a dividing line between those who belong and those who do not, and in effect is, according to Riesenberg, an acceptable form of

6 Riesenberg, Citizenship, xvi. 7 Ibid., xvii. 8 Silverman, Deconstructing the Nation: Immigration, Racism and Citizenship in Modern France, 126–127.

18 discrimination. He writes, “[f]rom the beginning it has meant privilege and exclusion; it is no exaggeration to say that one of its principal functions has been an agent or principle of discrimination.”9

While the institution of citizenship relies upon a discourse of inclusion and exclusion in order to define the polity, these discourses do not lose resonance once we consider those who would normally be included. Among the members defined as

“citizens,” there exists in many cases a hierarchy, where one group of citizens benefits from certain privileges—and in turn is held to certain responsibilities—while other groups benefit from a lesser or modified set of entitlements. This discourse of inclusion/exclusion is an important part of understanding the modern nation-state and the way in which citizens interact with it. Furthermore, it is a theme that resurfaces at several points throughout this chapter, providing a common thread with which we may better understand the place of citizenship in contemporary France.

Founding Myths of Citizenship

Citizenship, of course, is not a new idea; however, its formulation in the Greek polis is in many ways radically different than what we think of citizenship today. In the western tradition, we uphold ancient Greece and Rome as examples of some of our most basic democratic principles,10 and yet, exclusion was very much a part of those societies.

9 Riesenberg, Citizenship, xvii. 10 This is not to say that Ancient Greek philosophers and politicians escaped the influence of other ancient Mediterranean civilizations that preceded them. See Yves Schemeil, “Democracy before Democracy?” International Political Science Review 21, no. 2 (2000): 99-120.

19 In his account of the history of citizenship, Saïd Bouamama explains that “l’exclusion de nombreux groupes sociaux n’enlève rien au caractère démocratique que conserve la définition de la citoyenneté tout au long de l’antiquité.”11 While the free citizen enjoyed the rights and obligations that accompanied the institution of citizenship, membership to the polity was predicated on a number of factors, which, in turn, excluded more often than it included. And although our modern-day understanding of citizenship tends to be equated with democracy and equality,12 exclusion continues to play a significant, if not at times a tacit role in our understanding of this institution.

While a history of Western citizenship from the Greek polis to the present day is outside the scope of this work, modern citizenship is nonetheless informed by this period of Western civilization.13 And while, as J. G. A. Pocock states in his essay, the

“uniqueness” of these founding traditions may be more myth than reality, “the myth has a way of remaining unique as a determinant of ‘Western’ identity—no other civilization has a myth like this.”14 The main form of political organization in ancient Greece was the city-state, a political body defined by the geographical limits of the city. Citizenship to

11 Saïd Bouamama, “Petite histoire d’une grande idée,” in La Citoyenneté dans tous ses états: De l’immigration à la nouvelle citoyenneté, ed. Saïd Bouamama, Albano Cordeiro, and Michel Roux (Paris: CIEMI and l’Harmattan, 1992), 31. 12 Even shortly after the Revolution, writers such as Madame de Staël held up the Greek polis as the example to be followed. See Susanne Hillman, “Men with Muskets, Women with Lyres: Nationality, Citizenship, and Gender in the Writings of Germaine de Staël,” Journal of the History of Ideas 72, no. 2 (2011): 241. 13 For a study of citizenship and naturalization practices in Ancient Rome, as well as in France and in the United States, see Alexander Porter Morse, A Treatise on Citizenship, by Birth and by Naturalization (Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1881). Also, see J. G. A. Pocock, “The Ideal of Citizenship Since Classical Times,” in Theorizing Citizenship (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), 29-52; Vincent Farenga, Citizen and Self in Ancient Greece: Individuals Performing Justice and the Law (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), especially chapters five and six. 14 Pocock, “The Ideal,” 29–30.

20 the city-state was predicated on birth to another free citizen, whereas those who were not were required to pay for their right to reside in the city.15 Citizenship, then, was not only based upon blood but also upon geographical location. Being a citizen of one city-state meant that one, in turn, did not benefit from the rights and privileges extended to citizens of another city-state. Additionally, one generally lost citizenship to the city-state in which one resided if one accepted it in another. In these smaller political bodies, an individual’s role within society was much greater than today, since the free citizen had to fulfill obligations to the city-state such as participating in political, judicial, and military undertakings.16 Great importance was placed upon contributing to the city-state, and those who evaded their duties were considered dishonorable. Holding citizenship to the city- state was advantageous in many ways, not only for the right to participate in the decision- making processes of the polity, but also for economic and judicial reasons.

15 In French, this ancient idea of the right to reside within the city is translated as the droit de cité, and it has recently resurfaced within recent scholarship on citizenship. In light of the great amount of residents in and around French cities who do not hold citizenship, some scholars have argued that it would be preferable to return to a framework where individuals who remained in residence for determined amount of time would be granted rights similar to traditional citizenship. A limited version of this idea has already been applied to members of other European states residing in France: “Les citoyens de l’Union européenne résidant dans un Etat membre dont ils ne sont pas ressortissants peuvent désormais exercer dans cet Etat leur droit de vote et d’éligibilité aux élections au Parlement européen et aux élections municipales.” For more information, see the website of the Ministère de l’Intérieur, de l’Outre-Mer et des Collectivités Territoriales, “L’inscription sur les listes complémentaires des ressortissants de l’Union européenne,” Liste ressortissants UE, March 2007, http://www.interieur.gouv.fr/sections/a_votre_service/elections/comment_voter/liste- ressortissants-ue. Additionally, for a collection of his essays and conference presentations on the topic of citizenship in France and the European Union, see Balibar, Droit de cité. 16 Traces of this practice remain today in various forms such a jury duty, military service, and voting, to name a few.

21 Similarly to Ancient Greek citizenship practices, Ancient Roman traditions were also based on birth and geography. However, while Ancient Greek civilization was in all actuality a conglomeration of thousands of city-states, oftentimes each unique in its own way, the more centralized nature of the Roman Empire expanded the idea of citizenship and to whom it could be applied. While it is difficult to make generalizations across centuries of political change, one of the common features of Roman citizenship was that it was stratified, that is to say that there were several different classes of citizens, each with specific rights and obligations. Due to the high amount of freedom and privilege that accompanied Roman citizenship—especially in comparison with those who did not hold citizenship—, it was frequently used as a political bargaining tool, which illustrates the power that membership to the state could yield the bearer. This idea of a hierarchy is not lost on us today: citizenship to a nation-state affords the individual many rights that are often denied non-citizens such as access to residency, welfare and employment. The hierarchy that we see with the Roman Empire is also not a foreign idea since many nation-states extend certain rights to long-term residents and those holding “provisional” status that are not necessarily extended to the newly arrived.17

The hierarchization of society, with certain members benefitting from rights and obligations while others were denied them, continued after the fall of the Roman Empire and into the Middle Ages. In medieval France, for example, daily life was based on a complex structure of alliances and allegiances, many aspects of which were dependant

17 The bearers of a carte de séjour, for example, enjoy certain rights of residency, but their employment opportunities may still be limited depending on the kind the bearer is given. See Service Public, “Titres de séjour des étrangers en France” (Administration française, 2010), http://vosdroits.service-public.fr/N110.xhtml.

22 upon one’s status in society. Similarly to those who were at the bottom of the social hierarchy in Greece and Rome, the Middle Ages and the Renaissance offered very little in the form of political participation unless one’s status allowed for it. At the Revolution, then, the architects of the Republic wanted to erase the idea of privilege based on lineage, thereby returning to a more active form of political participation on the part of the citizens of a state that was reminiscent of Greek and Roman ideas of the free citizen. And yet some scholars have argued that while the newly formed democracies of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries promised that citizens would have an active voice in the political process, this active voice was actually a passive one since political participation became focused upon the act of voting and voting alone.18

The long history of citizenship masks its evolving and adaptable nature and makes it difficult to make comparisons between such disparate periods and places. In an attempt to account for its adaptive quality, as well as for what he sees as a major paradigm shift,

Peter Riesenberg divides citizenship into two historical periods, what he calls “first citizenship” and “second citizenship.”19 First citizenship refers to the period of history from ancient Greece and Rome to the French Revolution while Second citizenship corresponds, not surprisingly, to the period that follows. The difference between them is a shift from an active form of citizenship to a passive one. In his words, “under the second

18 See Lehning, To be a Citizen. Lehning argues that at the birth of the Third Republic (1870), it was unclear what kind of participation citizens would be allowed. Fearful of the populace, especially after the Paris Commune, acceptable participation in the political process was framed by the importance of voting, rather than direct action in the form of physical conflict. This point is especially interesting since the Republic claims the Revolution as a founding principle; however, encouraging disruptive behavior on the part of its citizens seems pragmatically counterproductive. 19 Riesenberg, Citizenship, xxi.

23 citizenship, personal heroism is not expected or needed from all; now the financial support of the hardworking, prosperous merchant or laborer is accepted as adequate evidence of commitment. The fierce devotion of the few has been replaced with the slack association of the many.”20 Although one may question Riesenberg’s sharp division between one form of citizenship and another he does assert the idea that modern citizenship—“second citizenship”—is constructed on passive participation as exemplified by voting, for example. Under first citizenship, citizens contributed and gave to the

“greater good;” under second citizenship “mass man and woman” became more concerned with private life and its diversions.21 Indeed, private life began to take on a much larger role after the French Revolution, but Riesenberg betrays his bias towards first citizenship when he frames private space as a realm where people could escape the responsibilities he associates with pre-Revolutionary citizenship. This places agency in the hands of the populace, ignoring the influential powers of the state in shaping its citizens’ lives and their possibilities for participation within society. The fact that the distinction between the public and the private sphere is such an integral part of the French nation-state’s discourse on proper citizenship demonstrates that it is not just the people that retreat into a private realm, but rather the state requires its disparate population to withdraw into the private sphere in order to emerge as citizens in the public sphere. This aside, Riesenberg rightly notes that while the state discourse on citizenship after the

Revolution promoted the idea that the newly created citizenry would have a more active role in the political sphere—one that harkened back to the active citizens of the Greek

20 Ibid., xix. 21 Ibid., xxi.

24 polis and had been denied them under the Ancien Régime—this role was in fact much more passive. The enfranchised body was indeed enlarged; however, it was also restricted by what was considered proper citizenship roles.

Philosophical Origins of French Citizenship

In his essay on the history of citizenship in France, Saïd Bouamama identifies four major philosophers and their work as the foundation for French citizenship:

Machiavelli, Locke, Montesquieu, and Rousseau.22 Bouamama finds echoes of

Machiavelli in the idea that everything within a society should be an instrument of the state, thereby reinforcing the state’s power and legitimacy. Citing the example that citizens should put aside their individual concerns for the greater good of the nation,

Bouamama reminds his reader that the nation is an abstract concept, an entity that can do nothing in return. This gives rise to a series of questions, the first of which is why a citizen would be willing to put aside his/her individual concerns in order to uphold as well as defend—sometimes to the death—this abstract concept of nation?23

Second, Locke’s belief in the primacy of private property as a natural right finds its translation in article two of the Declaration des Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen of

1789. For Locke, it is the necessity to protect one’s private property that brought humans out of savagery to build societies.24 This idea is echoed in Citizenship in Contemporary

Europe, where Michael Lister and Emily Pia draw on Locke to explain that, “For Locke,

22 Bouamama, “Petite,” 32–35. 23 Ibid., 33. 24 Ibid.

25 men consent to government because the enjoyment of life, liberty and property is uncertain in the state of nature, as there is no common law, no judge or arbiter in disputes and no power to enforce decisions.”25 They go on to explain that the rights and freedoms bestowed upon citizens is also a protection from the government itself, so that it cannot become too powerful and controlling.26 The idea of private property strengthens the concept of a private space, protected not only from one’s fellow citizens, but also from the government. While in a republic, the public sphere plays a more important role as the space within which its members participate politically, the private sphere serves an equally important function: within a French context, the private sphere allows for citizens to leave behind their differences so that they may enter the public sphere free from traits that would inhibit them from making enlightened decisions.

For Montesquieu, the duty of any republic is to educate its citizens, and the way to achieve this education is through legislative activity. The role of the government is to instill virtue into its citizens, and through laws the republic is able to fulfill this duty.27

Therefore, a judicial system built upon clarity and coherence will provide the basis for a society founded on universal values, where members are held to the same standard.28

Finally, Rousseau’s notion of the social contract as the basis for a just society has had a lasting effect on French citizenship practices. According to Rousseau, members of society agree to give up certain rights in order to receive protection from the state in

25 Lister and Pia, Citizenship in Contemporary Europe, 10. 26 Ibid. 27 Bouamama, “Petite,” 34. 28 For more on law in the French tradition with respect to Gay and Lesbian studies, see Scott Eric Gunther, The Elastic Closet: A History of Homosexuality in France, 1942- present (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009).

26 return.29 Even though equality is associated with the democratic nation-state, inherent within Rousseau’s social contract is the idea of exclusion. For Rousseau, participation within the social contract is dependant upon one’s ability to enter it freely and of his/her own will. This individual should not be inhibited by outside influences that would otherwise corrupt his/her ability to reason in an enlightened manner. Furthermore, inherent within the social contract is the idea of will: one has to want to enter into the social contract, and this willingness to enter freely into the social contract has traces in contemporary naturalization practices.

Revolution and the Universal Citizen

The Enlightenment philosophers framed the theoretical bases of the nation and its citizens in their discursive search for the ideal form of government. Seeing political participation denied to the majority of the French people, the architects of the Republic aimed to give enlightened individuals the ability to be a part of their own destiny. No longer would an individual be a subject to an oppressive despot placed in this position of power solely by birth. Rather, he would be a citizen to the newly formed republic, granted inalienable rights that guaranteed his ability to have a fulfilling life, both privately and publicly. Furthermore, he would have a voice and representation within the newly formed government.

29 Bouamama, “Petite,” 34–35.

27 Generally accepted as a response to the absolutism of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, liberal citizenship places rights at its core.30 Through the granting of rights, the nation-state is able to “stimulate, encourage or produce membership and belonging.”31 An important example of the centrality of rights in the newly formed

French republic is the Déclaration des droits de l’homme et du citoyen of 1789 which details the rights and privileges extended to its citizens, who are no longer exclusively subjects of the crown. By extending basic rights to its citizens the republic is able to foster an environment where its citizens can build a society predicated on freedoms, the pursuit of a fulfilling private life, and protecting the rights of their fellow citizens so that their rights in turn would also be protected and respected, rather than one based on protecting and serving the interests of the king, seen as the overarching patriarchal figure.32 French citizenship practices, while in part adopting liberal characteristics described above, places the civic before individual, thus changing the goal of citizenship in profound ways. “Republican citizenship is, like liberal citizenship, concerned with promoting freedom,” write Lister and Pia. However, republican citizenship “is also animated by a concern to protect and ensure freedom, but it’s a rather different notion of freedom; where liberal citizenship sees freedom as being about a lack of interference, for republicans, liberty consists in a freedom from domination, which involves self- government.”33 The importance of the public sphere takes precedence over the private,

30 Lister and Pia, Citizenship in Contemporary Europe, 8–9. 31 Ibid., 9. 32 For an interesting analysis of the effects of the French Revolution and the death of the “father/king” on the French family model, see Lynn Hunt, The Family Romance of the French Revolution (Berkeley, Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1992). 33 Lister and Pia, Citizenship in Contemporary Europe, 23.

28 for this is the sphere in which citizens come together in order to fight against what Lister and Pia call “domination.”

Nineteenth-century France can be characterized as a struggle between a grand past and a desire to erase the privileges and inequalities that existed before the fall of the

Ancien Régime: “La France bourgeoise de ce premier XIXe siècle, qui explose en février

1848, est un monde en reclassement, en réorganisation; la nouvelle direction a mal évincé l’ancienne, restée présente, critique et violemment hostile et elle n’a pas cherché à l’éliminer totalement, tant le prestige des gloires passées et des châteaux illuminés est resté grand.”34 Indeed, French society was changing, and new possibilities were becoming available for the larger population, while others were becoming inaccessible.35

Yet, the end of noble privilege did not translate into an immediate extension of rights to all citoyens. Rather, political participation—the public sphere, if you will—was limited to some of those who were economically able to assure their independence: “La

Constitution de 1791…consacre donc l’inégalité politique des citoyens, écartant de la vie politique tous ceux qui n’ont pas leur pain quotidien assuré, leur indépendance garantie.”36 Offering a possible explanation, Dale Clifford writes that the “elements of

34 Georges Duby and Robert Mandrou, Histoire de la civilisation française, vol. 2, Agora (Paris: Armand Colin, 1984), 235. 35 See especially chapter XIII in Ibid., 2:180–233. Historian Lynn Hunt has also commented on how the status of women became more confined to the newly important private sphere in French bourgeois society. See Hunt’s The Family Romance of the French Revolution. See also Hillman’s article where she discusses Madame de Staël’s writings through a political rather than literary lens, “Men with Muskets, Women with Lyres.” 36 Duby and Mandrou explain that the “pression populaire” of Paris prompted a revision of the constitution, and the Convention was in the end elected by universal suffrage. However, the Thermidoriens returned to this classification, resurrecting the distinctions between active and passive citizens that, with a few revisions, lasted well into the middle

29 citizenship set forth in the constitution of 1791 reflected ideological choices made by men deeply affected by the ideas of the Enlightenment and influenced by their own social and economic perceptions.”37 On one hand, one may ask how a Republic that has just declared and extended inalienable rights to its citizens could at the same time limit political participation? Indeed, we tend to equate western ideas of citizenship with democracy and equality; however, it is important to remember that the social contract, the willingness to enter into the founding basis of society, is predicated not only on the desire to do so, but also on one’s ability to be able to enter freely into that contract. Individuals who were not economically secure were therefore denied the possibility of participation because they were under the influence of others. These ideas of citizenship for a privileged few finds its basis in the founding myths of Western citizenship and the works of Aristotle. For him, not everyone could be a free citizen since being a citizen required not being under the control of another and therefore unable to reason for oneself. Pocock writes, “To Aristotle, it did not seem that the human—being cognitive, active and purposive—could be fully human unless he ruled himself.”38 Furthermore, it was also important that the free citizen also rule his household, which implied therefore that he was a landowner with a household to lead. Members of that household—women and slaves, for example—could never become citizens because they were under the control of the male figure. So strong are some of these Aristotelian requirements of Western

of the nineteenth century. See Duby and Mandrou, Histoire de la civilisation française, 2:197. 37 Dale L. Clifford, “Can the Uniform Make the Citizen? Paris, 1789-1791,” Eighteenth- Century Studies 34, no. 3 (2001): 364. 38 Pocock, “The Ideal,” 33.

30 citizenship—“be a male of known genealogy, a patriarch, a warrior, and the master of the labor of others”39—that they have remained salient for the better part of two millennia.

The rise in power of the bourgeoisie underscored the importance of the nuclear family-unit as the basis for French, and for that matter Western society. In fact, the gateway to proper “modernity”—that is to say, Western European modernity—was often dependant on the adherence to Western ideals of bourgeois gender and family norms: a society that did not adhere to these conventions was a society that had not achieved the same level of civilization and was therefore deemed inferior.40

According to Michel Foucault bloodlines were important to the nobility for political and strategic reasons; however, it was the bourgeois’ sex that displaced it in significance: “Le sang de la bourgeoisie, ce fut son sexe.”41 With the growth of the nineteenth-century discourse on health and human behaviors, controlled sexual behavior characteristic of bourgeois society found its justification in science and medicine. “Good” members of society were not ruled by their passions, or in the medical terminology of the day, their pathologies. They would not perform perverse sexual acts—understand this as any acts that were not reproductive—, and even if they did perform “normal” acts, they would not engage in them too often. Overexertion, just as under-exertion, would also lead

39 Ibid., 31. 40 See, for example, Afsaneh Najmabadi, Women with Mustaches and men without Beards: Gender and Sexual Anxieties of Iranian Modernity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005); Mrinalini Sinha, Specters of Mother India: The Global Restructuring of an Empire (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006); Beth Baron, Egypt as Woman: Nationalism, Gender, and Politics (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2007). The supposed inferiority of these foreign societies was often used as a reason why they required the help of the colonizer, in order to reach their full potential as a civilization. 41 Michel Foucault, Histoire de la sexualité: La volonté de savoir, vol. 1 (Paris: Gallimard, 1976), 164.

31 to a degenerative physical and emotional state.42 This, in turn, would lead to less productive members of society, who are in constant search of satisfying their pathological urges or fetishes rather than contributing to the greater good of the nation. In other words, they would be “bad” sexual citizen, an idea to which I will return later.

Although many of the founding myths of the French nation hark back to the

French Revolution and earlier, they were oftentimes promulgated and reified under the

Third Republic. Just as understanding the founding principles of citizenship requires an understanding of the institution’s beginnings in both Ancient Greece and Rome, it is equally important to understand the considerable paradigm shifts that took place during

Third-Republic France in order to properly situate the current debates on citizenship, national identity, and sexuality. It is to the Third Republic that we will turn in the next section.

The Third Republic and the Universal Citizen

The Third Republic formed in a troubled time for France. After their defeat in the

Franco-Prussian War and the fall of the Second Empire, followed by the bloody

Commune of Paris, the political leaders of the newly formed government, which finally became permanent in 1875, were fearful of the populace who, several times over the previous hundred years, had brought the ruling political regime to its knees. On one hand, the Revolution represented the liberation of the French people from the yoke of the

42 Jackson, Living in Arcadia: Homosexuality, Politics, and Morality in France from the Liberation to AIDS, 23–24. See also Frédéric Chauvaud, Les experts du crime la médecine légale en France au XIXe siècle (Paris: Aubier, 2000).

32 Ancien Régime. The Républicains saw the Revolution as the ousting of an unfair regime, one that denied the people their rightful place in the political process. For those who favored the return of the monarchy or the empire, however, the Revolution represented the unruly power of the masses.

The discussions in the Assemblée over what date would be designated as the fête nationale brought to the fore issues of what past event would be considered representative of the new Republic. As discussed above, the conservatives favored a date that would downplay the importance of the masses, while the Républicains preferred the opposite. However, even the left was hesitant to enshrine the idea of revolution in the newly formed republic. What form of participation would the Republic consider the most important? Even one of the most outspoken républicains, Léon Gambetta, declared that the most important act of the citizen was not descending into the street in an unruly mass to overthrow the regime in power, but to descend into the street and into the voting booths. In one of his many speeches, Gambetta states:

Oh ! il ne faut pas le cacher, ce secret; il faut, au contraire, l’apprendre, le communiquer, le répandre, le divulguer à tous. Ce secret, le voici. Faire comprendre à celui qui dispose d’un bulletin de vote tout ce qu’il y a dans ce petit carré de papier et quelle est la relation qui lie cet acte du citoyen à toutes les fonctions de l’État.43

Even while Gambetta championed the républicain agenda, he declared casting a ballot as the most important act of the citizen.44 Although the state itself tried to downplay the importance of the physical acts of its citizens, the spirit of the Revolution—

43 Léon Gambetta, Discours et plaidoyers politiques de M. Gambetta, ed. Joseph Reinach, vol. 4 (Paris: G. Charpentier, 1881), 319. 44 Lehning states that for Gambetta, that “little piece of paper…was the Republic itself.” See Lehning, To be a Citizen, 1.

33 this spirit of change that can take place with the manifestation of the polity in the public sphere—remains an important part of the French-style of citizenship.45 The idea that change can happen because of direct participant involvement is evident in many part of

French society. Recently, the debate on employment contracts aimed at bringing younger people into the workforce while allowing companies the flexibility to release the newly- hired without penalty—something they would be required to do if they hired under a more traditional contract—led to months of public demonstrations all over the country.46

In the following section I turn to a discussion of the public and the private sphere and the integral role it plays within the conception and construction of republican citizenship practices.

The Public and the Private Sphere in France

There is a strong separation between the public and the private spheres in traditional French universal republican ideology. According to Carl Stychin, the form of citizenship espoused by the French nation-state “…requires a preservation of a clear differentiation between the public and private spheres.”47 Since France embraces a republican form of citizenship whereby the public sphere is championed over the private, it is in the public sphere where citizens are to come together, cast away their differences and band together as equals. The private sphere acts therefore as the repository where

45 See Jacques Guilhaumou, La parole des sans: Les mouvements actuels à l’épreuve de la Révolution française (Paris: ENS, 1998). 46 The Contrat de première embauche (CPE) was a project promulgated under president Jacques Chirac and his Premier ministre Dominique de Villepin in 2006. 47 Stychin, “Civil Solidarity,” 352.

34 difference is left behind. By agreeing to leave difference behind in the public sphere, citizens are able to shed themselves of any kind of outside influence that would represent a kind of intermediary between themselves and the state. When it comes to the issue of sexuality, the citizen who enters the public sphere is to leave it behind. Sexuality, along with a whole host of things that could mark the citizen as different or “other,” restricts the citizen and, in the words of Rousseau, enslaves her/him. One should free themselves of the chains that would otherwise keep one from fully blossoming in the public sphere.

From a socio-political point of view, arguments that are not framed within a universal discourse are discredited from the start.48

In his recently published work, David Caron explains that the French Republic, in its rejection of essentialized identity, has a hard time coming to terms with the idea of

“community.”

The French republic…tends to have a problem with community, which it has a hard time distinguishing from essentialized identity. In a universalist nation such as France, where the structuring poles of society are the State at one end and free and equal individuals on the other, intermediate markers of identity—religion, ethnicity, sexuality, national origin, and the like—must be confined to the private sphere and never ever serve as the basis for political claim.49

Caron continues by explaining that the emancipation of the Jews during the

French Revolution stands as the “template for how the nation is to deal with its minorities,” wherein he references a speech given on 23 December 1789 by the count of

48 During the debate on the Pacte civil de solidarité, it was not until the proponents framed their argument in unversalist discourse did the law gain the needed momentum to be passed. 49 David Caron, My Father and I: The Marais and the Queerness of Community (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2009), 76.

35 Clermont-Tonnerre to the Assemblée Nationale. Clermont-Tonnerre’s noteworthy speech illustrates the approach of the French Republic well and bears repeating here:

Il faut refuser tout aux juifs comme nation et accorder tout aux juifs comme individus; il faut méconnaître leurs juges, ils ne doivent avoir que les nôtres; il faut refuser la protection légale au maintien des prétendues lois de leur corporation judaïque; il faut qu’ils ne fassent dans l’État ni un corps politique ni un ordre; il faut qu’ils soient individuellement citoyens.50

By refusing any politicization of identity within the public sphere, the state aims to erase the particularities of the disparate groups that make up French society. In turn, the state aims to create a kind of level playing field where issues such as class, gender, and national origin should not have a role.

In his book Jusqu’où va-t-on décendre? Abécédaire de la bêtise ambiante, unapologetic defender of traditional republican values Alain Soral derides politicians, minorities, gays and lesbians, and anyone else who is not a part of, “les gens normaux.”51

In the opening lines of the section entitled “La Beauf Pride,” Soral shares his frustration at being denied the right to occupy the public sphere because a group of minorities are parading down the street: “Une fois de plus je ne peux pas rouler, la rue, l’espace public me sont interdits; bloqués par une minorité qui n’a rien d’autre à revendiquer que son arrogance narcissique.”52 Soral’s statement demonstrates traditional—albeit at times extreme—republican discourse where outward displays of politicized minority identities are not allowed. He exclaims his frustration at the repeated occasions he is denied his right to enter the public sphere, which he equates with the street. The French public

50 Quoted in Ibid. 51 Alain Soral, Jusqu’où va-t-on descendre? Abécédaire de la bêtise ambiante, ed. Franck Spengler (Paris: Éditions Blanche, 2002), 42. 52 Ibid., 41.

36 sphere has become, in his eyes, overrun with minority groups that should not have been given a place there to begin with. He, as a part of les gens normaux and therefore the majority, should not have to be subject to such treatment. As the majority to which everyone else should integrate, he represents the model to be followed.

It would be problematic to assume that the public and the private are wholly derived from a geographically influenced model. Rather, it is more indicative of cultural practices. In the following passage, David Caron explains that

…[the] private sphere, then, is a set of practices, institutions and relations that the culture defines as distinct from the affairs of the polis which, in turn, constitutes what I refer to as the public sphere. Family, love, sex, the body, friendship, illness, ethnicity, religion…are thus defined as private matters in French culture and, as such, irrelevant to political affairs.53

So, in certain respects, it is not the actual occupation of the geographically determined public sphere that causes such distress to staunch republicans such as Soral, rather it is the politicization of private issues that is the root of the problem. This being said, to assume that the culturally circumscribed issues of family, love, sex, etc., do not influence and are not influenced by the politicized public sphere is simply not true. In

Caron’s words, “it would be naïve to believe that the two spheres are neatly divided, never intersecting or overlapping in any way.”54 Indeed, the public and the private sphere are inextricably linked, with one dependant upon the other.

After exploring the historical background to the institution of citizenship, in the next section I will delve deeper into the problems inherent within citizenship, with a particular focus upon the idea of inclusion and exclusion.

53 Caron, My Father and I, 77. 54 Ibid., 78.

37 Citizenship Problematized

Citizenship has at its core the idea of inclusion and exclusion. In order to make sense of what it means to be a part of a community, oftentimes the community is in need of an “other.” Through the other, the community can construct an image of itself and, more importantly, what it is not. In this respect, Weil’s analysis of French citizenship law is an example of France and its European other: Germany. Indeed, Weil spends much of his time complicating received knowledge that Germany is a country that champions jus sanguinis and is therefore closed off to integration, while France champions jus solis. In light of World War II, of course, this idea reinforces the specter of Nazi Germany while painting France as a more enlightened and open society, one that frames itself as the country of the Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen, a country that is characterized by its adherence to strong philosophical ideals in shaping its people rather than an ethnic basis for membership.55

Republican citizenship places participation in the public sphere at its center.

Instead of championing the private sphere as the privileged space for its citizens as found in the ideals of liberal citizenship, republicanism fosters an environment where citizens overcome their differences in order to participate in the public sphere. “For republican theories of citizenship,” write Lister and Pia, “participation is the means by which both

55 Germany is not the only “other” of France, to be sure. The United States has often become the “other” to France, especially in the realms of international politics and social integration. See, for example, Frédéric Martel, Le Rose et le noir: les homosexuels en France depuis 1968 (Paris: Seuil, 1996). Martel rejects a North-American model of community that he believes leads to the ghettoisation of sexual deviants. Instead, he argues that the French model is preferable since it does not cause a repli sur soi.

38 freedom and membership are created and sustained.”56 The act of transcending one’s differences is a requirement for full public participation, and in theory, participants should be equal. Republican citizens, then, are “universal” citizens, unmarked by class, religion, ethnicity, and gender. This ideal, while praiseworthy, remains problematic in practice.

Not everyone has full access to participate in public life. Citizens must be enlightened individuals free from control and able to make their own decisions, otherwise, according to Jean-Jacques Rousseau, they might as well be slaves.57

Historically, women have often been excluded from participating in the public sphere because they were subsumed under the category of the private and therefore represented in the public sphere by their fathers or husbands.58 The argument that one needed not only to be free from control but also to have the capacity to make enlightened decisions has kept a number of groups from enjoying full citizenship rights under the republic: women, religious groups, immigrants, criminals, the mentally or physically disabled, and sexual deviants.59

56 Lister and Pia, Citizenship in Contemporary Europe, 22–23. 57 See Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Du Contract social: ou Principes du droit politiques (Lyon: Imprimerie d’Amable le Roy, 1792). 58 Or, indeed, some sort of male figure; more rarely once freed from male dominance [i.e. through death of the male figure], women would be able to enter into the public sphere with the legitimacy of the masculine ghost behind them. See Stychin, “Sexual Citizenship,” 287. 59 For discussions on masculinity and the supposed “dangers” that sexual deviancy poses for the nation see George L Mosse, Nationalism and Sexuality: Respectability & Abnormal Sexuality in Modern Europe (New York: Howard Fertig, 1985); George L Mosse, The Image of Man: The Creation of Modern Masculinity (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996); Robert A Nye, Masculinity and Male Codes of Honor in Modern France (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993).

39 Citizenship practices have evolved since the revolution, and scholars have tried to account for these differences by tracing the granting of rights to the populace. In the following section I turn to T. H. Marshall and his study of citizenship as a kind of catalyst for contemporary citizenship studies.

Citizenship and Nationality

People frequently describe themselves by deploying a discourse of membership to a defined nation-state, and those who are unable to claim membership to such an entity— or foreigners who are outwardly marked as “different” from the dominant majority—are often portrayed as a danger to the established nation-state because of their supposed cultural differences.60 Furthermore, these qualities are also frequently associated with identity, so much so that Gilles Verbunt opens his essay on citizenship, nationality, and identity writing that the question “qui êtes-vous?” is frequently answered as if the question “quelle est votre nationalité?” had been asked.61 That being said, it is critical to understand that while “nationality” and “citizenship” are synonymous on a practical level, they do not have the same meaning on a more theoretical one. In her book

Reconstructing Citizenship: The Politics of Nationality Reform and Immigration in

60 Michel Roux, “Le paradoxe des identités,” in La Citoyenneté dans tous ses états: De l’immigration à la nouvelle citoyenneté, ed. Saïd Bouamama, Albano Cordeiro, and Michel Roux (Paris: CIEMI and l’Harmattan, 1992), 210. The ability to be able to claim a nationality is of such importance that the United Nations declared it a universal right. See United Nations, “The Universal Declaration of Human Rights”, 1948, article 15, http://www.un.org/en/documents/udhr/. 61 Gilles Verbunt, “Citoyenneté, nationalité et identité,” in La Citoyenneté et les changements de structures sociale et nationale de la population française, ed. Catherine Wihtol de Wenden (Paris: Edilig/Fondation Diderot, 1988), 239, original emphasis.

40 Contemporary France, Miriam Feldblum takes care to alert her reader to the idea that while similar, citizenship and nationality are two different concepts.62 For Feldblum, citizenship means belonging to a defined political body. One can be a citizen of France, for example, and therefore be entitled to the rights and protections afforded by the state in exchange for certain duties and obligations that the citizen must perform. Nationality, however, does not guarantee any rights, and instead is more an abstract concept.

Therefore nationality is defined as the quality of belonging to a nation, while citizenship defines one’s status within that polity.63

According to Le Petit Robert “nation” is defined in several ways. The first definition, designated as “vieux,” explains that “nation” is a “[g]roupe d’hommes auxquels on suppose une origine commune.”64 Its second meaning is a “[g]roupe humain, généralement assez vaste, qui se caractérise par la conscience de son unité (historique, sociale, culturelle) et la volonté de vivre en commun.” In third position, Le Petit Robert writes that it is a “[g]roupe humain constituant une communauté politique, établie sur un territoire défini ou un ensemble de territoires définies, et personnifiée par une autorité souveraine.” Finally, the last definition that the dictionary gives is an “[e]nsemble des individus qui composent ce groupe.” Let us look at each one of these possible meanings of nation. The first definition represents the oldest version referring to the supposed similar origins of a group of people designated as a “nation.” The word itself comes from the Latin natio, which means naître, thus lending itself to the idea that nation refers to a

62 Feldblum, Reconstructing Citizenship: The Politics of Nationality Reform and Immigration in Contemporary France. 63 Ibid., 15. 64 Paul Robert, “Nation,” ed. Josette Rey-Debove and Alain Rey, Le Petit Robert (Paris: Dictionnaires Le Robert, 1993), 1471.

41 culturally similar group of people and who have a shared origin. In second position, the word nation conjures up the idea of will, the desire to come together as a group and live together. A bond remains, however, in that the group of people has a historical, social, and cultural tie to one another. Thirdly, nation takes on a more politically charged meaning, evoking the idea of a limited geographical area within which a nation can exist.

Furthermore, this nation is represented by the presence of a sovereign state. This definition is representative of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century political thought where the nation, an entity that transcends time and space, is coupled with the political entity of the state that represents it. It is for this reason that the term “nation-state” was coined in order to encapsulate the dual nature of new political entities developing in Europe during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Finally, the last definition allows for nation to be used as a metonym to refer to the residents of a defined nation-state.

What complicates matters is that all the definitions of nation apply to France in differing ways. Nation evokes the idea of a common bond between people, historically, culturally, or linguistically. To illustrate, language can be used to validate the idea that a group of people who speak the same tongue are a part of the same nation in that they share something that others cannot understand. Separatists oftentimes use language to demonstrate that they are a distinct group or nation and therefore are entitled to have special rights or sovereign status. This leads us into the third definition where the nation and the state are joined together. For nation-states such as the United Kingdom and

France, the history of the state and the history of the nation overlap each other, thus making it difficult at times to separate one from the other. For France, for example, the state has been in existence for centuries, in the form of the monarchy and feudalism, in

42 the form of the Republic, or even the Empire. The nation, then, came about after the

Revolution of 1789: no longer were people bound together by their presence within the king’s realm, as subjects of the king, but by their desire, their will to come together and be a part of something bigger than themselves. To this end, the French state deployed all kinds of discourses to integrate its disparate populations, to cultivate the idea that they were a part of a common group of people. For example, privileging a national language while discouraging the use of regional ones,65 employing curriculums where students were actively engaged in learning how to be French citizens through an almost cult-like worship of historical French figures such as Vercingétorix, Joan of Arc, and Napoleon.

Now let us examine the word “citoyen.” According to Le Petit Robert, the first definition, designated as “historique,” explains that it is “[c]elui qui appartient à une cité, en reconnaît la juridiction, est habilité à jouir, sur son territoire, du droit de cité et est astreint aux devoirs correspondants.”66 This first meaning is certainly based on the Greek and Roman idea of citoyen whereby someone who held that quality was a full member of the city-state to which he belonged. The second definition, marked as “vieilli,” states that it is a “[h]abitant d’une ville.” In third position, marked as “moderne”, Le Petit Robert writes that it is an “[ê]tre humain considéré comme personne civique. […] Personne ayant la nationalité d’un pays qui vit en république.” Finally, let us look at “nationalité.”

Here, Le Petit Robert states that it is an “[e]xistence ou volonté d’existence en tant que nation d’un groupe d’hommes unis par une communauté de territoire, de langue, de

65 One of the most famous of this propaganda to speak French was used in such places as Brittany and Alsace, where signs where signs read, “C’est chic de parler français,” thereby implying that regional languages were backwards and unfashionable. 66 Paul Robert, “Citoyen,” ed. Josette Rey-Debove and Alain Rey, Le Petit Robert (Paris: Dictionnaires Le Robert, 1993), 383.

43 traditions, d’aspirations; ce groupe dans la mesure où il maintient ou revendique cette existence.”67

These definitions help us see some of the differences and ambiguities among the ideas of citoyen, nation, and nationalité. Earlier, we saw that Renan defines the nation as an entity in which a group of people believes. This group of people has to express the desire, the volonté to forge something greater than themselves. This entity should not be limited by geography, language, ethnicity, or religion. His definition of nation matches best with the second definition in Le Petit Robert, where it explains that nation is a vast group of people who are united in their belief of commonality, either historically, socially, or linguistically, and the will the live together. While the two definitions share similarities, there are glaring differences, namely the idea that Le Petit Robert states that language is a defining factor in constructing the nation. Although Renan defined the nation as he did, and the French nation-state still calls upon his discourse to define what the French nation is, it is clear that there are certain ideas that have more weight than others. At the time that he wrote Qu’est-ce qu’une nation? it is clear that one of the reasons why he stated that language should not be an important factor in determining what makes a nation is because of the Alsatian dialect and its status as Germanic. So on one hand, France could claim that Alsace and the Moselle were French at heart even though they were not traditionally places where French was the majority language. This was also used as evidence as to why the claims made by Prussia and the Germanic confederations were not valid. Furthermore, France did not follow Renan on his linguistic

67 Paul Robert, “Nationalité,” ed. Josette Rey-Debove and Alain Rey, Le Petit Robert (Paris: Dictionnaires Le Robert, 1993), 1472.

44 argument since after World War I and II, the French government instituted laws on regional dialects, privileging French above anything else.

The French notion of citizenship before the Revolution was very different than today. As evoked earlier by Riesenberg, there was a kind of radical change in the relationship between a person and the state at the Revolution. Before the Revolution, life was a series of alliances between suzerain and vassal. People were tied to the land, thereby tied to the local lord, and he to another more powerful lord, and so on up to the king. In this pyramid structure, one’s allegiances were limited to an immediate area, and while the local lord may not have always been present on his lands, the presence of the seignurie would be a constant reminder of the respect and loyalty that was demanded of them. The idea of a French citizen, then, did not exist. Instead, one was designated as possessing “qualité de Français.”68 This system of allegiance was linked to feudalism, and the king’s drive to weaken one institution led to the transformation of another. The rise of the absolute monarchy under Louis XIV reorganized the system of alliances, trivializing the nobility in favor of his grandeur. This rearrangement foreshadows what would happen at the Revolution: with the absolute monarchy removed from power, from the apex of the French political system, the people needed to transfer their allegiance to a new entity. While the king not only represented himself as a physical being, the king also represented the continuation of the monarchy and its timeless nature. After the death of

Louis XVI, it was shown that the king was no longer immortal, and the institution of the

French monarchy was forever changed. No longer able to depend on the immutable nature of the monarchy in which the French people could place their loyalty, the nation

68 See Weil, Qu’est-ce qu’un Français?

45 was born to take its place. The state alone could not bear the necessary burden, since it does not possess the unchanging character of either nation or monarchy. A state can make erroneous decisions; a state can act unfairly towards its people or its neighbors. The nation, however, cannot do these things. The nation transcends the day-to-day activities with which the state is occupied. Political actors govern in the name of the nation, and therefore there is a disconnect between the state and the nation where the latter is able to take on a mythical nature. Furthermore, the state represents a temporally determined body, one that not only has a beginning but more problematically, an end. The nation by contrast is not constrained by time: with each change of Republic, it was not the French nation that was coming to an end, but the state.

With this change in allegiance also came a change in status for the people. No longer were they subjects of the king, with no voice in their own rule, but citizens with a say in how they were governed. However, divisions between fully fledged citizens and those who did not benefit from all of the same rights and duties persist well into the present day.

Citizenship comprises membership within a community, a community that benefits from certain rights, obligations, and protections by the state. Nationality, on the other hand, guarantees very little. Nationality, like citizenship, implies membership within a community; however, this community is more abstract. Borrowing from

Benedict Anderson’s theory on the rise of nationalism, nations are built on the myth of a common background as well as a common future.69 Anderson asks, for example, how a

69 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, 3rd ed. (London: Verso, 2006).

46 nation of people, the majority of whom will never meet, can construct a community whereby they feel connected to each other, so much so that they are willing to die for each other. How did someone from Bretagne, for example, feel such a connection to someone from Alsace after the Franco-Prussian war, even though they would probably never meet? How did someone from metropolitan France feel such a connection to someone in Algeria while it was an integral part of the Republic as département d’Outre- mer?70 Anderson suggests that things like national newspapers and national languages are powerful devices that facilitate binding people together into a national imagined community. Imagined because the person needs to believe that s/he shares a common bond with someone s/he will never meet and with whom may share little in common.

And yet, this bond is strong enough to foster the idea that people who share the same language also share much more, although that remains ambiguous. An important part of

Anderson’s theory is that not only is it an imagined community, but it is a limited community as well. This point, often forgotten in the application of Anderson’s theory, is an integral part of his framework. That is to say that while the limits of the community can and may be rather broad, remaining inclusive of such geographically disparate populations such as the United States, or linguistically diverse areas such as France, these limits cannot be pushed ad infinitum since the idea of community requires that there is an

“other” against whom a community may define itself.71

While nationality and citizenship are two different concepts as discussed above, they have been inextricably joined together in the construction of membership to the

70 Ibid., 6–7. 71 Ibid., 7.

47 French Republic. It is therefore difficult to untangle them from each other. And while the

French Republic defines them as two separate qualités, one is dependent upon the other:

“En effet, la qualité de citoyen est d’abord liée à la détention de la nationalité. Ce lien est très fort en France à la différence de certaines démocraties (ex: certains pays scandinaves).”72 And once nationality is acquired, it does not necessarily guarantee full citizenship rights within the Republic: “Mais, si la nationalité est une condition nécessaire, elle n’est pas suffisante.”73 A minor, for example, may hold French nationality but may not vote; people who have committed a crime may be stripped of their voting rights and the possibility to run for public office.74

Much of the scholarship that has been done on citizenship and membership to the

French nation-state has been from the vantage point of immigration and the failure or defense of the integration methods of the French state. While it is undeniable that issues of integration and immigration are important aspects of the current debates on national identity,75 sexuality and the treatment and reception of sexual deviants provide an equally stimulating lens through which we can examine citizenship practices in contemporary

France. First, the participants in this study are by and large French citizens. At first glance this quality has the effect of diminishing the claims by French sexual deviants in

72 La Documentation française, “Qui est citoyen en France?,” Vie publique, 2006, http://www.vie-publique.fr/decouverte-institutions/citoyen/citoyennete/citoyen- france/tous-habitants-france-sont-ils-citoyens-francais.html. 73 Ibid. 74 For those seeking French citizenship, the candidate must demonstrate a certain level of “integration” into French society, demonstrated by knowledge of traditional French values and knowledge of the French language. 75 See the Grand débat sur l’identité nationale at http://www.debatidentitenationale.fr/, as well as the numerous articles that have appeared in newspapers such as Le Monde and Libération in 2009.

48 that some would argue that queer French people are already French and, unlike immigrants or naturalized citizens, in very little danger from being denied entry to the

French state. It is by no means my goal to deny the claim of those people who have precarious citizenship status; however, as Carl Stychin argues, by not hearing the demands of French sexual citizens, we are being equally unjust. Second, by disengaging citizenship and nationality from each other, it becomes clearer how certain parts of the population are denied certain rights and, like the title of Jean Le Bitoux’s book, made to be “citoyens de seconde zone.”76 Citizenship is about membership in a nation-state and the rights, duties, and privileges that accompany this status. Indeed, being a citizen of a nation-state entails that the citizen is to be protected by the state, as guaranteed by certain rights and privileges. The citizen also has certain duties that s/he is to perform or certain rights/liberties that s/he is to curtail in exchange for the protections guaranteed by the state.

Competing Paradigms of Citizenship: France and Germany

Patrick Weil, French historian and political scientist, begins his book Qu’est-ce qu’un français considering, not surprisingly, how one is or becomes French.77 These questions, whose answers appear on the surface to be rather straightforward, provide the starting point for Weil’s inquiry into French citizenship law. To open his discussion, he asks the reader to consider the difficulty that befalls the French when asked to prove their

76 Jean Le Bitoux, Hervé Chevaux, and Bruno Proth, Citoyen de seconde zone: Trente ans de lutte pour la reconnaissance de l’homosexualité en France (1971-2002) (Paris: Hachette Littératures, 2003). 77 Weil, Qu’est-ce qu’un Français?

49 membership to the French nation-state when, for example, they renew their carte d’identité: “Par quel raisonnement une personne qui est française peut-elle le démontrer?”78 One of the goals of Weil’s book is to put to rest the idea that France and

Germany represent two opposite ends of the citizenship spectrum: France symbolizes jus soli (“droit du sol”) where citizenship is determined by place of birth, whereas Germany embodies a closed society that bases membership on blood, or jus sanguinis (“droit du sang”). Within the French tradition, jus soli is seen as a far more open idea of citizenship, one that dispenses with lineage as a requirement for membership within the state. In contrast, jus sanguinis rejects place of birth as a defining feature, instead privileging ancestry as its key. France may champion one mode of citizenship over the other, but as

Weil demonstrates, both of them are at work within the French nation-state. Through his well-documented research, Weil untangles the complex history of citizenship practices in

France and how the overly simplistic myth portraying France and Germany as diametrically opposed is unfounded. Moreover, Weil advances that citizenship to a nation-state cannot really be understood unless one takes into account the fact that citizenship is influenced by both law and politics: “La nationalité, c’est en effet du droit.

[…] [C]’est aussi une politique.”79 Weil is correct in that the philosophical ideals of citizenship must be translated into everyday practice within the realm of the nation-state, and for him this translation takes place at the level of judicial and political affairs. And while he addresses in the second part of his book that there are parts of the population residing in France that have not always or still do not benefit from full citizenship rights

78 Ibid., 9. 79 Ibid., 10–11.

50 within the French nation-state, he does not speak to the status of gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgendered people.

There is a tendency in French political discourse to hearken to a historical predecessor in order to define its ideals. The Nation is constructed upon a discourse that makes it appear to be much older than it actually is, with its lineage traced back to

Ancient Greece and Rome. In this manner, the power of the Nation is legitimized as a continuation of an ancient tradition rather than a new form of government. Similarly, citizenship, as an integral part of the birth of the nation—no longer “subjects” to the crown, but “citizens” of a Nation—is framed in the same manner: just as free citizens of the Greek polis were obligated to participate in government, so the “modern” citizen must, or rather, should do the same.

These received notions, however, are complicated in Weil’s examination of citizenship policy from the Revolution onwards. Weil uncovers a much more complex history of citizenship where the question of who could and who could not become or be

French changed depending on the historical events of the time. Here Weil explains in an overarching statement that France has never practiced one single form of citizenship. On the contrary, France has enacted many different rules and regulations in order to define what it means to be French:

La particularité de la France, depuis qu’elle définit ses nationaux, est d’avoir expérimenté de nombreuses façons de définir le “Français de naissance” et quasiment toutes les règles d’attribution ou de perte de la nationalité française. Depuis la Révolution, la France a donc changé son droit comme aucune autre nation, et la politique de la nationalité française a été l’objet de constants affrontements politiques et juridiques.80

80 Ibid., 11.

51 At the Revolution, for example, the definition of nationality, a new idea for the time—Weil states that even at the time, the word nationality was absent from the discourse, the phrase being used was “qualité de français”—was fairly open. Anyone who believed in the Revolution and the ideals of the new Republic was welcome to join.

This quickly came to an end once the Revolutionaries began to become suspicious of outsiders. In his detailed work, Weil traces the politics and the political figures behind them that shaped the issues of nationality. In so doing, he puts to rest the idea that that which makes one French, from a political and judicial point of view, has remained constant since the Revolution. And yet, just as the idea of the nation has evolved and transformed since that time period, so has nationality.

Weil separates his work in two parts: in the first part of his work he traces the evolution of nationality and how it is defined by the state thus fulfilling his duty as a historian to provide the “truth”; in the second, he is critical of the nature of this political discourse on nationality, which fulfills his duty as an intellectual to provide critique.

Echoing scholars such as Diane Richardson, Weil demonstrates that there has often been a gender bias inherent in the discourse on nationality in France. For example, women were denied the right to transmit their nationality to their husband or to their children.

Furthermore, French women were often forced to give up their own nationality should they marry a foreigner. This lead to paradoxical cases where women who married foreign-born men—even while remaining on French soil—could find themselves revoked of French citizenship without ever having left the country. In the twentieth century, however, women were able to transmit their nationality to their children, irrespective of

52 the father’s nationality.81 This was fueled by the concern that French women who had married German soldiers would produce children that would, according to the law at that time, become German and not French. Since the debate on nationality and citizenship has often been stimulated by the French’s apparent population crises, it is no surprise that such a change in citizenship law would take place.

What Weil stresses at the end of his work is the fact that what does set France apart from Germany— the true exception française—is that while French law concerning nationality has gone through many changes and revisions, it has never removed former laws governing citizenship. Even though there has been a direct way to extend nationality to a subject at any one time, it does not mean that this was the only way one could earn citizenship. Should one be born on French soil of foreign-born parents, that child has the right to retain or reject French citizenship once s/he reaches a certain age. Here, the child benefits from citizenship as defined by jus solis, or having been born of French soil. This entails the child making a formal declaration by a certain age (between 18 and 21) that s/he would like to remain or to become French. Under this scenario, instead of French citizenship being accorded passively at birth, it must be actively acquired. This echoes a somewhat conservative discourse where people who feel disenfranchised by France are not forced to “become” French by passively being accorded citizenship at birth.

81 Members of the Assemblée Nationale debated whether or not a child born from a German father and French mother could truly grow up to be “French” since it was feared that German temperament was too strong and would eventually overcome the civilizing properties associated with growing up on French soil. For those who argued in favor of revising the law governing filiation, they claimed that the milk of the French mother would instill civilized French values in the child. This echoes the discourse that frames women as mothers of the Nation, responsible for providing it with children in whom they would foster Republican values.

53 While Weil traces the history of citizenship since the Revolution from a political and judicial point of view, he does not question what it means to be French, as this would certainly be outside his scope as an historian. Rather he demonstrates how the French government has revised and rewritten French citizenship law in order to accommodate the needs of the country. When there was a strong need for people to rebuild and staff a growing industrial sector, citizenship law was changed to make it easier for immigrants and/or their children born on French soil to become citizens. Since the end of the Trente glorieuses in the 1970s, however, there has been a push to revise citizenship laws especially from the conservative right where it remains one of its main campaign platforms.82 Not surprisingly then, much of the scholarship on modern French citizenship focuses on immigration and the challenges it poses for French universal republicanism.

For example, debate on the status of overtly religious symbols in public schools has received a lot of attention over the last twenty years since it put into question one of the tenets of twentieth-century French political ideology: laïcité. And in true Republican fashion, while the debate was sparked by the refusal of two girls to remove their headscarves, when the decision was finally handed down, it was all overtly visible religious symbols that were banned.83

82 See Feldblum, Reconstructing Citizenship: The Politics of Nationality Reform and Immigration in Contemporary France. The Front National, an extreme right political party, was founded in 1972 by Jean-Marie Le Pen, around the same time as the end of the Trente glorieuses. Some of the main platforms of the Front national are the expulsion of non-French residents, the reestablishment of “borders” (in reference to the Schengen agreement which allows the free movement of people within the European Union), and the limiting of social welfare to French citizens. 83 According to article L141-5-1 of the Education Code: “…[L]e port de signes ou tenues par lesquels les élèves manifestent ostensiblement une appartenance religieuse est interdit.” See also, Ibid.

54 The debate on immigration is indeed an important one since France has traditionally been a country that has welcomed waves of immigrants inside its borders.84

Issues of integration/assimilation dominate in these fora, and for good reason. For many, the French Republic is at a crossroads: either it holds to traditional Republican ideology and upholds the strict public/private divide where the private represents the catch-all (or required repository) for difference and the public demands the unmarked citizen in order to participate fully within it or Republican ideology is modified to allow for a more multicultural approach to identity within the public sphere. For some social commentators, France has already embraced a more liberal view of identity where people have began to champion their differences, differences with which they feel stronger community affiliations than to the state.85 It is this negotiation of difference within the public sphere that drives this research.

Marshall and Citizenship Theory

The Nation is an abstract concept created during the time of the French revolution. Shortly after the French Revolution, one only needed to believe in the ideals of the Revolution and the Déclaration des Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen to be part of the French Nation. A more recent example was the editorial headline “Nous sommes tous

84 See Gérard Noiriel, Le creuset français: Histoire de l’immigration, XIXe-XXe siècle (Paris: Seuil, 1992). 85 See for example Yves Derai, Le Gay pouvoir: enquête sur la République bleu blanc rose (Paris: Ramsay, 2003); Julein Landfried, Contre le communautarisme (Paris: Armand Colin, 2007).

55 Américains”86 in Le Monde after the Septermber 11th attacks: while one can claim to be of a certain nationality because of what that nationality stands for—in this case, for solidarity in times of difficulty—it does not mean that one benefits from citizenship or is obligated by duties in the nation-state.

In his short yet influential87 work on citizenship, T. H. Marshall defined three categories of rights through which modern liberal citizenship has been realized: civil or legal, political, and social.88 According to Marshall, these categories of rights emerged sequentially in their own century: civil or legal rights grew out of the eighteenth century, political out of the nineteenth, and finally social out of the twentieth. To better understand what Marshall meant by these categories, let us examine them in his own words:

The civil element is composed of the rights necessary for individual freedom – liberty of the person, freedom of speech, thought and faith, the right to own property and to conclude valid contracts, and the right to justice. The last is of a different order from the others, because it is the right to defend and assert all one’s rights on terms of equality with others and by due process of law… By the political element I mean the right to participate in the exercise of political power, as a member of a body invested with political authority or as an elector of the members of such a body… By the social element I mean the whole range from the right to a modicum of economic welfare and security to the right to share to the full in the social heritage and to live the life of a civilized being according to the standards prevailing in the society.89

Marshall saw the eighteenth century as a time when society was trying to dismantle “systems of class based on a hierarchy of status,”90 therefore rights focusing on

86 Jean-Marie Colombani, “Nous sommes tous Américains,” Le Monde, September 13, 2001. 87 See Richardson, Rethinking Sexuality, 71. 88 T. H Marshall, Citizenship and social class, and other essays (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1950). 89 Ibid., 10–11. 90 Lister and Pia, Citizenship in Contemporary Europe, 13.

56 personal freedoms such as the right to own property were therefore designed to break down societies where one’s status in life was determined by birth. In the nineteenth century, political rights aimed to allow “individuals to participate in the exercise of political power.”91 Finally, in the twentieth century, social rights were to provide for “a certain level of economic well-being and a share in society.”92 Lister and Pia sum up

Marshall’s vision of citizenship in this way:

Thus, citizenship, for Marshall, provides membership of the community through the establishment of equal rights which give each individual an equal chance to pursue their own, private, goals. It aims at equality, but it is a public equality permitting, encouraging, even, a private (market) inequality.93

Although Marshall has provided a widely influential means of conceptualizing modern citizenship, his work has been criticized for its monolithic nature. Scholars uncomfortable with Marshall’s theory have indicated that his lack of attention to issues of gender or ethnicity has undermined his concept of the universal citizen.94 One of the major criticisms leveled at Marshall’s work is that it treats citizenship as a universal idea, one not marked by gender, ethnicity, or class. Women, for example, do not enjoy all of the same rights and benefits that men do, nor were these rights bestowed upon them in the same order in which Marshall lays them out. Moreover, Marshall oversimplifies

91 Ibid. 92 Ibid. 93 Ibid., 10. 94 For a discussion of some of the current critiques of Marshall’s theory, see Laura Levine Frader, Breadwinners and Citizens: Gender in the Making of the French Social Model (Durham, London: Duke University Press, 2008); Lister and Pia, Citizenship in Contemporary Europe; Richardson, “Sexuality and Citizenship”; Richardson, Rethinking Sexuality; Richardson, “Constructing sexual citizenship: Theorizing sexual rights”; Richardson, “Claiming Citizenship? Sexuality, Citizenship and Lesbian/Feminist Theory”; Lister, Citizenship: Feminist Perspectives; Walby, “Is Citizenship Gendered?”.

57 historically in that his model is a “uni-directional unfolding of citizenship rights.”95

Sylvia Walby explains that much of the discussion that has taken place around citizenship focuses on one’s access to it, but with little regard to gender. “Gender is absent from many discussions on gender,” she writes matter-of-factly.96 Further, Diane Richardson criticizes Marshall’s gender blindness when she notes that in all three models of his theory, women do not benefit to the extent that men do, stating that “access to citizenship is a highly gendered process.”97 Others who have criticized Marshall point out that one’s economic situation may undermine one’s ability to participate fully in the public (and political) sphere. Finally, the situation of immigrants also further complicates Marshall’s tripartite theory of the development of modern citizenship as immigrants may benefit from certain rights, but as outsiders their position precludes them from others.98

Current scholarship on contemporary European citizenship tends toward an

Anglocentric point of view. Many of the scholars involved in citizenship studies mentioned, while trying to provide an overarching discussion of European citizenship, its history, its current status, or its possible future, oftentimes privilege a heavily British accented voice.99 Marshall’s theories of citizenship, while important to any discussion of

95 Lister and Pia, Citizenship in Contemporary Europe, 14. 96 Walby, “Is Citizenship Gendered?,” 379. 97 Richardson, “Sexuality and Citizenship,” 85. 98 The field of citizenship studies has grown extensively over the last few decades and this discussion does not pretend to be an exhaustive handling of the critiques of Marshall’s theory; rather it underscores the issues most important to this study, namely gender and sexuality. 99 Lister and Pia, Citizenship in Contemporary Europe; Richardson, “Sexuality and Citizenship”; Rethinking Sexuality; “Constructing sexual citizenship: Theorizing sexual rights”; “Claiming Citizenship? Sexuality, Citizenship and Lesbian/Feminist Theory”; Diane Richardson, Janice McLaughlin, and Mark E Casey, eds., Intersections between

58 the current state of the field in European citizenship studies, do not accurately describe the situation in France. Marshall’s ideas are nevertheless the point from which many discussions of citizenship begin. A recent example is Laura Levine Frader’s book

Breadwinners and Citizens: Gender in the Making of the French Social Model.100 While she states that Marshall’s framework does not fit the French model, the fact that she begins her monograph by examining his work speaks to its influential nature. “In France, the process of establishing this new relationship between the state and society by granting social rights did not conform precisely to the historical stages of Marshall’s model.”101

This statement echoes an earlier one made by Lister and Pia concerning Marshall’s “uni- directional unfolding of citizenship rights.”102 Frader, like Richardson and Walby, writes from a feminist perspective, taking Marshall to task for his “gender-blindness.” Frader goes on to explain that, “the Marshallian model of citizenship and rights is not clearly applicable to France, where the universalism of republican discourses masked the exclusionary foundations of citizenship’s inception and practices from 1789.”103 Here

Frader, like several others,104 draws attention to the robust nature of French universal

Feminist and Queer Theory (Hampshire, New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006); Lister, Citizenship: Feminist Perspectives; Walby, “Is Citizenship Gendered?”. 100 Frader, Breadwinners and Citizens. 101 Ibid., 2. 102 Lister and Pia, Citizenship in Contemporary Europe, 14. 103 Frader, Breadwinners and Citizens, 170. 104 See the following scholars who discuss in varying degrees the issue of French universal republicanism and its influence on French gay and lesbian identities: Gunther, The Elastic Closet; Johnston, “(Post-)Queer Citizenship in Contemporary Republican France”; Provencher, Queer French; Éric Fassin, L’Inversion de la question homosexuelle (Paris: Amsterdam, 2005); McCaffrey, The Gay Republic: Sexuality, Citizenship and Subversion in France; Clarisse Fabre and Éric Fassin, Liberté, égalité, sexualités, ed. Hugues Jallon (Paris: Belfond, 2003); Anne Rambach and Marine Rambach, La culture gaie et lesbienne (Paris: Fayard, 2003); Marie-Hélène Bourcier,

59 discourse in forming and influencing its citizens and their views on society. In the following section I turn to a discussion of “sexual citizenship” and its manifestations within French society.

Sexual Citizenship

As citizenship studies grow, scholars continue to formulate new understandings of the institution and the ways in which it functions. Partly stemming from Marshall’s attempt at an all-encompassing model of the evolution of citizenship since the French

Revolution, citizenship studies further complicates our understanding of this integral part of the nation-state in late-modernity. Late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century understandings of class struggle no longer inform to the same extent our understandings of the forms of inclusion and exclusion at work within late-modern liberal democracies.

Issues of class, while still important, are no longer the sole factor determining access to full citizenship. Feminist scholars since the 1960s complicate dominant discourses that inform male power, which has lead to further study of sexuality and how one’s sexuality informs one’s place within society.105

In their book-length treatment, David Bell and Jon Binnie draw upon Jeffrey

Weeks and Diane Richardson to construct their understanding and subsequent

Queer zones: politique des identités sexuelles et des savoirs (Paris: Balland, 2001); Mireille Rosello, “The National-Sexual: From the Fear of Ghettos to the Banalization of Queer Practices,” in Articulations of Difference: Gender Studies and Writing in Frace, ed. Dominique D Fischer and Lawrence R Schehr (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997), 246-271; Martel, Le Rose et le noir: les homosexuels en France depuis 1968. 105 See Richardson, Rethinking Sexuality, 72.

60 interpretation of sexual citizenship.106 According to Richardson, there are two currents within the study of sexual citizenship. She writes:

First, it may be used to refer specifically to the sexual rights granted or denied to various social groups. In this sense we may, like Evans (1993), conceptualize sexual citizenship in terms of varying degrees of access to a set of rights to sexual expression and consumption. Second, we can conceptualize sexual citizenship in a much broader sense in terms of access to rights more generally. In other words, how are various forms of citizenship status dependent on a person’s sexuality?107

Concerning sexual expression and consumption, Richardson defines activities according to three areas: practice, pleasure, and reproduction. By practice is meant the possibility to perform sexual acts outside of reproductive sex. Richardson explains that rights associated with the act itself have traditionally been anchored within a discourse of biological need or of religious doctrine, thereby sanctioning only heterosexual desire.108

In essence, sexual relations that do not involve procreative sexual acts do not serve the greater good of society and, within the Judeo-Christian tradition such acts, particularly sexual relations between men, are an abomination and should be punished as a sin.109

For Richardson, it is the latter of the two conceptualizations that interests her the most. Her framework for sexual citizenship rests upon the idea that one’s status within society is greatly influenced by, if not dependent upon, one’s sexuality. Depending on the sexuality of the individual, rights and privileges associated with citizenship are either

106 Bell and Binnie, The Sexual Citizen. 107 Richardson, “Constructing sexual citizenship: Theorizing sexual rights,” 107. 108 Ibid., 109. Richardson rightly notes that while heterosexual sex has traditionally been accepted as “normal” and “right,” the right to participate in the act has not automatically been extended to all people who experience heterosexual desire: people deemed unfit to reproduce (e.g. the mentally or physically disabled) are very rarely guaranteed the right to procreate, and are oftentimes desexualized in an effort to justify this denial. 109 For a recent American production that focuses on the relation between homosexuality and religion, see Daniel Karslake’s (2007) For the Bible Tells Me So.

61 granted or denied. For instance, the refusal of many states to recognize same-sex marriage demonstrates that same-sex couples are denied rights accorded to opposite-sex couples automatically and often without question. For Richardson, this serves as a prime example of the unequal citizenship status accorded to gays and lesbians solely based on their sexuality. This framework grows out of a feminist critique of citizenship statuses and the idea that women have been denied rights and privileges based solely on their biological sex.

Taking cues from the feminist critique of citizenship, Richardson demonstrates that gays and lesbians have also been excluded from full citizenship in the west:

“…within the discourses of citizen’s rights and the principle of universal citizenship the normal citizen has largely been constructed as male and, albeit much less discussed or acknowledged in the literature, as heterosexual”.110 In her chapter entitled “Citizenship and Sexuality,” Richardson argues that “within the dominant model of citizenship as a set of civil, political and social rights”,111 lesbian and gay men do not benefit from the same amount of rights accorded to the “universal” citizen. She claims, therefore, that lesbian and gay men are “partial citizens”112 because of the discrimination they face at all three levels (i.e. civil, political, and social rights).

This is not to say that all forms of heterosexuality are considered on equal footing.113 Indeed, the traditional bourgeois nuclear family is most often that which is privileged in western societies, and those who fall outside of this norm have, and in some

110 Richardson, Rethinking Sexuality, 75. 111 Ibid., original emphasis. 112 Ibid. 113 Ibid., 80.

62 cases still are, regarded as working against the good of the nation-state. One only needs to look at the writings on the population crises that have plagued France over the years to see that there has been a strong discourse on the virtues of reproductive bourgeois families and, on the flip side, the dangers of unmarried or degenerate men and women.

For fin-de-siècle France, for example, Robert Nye states that

…popular writers on heredity reflected and reinforced the bourgeois “family order” in France by vilifying nonreproductive, nonmarital forms of sexuality that threatened to disrupt the continuity of patrimony and patriarchy, if not, strictly speaking, of patrilineality itself. In this logic, the health of the family became indissociable from the health of the nation, linked together by a widely shared set of assumptions about the dangers of a degenerate inheritance.114

France’s deep-seated fear of a degenerating population, especially during the

Third Republic and the Vichy Regime,115 has, as Nye stated above, often vilified those who did not fulfill their national duty as members of a nuclear household.

While Richardson provides a very useful critique of “universal” citizenship, thereby demonstrating that the existing paradigm is indeed far more complex than the classic model discussed earlier, her point of view is dominantly British. The majority of her examples are from Britain, and as Frader explained earlier, the longstanding French tradition of a strong universal republican discourse has often masked its exclusionary

114 Nye, Masculinity and Male Codes of Honor in Modern France, 98. 115 This discourse is, of course, not new. The effeminate male has been the target of nationalist discourses for centuries. For examples from early modern France, see Barbara E Bullock and Luke L Eilderts, “Prononcer mâle ou prononcer mal: Linguistic Markers of Effeminacy in Early Modern French,” The French Review 83, no. 2 (2009): 282-293; Winifried Schleiner, “Linguistic ‘Xenohomophobia’ in Sixteenth-Century France: The Case of Henri Estienne,” Sixteenth Century Journal 34, no. 3 (2003): 747-760; Randy Conner, “Les Molles et les chausses: Mapping the Isle of Hermaphrodites in Premodern France,” in Queerly Phrased: Language, Gender and Sexuality, ed. Anna Livia and Kira Hall (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997).

63 citizenship practices.116 This being said, Richardson’s theories on sexual citizenship will help us conceptualize this new development in citizenship studies.

The “Other” Citizens: Women, Gays and Lesbians, Immigrants

If citizenship can be marked by gender, it follows that it is also marked by many other categories, one of the most salient being sexuality. Although the universal citizen was theoretically not to be marked by gender, sexuality, or ethnicity, several scholars argue that it is nonetheless the case that the universal citizen is so marked. In Sexing the

Citizen, for example, Judith Surkis illustrates how discourses of morality at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century gendered the universal French citizen while overtly upholding its universal ideal.117 In her examination of the discourse of hygiene, she finds that the need to protect the male from the dangers of syphilis, for example, created a discourse whereby the universal citizen was marked as male. The recent debates over the Parity Laws in France have also clearly enshrined essentialist notions of gender according to Clarisse Fabre and Éric Fassin as well as Enda

McCaffrey.118

The Parity laws serve as a robust example of political gendering. Shortly before

Parity was voted into law, the Assemblée nationale had also voted the Pacte civil de solidarité (PaCS) into law as well. On one hand, the PaCS, in true republican fashion,

116 Frader, Breadwinners and Citizens. 117 Judith Surkis, Sexing the Citizen: Morality and Masculinity in France 1870-1920 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006). 118 Fabre and Fassin, Liberté, égalité, sexualités; McCaffrey, The Gay Republic: Sexuality, Citizenship and Subversion in France.

64 erased the issue of gender from its agenda, thereby winning approval on its adoption of a universal discourse. The PaCS allowed for two people, of the same sex or of the opposite sex, to enter into agreement with one another, whereas the traditional institution of marriage excludes people of the opposite sex.119 On the other, the Parity laws use universal discourse not to erase gender as had been done in the PaCS, rather it places gender squarely at the center: one of society’s few universals is that there are an equal number of men and women, and these two sides complement each other. Therefore, requiring equal representation on the ballot for certain elections is not seen as an

American importation of positive discrimination or affirmative action, rather as a reinforcement of a universal truth. McCaffrey explains the danger of championing biological sexual difference as universal:

What is alarming in the parity debate is the way in which “la différence des sexes” has been appropriated by a post-feminist lobby, and naturalised as the norm. It would appear that paritaires, in seeking equality with men, have in fact invoked difference in the notion of “la différence des sexes.” On the surface, this seems contradictory. Why invoke difference when you want equality? The reason, for paritaires, is because the concept of ‘la différence des sexes” is the biological premise on which an argument for equality can be constructed. However, while this concept may serve the immediate purpose of arguing for equality, the very precondition of “la différence des sexes” works against paritaires and their design for equality because this concept enshrines a symbolic difference between men and women, which no amount of negotiated equality can achieve.120

119 Although the PaCS was not meant to be same-sex marriage à la française, it cannot be denied that the Assemblée nationale still took the model of traditional marriage as its basis for the PaCS. For example, it is only supposed to be between two people; those two people cannot be blood relatives; it must still be registered by a government agency (although I would argue that even though the agreement must be registered by the Tribunal, it still does not carry the weight of the traditional ceremony performed at the Mairie). See Stychin, “Civil Solidarity.” 120 McCaffrey, The Gay Republic: Sexuality, Citizenship and Subversion in France, 37.

65 So, while championing the universal citizen, one unmarked by class, ethnicity, religion or gender, the republic has, as McCaffrey suggests, created an official sanctioned difference, one that places gender squarely at its center. The reason why this symbolic difference is so troubling is that it upholds the idea of a norm, a kind of “symbolic order,” in this case biological sex. The essentializing use of biological sex as a norm undermines the argument for equality brought forth by people who define themselves, in part, by their sexuality, rather than by their sex. In the following paragraphs, we will turn to a discussion of sexuality and sexual citizenship within the republic.

Sexual Deviants

Unlike the United States where organized religion has played a large role in the restriction of rights for homosexuals (e.g., the Defense of Marriage Act), the situation in

France is fundamentally different because the role of religion in the state within the US and France has diverged. In The Elastic Closet: A History of Homosexuality in France,

1942-Present, Scott Gunther discusses the absence of sodomy laws in French law after the ratification of the constitution of 1791.121 He writes that “The absence of sodomy laws in France since 1791 represents a strong rupture not just across space but also across time. Viewed historically, the 1791 legal reform represents an exceptionally radical and abrupt break with the longstanding legal precedent for the crime of sodomy.”122 Gunther references Michael Sibalis when he states that rather than assuming that the ideas of the

Enlightenment influenced the revolutionaries to remove sodomy laws from the French

121 Gunther, The Elastic Closet. 122 Ibid., 7.

66 penal code, their motivation was instead to separate themselves from the Catholic church and crimes that were described as “created by superstition,” which included “blasphemy, heresy, sacrilege, and witchcraft, and also quite probably bestiality, incest, and sodomy”.123 He notes, however, that the language used was vague enough that these crimes “created by superstition” were more silenced than removed. Gunther suggests that the removal of mention of such crimes was intended to avoid offending “prevailing moral sensibilities.”124 Whatever the motivation for the repeal of sodomy laws in France, it did not imply a generalized tolerance for the act.125 In fact, Gunther demonstrates, echoing

Foucault,126 that rather than complete silence surrounding sodomy, there was much talk of it among police and judges during the nineteenth century. In spite of all the expressed disappointment and, as Gunther says, shock by some judges and legislators that sodomy was no longer punishable, laws against this act were not again to be put on the books until the Vichy regime of the mid-twentieth century.127

Gunther argues that the French penal code, inspired by the Bologna School of the eleventh century, itself influenced by the Justinian code of the Roman Empire, is “the product of academics” and has been “characterized primarily by its extremely rational or

‘artificial’ nature, striving for universality of principles and a high level of coherency

123 Ibid., 10. 124 This silence also seems to ring of other attempts, both earlier and later, to silence the “act” that dare not speak its name. By describing sodomy, among other non-procreative sexual acts, some assumed that it would incite the desire to try it. 125 Gunther, The Elastic Closet, 10–11. 126 Foucault, Histoire de la sexualité,1:. In the first volume, Foucault advanced the theory that, contrary to popular belief, there was not silence around sex during the Victorian era. To the contrary, there was an abundance of veiled discussion of sex. 127 Gunther, The Elastic Closet, 25.

67 among its various provisions.”128 One of the founding principles of the French penal code is that every crime has a victim, and the fact that it is impossible, except in cases of rape, to name the victim in a consensual sexual act, laws specifically against sodomy have been absent from the code. Gunther remarks that even during Vichy, the fact that a law against sodomy was not reinstated is a testament to the robustness of the principle that every crime needs a victim.129

The main thrust of Gunther’s argument is that while the French penal code has been relatively silent on the issue of sodomy since 1791, he maintains that this is not indicative of a higher level of acceptance of homosexuality in France in comparison to the rest of Europe where sodomy laws have only recently been removed from their respective penal codes. Rather, it is a reflection of the French legislative principle that every crime must have a victim. He is careful to point out, however, that the victim can be and oftentimes is more abstract than concrete. Two examples that he cites are the

“public” and “youth,” victims who were identified by an emerging nineteenth-century medical discourse as threatened by uncontrolled male sexuality.130 So although sodomy laws were absent from the French penal code, laws that policed the public good essentially took their place.

Gunther frames the French lesbian and gay experience since 1942 through these underlying French ideologies. It cannot be overstated that French republicanism permeates almost all levels of French experience, especially when issues of difference are

128 Ibid., 15. 129 Ibid., 26. 130 Ibid., 20.

68 encountered. This overarching theme influences nearly every aspect of debate when it comes to rights and inclusion within the French state.

Sexual Citizenship in Contemporary France

The “other” is also a familiar trope within Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer (GLBTQ) studies. Some scholars have argued that the meaning of heterosexuality would be evacuated if it were not for the “other” of homosexuality.

Heterosexuality, in order to be understood, is set up in opposition to homosexuality where the relationship is understood through several binaries. For example, in order for heterosexuality to be framed as the “good” sexuality, it must be placed in opposition to a

“bad” sexuality. Homosexuality therefore stands in that position in order to justify the place of heterosexuality as the “good” sexuality. Heterosexuality is not homosexuality, and what is homosexuality? This question has been answered differently depending upon the time period as well as the discourse in which it is being debated (religious, medical, psycho-analytic, scientific, etc.). For our purposes here, let us understand what would make homosexuality “bad” within the French Republic.

It is important to keep in mind that while much of the debate on who belongs and who does not belong to the republic rests on the discourse of French republicanism, we must be careful not to think of republicanism as an unchanging ideal, one that has remained constant since the Revolution. To be sure, the French penal code, as Gunther demonstrated, does adhere strongly to the ideals of universalism, but many scholars working on issues of citizenship in contemporary France remark that universalism is

69 being challenged at every turn. Is it simply in the process of a renegotiation or is it being fundamentally changed in a world that edges closer and closer to an individualistic view of society rather than one built on the collective? These questions are not only important at a national level, but also a transnational one as well. With the construction of a unified

Europe, the integrity of the French citizenship model is being challenged. On one hand,

France must adhere to the ideology that citizens are one before the law, that newcomers as well as current citizens to the French nation-state should assimilate to the majority model; on the other, at a European level, it must present the French nation as different, a reiteration of the “exception française” if you will, in order to justify its unique stance before the decisions made at a European level.

Stychin explains the dangers that the French republican model faces from these vertically competing notions when he writes that

a politics of subnational identities is dangerous because of its potential to fragment the Republic into a series of competing, essentialized, politicized groups. Global culture is dangerous because it fragments the bonds of national social solidarity through an individualizing pressure whereby the connections between and among citizens and the state will be fragmented. The Republic (and republican ideology) must resist both.131

While Stychin underscores that the Republic as well as republican ideology must resist both of the competing trends—the gathering of citizens into politicized groups at the subnational level and the splintering of citizens into individualized agents with little or no connection to the Republic—it appears that the problem that is posed by these threats to Republican integrity is the act of privileging publicly an identity marked as

“other” rather than an identity marked as “French.”

131 Stychin, “Civil Solidarity,” 354.

70 Richardson makes reference earlier to religious doctrine as a justification for arguments against gay and lesbian rights.132 In Gunther, we see how a strong legislative ideology for a “universal” approach based in reason rather than religion (“superstition”) helped remove sodomy laws from the penal code as earlier as 1791. The law on the separation of church and state has strongly limited the viability of religious discourse within political debate.133 In the absence of a viable religious argument, however, an anthropological one has taken its place.

In L’Inversion de la question homosexuelle Éric Fassin voiced his concern over the use of anthropology in order to justify essentialized notions of gender and sexuality.134

Examining the recent debates on the PaCS and the Parity laws, Fassin argues that French intellectuals who rallied to support the Parity laws unjustly established their support in a discourse that appeared to be universal in nature. By calling upon anthropology, the paritaires were able to give weight to their argument that the one true universal is that there are men and there are women. Because of this universal, the Parity law would not be a form of positive discrimination; rather, it would simply be giving women their due equal footing within the public/political domains. McCaffrey, as well, sees the Parity law

132 Richardson, “Constructing sexual citizenship: Theorizing sexual rights.” 133 Traditionally, religion or overtly religiously influenced discourse is not acceptable within political discussion since the official separation between the Church and State (1905). Nonetheless, religion continues to permeate debate in France. In fact, some scholars have commented on the Judeo-Christian bias within French political discourse (SOURCE). For instance, during the debate over the PaCS, Christine Boutin held up a Bible to reinforce her argument that the legislation went against Catholic values in its support of homosexuality. Although this act was not well received publicly at the time, Ms. Boutin’s career has not necessarily floundered because of it: she is currently the representative of the department of Yvelines. She also served as Ministre du Logement under François Fillon until 23 June 2009. 134 Fassin, L’Inversion de la question homosexuelle.

71 as inscribing biological difference into the civil code, although paritaires would argue that there are no other universal differences that would justify another such law.135 By enshrining a sex difference into the civil code, other such differences, in a system whose republican ideologies are supposed to be blind to difference, will begin to recognize them. By endorsing a gender universal, where there are men and there are women, does this not give weight to an older conception of gender where men and women are therefore complementary to each other? What is more, by endorsing this complementary association, does it not also suggest that relationships that do not endorse this universal of men and women are therefore not viable within the Republic? In other words, difference in sex acts as the sole division and therefore precludes all others.

With recent debates on the PaCS and the Parity law, gender and sexuality have firmly entered the discussion of French citizenship. The discourse of the universal citizen revolves around an idealization, which is subject to change. As Ruth Lister et al. write,

“ideal types are always theoretical exaggerations, which in reality never exist in pure form.”136 Even if we accept the idea that the French universal citizen, borne out republican discourse, is only a “theoretical exaggeration,” it is important to note that there is still a standard against which people are measured. In other words, the universal ideal is still omnipresent within political discourse. However, it is the standard or whom/what the ideal references that is subject to redefinition.

135 McCaffrey, The Gay Republic: Sexuality, Citizenship and Subversion in France. 136 Lister et al., Gendering Citizenship in Western Europe: New Challenges for Citizenship Research in a Cross-National Context, 17–18.

72 Displays of Difference in the Public Sphere: A Case for Gay Pride

To date, the event that we know as “gay pride” has received very little scholarly attention and is limited to only a few authors if we look specifically within the context of

France.137 In his article “‘La Lesbian and Gay Pride’ in Paris,” Michael Sibalis gives a short history of the event centered on, as the title indicates, the French capital. Indeed, the

Parisian pride parade is the oldest in France, as well as the country’s most well attended; however, because of the size and scope of this European, if not world event, I argue that some of the raw energy associated with smaller political and festive gatherings is lost in the tens of thousands of people who attend every year. Furthermore, I believe that the stakes are much higher for a regionally-based pride parade in comparison, an idea that finds reverberations in Rambach and Rambach’s work when they state that in order to recapture the atmosphere of the first marches, “il faut aller en province.”138

On y retrouve cette sensation de lien communautaire, ce sentiment que les gens se connaissent tous plus ou moins, cette plus grande proximité sans doute entre générations et entre hommes et femmes, un environnement aussi plus réactif (un public parfois agressif ou tout bonnement ahuri), une impression de transgression plus franche—le risqué d’être reconnu/e par un/e ami/e, un/e collègue, son patron ou son propriétaire est statistiquement plus important—, et puis, tout simplement, la fraîcheur de la jeune militance.139

137 Emmanuel Redoutey, “Gay Pride: marche revendicative et parade festive,” Urbanisme 331 (2003): 71-74; André Rauch, L’identité masculine à l’ombre des femmes: De la Grande Guerre à la Gay Pride (Paris: Hachette Littératures, 2004); Emmanuel Thiébot, La Gay Pride, mascarade ou juste cause?, ed. Jacques Marseille (Paris: Larousse, 2009); Michael Sibalis, “‘La Lesbian and Gay Pride’ in Paris: community, commerce and carnival,” in Gay and Lesbian Cultures in France, ed. Lucille Carins (Bern: Peter Lang, 2002), 51-66; Robineau, Discrimination(s), genre(s) et urbanité(s): la communauté gaie de Rennes; Rambach and Rambach, La culture gaie et lesbienne. 138 Rambach and Rambach, La culture gaie et lesbienne, 108. 139 Ibid., 108–109.

73 One of the main reasons why Rambach and Rambach prefer the regional parades is because they feel the festive atmosphere of Paris’ march overshadows the political significance of marching down the city street. I read their preference for the provincial city as the inverse relationship to the number of participants and the possible level of visibility: a parade of 300,000+ participants offers a level of invisibility that is not available to smaller parades where participation may only reach several thousand. I contend that the anonymity of attending gay pride in world capitals such as Paris, where attendance can reach several hundred thousand, is similar to the influx of gays and lesbians to urban centers. Authors such as Didier Eribon have commented on the overarching trend of gays and lesbians who leave the provinces to “monter à Paris.”140

While Paris—the neighborhood of the Marais symbolizing the “gay ghetto” of contemporary France—represents for many the Mecca of queer French geography as

New York City and San Francisco do for the United States, smaller regional cities can function similarly. Strasbourg, for example, stands in as the “big city” for provincial

Alsatians who, for whatever reason, are unable or unwilling to go to the nation’s capital to experience “gay life.” In fact, during a talk that was a part of the Semaine de visibilité organized by Festigays, one participant remarked on how the picturesque neighborhood of la Petite France was becoming Strasbourg’s own “Marais.”141 With shops, restaurants, bars, and other places of queer consumption taking up residence in the neighborhood,

Strasbourg is a place where sexual deviants can disappear into the fabric of “gay” life.

140 Didier Eribon, Réflexions sur la question gay (Paris: Fayard, 1999). 141 The fact that the Marais has become a metonym for all things queer and French is interesting in its own right and warrants further study.

74 Venturing into the public sphere as “deviant” sexual citizens, the participants in

Strasbourg’s gay pride parade put forth their status as a (minority) group denied certain rights and privileges extended to “proper” sexual citizens. The questions that will be answered in the following chapters examine how Strasbourg’s sexual citizens address their situation and how they present themselves to the spectators and the larger French community.

Chapter 3

Pride, Visibility, and the Symbolic Power of Presence

Gay pride parades throughout the world demonstrate varying degrees of politically charged messages coupled with more festive elements like dance music and colorful costumes. Despite their possible differences, various French Gay Pride parades have a common thread: they come to life not only in a space normally reserved for the day-to-day spaces of traffic and exchange, but also in historically charged “lieux,” to borrow from Marc Augé1, where the street and the buildings that line it bolster the political and festive elements of the march. Pedestrians, cars, busses, and tramways are all displaced while the parade travels through the city, creating a new ephemeral space where the spectacle of (non-normative) desire becomes tolerable in an atmosphere suggestive of Bakhtin’s notion of the carnivalesque.

In the first part of the chapter, I will briefly discuss the history of the march in

France, with particular attention on the city of Strasbourg. Next, I discuss the path of the march through the Alsatian capital. The path the march takes through the city is not without symbolic importance. In this part of the chapter I argue that the march itself not only represents a festive event that brings together participants and spectators alike—an event where people celebrate in a moment of revelry—but also, by their very presence within the public sphere, these actors are performing a very strong politically charged

1 Marc Augé, Non-Lieux: Introduction à une anthropologie de la surmodernité, ed. Maurice Olender (Paris: Seuil, 1992).

76 action that, by its very visibility forces both us to consider the significance of this presence. Finally I argue that gay pride parades not only carve out a space normally reserved for the every day circulation of people and goods, but also reclaim a space where (sexual) outcasts have been tolerated: the street. From this perspective, gay pride parades not only create a new space for themselves in the light of day, but they also underscore the liminal quality of the street as a frontière floue between the public and the private spheres.

Liberté, égalité, sexualité2: Gay Pride in France

As Denis Provencher has suggested in his work, French queer ways of being, while they are indeed French in their production, are often influenced by a globalized

North American model.3 Indeed, the origins of the public manifestation we know today as

Gay Pride are located within a North American context. However, the event becomes localized in its production and reproduction. In the following section I will discuss the origins of Gay Pride from Stonewall in New York City to Paris and to its localized translation in the Alsatian capital.4

The issue of visibility has attracted recent scholarly attention, especially in response to the received idea that it was only at the end of the 1960s that queers began to

2 I borrow this phrasing from Éric Fassin and Clarisse Fabre and their book Liberté, égalité, sexualités. 3 See Provencher, Queer French, especially chapter 1. Here, Provencher quotes Frédéric Martel and the idea that coming out, visibility, and politically motivated groups such as ACT-UP Paris and the FHAR demonstrate North American influence. In contrast to André Baudry and his group Arcadie, the politically radical groups that grew from Mai ’68 championed an openness that had not previously been seen. 4 Liberté, égalité, sexualités.

77 make themselves visible. Within a North-American context, historian George Chauncey upends the idea that before the sexual liberation that ensued after the Stonewall riots, queer people led lives of quiet desperation.5 Indeed, Chauncey demonstrates that New

York City was in truth home to a thriving queer community. With regard to France, Régis

Revenin, Florence Tamagne, and Julian Jackson demonstrate respectively that there was a presence of a queer subculture well before the Marais neighborhood began to be considered the “gay ghetto” of France.6 And of course, the “open” depiction of same-sex desire in the literary works of authors such as Marcel Proust, André Gide, and Jean Genet points to a certain level of acceptance, at least within certain milieux.

It is certainly a testament to the power of positivist thinking that in general we think of history as a progression towards something better, and that life for queers today is generally accepted as being better than it was “yesterday.” This modern way of thinking masks the fact that queer visibility is not on a continual progression towards

“better,” rather queer visibility is something that has fluctuated over time. Furthermore,

5 George Chauncey, Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Makings of the Gay Male World, 1890-1940 (New York: Basic Books, 1994). 6 Régis Revenin, Homosexualité et prostitution masculines à Paris, 1870-1918 (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2005); Régis Revenin, “Paris Gay 1870-1918,” in Hommes et masculinités de 1789 à nos jours : contributions à l’histoire du genre et de la sexualité en France, Mémoires/Histoire (Paris: Autre, 2007), 22-41; Florence Tamagne, Histoire de l’homosexualité en Europe: Berlin, Londres, Paris, 1919-1939 (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 2000); Jackson, Living in Arcadia: Homosexuality, Politics, and Morality in France from the Liberation to AIDS. For more on the idea of the Marais as the gay ghetto of Paris—if not France—, see Caron, My Father and I; Michael Sibalis, “Urban Space and Homosexuality: The Example of the Marais, Paris’ ‘Gay Ghetto’,” Urban Studies 41, no. 9 (2004): 1739-1758; Denis M Provencher, “Mapping Gay Paris: Language, Space and Sexuality in the Marais,” Contemporary French and Francophone Studies 11, no. 1 (January 2007): 37-46. Also, for a brief review of homosexuality in France from the Revolution to the early 1980s, see Jackson, Living in Arcadia: Homosexuality, Politics, and Morality in France from the Liberation to AIDS.

78 we must also ask ourselves if we can speak of queer visibility before the possibility of a

“homosexual” person was even possible. Michel Foucault, in the first volume of his influential work Histoire de la sexualité, develops the theory that the “homosexual” that we know today is not an object that is transferable to other time periods. As he famously wrote, “Le sodomite était un relaps. L’homosexuel est maintenant une espèce.”7 He argues that the medical and psychological discourses of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries created the figure of the “homosexual” as we so commonly think of today.

Before this point, Foucault contends that the actual person, a homosexual, did not exist; instead, it was a sexual act that a person performed. A person could participate in a sexual act with a member of the same sex, but this was not a reflection upon his/her identity as a person. Rather it was a reflection on his/her moral composition, on his/her resolve to fight temptation at every turn. No longer was this the case. Instead, Foucault writes that the homosexual was a living, breathing person, one who exhibited traits that the growing scientific and medical field wanted to document: “L’homosexuel du XIXe siècle est devenu un personnage: un passé, une histoire et une enfance, un caractère, une forme de vie; une morphologie aussi, avec une anatomie indiscrète et peut-être une physiologie mystérieuse.”8

Indeed, Foucault points out a fundamental issue within the field of history: how to study and analyze the past when the foundations of our contemporary society might, and most likely are, quite different from the time period that we are examining? On one hand, we cannot say that sexual acts that today we would define as homosexual behavior have

7 Foucault, Histoire de la sexualité, 1:59. 8 Ibid.

79 only existed since the end of the nineteenth century. Equally, we cannot say that the western gay man or lesbian who lives in today’s twenty-first-century world is a figure that we could locate in ancient Greece, where homosexual acts were very common for a certain class of the male population.9

Foucault argues that the figure of the homosexual, and even more appropriately today, the “gay” man and the “lesbian,” the ways of “being” for these figures is much different even from the birth of the homosexual he discusses. And yet, I hypothesize that cultural differences must be taken into account in addition to historical moments. Queer ways of being differ depending on the cultural influences that are exercised upon a population. Being queer in North America, for example, may not translate to other cultures. Moreover, differences between the urban and the rural also contribute to the need to understand the localized behaviors of different groups. Yet it cannot be denied that in our ever more globalized world, North American culture’s influence is strong, especially when we consider queer ways of being. Nevertheless, these influences are not simply adopted without a bit of translation.

Denis Provencher has demonstrated that queer ways of being are influenced by

North-American models of identity, but they are also given their own French flair. In his article on the existence of a gay creole, Provencher argues that, while English is the dominant language of the globalized gay experience, one that is driven by the ideas of

(conspicuous) consumption associated with travel, fashion, and sex, these global

9 As demonstrated in chapter two, for example, citizenship status in both Ancient Greece and Rome played a major role in the acceptability of homosexual acts.

80 discourses are translated for a localized queer French audience.10 As evidence,

Provencher offers examples taken from his study of the French glossy-style magazine

Têtu. He writes, “It goes without saying that there is sufficient lexical evidence of a

French presence in the French gay press, since Têtu is published in French. More interesting however are the many ‘French’ elements of cooperative discourse that occur in Têtu and suggest a ‘French’ mentality at work within French gay culture. Such discourse may include specific references to gay people and events in France.”11 He continues by listing topics found in the magazine like French authors of queer interest

(i.e. Colette, Gide, Genet, Proust); events of queer interest (i.e. Gay Pride Paris, the ban on rainbow flags in the Marais, discussion of the PaCS); reports from gays and lesbians living in the many regions of France; interviews with French and Francophone celebrities; and references to topics most-likely unheard of to the North American ear

(summer vacation spots popular with French gays and lesbians, local-interest news events). If these generic globalized discourses were not localized, in keeping with

Provencher’s logic, then they would not find resonance within a French landscape.12

With the idea that ways of expressing one’s sexuality and its articulations within the public and private spheres are dependant upon the culture in which it is located, I now

10 Denis M Provencher, “Vague English Creole: (Gay English) Cooperative Discourse in the French Gay Press,” in Speaking in Queer Tongues: Globalization and Gay Language, ed. William L Leap and Tom Boellstorff (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2004), 23-45. 11 Provencher, Queer French, 45. 12 See also Rosello, “The National-Sexual: From the Fear of Ghettos to the Banalization of Queer Practices.” In the beginning of her chapter, she discusses her confusion as a French woman living in the United States of the discourse of being gay employed by the Québecois author Michel Tremblay.

81 turn to a history of the event that has grown into what we know as gay pride in France today.

Gay Pride: Beginnings and Translations

Although Gay Pride in Paris is not a focus of this dissertation, the origin of the event finds itself in the capital, and must be addressed here. And in order to address the

Parisian event, I first need to discuss its North-American origin.

The event and the location of the latter have taken on mythic proportions since the

28 June 1969 riots, during an all-too-frequent police raid on the Stonewall Inn of

Christopher Street in New York City. The patrons of the establishment decided that they were no longer going to be subject to such abuse and fought back against the police. The riots, as they have come to be called, lasted a total of three days and attracted a crowd of about 2,000 people. For many, “Stonewall” has come to mark the beginning of the modern gay and lesbian movement. Indeed, the bar itself still stands and represents a lieu de mémoire for many queers and allies alike.13

To commemorate the Stonewall riots, as well as to remind people that the fight still continues today, queers throughout the world celebrate the event by holding an annual march. In certain large cities—London, Toronto, New York, Berlin—the event attracts thousands if not hundreds of thousands of people. In France, the first one recognized as the beginning of gay pride in Paris took place on 1 May 1971; obviously, it

13 See the three volumes to Pierre Nora’s Pierre Nora, ed., Les Lieux de mémoire, 3 vols. (Paris: Gallimard, 1997).

82 was not explicitly linked to the Stonewall riots two years earlier.14 Instead, this march was linked to another French tradition, the Fête du Travail.

The tradition of the 1 May Fête du Travail dates back to the beginning of the twentieth century in France. Linked to the valorization of the worker—it was originally called the Fête des Travailleurs—and the leftist political discourse that surrounds it, the

Fête du Travail was an interesting choice for the first gay pride march. Although I do not find it surprising that homosexuality, or at least homosexual behavior was something that was never claimed by a specific class, it is amusing that for both the Bourgeois and the working class, homosexuality was a problem of the “other.” For the Bourgeois, homosexual behavior was endemic to the lower classes: unable to control their sexual drive, homosexual behavior was a sign of sexual degeneracy, which in turn was caused by poor hygiene, unsanitary living conditions, and a poor genealogical background.

Conversely, for the working class, and especially those who espoused communist and socialist discourses of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, the decadence of the Bourgeois, their abundance of leisure time and access to money were all factors that lead to their sexual debauchery.15 So for the first group of queers to join the Fête du

Travail in 1971, a time when the communist (especially) and the socialist parties still adhered to more traditional leftist discourses concerning sexual deviancy, is a radical

14 Sibalis, “‘La Lesbian and Gay Pride’,” 53. 15 Régis Revenin, ed., Hommes et masculinités de 1789 à nos jours : contributions à l’histoire du genre et de la sexualité en France, Mémoires/Histoire (Paris: Autrement, 2007), 26; See also Bullock and Eilderts, “Prononcer mâle ou prononcer mal: Linguistic Markers of Effeminacy in Early Modern French.”

83 move.16 Certainly, the presence of sexual deviants at the 1971 Fête du Travail was not welcome by all; in spite of this, they continued to march on 1 May until 1978 when a new tradition was born. When Anita Bryant and the conservative movement of the late 1970s removed Miami’s law on discrimination by popular vote, which included protection for homosexuals,17 in Paris 350 to 500 participants—gay men, lesbians, and heterosexual women—marched down the street in protest. No longer was gay pride in France linked to a manifestation that had its roots in class struggle, rather it was now linked specifically to sexuality and a discourse of rights in general.18

Strasbourg and Gay Pride: Une Histoire Contemporaine

The Alsatian capital has been the host of the region’s gay pride parade since 2002, when the first one made its way through Strasbourg’s city streets. Regional capital, capital of Europe, and site of the Sacramenta Argentariae, the city holds a very special place within the history of France and the French language. I contend that Strasbourg, which is endowed with a great deal of symbolic power, provides a very privileged geo-

16 Today, the French Communist Party (Parti Communiste français) has lost much of the political clout it had after World War II. Moreover, its official discourse is now one of inclusion of all of those who are oppressed by capitalist society. As for the Socialist Party (Parti Socialiste), it has positioned itself since Mitterrand as the “gay friendly” party of France. The Pacte civil de solidarité, for example, which extends certain rights and obligations to same- or opposite-sex couples, was a project of the left, although it would have never passed without cooperation from the right. 17 Sibalis, “‘La Lesbian and Gay Pride’,” 53. 18 What is interesting here is that although the scandal surrounding Anita Bryant’s crusade to rid America of a supposed homosexual menace would have had little direct political impact on French soil, in many respects this act of public demonstration is indicative of a truly French-style manner of protest: participants demonstrated for a kind of “universal” sexual right for their fellow American citizens. See Waters, Social Movements in France.

84 political backdrop upon which issues of citizenship and membership to the nation-state can be analyzed.

The contemporary city of Strasbourg has a population of about 276,194, which make it the seventh largest city in France. If we include the surrounding urban community, the population swells to 860,000, making this regional capital one of the largest in France.19 As stated above, the Alsatian capital is also the European capital, a title it shares with Brussels. Moreover, it is also the home of the Council of Europe and the European Court of Human Rights. In addition to these European institutions,

Strasbourg is the seat of nearly 75 consulates and embassies, which places it on par with other world cities like New York City and Geneva as a diplomatic hub outside the capital of the country.

The geographical location of the city of Strasbourg played and continues to play an important role in the history and future of the city. Its “histoire binationale et biculturelle”20 makes the Alsatian capital and region a complex text to decipher. And although the fight to possess this region appears to have ended with the last World War,

Strasbourg and the region of Alsace has very much kept its air of ville frontalière, proud of its origins and dynamic cultures. Such dynamism, however, is not without its tensions.

For France, Alsace symbolizes the power of the French ideals of the Revolution, as a region that is French through and through, especially after its loss and “reconquest.”

As a region that has many reasons to declare its exception alsacienne against the

19 Ville et Communauté urbaine de Strasbourg, “Strasbourg.fr”, 2006, http://www.strasbourg.fr. 20 This wording is borrowed from the website for the city of Strasbourg: <>.

85 homogenizing power of French republican ideologies, the people of Alsace have historically embraced discourses that have made them a shining example of French universalist discourse. Alsace—with its history as a border region, one that has kept strong ties to its regional particularities and specificities, whose regional dialects have remained rather robust in comparison to others in France—has on one hand integrated well into the Republic, while also transcending these national boarders as European capital. Once on the periphery of the French Republic, on the other side of the Vosges

Mountains and more connected to the German-speaking empires through culture and trade, Strasbourg has now transcended the idea of the border by projecting itself as the heart of Europe. Especially now that, at least in the areas of population movement and commerce, European boarders have become more and more fluid over the last few decades, the formerly hotly contested boarder between France and Germany no longer has as much political meaning as it once did. Though these borders are still very real for many people, the fluidity between these two countries has risen considerably now that entrance into one of the Schengen states is considered entrance into all of them.21

In their treatment of Gay and Lesbian Studies in France, Anne and Marine

Rambach note that, while traditionally a centralized state politically, France varies significantly when it comes to issues such as sexuality and openness toward deviant sexuality.

21 A Schengen state is one that has signed the Schengen agreement. Originally ratified in 1985, it has been modified several times since then. Member states that have signed the agreement form one entity for international travel purposes. One must go through passport control upon entering a member state, but may then travel freely between them, resulting in what is sometimes called a “borderless” Europe.

86 Les disparités en matière de condition des lesbiennes et des gais entre Paris et province, ville et campagne, centre-ville et banlieue, mais aussi entre régions, sont considérables. Quand la mairie du Mans lance une “charte d’accueil et de bienvenue lesbian and gay friendly” auprès des commerçants, qui s’engagent ainsi à réserver un accueil chaleureux aux homosexuel/les, on imagine mal la même démarche de la part du maire de Mulhouse.22

It is not a surprise that Rambach and Rambach would evoke the name of

Mulhouse, an industrial city in southern Alsace close to the Swiss border. Out of the three major cities of the region—Strasbourg, Colmar, and Mulhouse—the city of Mulhouse is known for its conservative leanings and its high concentration of working-class residents.23 Secondly, Rambach and Rambach write that in certain cities in France, there appears to be some kind of “microclimat” that has allowed for a more open atmosphere for gays and lesbians living or visiting these areas. Conversely, they note that in cities such as Le Havre, Nîmes, or Saint-Dié-des-Vosges—and they stress Saint-Dié—the atmosphere for gays and lesbians is much less welcoming. Rambach and Rambach offer little in the way of empirical evidence to support their assertion other than that these communities tend to be more “conservative.” By employing the same framework and methodologies used here, these cities may provide further areas of research.

As stated above, the city of Mulhouse does not offer a welcoming enough atmosphere for an event like gay pride to take place.24 And yet, Strasbourg did not host its first gay pride parade until 2002, a fact that Rambach and Rambach say is surprising:

22 Rambach and Rambach, La culture gaie et lesbienne, 45. 23 See Hervé Le Bras, Une Autre France: Votes, réseaux de relations et classes sociales (Paris: Odile Jacob, 2002), 26. 24 A possible future study would be a comparative analysis of the queer community in Strasbourg and Mulhouse. Strasbourg, as the post-card perfect city, and Mulhouse as the industrial “ugly sibling” of the region, and the strategies of queer behavior and

87 Il a fallu attendre le 15 juin 2002 pour que se tienne la première Gay Pride à Strasbourg. Au regard de l’histoire des Gay Pride en France, c’est une étrange anomalie. Une ville de cette importance (trois cents mille habitants), capitale régionale, point névralgique de l’Europe, possédant une université de prestige mais pas de marche homosexuelle, c’est étonnant.25

In many respects, Strasbourg represents the clear choice for an event of this kind.

A city like Strasbourg, one that is the seat of so many important French and

European institutions, one that is one of the most visited places in eastern France, one of the wealthiest regions in France would lead me to think that it might be a more welcoming place for French queers. Is this late entry into gay pride celebrations a testament to Alsatian conservatism, to the desire to remain isolated? Le Bras states that traditionally, the community links between people were much more open in the West and much more isolated in the East. Quoting the work of historian Marc Bloch, Le Bras states,

Il [Bloch] a montré que deux types de sociabilité s’étaient développés. À l’Est, pour éviter que le voisinage n’empiète trop sur la vie privée et à l’Ouest, au contraire, pour surmonter l’isolement spatial. Ainsi à l’Est, les coutumes et les pratiques sociales limitent les contacts de voisinage, d’où cette réputation de froideur des Lorrains par exemple… Les Transformations récentes de l’habitat et des moyens de communication one eu un effet opposé sur ces deux modes de sociabilité, renforçant les barrières à l’Est et facilitant les contacts à l’Ouest.26

performance that is present in these two poles of Alsace. I wish to thank Sofian Merabet for this suggestion. For a similar study, but with a focus on a different geographical area, see his “Queer Beirut: Social Transformations in a War-torn City” (Ph.D. Dissertation, Columbia University, 2009). 25 Rambach and Rambach, La culture gaie et lesbienne, 46. 26 Le Bras, Une Autre France, 37.

88 While it may be the case that Alsatian sociability tends to lean towards isolation, it cannot be denied that issues such as sexuality, especially “deviant sexuality,” would be a difficult topic for conservative Alsatians.

For Rambach and Rambach, there are two roots that lead to the eventual blossoming of a gay pride parade in the Alsatian capital, both stemming from the declarations made by the bishop of Strasbourg, Léon Elchinger. In 1981 he stated, “Je respecte les homosexuels comme des infirmes; mais s’ils veulent transformer cette légitimé en santé, je dois dire que je ne suis pas d’accord.”27 When an attempt was made to convict Elchinger on charges of hateful speech, the Colmar Court of appeals sided with him. Over a decade later, Elchinger once again declared his reticence towards gay and lesbians in an opinion that was published in the newspaper Les Dernières Nouvelles d’Alsace. In it, Elchinger condemned the certificats de vie commune accorded by the mayor’s office whereby couples who live together but are unmarried may attest to their cohabitation.28 Elchinger equated the act of approval of cohabitation between people of the same sex with the degeneration of society, and that if society continued to do so, they were no better than animals. Not surprisingly, the gay and lesbian organisations of

Strasbourg did not take kindly to the remark and decided to fight back in a very public way: due to Elchinger’s refusal to grant an audience to the organizations, they planned a demonstration at Strasbourg’s Cathedral. The Cathedral of Strasbourg not only represents

27 Quoted in Rambach and Rambach, La culture gaie et lesbienne, 47. 28 According to the website <>, the certificat de vie commune ou de concubinage is issued at the discretion of the mayor’s office, and nowhere is it written in law that they are required to provide such a document. The rights that this document affords the bearers are limited, but may extend to such things as social security, welfare, and travel discounts.

89 the seat of the bishop’s power—although at this time Elchinger was now retired—it is also the most recognizable of Alsatian monuments, and any event that would take place there surely would garner a large amount of visibility.

The insurgents were never allowed to speak in front of the congregation, and were removed by police shortly after they had invaded the Cathedral. In the end, the church did not press charges. However, the procureur did. The duality of the region came into play in an interesting way, as the procureur cited a law that dating from 1871 forbidding the disturbance of a lieu de culte, originally written in German and never translated! Since

Alsace was not a part of France when the law on the separation between church and state was passed at the beginning of the twentieth century, the law was never applied to the region of the Alsace and Moselle like it had been on the rest of the Republic.

A second event that helped the queers of Strasbourg to unite and form a group that would organize a gay pride parade was the advent of Fabienne Keller to the seat of the mayor of Strasbourg. While under the control of Catherine Trautmann, member of the

Parti Socialiste, the mayor’s office had verbally pledged to help fund a conference entitled “Écrire les homosexualités” that was to take place in Strasbourg in April 2001.

Trautmann was ousted during the elections by Fabienne Keller, member of the Union pour la démocratie française. Keller’s refusal to consider the dossier submitted by the conference organizers led to its cancelation only two weeks before its scheduled opening.29 Keller’s distrust of the gay and lesbian community of Strasbourg did not stop there, however. The municipal magazine, Strasbourg Magazine, was to stop mentioning any events that were to do with the gay and lesbian community, since, in the mayor’s

29 Rambach and Rambach, La culture gaie et lesbienne, 50–51.

90 opinion, those matters did not really interest the people of Strasbourg.30 Furthermore, once the permission had been granted to organize a gay pride parade, Keller remained vigilant in her defence of republican values. In an interview published in the French national gay and lesbian magazine Têtu, she expressed her reticence to an event that privileged a sexualized identity in the public sphere. For her, an event of this kind does not uphold traditional republican values, instead it creates communities within communities, which threaten the integrity of the nation:

J’ai une vision un peu duale sur la question. D’un côté, les gens sont libres d’avoir la vie sexuelle qu’ils souhaitent en privé, dès lors qu’elle préserve les enfants. En revanche, je suis un peu plus réticente sur tout ce qui concerne l’affirmation et la démonstration de pratiques sexuelles. Les choix personnels de chacun ne doivent pas être affichés comme une bannière. Têtu est présenté avant tout comme le magazine des gays et des lesbiennes. J’ai perçu dans les quelques articles que j’y ai lus une affirmation forte d’une identité liée à une pratique sexuelle. C’est là que je ne suis pas d’accord: un être humain ne se limite pas à cela. De là ma réserve.31

Keller’s remarks demonstrate a very traditional republican discourse whereby difference is to be relegated to the private sphere. She declares that the private sphere is the correct location for sexual activity, and by stating that people are “libres d’avoir la vie sexuelle” that they want in private, she frames her response in very republican terms.

In so doing, she does not condemn any kind of sexual practice explicitly, be it opposite- or same-sex activity. Interestingly, however, Keller does remark that whatever the sexual activity may be, it should not put children in danger. In her mind, then, children are to be protected from sexual activity that may harm them, and there are probably few that would argue against such an announcement. And yet, considering the audience she is

30 Ibid., 51. 31 Christian Nicolas, “L’interview de Fabienne Keller,” Têtu, 2002, 10.

91 addressing, Keller links same-sex practices with the harming of children thereby evoking straightway the specter of pedophilia that lurks in the background of almost any debate on same-sex practices.32 Keller continues her statement by saying that while she believes that people’s sexual choices in private are to be respected, she does not believe that these sexual practices should be displayed openly in public. Here Keller demonstrates her strict adherence to republican ideology by clearly marking the border between acceptable public and private behavior: do what you wish in the private sphere, but do not overtly display this choice in the public sphere.

In the latter half of her response, Keller continues to call upon Republican ideology to justify her reserve in according an interview with Têtu. Although she does not explicitly say that she is against a magazine that describes itself as “le magazine des gays et des lesbiennes,” what follows seems to suggest it. After having read a few articles in the magazine to familiarize herself with its content, she came to the conclusion that it favored too strong of a sexual identity. And in favoring a sexual identity, the underlying conclusion that she makes is that Têtu endorses a communitarian conception of society.

That is to say that the magazine is geared towards a specific group of people who favor their sexual identity more than any other, to the point that they close in on themselves (a

“repli sur soi”), a familiar republican charge.

Finally, Keller concludes her answer by stating that she believes that people should not be limited by their sexual identity. For her, a human being is more than his/her sexual identity. In this way, Keller dissociates identity and practice when she says that an

32 The French pejorative term for a homosexual male is “pédé,” a shortened version of “pédéraste,” a word borrowed from Greek meaning love of young males.

92 identity should not be linked so strongly to a “pratique sexuelle.” In a language that vaguely evokes the Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen (“un être humain”), Keller employs the discourse of the universal to disqualify any identity that would be favored over the

“universal” identity of French republicanism. Furthermore, in favoring a sexual identity at the cost of a “universal” identity, Keller sees this as “limiting” oneself from fully entering the public sphere to participate in society. In other words, one is not able to assimilate fully into the “creuset français.”33 Finally, Keller’s use of the phrase

“pratiques sexuelles” underscores her adherence to Republican ideology that rejects sexuality as a defining feature of one’s identity. In an almost queer rhetoric, one that dismisses fixed identity categories such as straight, gay or lesbian, Keller rejects this association. Instead she creates a kind of equality in replacing sexual identity (gay, lesbian, bisexual, straight, etc.) with sexual acts in which anyone may participate.

In this short response, Fabienne Keller, former mayor of Strasbourg, outlines what it means to be a “bad” (sexual) citizen. First, public display of sexuality: one is not supposed to make one’s difference “known.” In her words, it should not be “affiché comme une bannière” for all to see. An act such as this disrupts the “universal” (silent?) public sphere by drawing attention to difference. Although she does not explicitly state it, her reader is to understand her universal discourse as applying to any kind of sexuality to which attention is drawn in the public sphere. This being said, Keller acknowledges that this magazine is read primarily by French gays and lesbians, and therefore her remark clearly rings as a disapproval of non-normative sexuality in the public sphere. What is more, she gives herself away when she states that she is hesitant when it comes to any

33 Noiriel, Le creuset français.

93 sort of public “affirmation” or “démonstration de pratiques sexuelles.” She continues by saying that “[l]es choix personnels de chacun ne doivent pas être affichés comme une bannière.” For both instances, the “affirmation” and the “démonstration” of sexual practices, these two acts seem to clearly point to a public display, namely Gay Pride celebrations where participants march down the street proclaiming their (sexual) preferences/differences in opposition to mainstream society. Considering the context in which her interview was given, it is all the more apparent that Keller was very much describing gay pride marches: published in February 2002, the very first gay pride in

Strasbourg, the city of which she was mayor at the time, was to take place a few months later in June.

Keller continued to show her hesitation to the idea of having a large-scale demonstration that emphasized, in her words, an identity strongly linked to a sexual practice. In her experience, these kinds of events only serve to further distance people with (implied) non-normative sexual practices from fully assimilating into the French melting pot.

Dans les Gay Pride que j’ai vues, notamment à San Francisco, il y avait des choses choquantes, excessives. Ce qu’on nous montre dans ces manifestations appartient à la vie privée, un domaine à respecter. Il faut être extrêmement vigilant. Franchement, à titre personnel, je ne pense pas que cela facilite l’intégration des homosexuels dans la société. Cette affirmation très forte, presque violente, est une manière de se différencier des autres et de s’en écarter. Ce n’est pas la bonne méthode pour s’intégrer.34

Interestingly, Keller evokes the threat of “l’Amérique” when she references the

San Francisco parades that she saw there. As much of the debate that went on over the

34 Nicolas, “L’interview de Fabienne Keller,” 10.

94 PaCS employed the United States as the model to avoid at all costs,35 it is, in some ways, no surprise that Keller would also deploy the same discourse of “danger” to support her dislike of a parade that, in her mind, supposedly favors a sexual identity marker over all others. And yet, as Eric Fassin argues, “l’Amérique” is a kind of “empty signifer” that is able to take on whatever meaning the speaker wants.36 In this case, Keller wishes to place

France in opposition to an “Amérique” where society supports these kinds of overt displays of sexuality, which, as she states in the earlier quote and then reiterates here, is something that should only be located in the private sphere. In so doing, Keller places

France and the United States at opposing ends of the spectrum: France is to represent a society where identity is not linked to, in her mind, such a limited view of “l’être humain,” rather it is a society that transcends difference for the common good; the United

States represents a society where people privilege a (politicized) identity strongly linked to sexuality, religion, or ethnicity (to name a few), thereby splintering into competing groups (“ghettoïsation”). The trope of the United States as the model-to-avoid has already been well entrenched in the common memory of the French (McDonald’s and

José Bové; De Gaulle and the rebuilding of France in the 1960s; Mitterrand and Chirac and the nuclear tests in the South Pacific in the 1990s), therefore by evoking San

Francisco as a kind of synecdoche for the United States and the supposed form of society that it represents, Keller is able to subtly discredit any parade that would be similar to the ones she has seen in the United States simply by the fact that the United States is almost always placed in opposition to the French model.

35 See generally Martel, Le Rose et le noir: les homosexuels en France depuis 1968. 36 “L’Amérique est un mot qui peut tout vouloir dire: c’est une figure de rhétorique, et non une réalité,” in Fabre and Fassin, Liberté, égalité, sexualités, 30.

95 Finally, Keller states that this kind of (violent) public display does not facilitate the integration of homosexuals into society. Whereas in the previous quote Keller did not specifically name the group as “homosexuels,” instead referring to sexual practices in order to privilege a universal human being who just happens to exhibit same-sex desire, here she names them explicitly. In so doing, Keller has designated them as the “other,” a group that calls attention to its difference and therefore places itself outside of the greater

“society” into which they want to integrate. So strongly does she feel about this act of difference that Keller repeats at the end of her quote that this parade only drives a larger wedge between gays and lesbians and “society,” largely assumed in this case to be heterosexual.

While French gays and lesbians are not in danger of losing their citizenship status, the question that remains is whether or not they are “performing” their citizenship role well. In other words, are they “good” or “bad” sexual citizens within the Republic? As evidenced by Fabienne Keller’s previous statements, it is clear that gay pride parades evoke a strong response both politically and personally. And to show that gay pride is not only just a concern of the city of Strasbourg’s former mayor, one only needs to look towards Nicolas Sarkozy’s government: Nadine Morano.37 Appointed secrétaire d'État chargée de la Famille et de la Solidarité in 2008, Morano was quoted in Le Monde in a spotlight piece that while she is favorable to extending the same rights to children from same-sex households as children from more traditionally recognized families, she would always “détester la Gay Pride, ‘cette fête exhibitionniste’ avec des ‘types en porte-

37 Since 2010, Nadine Marano has served as the Secrétaire d’état chargée de l’Apprentissage et de la Formation professionelle.

96 jaratelles dans les rues.’”38 In this snippet, extracted from an article no longer than 1200 words, Marano is portrayed as “Madame sans-gêne” who says what she thinks, sometimes too quickly, according to the author. Whether or not that is true, her apparent quick response to gay pride follows the same discourse as we have seen earlier in

Fabienne Keller’s remarks. First, she firmly states that she will always hate Gay Pride, viewing it as exhibitionist in nature. We must ask ourselves, then, what does she mean by exhibitionist? What is being displayed that would make her declare so strongly that she will never view gay pride in a good light? While the first definition of the word

“exhibitionniste” in the on-line Trésor de la Langue Française39 explains that it is someone or something “[q]ui est atteint d'exhibitionnisme, qui est une manifestation d'exhibitionnisme.” If we then look at what is “exhibitionnisme” the dictionary states that it is an “[i]mpulsion, souvent de caractère obsessionnel, qui pousse un adulte, généralement de sexe masculin, à montrer ses organes génitaux dans un lieu public.”

However, the second entry defines “exhibitionnisme” as a “[g]oût, manie d'afficher en public ses sentiments, sa vie privée” (my emphasis). Morano, like Keller, decries the public display of (non-normative) sexuality, vilifying the event by her use of psychoanalytic language (“exhibitionniste”), immediately recasting gay pride and same sex-desire in a discourse reminiscent of nineteenth-century medical pathologies.

Furthermore, she condemns “ces types en porte-jaretelles dans les rues,” thereby lumping together all participants into one category of cross-dressing men, erasing the potential diversity that gay pride parades can represent. This being said, we must keep in

38 Gérard Davet, “Nadine Morano, la revanche de Madame Sans-Gêne,” Le Monde (March 28, 2008), http://www.lemonde.fr/. 39 The site can be accessed at the following address: <>.

97 mind that diversity may not necessarily be as prized as it is in other Western nation- states, especially in the light of the Republican tradition of assimilation.

While the Stonewall riots of 1969 are often put forth as the birth of the modern gay and lesbian movement—both US and worldwide—Rambach and Rambach as well as others link Elchinger’s and Keller’s homophobic discourse to the start of Strasbourg’s gay and lesbian prise de conscience.40 According to the website of the directing organization, Festigays,41 while there has been much progress for gays and lesbians throughout the world, there are still many examples of the dangers that gays and lesbians encounter on a daily basis, as well as of France’s lagging position in relation to its neighbors concerning equal status for gays and lesbians:

Malgré les évolutions significatives de la société française et les progrés [sic] juridiques enregistrés ces derniéres [sic] années, la mobilisation pour la défense des lesbiennes et des gays doit être maintenue, et Strasbourg, 6ème42 ville de France, siège du Parlement Européen, du Conseil de l'Europe, et de la Cour Européenne des droits humains se doit d'être de ce combat politique.43

In this passage, the organizing committee acknowledges the progress that has been made in France, most certainly in reference to the recent addition of the PaCS to the civil code, but that it has been surpassed by other European neighbors in the domain of gay and lesbian rights in the area of civil unions, same-sex marriage, and most recently

40 While Stonewall represents a powerful lieu de mémoire for gays and lesbians all over the world, some have argued that for France, the event that is seen as the birth of the modern French gay and lesbian movement was the infamous 10 March 1971 radio program hosted by Ménie Grégoire intitled “L’Homosexualité, ce douloureux problème.” Unfortunately, no recording remains of program; however, transcripts are available. 41 Festigays organizes the events that take place during the semaine de visibilité. 42 According to the latest French census reports, Strasbourg is actually France’s seventh largest city. 43 Festigays, “1er Communitqué de presse,” Archives Festigays, 2002, http://archives.festigays.net/dtn02/d20231.htm.

98 same-sex adoption. And while Festigays recognizes that France, as the European pioneer in the arena of civil unions open to members of the opposite- and same-sex, has reached a certain level of acceptance of the lesbian and gay community, continued vigilance is necessary, even after the adoption of the PaCS. This warning recalls previous moment in

French “gay” history when the government under Mitterrand changed the age of consent for people of the same sex so that it was the same as that for people of the opposite sex.

Shortly thereafter, the radical gay and lesbian movements that grew out of the May 1968 student riots seemed to sputter and lose their raison d’être. The French gay and lesbian movement was rejuvenated again by the AIDS crisis, but not until the end of the 1980s and beginning of the 1990s.44

I mentioned above that Strasbourg is the seat of several European institutions as well as home to many consulates and embassies and therefore carries a great amount of symbolic power. This fact is not lost on Festigays. Indeed, the organization calls upon the city of Strasbourg and its symbolic weight to offer an example of engaged political activism not only for the region, but for France and Europe as well. Moreover, one might actually argue, in light of the previous chapter, that France should further emphasize such a political dimension. Investing the public sphere with a private matter—(deviant) sexuality45—is traditionally not acceptable within the Republic, and without the justification of a political message, gay pride could lose its right to occupy the public sphere. Yet, even when a clearly defined political message accompanies the events

44 See David Caron, AIDS in French Culture: Social Ills, Literary Cures (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2001), 155. 45 See the discussion of David Caron’s definition of the public and private sphere in chapter two.

99 around gay pride and the march itself, opponents of the gathering often state that participants are not fully engaged in the political thrust of the event; or former participants deride the current marches and participants for their overly festive leanings rather than privileging a hard-line political agenda.46

It would be folly to assume that since the organizers have given the march a theme—a raison d’être based on a political message—the participants attend because of the message. Indeed, many people who attend gay pride marches do so because it is a moment of jubilation, a moment of joy to be surrounded by hundreds and maybe thousands of people that a participant assumes are “just like me.”47 And it is this moment of festive behavior, for a crowd that may or may not adhere to the mot d’ordre, that is in and of itself a very powerful symbolic moment. Do the participants themselves need to adhere to the political message of the organizers in order to create a powerful visual message? Or does the power lie in the fact that a group of people has come together for a moment of revelry in the middle of the street? In many respects, the latter is probably more important than the political message the organizers may be putting forward.

In 2002 Strasbourg saw its first gay pride celebration, a weeklong series of events that included talks and debates, artistic expositions, a parade, and a soirée de clôture to round it out. Every year since then, Festigays has organized the week of festivities, working with the city to determine the route as well as securing the security forces necessary to carry out the march on the day of the parade. In an interview, the president of Festigays explained that the organization works closely with the city since they are the

46 See, for example, Le Bitoux, Chevaux, and Proth, Citoyen de seconde zone. 47 David Caron questions the idea of sameness in My Father and I, 131–135.

100 ones who give permission to occupy the city streets as well as the right to block transportation. I was curious to know if the city itself ever seemed to put up any literal or figurative roadblocks in the way of the march. He responded by saying that yes, the city has a great deal of influence on the march for the simple fact that the préfecture is responsible for guiding the participants and spectators alike through the city. However, he also said that during his tenure as president, he had never come across any outright reticence when it came to the city and the organizing committee. Although Alsace has a reputation for being a very conservative region, I surmise that while Fabienne Keller was hesitant to have anything to do with gay pride, it was not something that she or other conservative members of the city government would be able to deny for very long. Gay pride parades had sprung up around most of the major cities of France by that time, and to deny one of the largest cities in the country the opportunity to have its own parade would probably have resulted in a court case, or bad publicity for Keller at the least.

Pour une rhétorique de la marche: Agulhon, Lehning, and de Certeau

The first year saw a parade whose path through the city was unidirectional (see figure 3-1). The map, as posted online and distributed in informational pamphlets, shows the city of Strasbourg, with its greatest portion focusing on the traditional center of the city. Most of the built up space is designated by the color yellow and the roads are white.

Pedestrian areas are colored brown, and some of the larger more prominent buildings are indicated on the map in a darker orange, thereby distinguishing them from the other buildings. Parks and other open public spaces are colored in green, and the waterways

101 that surround the center of the city as well as the canals leading to the port of Strasbourg are in blue. The path of the march through the city is marked by a line in red. It begins at the Place de l’Étoile and ends at the Place de l’Université. Finally, churches and the cathedral are marked on the map by a black square inside of which is a cross, designating it as a place of Christian worship. Some of the spaces are named, while much of the map remains without any kind of writing to help the visitor find his/her bearings. No streets are named, while the Hôpital Civil is a huge complex of buildings to the southwest, as well as the cathedral, and a few squares like Place Kléber, Place de la République, and

Place de l’Étoile. Only one neighborhood is named on this map, that of the Petite

France, one of the oldest and most touristic areas of the city after the cathedral.

From 2002 to 2009, the maps of the parade are closely related in that they use similar color schemes—the colors for prominent buildings vary from year to year, but the same ones are always highlighted in a color that differentiates it from the surrounding yellow—and provide the same kind of details. All the maps tend to offer only a small

102

Figure 3-1: Map, 2002 (see <>) amount of written information, but in the years after 2002, they generally furnish their reader with a listing of the major stops along the way (see figure 3-2).48 Furthermore, most of the maps also provide the names of the major buildings and sites by which the parade passes. As such, the map underscores the symbolic importance of these structures and spaces and renders them landmarks by which participants are able to situate themselves in respect to the city and the parade itself. For people who are unfamiliar with

48 Images dated 2002 through 2007 are the property of Festigays and are located in the archives of their website. See Festigays, “Archives”, 2011, http://archives.festigays.net.

103 the geography of the city, the map provides them just enough information to know where to go or where they should place themselves in

Figure 3-2: Map, 2004 (see <>) respect to the parade. While there are no streets named on any of the maps, they generally have the names of certain squares, which provide just enough information to allow participants to situate themselves or to be able to ask for directions.

104 Although the parade often has partners and support from businesses in the community, nowhere are their locations indicated on the map in any way. What is more, popular hangouts that cater to the queer community are also not indicated on the map.

One does not find, for example, the location of the bar Le Golden Gate, or the restaurant

Le Woodies, both “gay friendly” establishments located in the Petite France neighborhood with a devoted queer clientele base. However, the information booklet that the organizers provide includes advertisements and other commercially oriented information. For example, on page six of the 2006 booklet, there are two half-page advertisements for the restaurants Le Petit Ours49 and Pommes de Terre et Compagnie, gay friendly establishments located on the rue de l’Écurie, one street over from the path of the parade. But again, none of these hangouts or businesses catering to a queer clientele are indicated on the map.

I wrote earlier in this chapter that the city of Strasbourg has a substantial amount of symbolic power thanks to its position as a regional capital, a European capital, as well as its long history as a crossroads of Europe, both east and west by land and north and south by the Rhine. I argue then that the parade gains its own symbolic power from the importance of buildings, squares, roads, and monuments by or through which the march passes. The idea of the symbolic importance of the geographical surroundings and the manner in which they bolster the public events that invade and invest their spaces is borrowed from both Maurice Agulhon’s and James Lehning’s works, and it is to them

49 Although the name of the restaurant conjures up several images—nature; the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears—, in the context of this work I cannot help but read it as a subtle nod to Bear subculture. Although the French word “nounours” is the dominant designation for “bear,” an Internet search reveals that many terms are used to identify the more corporally gifted members of the queer community.

105 that I now turn.50

Agulhon and the Symbolic Geography of the City

Agulhon’s chapter “Paris: La Traversée d’est en ouest” in Pierre Nora’s voluminous edited work Les Lieux de mémoire, is a discussion of the symbolic importance of the geographically anchored loci and monuments that politically motivated movements use in order to bolster their own symbolic impact. Agulhon remarks that the differences between the gauche and droite in politics, in addition to the actual physical presence of the participants, operate on a spatial level in their use of historically marked spaces. His theory is based on Paris’ traditionally east-west and north-south divide: for the former, the city’s wealthy tended to settle in western Paris whereas the working class settled in the east; for the latter, the rive droite tended to be more bourgeois than the rive gauche.51 In his words: “Bien avant que les guerre civiles de 1830, 1848 et 1871 aient fixé l’évidence d’une ligne de front orientée nord-sud, séparant un est populaire et radical d’un ouest bourgeois et modéré, les Parisiens pouvaient se sentir partagés par la Seine.”52

Agulhon’s chapter fits well within the scope of Nora’s larger work since it not only makes use of the idea of lieux, but also evokes the layers of history that can be peeled away from the spaces into which society invests itself. To go further, it is not simply the history of a lieu, but the act of triggering memory in those who use or evoke the space.

To illustrate his theory, Agulhon conjures up example after example of how the political left and right of France have made use of Paris’ long history as a powerful symbolic

50 Agulhon, “Paris”; Lehning, To be a Citizen.

106 backdrop upon which they have acted out their public events:

Jusqu’à une époque toute récente, chacun savait bien qu’à Paris, quand la “gauche” descendait dans la rue pour faire une manifestation, cela se passait “de la Bastille à la République” (ou sur quelque itinéraire voisin), alors que, lorsque la “droite” en faisant autant—chose beaucoup plus rare—, c’était à plusieurs kilomètres de là: par exemple, le 30 mai 1968, pour soutenir le pouvoir vacillant du général de Gaulle, le défilé de la Concorde à l’Arc de triomphe. Ces choix paraissent “naturels”, mais de quelle nature au juste?53

Agulhon is not naive to think, however, that the city of Paris has been marked from the outset as a display case for a geographically inspired experiment in public political spectacles. In his exercise of peeling away the layers beneath the city squares today flooded with tourists and their cameras, Agulhon strives to understand whether coincidence plays a dominating role in the placement of certain monuments, or if indeed there are politically motivated decisions informing the landscape of la capitale. “Jusqu’à quel point cette coïncidence correspondait-elle à une nécessité? Qu’est-ce qui, en d’autres termes, détermine la façon dont la symbolique monumentale (historique, idéologique) s’est inscrite dans l’espace social de la ville au point de lui devenir parente?”54

Agulhon admits that a study including a comparison with other vieilles capitales would be necessary in order to fully understand whether or not Paris represents an isolated case of the deployment of a symbolique monumentale. Short of that—other countries do not fit into the scope of Les Lieux de mémoire, afterall—Agulhon chooses instead to peel away the layers of history bound up in the many monuments and squares of the city in order to “read” them as texts in the widest sense. Finally, Agulhon is also

51 Agulhon, “Paris,” 870–873. 52 Ibid., 873. 53 Ibid., 871. 54 Ibid., 872.

107 conscious of the fact that while he believes that Paris’ monumental geography is not a thing of pure chance—that there is an est-ouest dichotomy at work in the French capital—he also notes that with time, the importance of a lieu may change, be modified, or forgotten. The example that he cites is the Place Vendôme: no longer is this a site of memory of Napoléon I as it once was; the site that evokes his memory has now become the Hôtel des Invalides. The reason? As the final resting place of his momentous sarcophagus, it goes almost without saying that the Invalides would evoke the memory of

Napoléon far more today than the chic Place de Vendôme with its jewelry stores and the low rumbling of elegant European sedans parked in front of them.

While it is true that Paris is the center of France’s political and cultural world, I take issue with Agulhon’s quick dismissal of regional cities as possible lieux de mémoire, in that they are not as full of historical significance as the capital: “Le contraste politique entre droite et gauche n’est pas propre à Paris, mais il est plus nettement perçu dans la capitale qu’en province, parce qu’on y est plus proches des lieux de formation des doctrines, de la présence des leaders nationaux, etc.” I concede that the capital is indeed a fascinating place, but the rejection of regional cities only reinforces the Paris-centric attitude that dominates in French studies. Indeed, one of the aims of this study is to extend the academic gaze extra-muros. I argue then that most cities can also be read in a similar way. I therefore suggest a modification to his approach. As I stated earlier,

Agulhon’s goal is to uncover a determined and explicit use of Parisian geography to confirm that the occupation of a space by either demonstrators or a monument is not simple coincidence. While he takes Paris as his object because of its central role in

French political events, I demonstrate that regional cities such as Strasbourg, with their

108 places, their monuments aux morts, their préfectures, their universtiés, are equally infused with symbolic importance. Furthermore, instead of peeling back the layers of history in order to uncover the left or right leanings of significations behind a geographical location within the city, I suggest instead that the use of public space in any case can not only transform that space to the needs of the demonstration, but the demonstration can also use the symbolic importance of a space to bolster its own message.

How to be a Citizen: Lehning and the Symbolic Geography of the City

Similar to Agulhon’s chapter on Paris’ est-ouest divide, in How to be a Citizen:

The Political Culture of the Early French Third Republic, James Lehning examines

Paris’ physical geography in a comparable way.55 That is to say that he starts with the premise that the French capital has a an east/west divide, where the west has traditionally been more traditional and right-leaning and the east has been more radical and left- leaning. Agulhon’s goal was to uncover the pattern of the placement of monuments and their political and historical symbolic impact. Lehning, in the chapter where he discusses

Parisian geography, is focused upon the struggle of the dominant political powers to form the new citizenry of the Third Republic. I discussed earlier how the French Republic, especially the Third Republic, needed to valorize certain kinds of public political participation over others in order to stabilize and secure its own power. Political figures like Georges Gambetta were instrumental in this, stating over and over again that the

55 Lehning, To be a Citizen. See specifically his third chapter entitled “Taming Paris.”

109 highest form of political participation for the French citizen was embodied in the voting ballot. Indeed, the Républicains were at pains to valorize the history of the republic and its founding moment in the French revolution, but at the same time needed to “tame”

Parisians, as the title of Lehning’s chapter suggests. “The city of Paris held a prominent place in perceptions of crowd violence, acquiring a distinctive and social and cultural geography in the course of the nineteenth century.”56 The memory of the successive revolutions of 1789, 1848, and the Commune of 1871 loomed in the Républicain’s consciousness. The architects of the Third Republic were very aware of the politically infused geography of the capital, and Lehning demonstrates through the events of the beginning of the Third Republic how they employed the geography of Paris in the most effective way:

The ways in which republicans used public space during the 1870s and 1880s reflect their attempt to write new meanings onto spaces that already were heavily inscribed. Having conquered the institutions of government, they faced the challenge of gaining the symbolic spaces of France’s capital city for their own brand of republicanism.57

Lehning’s goal then is to understand the Third Republic’s use of Parisian public space within the realm of political participation. As Lehning states, Paris’ crowds were of great concern during the nineteenth century: witness such authors as Balzac, Flaubert,

Baudelaire, and Zola58 and the attention they gave to the Parisian crowds.

Combining Agulhon and Lehning, I form the basis of my approach with the idea that the city street is imbued with symbolic meaning and power. In a city like Paris, for example, the symbolic power associated with certain city streets, squares, and

56 Ibid., 58. 57 Ibid., 60. 58 Ibid., 59.

110 monuments were so important that it became of state concern how public space should be used, either in the placement of a new monument, or in the controlling of the Parisian crowd. However, I argue that while Agulhon and Lehning approach the city street or the public square from the standpoint of those who already hold political power, it is fruitful to examine the use of public space from the point of view of a group that has little political clout, especially within the realm of the Communauté urbaine de Strasbourg.

Similarly to Agulhon and Lehning, I believe that the symbolic importance of a space lends itself to those who invest this same space. Futhermore, like Agulhon and Lehning, I agree that the meaning of a space is multivalent in that its meaning can change, over the space of many years, but also within the space of a short amount of time. This is especially important in respect to ephemeral events that do not leave a noticeable mark upon the space, or one where a commemoration is not left to designate the space and its relationship to memory. Instead, these ephemeral events must make use of the space in order to bolster their own messages. It is this use of space that brings me to Michel de

Certeau’s theories of the everyday.

De Certeau and the Everyday: Parcours as Énoncé

Michel de Certeau in L’Invention du quotidien: Arts de faire takes an innovative approach to the study of human actions. His interest in the everyday activities of a society reveals a post-modern approach to the study of activities to which we pay little attention.

“Le but serait atteint si les pratiques ou ‘manières de faire’ quotidiennes cessaient de figurer comme le fond nocturne de l’activité sociale, et si un ensemble de questions

111 théoriques, de méthodes, de catégories et de vues, en traversant cette nuit, permettait de l’articuler.”59 The actions that we do everyday that mark, structure, and influence our lives in significant ways but which often go unquestioned or unnoticed: in his words, the fond nocturne which frames our everyday uses of space, but which we tend to overlook simply because we use them everyday.

One of de Certeau’s most intriguing ideas is the notion that a person’s path through the city, through the streets and squares of the neighborhood, are like a structure in that they shape the user’s perception of the city and its spaces. De Certeau likens this parcours through the city to a kind of linguistic system—a parole in the Saussurien60 sense—in that the structure of the city—the langue—is then interpreted and actualized by their use. The actualization or articulation of the city through its use—parole versus langue—will be heterogeneous, since the users themselves are diverse. That is to say that the different paths that one takes through the city may be articulated differently depending on the user. The actual usage of a space actualizes it in that it is no longer simply a part of the system, rather it has been singled out; it has been used and therefore interpreted.

It is this interpretation/actualization/usage of the city and its spaces that intrigues me here. Since I argue that the path of the marche de la visibilité makes use of the symbolic power of the city of Strasbourg, it follows that the march also makes use of the symbolic importance of the space it invests, not only of the city in general, but also the

59 Michel de Certeau, L’Invention du quotidien: Arts de faire, vol. 1 (Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions, 1980), 9. 60 See Ferdinand de Saussure, Cours de linguistique générale, 4th ed. (Paris: Payot, 1965).

112 streets, squares, and buildings through/by which it passes. By investing the space, the marche actualizes it and exposes the layers of meanings of the space as well as creating new ones. In de Certeau’s words:

D’abord, s’il est vrai qu’un ordre spatial organise un ensemble de possibilités (vg. par une place où l’on peut circuler) et d’interdictions (vg. par un mur qui empêche d’avancer), le marcheur actualise certaines d’entre elles. Par là, il les fait être autant que paraître. Mais aussi il les déplace et il en invente d’autres puisque les traverses, dérives ou improvisations de la marche, privilégient, muent ou délaissent des éléments spatiaux. Ainsi Charlie Chaplin multiplie les possibilités de sa badine : il fait d’autres choses avec la même chose et il outrepasse les limites que fixaient à son utilisation les déterminations de l’objet. De même, le marcheur transforme en autre chose chaque signifiant spatial.61

Following de Certeau’s theory, I argue therefore that while the path of the march through the city is a kind of parole—and actualization of the system or langue—, the path through the city does not have to be normative. That is to say that the possibilités and the interdictions put forth by the system as de Certeau writes above can be overturned during the marche. The users, then, may circumvent the overarching system and create a new usage of the space, or a new langue, if only temporarily.

Outside of the context of the march, traffic and pedestrians adhere, for the most part, to the traffic laws laid out by the code de la route and the signage that the state has erected; however, during the march, the rule governing the priorité à droite and jaywalking are no longer respected, creating a kind of “organized madness”62 in which something unexpected fills the city space. I want to return to a quote in chapter two taken from Alain Soral’s diatribe against all that he deems to stand against true republican

61 Certeau, L’Invention, 1:181. 62 See Micheal F. Leruth, “The Spectacle of the State in Postmodern France: The ‘Controlled Madness’ of Jean-Paul Goude’s Parade for the Bicentennial of the French Revolution” (Ph.D. Dissertation, The Pennsylvania State University, 1995).

113 values: “Une fois de plus je ne peux pas rouler, la rue, l’espace public me sont interdits; bloqués par une minorité qui n’a rien d’autre à revendiquer que son arrogance narcissique.”63 Here, Soral frames himself as the one who respects the use of the public sphere—by naming the group taking up the public space as a minorité, he thereby distinguishes himself from them as the majorité. In his car, he respects the code de la route and demands his right as a driver to occupy the road. Instead, the space is invested by a minority that, in Soral’s word, does not belong there, as they bar his use of the public sphere. They are not respecting the code de la route and are therefore not respecting the rules governing the public sphere. Indeed, he is forced to actualize a new path (parole) through areas of the city (langue), of which he is unfamiliar.

This quote from Soral is a compelling illustration of what Philippe Corcuff would call the “tyranies traditionnelles du nous.”64 I understand this expression in opposition to the “tyrannies traditionnelles du je” to which Corcuff also makes reference. That is to say that within the French political system, the “nous”—read here the majority—is privileged over the “je”—read here the minority.65 For Soral, the occupation of the public sphere by a minority that in turn blocks his access as a member of the majority to the public space is unacceptable. Furthermore, Soral derides the fact that the minority group, gays and lesbians participating in the pride parade, have very little real reason to be there. In his

63 Soral, Jusqu’où va-t-on déscendre?, 41. 64 Cited in McCaffrey, The Gay Republic: Sexuality, Citizenship and Subversion in France, 80. The original citation can be found in Philippe Corcuff, “L’Individualisme contemporain en question,” Le Débat 119 (2002): 126-132. 65 The United States would represent the tyranny of the “je” since that system traditionally favors the minority over the majority. See also Clarisse Fabre and Éric Fassin’s chapter “L’épouvantail américain” in their book Liberté, égalité, sexualités, 21– 39.

114 words, their only justification is their “arrogance narcissique,” which conjures up another tired argument used by staunch republicans in that same-sex desire is a rejection of the other, a prime example of the communitarian (“communautariste”) behavior of the queer community, its ultimate “repli sur soi.”66

Previously, I referred to the actualization of the city through its use as the parole.

If we follow de Certeau’s theory further, we find that for him, the act of walking through the city space is likened to the idea of a speech act (“énonciation”). The similarities for de Certeau between what he calls the “énonciation piétonnière” and speech act are several:

C’est un procès d’appropriation du système topographique par le piéton (de même que le locuteur s’approprie et assume la langue); c’est une réalisation spatiale du lieu (de même que l’acte de parole est une réalisation sonore de la langue); enfin il implique des relations entre des positions différenciées, c’est-à-dire des ‘contrats’ pragmatiques sous la forme de mouvements (de même que l’énonciation verbale est ‘allocution’, ‘implante l’autre en face’ du locuteur et met en jeu de contrats entre colocuteurs).67 (original emphasis)

The act then of walking through the city space is a three-fold process of appropriation, actualisation, and interpretation. The act of walking through the city is similar to the speech act then since it demonstrates knowledge of the system

(appropriation), the physical manifestation of walking through the space (actualisation), and its understanding in relation to other objects and users within the space

(interpretation). With this in mind, not only can we apply this idea to the everyday movement through the spaces of the city and the individual user, but I argue that we are also able to apply this to a larger group. In this respect, I align myself with de Certeau

66 This point is also discussed in David Caron’s My Father and I. 67 Certeau, L’Invention, 1:180–181.

115 when he states that if we may associate the act of walking through the city to speech acts, and these speech acts may represent different things to different people, then there must also exist a “rhétorique de la marche.”68 Through this rhetoric, we can uncover the symbolic importance of the march within the space it occupies. I discussed earlier the composition of the maps, and now I turn to the reading of the march.

Reading Strasbourg’s Marche de la visibilité

During the first four years of the march, the path through the city remained unidirectional in that the parade started in one place and ended in another (see figures 3-1 and 3-2). In 2006, the march evolved into a circular pattern, beginning and ending in the same place (see figure 3-3), a pattern that continues today.

Although the path of the march has changed over the years, it has maintained several defining features. First, the march always takes place in the centre ville of the

Alsatian capital. Second, it always travels past several key places and monuments of

Strasgbourgeois topography. Finally, since 2006 the beginning and the end of the march have shared the same space, the place de l’Université (see figure 3-3). Now I will turn to a discussion of these common features, first discussing the significance of the centre ville to the overarching message of the parade, second the places through/by which the parade passes, and finally the place de l’Université as a special place within the topography of the city and the parade.

68 Ibid., 1:183.

116 The city center plays a vital role in the life of the French city. In many cities and towns across France, the city center represents the nexus of civic life. The largest and

Figure 3-3: Map, 2006 (see <>)

most prominent buildings and monuments are generally found in these locations. Now that many French cities have revitalized their city centers by either reinstating or creating pedestrian areas, the city center also tends to be the area with the highest density of pedestrians. During the summer months across France, it is in the city center where many festivals take place. In Strasbourg alone, the Alsatian capital hosts festivals like L’Ill aux lumières69, La nuit aux musées, Le Festival de musique, Le Festival de jazz, and the La

69 Ill is the name of the river that flows through Strasbourg, thereby creating a central island. The name of the festival appears to be a play on the pronunciation of the name of the river and “île.”

117 Fête nationale. Among these events, the Marche de la visibilité stands as one of the most well-attended gatherings, even though it is rarely mentioned on websites that do not already cater to a queer audience.70

One of the main goals of the march is to raise the level of visibility for the gay and lesbians of Strasbourg and the surrounding region. Considering the size of

Strasbourg, a procession that cuts through the historic center city certainly achieves this goal. The number of Strasbourgeois out on their Saturday afternoon shopping errands is reaching its height;71 at 2 o’clock restaurant and bistro patrons begin to pour out into the streets; cafés fill up with afternoon beverage drinkers and people watchers who look out onto the city squares and streets; tourists continue to mill about the city’s landmarks, meandering from Place Austerlitz towards the Cathedral, la Petite France neighborhood, and Place Kléber. The time is ripe for the message to be seen and heard by many.

In Carnival in Multiple Planes, Roberto DaMatta discusses the different spaces of street and home within the scope of the carnival of Rio de Janeiro.72 For DaMatta, the home symbolizes order while the street represents chaos:

The category “street” indicates the world with its unpredictable events, its actions and passions. The category “house” pertains to a controlled universe, where things are in their proper places. The street implies

70 See, for example, <>, the Office de Tourisme website, 71 At the time of this research, the revision of the Code du travail allowing for Sunday openings had not yet taken place. The professional law of 26 July 1900 proscribed work on holidays and Sundays and remained in place after the Alsace-Moselle was returned to France. Saturday shopping, then, had become all the more an Alsatian ritual, bringing droves of people out to shop at the center city grocery stores like Monoprix, Galeries Gourmandes, and ATAC. 72 Roberto DaMatta, “Carnival in Multiple Planes,” in Rite, Drama, Festival, Spectacle: Rehearsals toward a Theory of Cultural Performance, ed. John J MacAloon (Philadelphia: Institute for the Study of Human Issues, 1984), 208-240.

118 movement, novelty, and action, while the house implies harmony, warmth, and calm. Furthermore, in the street one works; at home one rests. The social groups that occupy a house are radically different from those of the world of the street. In the home we have associations ruled and formed by kinship and “blood relations.” In the street relationships are those of patronage and have an indelible character of choice, or imply the possibility of choice. In the house, relations are ruled “naturally” by the hierarchies of sex and age, with males and the elderly taking precedence. In the street some difficulty may be encountered in localizing and discovering the hierarchies, as they are based on other principles.73

By taking to the street, carnival, or in our case, gay pride parades are able to escape the privatizing principles of bourgeois family norms. By espousing the idea that the home represents “rest,” however, DaMatta ignores the androcentric nature of such a claim: the home is not a metonym for “rest” for everyone. It may represent rest and harmony for those who benefit from the naturalized hierarchies of sex and age; however, it also devalues and divests work done in the home of its importance. Here, DaMatta tries to construct a binary where the home represents order and the street represents the unknown and “otherness,” where the naturalized hierarchies of the home may no longer find resonance. Instead, with every step, change of street, and neighborhood, these hierarchies transform and rearrange themselves. It is for this reason that DaMatta constructs the street as the antithesis to the home, and therefore a “queer” space where norms are replaced with a more fluid and variable system of interactions. Within the context of gay pride, the private sphere symbolizes a normative space, and by exiting that space for the public sphere, the queer participant is able to free him/herself of the constraints of bourgeois family norms. In the street, the same rules of home do not apply,

73 Ibid., 209.

119 and the participant in the demonstration raises the visibility of a heretofore invisible group.

By casting off the constraints of bourgeois family norms and entering into the queer space of the street where they dance, sing, and shout, participants also cast off their bourgeois responsibilities. Rejecting “responsible” behavior and disrupting the everyday circulation of goods and people, participants come together into an indiscernible mob, the links of family no longer applicable. The strength of the family model as a structuring societal force fades, replaced by an ephemeral group friendship that arises out of the random assembly of participants.74 This rejection of “responsible” adult behavior finds resonance with Judith Halberstam who discusses the idea of a “stretched-out adolescence.” Like Caron, Halbserstam challenges normative bourgeois family norms of progress, norms to which queer people are often held in order to discount their validity as social bodies. She writes:

The notion of a stretched-out adolescence… challenges the conventional binary formulation of a life narrative divided by a clear break between youth and adulthood; this life narrative charts an obvious transition out of childish dependency through marriage and into adult responsibility through reproduction.75

Dancing down the middle of the street questions the bourgeois family narrative by reformulating Saturday afternoon behavior: not out shopping for the week’s provisions, not at home caring for the family, not sitting at a café watching the world go by. Instead, the participant is up, moving and dancing to the techno rhythms being pumped out of

74 For more on the idea of group friendship and the family model, see Caron, My Father and I. 75 Judith Halberstam, In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives (New York: New York University Press, 2005), 153.

120 huge speakers mounted on large trucks. The club—something normally consigned to the inside of a building, barely audible from the outside, with the occasional wave of sound escaping as the doors open and close—is now out for everyone to see. Moreover, for those Saturday strollers caught in the throngs of people coming down the street, there may actually be little choice if they want to participate: turning the corner to be confronted by a wall of revelers, the unsuspecting spectator becomes participant.

The exuberant atmosphere of gay pride upsets hierarchies and norms for a short while, creating an ephemeral destabilized quality to the afternoon. The everyday rules of the pedestrian, motorist, and user of public transportation are disrupted, destabilized in a queer use of the space. Queer in that participants and spectators alike clog the city’s streets and squares, blocking traffic, halting the tram, and rerouting busses all while walking the majority of the time in both lanes of traffic. In this respect, gay pride is similar to other street demonstrations, from the festive to the political, in that it unsettles the normal activity of a space. Adopting de Certeau’s theory of the everyday discussed above, the users’ repeated interpretation and actualization of city space as directed by signs, streets, and building locations, constructs his/her understanding of that same space through his/her interaction with it. Employees walk day after day through the same squares and streets to arrive at work; customers make their way to their usual stores taking the same route; delivery people plot their courses depending on the deliveries that day and the shortest route from point “A” to point “B.” To return to DaMatta’s dichotomy of home and street, the localization of the hierarchy outside the home during the gay pride parade is difficult to establish since the space is constantly being reinvested with new meaning. Furthermore, meanings also change from year to year and the flavor

121 of the parade will inevitably change: the organizers may be different, the participants will be different, the sponsors will be different, the spectators will be different.

One of the major themes of DaMatta’s article is the importance of place and symbolic power in a parade or a procession. To help illustrate his point, he cites the example of the object of a skull: “A skull is nothing more nor less than a skull when it is in a grave, for that is its place. It comes to represent much more in the hands of a man or in a drawer.”76 DaMatta argues that a religious procession of a saint winding its way through numerous residential areas of the city renders the separation between the street and the home less visible. The aim of this kind of procession is to open one’s home to the saint, to welcome this divine presence into the private sphere of the family. The center, in this respect, is not fixed; rather, the center is displaced along with the image of the saint as it leaves its sanctuary to go out into the world.77 The city center, with its commercial bent, then, represents the profane and the vulgar, and the saintly procession avoids this area of the city, instead making itself the center. Conversely, DaMatta argues, the military procession endeavors to “re-conquer” the city center, bringing order and discipline to the streets and squares of the city.78 In this respect, the military procession heads directly for the center where disorder and chaos are supposedly at their most rampant.

In respect to DaMatta’s dichotomous relationship between saintly procession and military procession, gay pride falls into a kind of grey area. On one hand, gay pride evokes the private sphere since it brings “private” matters of the home into the “public” arena of the street. However, the parade does not displace the center, as does the image of

76 DaMatta, “Carnival in Multiple Planes,” 213. 77 Ibid., 217. 78 Ibid., 219.

122 the saint. Homes are not opened for the parade to enter. Instead, gay pride parades, like military processions, head towards the city center in a kind of re-conquering of the space.

Yet, gay pride parades do not try to re-conquer the space in order to bring order and discipline to it; rather, they may indeed underscore the vulgar and chaotic nature of the city with its participants dancing along to the sound of a techno beat.

The city center as a whole plays host to the gay pride parade in Strasbourg, but the actual path of the march also has symbolic power. As discussed above in the works of

Maurice Agulhon and James Lehning, the path of a procession through the city can take on many meanings depending on which streets, squares, and monuments by and through which it travels. While the path of the march has changed over the years, from unidirectional to circular, it has always passed through certain parts of the city center.

Points 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6 on the 2004 map (figure 3-2) and points 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7 on the

2006 map (figure 3-3) represent locations through which the parade has always passed. It is to a discussion of these locations that I will now turn.

Since its launch in 2002, the marche de la visibilité has been aware of the symbolic importance of place. In an informational letter published on the website of the organizing body, one reads, “Le parcours proposé part de la place de l'Étoile à 14 h, pour se terminer place de l'université, en passant entre autre par la place Kléber, mais aussi symboliquement par la place de la République, l'avenue de la Liberté ou l'avenue Victor-

Schoelcher.”79 The importance of the Place Kléber for the march is its place as the central square of the Alsatian capital. As I wrote above, the march’s path through the city center

79 Festigays, “La Marche de la fierté homosexuelle le samedi 15 juin 2002 à 14 h,” Archives Festigays, 2002, http://archives.festigays.net/dtn02/d20219.htm.

123 is an attempt to (re)conquer public space, and Place Kléber is the high point at which the procession rounds the corner at the rue des Grandes Arcades and enters the heart of the city. Not far from the node of four tramlines at the place de l’Homme de Fer, place

Kléber represents the heart of Strasbourg. Since 1840 the square has been named after

Jean-Baptiste Kléber, an Alsatian general who served under Napoléon.80 In many respects, the square represents Alsace’s attachment to France. In fighting for the glory of

France, Kléber firmly placed himself at the heart of French nationalist sentiment and can symbolically stand as Alsace’s commitment to the glory of France. Further proof of the symbolic importance and centrality to the square, place Kléber is also home to the famous Sapin de Noël, a massive tree cut from the forests of the Alsatian countryside and erected and decorated to the great joy of residents and tourists alike during the celebrated

Marché de Noël. Moreover, place Kléber also plays host to other large demonstrations, from student protests to sports victories (e.g. the France’s 1998 Soccer World Cup victory). Investing the space of the square, even if only ephemerally, places the Marche de la visibilité on par with other citywide events, whether they be political or festive.

In its name alone, the Place de la République (see point 3 on figure 3-3) evokes symbolic importance. Bordered on all sides by imposing government buildings, the roundabout of the Republic is designed to inspire respect and awe. Here, Strasbourg’s many layers of history come strikingly together with imposing architecture built under

German control after the Franco-Prussian War. On the western side of the roundabout stands the palais du Rhin (formerly the Kaiserpalast), the residence of the German

80 Maurice Moszberger, Théodore Rieger, and Léon Daul, Dictonnaire historique des rues de Strasbourg (Illkirch, France: Le Verger, 2002), 90.

124 Emperor when he would visit the region. During World War II, the building was the headquarters for the Nazi government until 1945 when it was taken again by general

Leclerc, who in turn used it as his command station. Currently home to the oldest

European institution, the Central Commission for Navigation on the Rhine, and the

Direction régionale des Affaires culturelles (DRAC), the palais du Rhin stands as both a reminder of Strasbourg’s tumultuous past as former capital to the Reichsland of Elsaß-

Lothringen, as well as European integration. The palace then is a ready example of

Strasbourg’s position as both a periphery zone of France—and Germany, for that matter—as well as the center of Europe with its many prestigious European and international institutions.

Other buildings on the site of the place de la République are the Hôtel des Impôts and the Préfecture, both symbols of the French republic. For the former, the building stands as one of the most basic but also one of the most important functions of the state: tax collection. The act of paying one’s taxes has a huge symbolic importance: for a percentage of one’s salary, a citizen expects certain services and protections in exchange.

The building then stands as a kind of synecdoche for the French state and the power it has to levy and collect taxes for the greater good of the French nation. The latter of the two buildings, the Préfecture, stands as a reminder of the Republic’s presence within the region. It symbolizes authority since it is responsible for the control of passports, identity cards, car titles, immigration documents (titres de séjour), and elections. Finally, the préfecture is also responsible for civil security. These two buildings are highly charged with symbolic importance as their functions indicate, whether the collection of taxes, the

125 lifeblood of the state, or the protection of its citizens, one of the major components of the social contract.

On one side of the place de la République, we find reminders of Strasbourg’s imperial past and European integration; on another the presence of the French state embodied in taxes and identity cards; on the remaining built-up section of the roundabout, two other imposing buildings represent education and culture. In terms of education, the Bibliothèque nationale et universitaire de Strasbourg (BNUS) is the second largest library in France after the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BNF). The last building is the Théâtre national de Strasbourg (TNS), which is the first and only national theatre outside of Paris.

The neighborhood in which the place de la République and these five buildings are located is traditionally known as the German quarter for its Wilhelmina era architecture. Each one was built after the treaty of Frankfort and the annexation of the

Alsace-Lorraine to the German empire. As I mentioned earlier, the palais du Rhin was formerly known as the Kaiserpalast and was the home of the emperor during his official visits to the region. The TNS was first constructed to house regional delegations and later became the seat of the Alsatian parliament between 1911-1918, and the préfecture and

Hôtel des impôts housed the ministries of Alsace.81 Finally, the BNUS was completed under the German empire in 1895 after the terrible loss of the previous libraries’ collections during the bombing of Strasbourg in the course of the Franco-Prussian war.

On one hand, Strasbourg lost many of Europe’s oldest and most valuable documents and

81 Ibid., 159.

126 manuscripts because of the war, but was also elevated back to its former glory thanks to the German empire and the donors who contributed to refilling its shelves.

After its return to France, Strasbourg’s German quarter, with its imperial buildings, was assimilated into the Republic. As stated above, each one found functions that tied them to the French State in a very grand way. No longer was the square called the Kaiserplatz (“Emperor’s square”) but place de la République. Built under the German empire to demonstrate imperial prowess, the neighborhood was originally designed to accommodate not only the government buildings that I have discussed above, but also house the influx of middle- to upper class Germans that colonized the area. Returned to

France after World War I, the Republic needed to “franciser” the region, aiming to stamp out German traces. In so doing France dealt awkwardly with Alsace’s heritage as border region with its Gallic and Germanic influences.82 An equestrian statue of emperor

Wilhelm was removed shortly after the end of World War I to be replaced in 193683 by a gallo-germanic sensitive Monument aux morts that depicted the city of Strasbourg as a mother with her two dying sons symbolizing Alsace’s dual heritage and the fact that

Alsatians have fought on both sides at different times throughout history. Just as

Germany and France exercised their respective power and influence on Strasbourg and the region through linguistic policies, educational reforms, and city planning,84 the marche de la visibilité also endeavors to bring its influence to the space it occupies. By parading around the place de la République, the organizers claim the space as their own.

82 See generally Vogler, Histoire culturelle de l’Alsace; Meyer, Histoire de l’Alsace. 83 Moszberger, Rieger, and Daul, Dictionnaire historique, 160. 84 See chapters nine and 10 in Vogler, Histoire culturelle de l’Alsace, 301–419.

127 Returning to de Certeau’s ideas of énoncé, the marche de la visibilité is able to transform Strasbourg’s city center, in a way reformulating both spectator and participant’s perception and understanding of the topography of the city. Marching down the street, disrupting traffic and tram alike, the march succeeds in raising the visibility for gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgender people. The hope of the organizers and participants is that spectators become “used to” the overt presence of gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgender people, towards a “banalisation” of queers.85 Since the main discourse of pride parades tends to focus on rights—marriage and adoption being the two major ones in the forefront today in many parts of the western world—it is not a surprise then that many of the participants carry signs and banners that challenge their self- proclaimed second-class citizen status.86 I will return to a more detailed analysis of the participants and the parade itself in chapter five. Here I limit my analysis to the path of the march through the city streets.

Although not a part of the massive government buildings that border the place de la République, the palais Universitaire was also part of the German-influenced building spree that happened during the Empire’s occupation of the region. Like the BNUS discussed above, the palais Universitaire has stayed true to its original purpose in that it has remained a prestigious center of European learning since its inception shortly after

85 I do not address here those who are critical of this approach. For many scholars, the discourse of pride and the banalisation of queers lead to the endorsement of bourgeois family norms, to their co-optation into mainstream society and therefore to the loss of their critical voice. See for example David M. Halperin and Valerie Traub, eds., Gay Shame (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009); Caron, My Father and I. 86 Observe the title of the late Jean Le Bitoux’s autobiography Citoyen de seconde zone.

128 the annexation of the region in 1871.87 The palais Universitaire itself stands as a kind of synecdoche for the larger French system of higher education. With France’s long tradition of scientific inquiry, the university stands symbolically as a location of change even as the educational system and the university itself also stand for tradition and inflexibility, for instance most recently during the famous student riots of 1968. The palais Universitaire thus embodies not only the side of the universitaires themselves with their years of academic tradition, but also the students and their challenge to the system.

The occupation of the university space by the participants of the marche des visibililtés stands as a reminder of former battles where others spoke up and found their voice.

However, in opposition to the student riots of 1968, as well as other student protests that have taken place since that time, the marche de la visibilité does not restrict the university from its normal functions, as it uses the space at a time when it is at its nearly most deserted.

Whereas marching through the city center at the height of Saturday shopping achieved a very high level of visibility for the parade and its participants, in this corner of

Strasbourg, just down the avenue Victor-Schoelcher, avenue de la Liberté and the pont

87 Vogler, Histoire culturelle de l’Alsace, 318–321, 395–400. Before the inauguration of the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Universität, there existed a university in Strasbourg since the fifteenth century. However, in order to make the German university one of the most prestigious in the world, the Empire poured money and resources into the institution. Similarly to the French, once Alsace had been given returned in 1918, both the German and French universities, in their concern to not appear too focalized on the region in which it found itself, tended to ignore local issues. Vogler contends that this led to a kind of disconnect between the university and the region, a trait not very surprising for the time since both governments tended to enforce policies that had little regard for the “dual” nature of the region, especially in areas of language, education, and religion.

129 d’Auvergne88 from the place de la République, lies a neighborhood where the only activity would be linked to the TNS and the BNUS, and the number of spectators would be at a very low point. The practical nature of the space would allow for the participants to invest the area surrounding the steps of the university without keeping students, faculty, and staff from entering the building. In this last part of the march, when the participants have stepped down from their floats and people have gathered around the microphone and bullhorns to listen to speeches from the organizers and other invited guests,89 I would argue that much of the momentum of the march is lost. The participants who have gathered and the spectators who have come to listen are, in a sense, the “choir” to which the speakers are “preaching.” On one hand, then, the final place of the march is practical; on the other it achieves little for the visibility of the parade. Those who are already present are already familiar with the space and the people who are present. Those people to whom the parade is aiming to raise its visibility are most likely far from this part of the city and would unlikely happen upon the event.

The place de l’Université was not always the start and finish of the parade, however. During the 2004 and 2005 parade, the march concluded at the place de la Gare, a huge square directly in front of the central Strasbourg train station. Similarly to the

88 Victor Schoelcher was a French abolitionist writer of Alsatian origin during the early part of the nineteenth century. The avenue de la Liberté needs little interpretation. Finally, the pont d’Auvergne was named for the transfer of most of the faculty and students to the city of Clermont-Ferrand during the German occupation of World War II. Previously, the bridge had been known as the Universitätsbrücke [University Bridge] until it was renamed Pont de l’Université after World War I. It wasn’t until 1983 that the bridge received the name it carries today. See Moszberger, Rieger, and Daul, Dictionnaire historique, 151. 89 The Semaine de visibilité often has an invited guest or guests of honor. In the 2008 march, the last year from which I have collected data, the Turkish organization Lambda Istanbul was given this honor.

130 other grand buildings of the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries that I discussed earlier, the train station of Strasbourg was also constructed during German occupation after the Franco-Prussian war. A symbol to the status of Strasbourg as a new capital within the Empire, the train station was also a symbol of the modernity of the city. A structure “qui ne manque pas de prestance,”90 the station included a reception room for the emperor, furnished with chandeliers and plush furniture.91 Unlike the relative weekend quietness of the place de l’Université, the place de la Gare is always alive with pedestrians and traffic. At the place de l’Université, the great majority of spectators are the same participants who marched along the route; at the place de la Gare, travelers entering or exiting the train station were confronted with the participants and their music, dancing, revelry, speeches, and information booths. There was very little one could do to escape the spectacle. In this sense, the marche de la visibilité achieved one of its goals throughout its entire course when ending at the Place de la Gare, instead of reaching its peak at the halfway point in the latest mapping of the march.

Finally, the 2004 and 2005 marches capitalized on Strasbourg’s history as a crossroad and node of transportation. For the 2005 and 2006 marches, two poles of circulation anchor the parade (see figure 3-2 points 1 and 8). Point 1 reminds us of

Strasbourg’s fluvial heritage as the second largest port on the Rhine and point 8 reminds us of its connection to rail networks of both France and Germany. Considering these two nodes of transportation, the path of the march through the city, and the origin of the city’s

90 Moszberger, Rieger, and Daul, Dictionnaire historique, 116. 91 With the arrival of the TGV-Est nearly twenty years after its original conception, Strasbourg’s train station was remodeled and transformed for its entry into the select group of high-speed train destinations. During the renovation, the Salle de l’Empereur was renovated and reopened as a waiting room for first- and business class customers.

131 name (Strass or Straß meaning street and burg meaning city), the marche de la visibilité appears to take the city’s tag line to heart: “Strasbourg communauté urbaine en mouvement.” Moreover, the parade ending at the place de la Gare suggests the possible continuation of the march to other locations, at least symbolically, into the small Alsatian villages, across the Rhine into Germany, to Paris to the west, and beyond.92

The Sexual Citizen and the (Re)Claiming of Space

Queer ways of life have often been associated with the city. Doreen Massey writes that the city is where one may go to escape and “…find the advantages of multiplicity and of complexity, of the potential for mixing and the ability to disappear, here you can do your own thing, be anonymous.”93 Further Didier Eribon proclaimed that

“La ville a toujours été le refuge des homosexuels.”94 The city, then, represents a privileged space within which queer people have been able to construct their own space, or enter into a space constructed by other queer people before them: queer tourists who go to certain “known” neighborhoods of cities like Paris, London, New York, Sydney,

92 Along with the transformation of the façade of the train station to mark the arrival of the TGV-Est, the large open space before the imposing building was also redesigned to reflect a desire for more green space within the city. Instead of a paved open expanse, the place de la Gare was revamped to include small islands with grass, trees, and bushes. While this follows current trends of returning paved spaces to a more “natural” state, it effectively ended the likelihood of any kind of large-scale gathering. This may explain why, since 2006, the march has remained circular with its beginning and end at the place de l’Université. 93 Doreen Massey, “Space/Power, Identity/Difference: Tensions in the City,” in The Urbanization of Injustice, ed. Andy Merrifield and Erik Swyngedouw (New York: New York University Press, 1997), 105. Massey reminds her reader, however, that while the city may represent a space in which people may craft their identity and existence, it also silences others. 94 Eribon, Réflexions sur la question gay, 53.

132 etc., in order to find a welcoming space. And not only the tourist from afar, but those from the nearby in search of a more accepting atmosphere where they are able to partake in and consume queer life in the form of cafés, bars, restaurants, clothing boutiques, bookstores, sex clubs…95

I would like to return to a quote from de Certeau cited earlier in the chapter where he writes that the marcheur actualizes certain aspects of the city in his/her walk through it. De Certeau explains that like Charlie Chaplin, the marcheur is able to multiply the possibilities of his/her walk through the city, breaking barriers and creating new paths and therefore new understandings of the space that surrounds him/her. What is lacking from de Certeau in his productive theory of the actualization of space through the steps of the marcheur may be the marcheur him/herself. De Certeau’s marcheur appears unmarked, and in a very French twist could very well be the “universal” citizen discussed in chapter two. As discussed in chapter two, the universal citizen is as much an ideal as it is a myth and to disregard the position from which the marcheur comes undermines any possible analysis that one could garner from the parcours. To echo DaMatta, the presence of a drag queen in a club at 4 a.m. is not so out of the ordinary; a drag queen in colorful dress and wild makeup strutting around the place de l’Université on a Saturday afternoon is quite another. Bell and Valentine contend that the open display of non-normative sexualities queers the otherwise normalized—read “heterosexualized”—streets and spaces of the city.

95 I temper this statement with the knowledge that not everyone feels at ease in Paris’ Marais neighborhood. Furthermore, as both David Caron and Denis Provencher have argued elsewhere, the Marais, while a kind of mecca for French queer sexual citizens, is not the only location in which queers may participate in and consume queer lifestyles, nor is it always welcoming to all queers.

133 The 1992 [Montreal] rally, and many more like it around the world which take to the (ambient heterosexual) streets (not to mention the ‘unsanctioned’ protests and happenings orchestrated by activists and the individual actions of countless queers who have sex, or kiss, or hold hands, or make eye contact, or swap phone numbers, or ‘pass’ in public space), by coming out into straight space, inevitably queered the streets; indeed, queered the whole city. Important to this process is that the presence of queer bodies in particular locations forces people to realize (by the juxtaposition of ‘queer’ and ‘street’ or ‘queer’ and ‘city’) that the space around them, the landscape of Montreal (or wherever), the city streets, the malls and the motels, have been produced as (ambiently) heterosexual, heterosexist and heteronormative… And, to take this deconstruction a step further… taking to the streets in such a perverse parade of genderfucking should begin to reveal that this heterosexing of space is a performative act naturalised through repetition—and destabilised by the mere presence of invisiblised sexualities.96

By investing the city streets in the light of day, with loud music, signs, and marching and dancing bodies, gay pride parades take over the heterosexualized space of the public sphere. And in a city like Strasbourg, where there exists no gay neighborhood and few queer-friendly dedicated spaces, queers destabilize the system by actualizing and interacting with it differently. In some respects, they resist the dominant discourse of how one conducts oneself in the city streets, metaphorically dancing all over those rules.

To illustrate this “dancing,” I reference Sue Golding’s article, “Sexual Manners.”

What I find interesting in this passage is Golding’s notion of the taking and making of place. For her, the city streets are in large part a place controlled by the dominant powers of middle-class family norms; however, she argues that sexual practices generally viewed as “deviant” have their place:

Now, before I go on and tell you what happened, let me just say that these words: dom, Master, bottom, whore-fem, butch, Daddy-boy, cruising,

96 David Bell and Gill Valentine, “Introduction: Orientations,” in Mapping Desire: Geographies of Sexualities, ed. David Bell and Gill Valentine (London; New York: Routledge, 1995), 18.

134 play, play-mate, and so on, have their place. Or, rather, they take a place and make a place. They make an impossible place take place. They describe, circumscribe, inscribe a spectacular space, a spectacle of space: an invented, made-up, unreal, larger-than-life-and-certainly-more- interesting space that people like myself sniff out and crave and live in and want to call ‘Home’; a home I want to suggest that is entirely Urban; an urbanness I want to say that is entirely City and not at all—or at least not exactly—Community; a queer (kind of) city (or better yet, cities)…97

I advance that the participants of the marche de la visibilité are taking and making their space within the urban environment. They are participating in the march as sexual citizens. Whether or not the participants actually identify their sexuality is, in some respects, not the heart of the issue. Instead, that one is participating in a march that questions the normative sexuality of the public sphere may be.

I would also argue that what makes the marche de la visibilité a powerful message is the fact that it takes place in the middle of the day. The city streets at night are a wholly different place than during the day and a city park attracts a totally different type of consumer in the middle of the night. Guy Hocquenghem underscores the nighttime quality of the city and the power it has to blur places together. In search of the next trick,

Hocquenghem’s gay voyage is almost oblivious to its location. Instead, a kind of generalized cité de la nuit becomes the locus for his sexual escapades.

Je ne connais pas de villes, je ne connais que des ghettos. Des ghettos qui se succèdent, à peine interrompus de gares ou d’aéroports. Cité de la nuit, disait le grand écrivain américain John Rechy: le Lungotevere s’achève à West Street, le Tibre se jette dans Hudson River, la porte du fond de ce sauna d’Amsterdam s’ouvre sur la salle obscure d’un cinéma de Pigalle. Les Tuileries et Central Park ont le même lion bronze, et les mêmes ombres tournoient au petit matin dans les allées. Marcher, la nuit, dans une ville inconnue—et toute ville est inconnue après minuit—, c’est là ce qu’on appelle draguer. Draguer les monstres des profondeurs, les

97 Quoted in Ibid., 17.

135 coquillages et les étoiles de mer des amours hétéroclites. Casual encounters disent les Américains.98

If the cité de la nuit is Hocquenghem’s space, and the space of those who are there with him, the marche de la visibilité is at once a claiming of space and a reclaiming of space. On one hand, the overt daytime display of homosexuality is generally not tolerated—I am reminded of the constant remark that people are not necessarily against homosexuals, as long as they keep themselves confined to the private sphere away from the public gaze—and therefore is a claiming of space. On the other, the space of the street is not necessarily a foreign one to the homosexual, as evinced by Hocquenghem above.99

The city streets have been a place where sexual deviants have been tolerated, especially in the darkness of night. Away from the safety of the private sphere, the city street, as

DaMatta states above, is a place where the hierarchies of the home are destabilized. As such, “sexual deviants” are able to claim the space as their own. The march then represents the visible manifestation of “sexual deviants” in the light of day. Instead of remaining unnoticed to the larger public,100 the march reminds its participants and its spectators of their presence, and of the fact that after the end of the festivities, this concentration of queers will dissipate into and be part of the masses.

98 Guy Hocquenghem, Le Gay voyage: Guide et regard homosexuels sur les grandes métropoles (Paris: Albin Michel, 1980), 9. 99 See also Lionel Soukaz, Race d’ep, 16 mm, Drama, 1979. The film, based on Hocquenghem’s writings, is a history of homosexuality—the title is the French word pédéraste in verlan—that intertwines the story of Hocquenghem and his American interest for the evening, played by Piotr Stanislas. The film is available through the website <>. 100 Here I am reminded of the scene in Proust where the baron Charlus picks up on certain cruising signals during his walk with the narrator through the streets of Paris. Indeed, cruising allows sexual deviants to find each other by picking up on certain cues and signals. Although largely out of use today, for example, the color and placement of a handkerchief was widely used to indicate a male’s sexual preferences.

136 Through this claiming and reclaiming of physical space within the Alsatian capital, the parade aims to raise its visibility as a collective. The effect of this is multiple.

First, by raising the visibility of Strasbourg’s gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgender citizens, the parade “banalise” its visible presence within the public sphere, and by extension the gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgender participants. As I demonstrate later in chapter 5, many of the linguistic messages displayed by participants employ a discourse of alignment that aims to normalize their presence. Second, the parade frames the queer participants as citizens against whom society discriminates. By raising awareness of the presence of queers within the Alsatian social landscape, thereby rendering the visibility of the queer body more familiar, and then in turn demonstrating to spectators that they are a disadvantaged group because of their sexual identity, the parade tries to sensitize spectators to the inequalities that exist within the supposed universal public sphere for those who are not identified as “normal.” Thirdly, and in many respects what I believe to be the most influential on a sociopolitical level, the parade actualizes the queer community who share a common bond through sexual identity. Whether or not all the queer people of the region descend upon Strasbourg for the day’s event is, in many respects, irrelevant. Returning to Sue Golding’s quote, by taking and making these spaces of the city, the participants construct the queer community of Strasbourg. The collective presence of the participants and its mediation through television and newspapers creates a cohesive whole where, in fact, one may not exist.

137 Pierre Bourdieu, during a televised talk he gave in the early 1990s,101 critiqued the effect that journalists and mass media have on constructing “reality.” Indeed, the images presented to the region through coverage of the marche in the newspaper Dernières

Nouvelles d’Alsace illustrate his point very well: located on one of the interior pages of the edition, a color image of a drag queen in 1960s inspired go-go girl attire graces the page. I do not argue that drag queens are misrepresentative of the queer community, but following Bourdieu’s argument, it is no surprise that journalists would insist upon the more fantastic and—for many, gay or straight—shocking aspects of the parade. Bourdieu argues that the danger inherent in images stems from the fact that they create reality:

…[l’image] peut faire voir et faire croire à ce qu’elle fait voir. Cette puissance d’évocation a des effets de mobilisation. Elle peut faire exister des idées ou des représentations, mais aussi des groupes. Les faits divers, les incidents ou les accidents quotidiens, peuvent être chargés d’implications politiques, éthiques, etc. propres à déclencher des sentiments forts, souvent négatifs, comme le racisme, la xénophobie, la peur-haine de l’étranger et le simple compte rendu le fait de rapporter, to record, en reporter, implique toujours une construction sociale de la réalité capable d’exercer des effets sociaux de mobilisation (ou de démobilisation).102

Yet, I argue that the physical presence of this group, outside the reception and retransmission by the media, also achieves this effect. The “images” of the participants during the march also creates (“fait exister”) the group.

In this chapter I have discussed the origins and evolution of gay pride in France with attention paid to both its North American and French roots. Included within this history is the evolution of a gay pride movement in Strasbourg and the founding moments

101 A transcription of this talk can be found in the book Sur la télévision (Paris: Raisons d’agir, 1996). 102 Ibid., 20–21.

138 for the parade. In the second part of this chapter I turned my attention to an examination of how the path of the march carries with it its own symbolism. Employing the work of

Agulhon, Lehning, and de Certeau, I uncover the symbolic power present within the streets of the Alsatian capital and the manner in which public demonstrations are able to use this symbolic power. Finally, I end with a discussion of the sexual citizen and how the parade is able to claim and reclaim space within the city for queer participants.

This leads me to consider the cohesiveness of the participants and from there explore the multifaceted aspects of the march. As a next step in the analysis of

Strasbourg’s marche de la visibilité, I turn my attention in the following chapter to an ethnographic investigation of the participants of the parade. Through an experiential approach, I hope to uncover some of the internal connections and contradictions at work within the event.

139

Chapter 4

An Ethnographic Exploration of the Importance and Regional Specificities of Strasbourg’s Marche de la visibilité

In this chapter I explore the importance and impact of Strasbourg’s Marche de la visibilité homosexuelle, bisexuelle et transgenre on its participants. Through ethnographic fieldwork, I compiled questionnaires with self-identified queers and heterosexuals that I analyze in order to better understand the significance of the event. In chapter two, I discussed the dilemma of sexual citizenship within a French construction of the universal citizen. In chapter three I examined the symbolic importance of the path of the march through the city and the challenge to the hetero-normative use of space it poses. As such, the sexual citizen is able to redefine or queer the space of the city, altering it if only for a short while. In this chapter I turn to the sexual citizens and participants themselves in order to achieve a better understanding of the significance it has for them.

Gay Pride, as I discussed earlier, has its roots in the Stonewall Riots of June 1969 and has become a regular event in many countries as well as a kind of test for the level of tolerance in a specific society. As Anna Gruszczynka writes, “In Eastern Europe, the annual Pride events have become a litmus test for the strength of the local LGBT

(lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender) communities world-wide as well as for the

140 degree of tolerance of the societies they take place in.”1 However, it is important to understand that while the current manifestations of “pride” across the globe take the commemorative marches of Stonewall as their most recent example, many societies have sexual minority liberation narratives that predate June 1969.2 With this in mind, I am careful not to assume a North-American-centric understanding of the marche de la visibilité. Throughout this work I strive to approach the objects and texts that form the primary source of data from a “French” perspective. My contribution to gay French studies is similar then to that of Denis Provencher, whose scholarship demonstrates that while contemporary gay male French culture shares many similarities with its North-

American counterpart, it nevertheless retains certain qualities and characteristics that provide for yet another intriguing exception française.3 To help illustrate my point, I turn to Stephen Tomsen and Kevin Markwel who write—albeit from an Australian perspective—that, “The Pride March idea transposed from the United States metropolitan context has helped give shape to the various gay and lesbian festivals that have emerged in Australia.”4 However, while the United States may have provided a model, the translations of this model provide for an engaging understanding of the culturally specific elements in each celebration.

1 Anna Gruszczynska, “Sowing the Seeds of Solidarity in Public Space: Case Study of the Poznan March of Equality,” Sexualities 12, no. 3 (2009): 313. 2 Stephen Tomsen and Kevin Markwell, “Violence, Cultural Display and the Suspension of Sexual Prejudice,” Sexuality & Culture 13 (2009): 203. See also Gordon Waitt and Kevin Markwell, Gay Tourism: Culture and Context (New York: Haworth Hospitality Press, 2006). 3 See Provencher, “Vague English Creole: (Gay English) Cooperative Discourse in the French Gay Press”; “Mapping Gay Paris: Language, Space and Sexuality in the Marais”; Queer French. 4 Tomsen and Markwell, “Violence,” 203.

141 I now turn to a discussion of the methodology employed for gathering the primary data including some of the problems and difficulties that were encountered. What follows is a presentation of the overall results. And finally, in the last part of the chapter, I offer my analysis and interpretation of the results.

Methodology

In the summer of 2008 I traveled to the Alsatian capital to attend the city’s week- long pride celebration. That summer the marche de la visibilité was in its sixth year and its theme focused on raising awareness about queer youth suicide.5 At the various debates and talks during the week as well as the day of the march itself, I distributed a twenty- question survey to willing participants. In addition to these questionnaires I also videotaped the march from its starting point at the place de l’Universtié through the city center and back to the university. We will turn to these video recordings later in chapter five.

I attended several events of the 2008 Marche de la visibilité homosexuelle, bisexuelle et transgenre, which took place from Monday June 9 until Saturday June 14,

2008. People who attended the talks in the week before the march as well as participants and spectators during and after the parade were asked to complete a twenty-question attitude survey. Once the potential candidate accepted the invitation to fill out the questionnaire, s/he was provided with an explanation of his/her rights as a participant in

5 The Marche de la visibilité is currently in its tenth year and took place most recently on 11 June 2011. The theme was “Liberté, égalité, visibilité, parentalité… À quand les mêmes droits.”

142 the study. Special attention was paid to assure the participant that his/her identity would be protected and that all answers would be anonymous. Generally, for participants attending the week’s events, s/he would complete the questionnaire without changing locations (i.e. moving to a different part of the room); for participants partaking in the march, s/he would complete the questionnaire once s/he had moved to a calmer location and would rejoin the march afterwards.

Inherent within this style of ethnographic data gathering is the notion of

“availability sample.”6 What this means is that the sample is limited by the participants who are available or who make themselves available for the study. Not surprisingly this poses several issues since the ability to generalize results to the broader population is much more problematic inasmuch as only participants who make themselves available and are willing to participate are included in the sample. A growing number of scholars have begun to take into account the often uncounted but equally salient category of “men who have sex with men” when it comes to the varied studies dealing with the gay community. David Caron has written that the category of “gay” and/or “homosexuel” does not adequately encompass the significant numbers of men who do not identify with all that “gay” and/or “homosexuel” signify(ies) in today’s society.7 However, scholars like Wayne Gillespie who work with queer populations and participants have noted that they “cannot be measured directly or unambiguously.”8 For Gillespie, interviewing these

6 See Gregory M. Herek, J. Roy Gillis, and Jeanine C. Cogan, “Psychological sequelae of Hate-Crime Victimization among Lesbian, Gay, and Bisexual Adults,” Journal of Counseling and Clinical Psychology 67, no. 6 (1999): 945-951. 7 See Caron’s AIDS in French Culture: Social Ills, Literary Cures; My Father and I. 8 Wayne Gillespie, “Thirty-Five Years after Stonewall: An Exploratory Study of Satisfaction with Police among Gay, Lesbian, and Bisexual Persons at the 34th Annual

143 participants who are willing to partake in a study where they openly discuss (their) sexuality, sexual desires, and/or sexual practices assumes that the participants themselves feel comfortable enough to enter into such a discussion. He writes, “Arguably, sampling from a Pride festival only includes gays and lesbians who are comfortable attending such an event. Homosexuals in the ‘closet’ may be reluctant to attend a gay Pride celebration.”9 To illustrate, similar issues have presented themselves in the work of Denis

Provencher, whose data collection methods have included putting advertisements into the

French gay and lesbian magazine Têtu.10 The major limitation with this method, similarly to Gillespie above, is that it already assumes several things: first, that the target audience has access to and reads this glossy-style magazine costing 5€ per issue; second, that they are willing and feel comfortable enough to come forward to be interviewed. In this respect, being able to achieve a sufficiently large representative sample required for traditional sociological analysis proves rather challenging as it would for any liminal group (e.g. prostitutes, illegal immigrants). Nevertheless, this does not detract from the interest in this field of inquiry. Indeed, it is important to understand the limitations, but this should not hinder scholars from pursuing this kind of research.

Atlanta Pride Festival,” Journal of Homosexuality 55, no. 4 (2008): 628. See also Donald P. Green et al., “Measuring Gay Populations and Antigay Hate Crime,” Social Science Quarterly 82, no. 2 (2001): 281-296. 9 Gillespie, “Thirty-Five Years after Stonewall,” 628. In Gillespie’s study, he was interested in measuring the attitudes of gays and lesbians towards the police. In that respect, participants who identified themselves as heterosexual were removed from the sample. 10 Provencher, Queer French. See especially chapters four and five.

144 The questionnaire distributed to participants of the 2008 edition of Strasbourg’s

Marche de la visibilité was written in French and included twenty questions.11 When I was in the planning stages of this study, I wanted to construct as detailed a questionnaire as possible. However, I feared that a time-intensive survey would act as a major deterrent for perspective participants. Since my goal was to achieve a large sample size, I decided to construct a questionnaire that was no more than two pages so that it could be copied on both the front and back side of one piece of paper. Filling out the questionnaire, then, would represent a relatively small time commitment, thereby allowing people to fill out the survey and continue on their way. To this end a “closed” question attitude survey format was used where respondents marked their answer on a scale of 1-7. This method of gathering information allowed for a maximum of information to be gathered in a minimum of time and intrusion;12 however, this methodology is not without its own problems. Unlike a semi-structured format where participants are able to expound at length on a question or statement, closed format questionnaires or interviews aim for a simplified response that is more readily quantifiable. In that respect, the information gathered is limited, not surprisingly, to the questions asked; a semi-structured interview would allow the further exploration of tangential issues of which the survey designer may not have been aware. The second phase of the questionnaire was to invite participants to partake in a longer recorded interview where they would have a chance to develop and explain their answers further. Unfortunately, the majority of questionnaire participants declined the invitation to participate in the longer recorded interview often citing time

11 Due to guidelines set forth by the Office for Research Protections at Penn State, the questionnaire was originally written in English and subsequently translated into French. 12 Schuman, Method and Meaning in Polls and Surveys, 30.

145

Table 4-1: Sampling

VARIABLE CATEGORIES N % Age 18-20 11 14.60 21-29 27 36 30-39 11 14.60 40-49 16 21.33 50+ 10 13.33 Sex Female 42 56 Male 32 42.67 Trans 1 1.33 Sexual Gay/Homosexuel(le)/Lesbienne/ 52 72 orientation Bisexue(le) 2 2.67 Hétérosexuel(le) 21 28 Residence Bas-Rhin 49 65.33 Haut-Rhin 14 18.66 Elsewhere in France 5 6.66 “Alsace” 6 8 Missing 1 1.3 Length at 0-4 years 21 28 Residence 5-9 years 10 13.33 10-14 7 9.33 15-19 13 17.33 20+ 21 28 Blank 3 4

146 constraints. The sole interview gathered from the second phase of the research project will therefore not figure in this discussion.

This study was approved through the Pennsylvania State University Office for

Research Protections before any on-the-ground investigations began and conforms to all the rules and regulations as described by the Office of the Vice-president for Research.13

There were no complications concerning interview training since I was the principal and sole investigator. Privacy was assured since the questionnaire did not gather any information that would link the participant to his/her responses. Participants were not given any incentives, monetary or otherwise, to take part in the survey. Very few people who were approached refused to participate, and those who did contribute to the study were generally very curious. Many were surprised that someone was interested in

Strasbourg’s parade since it is on a much smaller scale than other pride parades across

Europe. Finally, since special provisions must be taken in order to gather data from minors, it was decided that only participants 18 years and older would be allowed to partake in the study.

Sampling

Sampling yielded 75 participants (see Table 4-1). 72% of the participants identify themselves as either “gay,” “homosexuel(le),” “lesbienne,” “bisexuel(le),”or

“transgenre,” with the remaining 28% identifying themselves as “hétérosexuel(le).”

Among participants, a total of 56% identify as female and the remaining 43% as male.

13 IRB # 28495. <>.

147 There was one self-identified transgender and two self-identified bisexual participants.

The majority of participants (56%) note Strasbourg as their current city of residence. The remaining people hail from other cities and villages in the Bas-Rhin, Haut-Rhin, and farther afield in the “intérieur”.14 The largest group of participants (14%) from outside

Strasbourg and the Bas-Rhin come from the Haut-Rhin to the south, centered either in or around Mulhouse, the sous-préfecture and largest city of the department. One participant in this group comes from Colmar, the préfecture of the Haut-Rhin and just across the border from the Bas-Rhin. For the participants coming from other locations around

France, three wrote Paris, and the other three wrote Phalsbourg (Lorraine), Grenoble

(Isère), and the department of Haute-Garonne in the southwest. A small percentage of participants (<1%) write “Alsace” as their current place of residence, which could be interpreted in two ways: one, for reasons of time, the participant may have decided to simplify by putting the name of the region instead of his/her town/village; two, although the participant would have been assured of his/her anonymity in the study, s/he may not have wanted to indicate the name of the city/town/village where s/he lived. The mean length of time at one’s current residence is just over 15 years, with times ranging from a few months to 58 years. The two groups with the largest percentages of participants are the new comers with 0-4 years (28%) and the long-term residents with 20+ years (28%).

Finally, 39% of those who took part in the survey were born outside of Alsace, although of that group nearly 90% currently lived in the region.

14 Alsatians are at times very aware of their periphery location to the rest of France. Indeed, a common expression to describe someone from another part of France is to say that s/he is “un(e) français(e) de l’intérieur.”

148 The mean age of participants is 34, with a range between 18 and 67. If we break down the participants into five age groups (18-20, 21-29, 30-39, 40-49, and 50+), the category with the highest numbers is 21-29 with a total of 27 participants (36%).

Following is the 40-49 group range with 16 participants (21.33%), the 18-20 and 30-39 both with 11 (14.6%), and finally the 50+ group with 10 (13.33%).

To summarize, the largest group represented in the survey appears to be residents of the Alsatian capital and its neighboring department of the Bas-Rhin (65.33%). As for sexual orientation, the majority of participants placed themselves into the gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender category (72%). Finally, respondents were more likely to be female rather than male (56% versus 44%).

Measures

The demographic characteristics that were evaluated were age, gender, sexual orientation, place of birth, current residence and length of time at this residence. The variables consisted of measuring participants’ attitude towards Strasbourg’s marche de la visibilité through a series of 20 questions. Participants were asked to answer a series of 20 questions on a scale of 1-7, with 1 representing total agreement (“je suis tout à fait d’accord”) and 7 total disagreement (“je ne suis pas du tout d’accord”). In the following paragraphs I will present the overall results of the questionnaire with all participants included.

The first question on the questionnaire asked participants to rank their agreement with the following statement: “La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est importante parce

149 qu’elle réunit la communauté gay, lesbienne, bisexuelle et transgenre.” On a scale of 1-7, the mean response was 2.23, with nearly 52% of respondents answering 1, which indicates complete agreement. If we add those participants who responded 2, it increases to 76%. A small but not insignificant percentage of people responded with 4 and above

(20%).

For the second question, participants were asked to rank their attitude to the question, “Il est important que la communauté gay, lesbienne, bisexuelle et transgenre participe à la marche de visibilité.” Similarly to the first question, a large percentage of respondents answered very positively with nearly 50.66% indicating 1, that number rising to 72% if we include those people who circled 2. 18.66% of the sample population answered 4 and above.

The next question asked participants to measure their agreement with the following statement: “Il est important que la communauté gay, lesbienne, bisexuelle et transgenre se montre comme un groupe uni le jour de la marche de visibilité.” A majority of participants (68%) answered very positively, circling either 1 or 2. Similarly to the previous questions, a smaller group (20%) answered with 4 and above.

The fourth question asked “La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est importante à l’échelle urbaine.” While the majority of participants generally agreed with this statement

(answers 1-3 represent 76% of the answers), only 30.66% marked 1 indicating complete agreement. 45.33% of participants indicating either 2 or 3. 24% answered with 4 and above.

150 Next, participants responded to the statement: “La marche de visibilité à

Strasbourg est importante à l’échelle régionale.” Similarly to the previous question, respondents answered positively, with 77.33% answering 1, 2, or 3.

Question six asked “La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est importante à l’échelle nationale.” The number of participants who answered positively slips just a bit to 65.33% who answer 1, 2, or 3. Furthermore the mean for the question rises to 3.12.

“La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est importante à l’échelle européenne.”

54.66% of respondents answered positively, marking 1, 2, or 3 while 45.33% answered 4 and above.

Finally, the last question in this series asked participants to rate their attitude towards this statement: “La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est importante à l’échelle mondiale.” For this question, participants mean response was 4.07 with 41.33% answering 1, 2, or 3. 12% answered in the middle, and 46.66% answered 5, 6, or 7.

In the next series of questions, participants were asked to rate their attitude towards the statement: “Il est important que la communauté alsacienne soit représentée le jour de la marche.” 74.66% of respondents answered positively to this question, with the remaining 25.33% answering 4 and above.

In question 10, participants were asked to react to the following statement: “Il est important que les valeurs républicaines soient respectées le jour de la marche.” A large majority (85.33%) responded favorably to this statement. For those people who answered above 4, the largest group consisted of those who disagreed the most (7) with 8%.

The next series of questions aims at understanding the participants’ attitude to the overall goal of the march. The statements were: “Le but central de la marche est

151 politique”; “Le but central de la marche est culturel”; “Le but central de la marche est de s’amuser.” Out of these three statements, the mean average was 3.63, 3.25, and 3.08 respectively. For the first statement, 52% of participants answered positively (1, 2, or 3) compared to 62.66% for the second statement and 72% for the third statement.

Question 14 asked participants if they believed that the march required a political message as a foundation for the parade (“Il est important que le marche ait un message politique comme fondation”). 65.33% of respondents answered that they were in agreement (1, 2, or 3) whereas 20% tended to disagree (5, 6, or 7).

The next series of questions tended towards uncovering participants attitudes towards participation and the kinds of participation that were expected and/or desired during the march. The first question (“Il est important que je participe à la marche de visibilité”) received 62.66% of respondents agreeing (1-3) and 28% leaning towards disagree (5-7). Next, participants were asked if the march should include all different kind of expression (“Il est important d’avoir tous genres d’expressions pendant la marche de visibilité”). A large majority (84%) of participants agreed (1-3) with this statement.

Next, participants were asked if it was important to question limits (“Il est important de questionner les limites pendant la marche de visibilité”) during the march, to which

66.66% answered positively. However, a number of participants (10%) left this answer blank, which may indicate that the question was poorly worded. Finally, they were asked if it is important to shock during the parade (“Il est important de choquer pendant la marche de visibilité”). Only 20% agreed (1-3) with this statement, whereas 68% disagreed (5-7) with the statement. The last question in this series asked if it is important that participants show they are like everyone else (“Il est important de montrer que les

152 participants sont comme tout le monde”). An overwhelming majority (93.33%) answered positively.

Finally, the last statement asked if a participant should be gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender to take part in the marche de la visibilité (“Pour participer à la marche de visibilité, on doit être gay, lesbienne, bisexuelle, ou transgenre”). 90.66% of respondents

(5-7) disagreed with this statement.

Research Hypothesis

The goal of the questionnaire was to gain a better understanding of the importance

Strasbourg’s marche de la visibilité has for participants and spectators. Several scholars have lamented the loss of political vigor present at the first marches, criticizing their overly festive atmosphere and disregard for radical social critique.15 While these are important and productive discussions, it is not my aim to engage with them at this time.

Instead, I hope to demonstrate how the marche de la visibilité functions for those who are closest to it. Is this an event that is socially important to them? Or is it simply a day where they can walk down the middle of the street following loud techno music to the delight or dismay of spectators? Furthermore, how do self-identified gay men view the march in comparison to self-identified lesbians or straights? It is these questions that will drive my discussion in the following pages.

15 Caron, My Father and I; Le Bitoux, Chevaux, and Proth, Citoyen de seconde zone; Martel, Le Rose et le noir: les homosexuels en France depuis 1968; Thiébot, La Gay Pride, mascarade ou juste cause?; Sibalis, “‘La Lesbian and Gay Pride’.”

153 For the first three questions, the goal was to understand the importance of participating in Strasbourg’s pride parade and whether or not it is important that

Strasbourg’s GLBTQ community show a united front. Each question received a relatively high agreement rate, but if we split self-identified gay men and lesbians apart, a difference appears. For the first question, the mean response for gay men was 2.82 where

1 represents total agreement. For lesbians, however, the mean response was a 1.5. The same trend appears in questions two and three where the mean response of gay men was

2.75 and 2.86, whereas lesbians responded with 1.54 and 1.54, respectively.

Since Strasbourg functions as regional city, regional capital, and European capital, it performs a kind of triple role. It stands as the geographical testament to regional culture and the importance the city has played in the development of the area.

Second, it stands in a kind of opposition to the national capital. And finally, it takes on a pan-European flair as the capital of the European Union. So it is at once local, national, and European. These overlapping roles give the Alsatian capital a multivalent character.

If we follow the previous example and split gay men and lesbians into two groups, I find that the trend that emerged in questions one through three appears again. For lesbians, they responded with means of 2.04, 2.15, 2.19, 2.50 and 2.93 for questions four through nine. As for gay men, they answered with means of 3.25, 3.11, 3.10, 4.04, and 4.43 for the same series of questions. With each question, the area to which it referred grew in size, focusing first on the urban all the way to the world scale. For self-identified lesbians, the trend shows that the area for which the marche is the most important is the city. For gay men, the responses that received the most positive responses indicated that the march was most important at the regional and national level. For both gay men and

154 lesbians, attitudes towards the importance of the march at the European and world level tended towards higher numbers of response, which indicate then that they agreed with the statement less than they did with the previous ones.

Questions nine and 10 represent two sides of a larger question. Question nine aimed at uncovering how spectators felt about a strong Alsatian presence during the march. Since gay pride parades can also act as a tourist event for the city/region, I hypothesized that there was a strong possibility that signs of regional specificity would be sprinkled throughout the parade (e.g. regional symbols such as traditional dress, language, storks, etc.). On the flip side of this, participants were asked in question 10 if they felt that it was important to uphold traditional Republican values during the march. I interpret this question to mean is it best to distance the march from overly specific references to regionalisms in favor of an approach that stresses a more “universal” slant.

For question nine, the mean response was 2.12 for lesbians and 2.96 for gay men. My concern with this question, however, was that the wording of the statement did not properly encompass the idea that I was trying to explore. For question 10, the mean response for lesbians and gay men was very similar, 2.04 and 2.00, respectively. So while there was a slight difference for question nine, question 10 saw nearly the same responses from both groups.

For questions 11, 12, and 13, participants were asked to rate their attitude towards what they felt was the main purpose of the march, either political, cultural, or entertainment. As for political, both gay men and lesbians answered similarly, 3.85 and

3.51, respectively. For its cultural aspect, lesbians tended to agree more than gay men, their mean response a 2.81 whereas the mean answer for gay men was 3.82. Finally, gay

155 men agreed more with the statement that the march was more for entertainment and to have fun than lesbians. Gay men answered with a mean of 2.93 while the mean lesbian response was 4.04.

Related to the previous three questions, question fourteen asked participants if it was necessary that the march have a political message as its foundation. Lesbians on average agreed more with this statement than gay men, their mean response a 2 whereas the mean for gay men was 3.37. This answer appears to corroborate the findings from the three previous questions: gay men are less likely to agree that a political agenda should form the basis of the marche de la visibilité, whereas lesbians tend to agree more with this idea. Furthermore, gay men, in favoring less the political, view the march more as an opportunity to have fun.

Question 15 aimed to understand if the participant believed that it was important for him/her to attend the march. Was this event something that, as a gay man or lesbian, was this something of which s/he should be a part. Once again, lesbians answered more positively with a mean answer of 1.81. Gay men, however, answered less favorably with a mean answer of 3.79.

Questions 16 through 19 are grouped together since they are meant to uncover participants’ attitudes towards how those partaking in the parade should act. Should their behavior push the envelope, for example, or should it go further and shock spectators? Or should the parade show spectators that the people participating in it are just like everyone else? When asked to rate their attitude towards the idea of letting all kinds of expression take place, lesbians answered more favorably with a mean answer of 1.96 while gay men answered less favorably with a mean answer of 2.71. When asked if the participants in

156 the march should question the limits, gay men answered with a mean of 2.32 whereas lesbians answered with a mean of 2.85. Neither group favored shocking spectators, each answering with means above 5. Finally, for showing that they are just like everyone else, both groups answered favorably with a mean answer of 1.46 for lesbians and 1.43 for gay men.

The final statement on the questionnaire asked if in order to participate in the march, one needed to be gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender. Both lesbians and gay men disagreed strongly with this statement, with mean answers above 6.

Now that I have discussed the mean results of the questionnaire for gay men and lesbians, I now turn to my discussion of the results wherein I advance that these two groups differ in compelling ways. Furthermore, I believe that by looking at the distribution of answers, rather than only at the means will add a productive dimension to the discussion.

Discussion of Questionnaire Results

Before discussing the questionnaire results, I would like to quickly address the manner in which the data was manipulated. Enlisting the help of the Statistical

Consulting Center at Penn State, I was able to perform a number of computer-aided statistical operations that greatly strengthened the results described here.16

After compiling the data into an Excel spreadsheet, I imported this information into a computer statistics program called the Statistical Package for the Social Sciences

16 I would like to thank my consultants for their hard work and advice. For more information, see their website, <>.

157 (now commonly referred to as SPSS). Next, I “cleaned” the data of information that may interfere with its integrity. This included “detecting incomplete, incorrect, [or] irrelevant… records in the data set, and then modifying or deleting these bad records.”17

Second, after performing some exploratory statistical operations (Analysis of Variance

[ANOVA] as well as Analysis of Covariance [ANCOVA]), it was discovered that age does not represent a significant effect, and therefore will not be considered in the discussion.18 Finally, due to the infrequent numbers of heterosexual men and women, it was decided that the discussion should focus exclusively on gay men and women. In the following paragraphs, I turn to that analysis.

By splitting gay men and lesbians into two categories of measure, my aim is not to add to the divide between them. Indeed, while there is much discussion on the need to do away with both sexual and gender binaries (i.e. straight and gay, lesbian and gay, male and female, intersex and everyone else), we cannot deny that for many people outside the academy, these “identities”—I place the word within quotations to denote the idea that identity, while a fascinating subject, is also a very slippery one—are very real. They are categories that structure and are structured. They are categories upon which individuals build their understanding of themselves and the world around them. Yet, they are also categories that change, metamorphose, and evolve. Sexual identity, for example, may play a very important role for a person depending on the place in which s/he finds

17 Statistical Consulting Center, “RE: 09-1-015: The Study of the People’s Attitude to Gay Pride Parade in Strasbourg”, March 17, 2009. 18 While age did not represent a significant effect on the data here, I expect that with a larger and more representative sample, age may indeed become an important factor. Further research will be required to test this hypothesis. For more information on ANOVA and ANCOVA methodology, see Michael H. Kutner, Chris J. Nachtsheim, and John Neter, Applied linear statistical models, 5th ed. (Boston: McGraw-Hill Irwin, 2005).

158 him/herself, and in other instances may not. With the idea that these are categories by which many people live their daily lives, I proceed, albeit with caution.

Participants in Strasbourg’s marche de la visibilité tended to agree with most of the statements of the questionnaire as a whole. There did not appear to be any significant polarizing differences between males and females or gays and lesbians. As I wrote earlier, one of the methodological problems with surveying a queer population is that the investigator’s sample is limited to the people who make themselves available. Instead of gathering a random sample of the same number of men, women, gays and straights, I was restricted to participants who were willing to take part. I advance, then, that this is the reason why most participants answered the questions positively. They were, by and large, all attending or planning to attend the march. However, by splitting gays and lesbians into two groups, a trend begins to appear.

The most noticeable trend in the data is that lesbians have a tendency to agree more with the statements than gay men. The only questions where gay men answered more favorably were questions 10 (“Il est important que les valeurs républicaines soient respectées le jour de la marche”), 13 (“Le but central de la marche est de s’amuser”), 17

(“Il est important de questionner les limites pendant la marche de visibilité”), and 20

(“Pour participer à la marche de visibilité, on doit être gay, lesbienne, bisexuelle, ou transgenre”). In the following pages, I will offer my interpretation of these differences between gay men and lesbians.

The name of Strasbourg’s parade, as I have said before, is the marche de la visibilité. While the idea of “pride” or its French translation “fierté” has been and is currently used for many parades across France, Strasbourg’s parade advanced the idea of

159 visibility from the start in 2002. In the introduction, I wrote that one of the overarching themes of this dissertation was inspired by the title of Strasbourg’s march: visibility.

Here, this theme is no different, and in fact comes to the forefront.

In Queer and Women’s studies, many scholars have written on and discussed at length the predominance of gay males in both academic writings and everyday society.19

Lesbians as a group are often overlooked, subsumed into the category of gay men, or ignored altogether. Due to the lack of visibility of lesbians in mainstream culture, then, I argue that the public exposure of lesbians alongside other queers and allies in

Strasbourg’s marche de la visibilité is one of the prime reasons why lesbians as a whole tend to favor the march more than gay men. To illustrate my point, let us turn to the questionnaire and the answers that were provided by the participants.

Questions 1-8: Group Cohesion and the Importance of the March

The first three questions centered on the importance of participating and appearing as a unified group during the march. For all three questions, lesbians responded in a much more categorical fashion (see figures 4-1, 4-2, and 4-3). Gay men, however, answered in a much more dispersed manner. While the majority of gay men did answer

19 See Biddy Martin, “Lesbian Identity and Autobiographical Difference(s),” in The Lesbian and Gay Studies Reader (New York: Routledge, 1993), 274-293; Jane Ward, “Producing ‘Pride’ in West Hollywood: A Queer Cultural Capital for Queens with Cultural Capital,” Sexualities 6, no. 1 (2003): 65-94; Joanna Mizielinska, “‘The Rest is Silence...’: Polish Nationalism and the Question of Lesbian Existence,” European Journal of Women’s Studies 8, no. 3 (2001): 281-297.

160 on the more positive side of the spectrum, when we compared them to lesbians, they did not form a cohesive voting block.20

80.00%

70.00%

60.00%

50.00%

40.00% Queson 1 Lesbians Queson 1 Gay Men 30.00%

20.00%

10.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-1: La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est importante parce qu’elle réunit la communauté homosexuelle, lesbienne, bisexuelle et transgenre. The next group of questions focuses on the importance of the march at different levels of society. Like the preceding questions, lesbians tended to answer more positively than gay men for all five questions. For question 4 (see figure 4-4), which asked participants to rate their attitude towards the importance of the march at a local/city scale, both lesbians and gay men tended to answer quite positively.21 However, gay men did not respond as favorably as lesbians: the highest percentage of gay men responding with “2”

20 Significance, called P-values, was 0.017, 0.03, and 0.006 for questions 1, 2, and 3, respectively. P-values <0.05 are generally considered “significant.” 21 P-value of 0.014.

161 (nearly 40%). In question five (see figure 4-5), which focused on the regional level, lesbians’ answers were very positive with over 50% marking “1.” Gay men tended to provide slightly more tepid answers, with a noticeable increase in those gay male participants who marked “3.”22 For question 6 (see figure 4-6), which focused on the march and its importance at the national level, lesbians continue to answer quite positively, while we see answers for gay men spread out across the possible responses.

The noticeable exceptions were those who marked “2” and those who marked “7,” both of which received over 20% of the responses.23 For questions 7 and 8 (see figures 4-7 and

4-8), which extend the importance of the march to the European and world level, respectively, lesbians again answer much more positively as a whole than do their fellow participants.24 For question 7, gay men appear to be split between agreeing and disagreeing with the statement, with the highest number of respondents rejecting the statement. The final question of the series sees gay men form a similarly solid voting block as we have seen with lesbians. While lesbians again answered with a high percentage of agreement, even though we see a definite rise in the level of disagreement here, gay men answered with a very strong tendency towards total disagreement, the percentage of respondents answering “7” reaching above 40%.

22 P-value of 0.045. 23 P-value of 0.002. 24 P-value of 0.007 and 0.000 for question 7 and 8, respectively.

162

80.00%

70.00%

60.00%

50.00%

40.00% Queson 2 Lesbians Queson 2 Gay Men 30.00%

20.00%

10.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-2: Il est important que la communauté gay, lesbienne, bisexuelle et transgenre participe à la marche de visibilité.

Overall, the data suggests that lesbians find that the march is important at nearly all levels of society, from the smaller urban scale all the way up to the world scale. These findings correspond with the idea that since the parade represents an opportunity to achieve a higher level of visibility, it is understandable that lesbians who find themselves erased from society would find this event important at many levels. Gay men, however, appear to be more difficult to categorize. They oftentimes do not agree as strongly with the statements as lesbians and tend to answer more broadly across the possible responses.

In general, gay men tended to agree with the idea that the march was important at both the urban and the regional scale; however, their answers concerning the importance of the

163 march at the national and the European levels did not produce any overwhelming responses on either side of the scale: at the national level answers were somewhat evenly distributed; at the European level there was mild agreement with the statement while the

80.00%

70.00%

60.00%

50.00%

40.00% Queson 3 Lesbians Queson 3 Gay Men 30.00%

20.00%

10.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-3: Il est important que la communauté gay, lesbienne, bisexuelle et transgenre se montre comme un groupe uni le jour de la marche de visibilité.

number of respondents that marked “6” and “7” were both over 20%. The one statement that did produce a strong reaction in gay men was the importance of the march at the world scale. Nearly 45% of gay men disagreed completely with this statement. The data appears to show then that gay men, while they agree with the statements that the march is important at the city and the regional level, tend to be more mixed once we consider the

164 widening area of influence the march may potentially have. And finally, the majority of gay men do not believe that the marche has any importance at the world scale.

50.00%

45.00%

40.00%

35.00%

30.00%

25.00% Queson 4 Lesbians Queson 4 Gay Men 20.00%

15.00%

10.00%

5.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-4: La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est important à l’échelle urbaine.

Questions 11-15: Goals of the March

The series of questions that ask participants to rate their attitude toward the overarching message of the march (questions 11-15) provide a compelling example to demonstrate that lesbians as a group view the march as a more serious and politically motivated event than gay men. In question 11 (“Le but central de la marche est politique”), both groups answered similarly, their mean values were statistically

165

60.00%

50.00%

40.00%

30.00% Queson 5 Lesbians Queson 5 Gay Men

20.00%

10.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-5: La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est important à l’échelle régionale.

insignificant (see figure 4-9).25 However, if we put this statement in relation with question

14 (see figure 4-12), we need to nuance these findings. While gays and lesbians answered similarly to question 11, they did not for question 14.26 Instead, lesbians answered more favorably to the statement. So while on the whole lesbians do not believe that the main purpose of the march is political, they do tend to agree with the idea that the march should have a political message as its basis. This attitude is reflected in the organizers’ goal for the march as well. In an interview conducted through e-mail, the president of

Festigays stated that while the march represents many things, a political message is a must: “Cela est nécessaire. Nous n’avons rien contre la fête mais nous nous refusons à

25 P-value of 0.618. 26 P-value of 0.032.

166 réduire nos démarches politiques et militantes à une parade.”27 While at first it appears that gay men answered more favorably than lesbians to the statement that the main goal of the parade is to have fun (question 13, see figure 4-11), the P-value observed demonstrates that there is no statistical significance between the two groups.28

70.00%

60.00%

50.00%

40.00% Queson 6 Lesbians 30.00% Queson 6 Gay Men

20.00%

10.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-6: La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est importante à l’échelle nationale.

27 Youssef Labaste, “Réponse à ton interview”, February 23, 2008, original modified. 28 P-value of 0.195.

167

60.00%

50.00%

40.00%

30.00% Queson 7 Lesbians Queson 7 Gay Men

20.00%

10.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-7: La marche de visibilité est importante à l’échelle européenne.

To nuance this discussion we need to examine the mean response of gay men and their agreement with the same statements. While gay men answered similarly to lesbians for question 11, they did answer differently for questions 13 and 14. For gay men, while they did not necessarily feel very strongly that the main goal of the march was political, they did answer more positively to the idea of having fun. Moreover, they also answered less favorably to the idea that there needed to be a political message as the basis of the march.

Gay men, then, appear to favor the more festive aspects of the parade, with less of a concern for its political facets. I advance then the idea that since gay men are already in a more visible position than lesbians, the need for an overarching political message is less of an issue. The need to come together in the public sphere in order to promote an overall

168 message to the spectators falls behind the desire to assemble and socialize with others. If we push this even further, I might venture to state that gay-identified males’ main

45.00%

40.00%

35.00%

30.00%

25.00% Queson 8 Lesbians 20.00% Queson 8 Gay Men

15.00%

10.00%

5.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-8: La marche de visibilité à Strasbourg est important à l’échelle mondiale.

purpose for attending Strasbourg’s marche de la visibilité is not about raising their own visibility nor the visibility of the other members of that same community; rather, it is more about the social possibilities that may present themselves at the event. With regards to the history of Paris’ pride parade, writers and scholars such as Jean Le Bitoux, Michael

Sibalis, and Frédéric Martel observed that the capital’s march started to become much

169 more well attended once it began to take on a less politically militant nature, instead blending—with varying degrees of success—both the political and the social.29 The data

40.00%

35.00%

30.00%

25.00%

20.00% Queson 11 Lesbians Queson 11 Gay Men 15.00%

10.00%

5.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-9: Le but central de la marche est politique.

appears then to support the idea that gay men have prioritized politically motivated actions behind more social endeavors.

The last question of the series presents yet another striking example of the divide between lesbians and gay men with respect to visibility. On average, lesbians answered quite favorably to question 15 (“Il est important que je participe à la marche de

29 Furthermore, marches devoid of any social or political message also failed to draw significant numbers. See Sibalis, “‘La Lesbian and Gay Pride’”; Martel, Le Rose et le noir: les homosexuels en France depuis 1968; Le Bitoux, Chevaux, and Proth, Citoyen de seconde zone.

170 visibilité”). Gay men, on the other hand, responded less favorably with a mean response of 3.79 (figure 4-13).30 These results therefore corroborate the preceding explanations.

Public visibility for lesbians is elusive and therefore their desire for more visibility is higher. The stakes for attending Strasbourg’s marche des visbilités is greater since this is a notable opportunity to be seen as lesbians by not only their queer co-

40.00%

35.00%

30.00%

25.00%

20.00% Queson 12 Lesbians Queson 12 Gay Men 15.00%

10.00%

5.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-10: Le but central de la marche est culturel.

participants, but by Strasbourg’s general population as well. The voice that is denied them by society—including by gay men—cannot be taken away if they attend the march and construct their own space. By assembling and presenting their own float,

Strasbourg’s lesbians are also able to claim their own space within the city, marking it as

30 P-value of 0.001.

171 specifically “lesbian,” not necessarily in complete opposition to the other participants around them, but nonetheless resisting being subsumed under the larger category of

“gay.”

45.00%

40.00%

35.00%

30.00%

25.00% Queson 13 Lesbians 20.00% Queson 13 Gay Men

15.00%

10.00%

5.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-11: Le but central de la marche est de s’amuser.

Questions 16-20: Expressions of Sameness and Difference

In the last series of questions that were asked of the participants, the goal was to uncover their attitudes towards the different kinds of visibility the march would provide and what kinds of visibility participants would deem more or less acceptable.

When people think of gay pride, the images that come forth are oftentimes of half-naked—if not nearly naked—participants walking down the city street. Drag queens,

172 people in leather, dykes on bikes, go-go boys in nothing more than bikini briefs… it seems that the people that come out—forgive the pun—at pride celebrations in order to take part are nearly the same the world over. Strasbourg’s marche de visibilité is certainly

70.00%

60.00%

50.00%

40.00% Queson 14 Lesbians 30.00% Queson 14 Gay Men

20.00%

10.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-12: Il est important que la marche ait un message politique comme fondation.

not on the scale of other pride celebrations in world metropolises like Paris, New York,

Rio de Janeiro, and Sydney, and therefore draws a much smaller pool of both participants and spectators. Nevertheless, since Strasbourg’s parade is very permeable, unlike others where there is a strong separation between participant and spectator, drawing a wide- range of participants is a strong possibility. Later in chapter five we will have the opportunity to look at and analyze in more detail the images and video from the march, but for now it will be sufficient to say that participants range from the “everyday” person

173

70.00%

60.00%

50.00%

40.00% Queson 15 Lesbians 30.00% Queson 15 Gay Men

20.00%

10.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-13: Il est important que je participe à la marche de visibilité.

in jeans and t-shirts to over-the-top drag queens posing for the camera31; from members of the Parti socialiste waving their flags to floats depicting groups of men participating in a displays of S&M activity.

Since there appears to be a wide-range of people in an equally large variety of dress and performance, this last series of questions aimed to explore participants’ attitude towards these different forms of expression. Do they feel that it is important to question the limits during the march in an effort to broaden the scope of everyday understanding of society for the spectators? Or, going one step further, is it important to shock

31 For the 2008 edition of the march, the main photo used to illustrate the event in the regional newspaper Les Dernières Nouvelles d’Alsace (DNA) was that of a drag queen in a 1960s Go-Go dancer outfit. See their edition for 15 June 2008.

174

70.00%

60.00%

50.00%

40.00% Queson 16 Lesbians 30.00% Queson 16 Gay Men

20.00%

10.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-14: Il est important d'avoir tous genres d'expression pendant la marche de visibilité.

spectators during the march in a kind of display that would place them in opposition to the assumed “straight-laced” spectators? Inversely, is it important to show the spectators that participants are “just like everyone else,” a theme that has found a lot of traction within the Gay and Lesbian movement in France since the 1980s.

175

45.00%

40.00%

35.00%

30.00%

25.00% Queson 17 Lesbians 20.00% Queson 17 Gay Men

15.00%

10.00%

5.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-15: Il est important de questionner les limites pendant la marche de visibilité.

The first in this final series of questions (question 16, see figure 4-14) asks participants to rate their attitude towards the idea that there should be many different kinds of expression during the march. For lesbians, they answered very positively, with over 60% answering “1,” while nearly 30% answered either “2,” or “3.” Similarly, gay men also answered quite positively overall, with 50% answering “1,” and nearly 30% answering either “2,” or “3.” While only about 10% of lesbians disagreed strongly with the statement answering either “6” or “7,” over 20% of gay men disagreed strongly by marking “7.” The data suggests then that for both gay men and lesbians that there appears to be a general tolerance for different kinds of expression.32 In this respect, it appears then

32 P-value of 0.175.

176 that people expect to see some differences with their fellow participants and that this is expected if not encouraged. What remains to be seen, however, is what kind of expressions are expected and encouraged. The following questions should provide some useful insight.

80.00%

70.00%

60.00%

50.00%

40.00% Queson 18 Lesbians Queson 18 Gay Men 30.00%

20.00%

10.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-16: Il est important de choquer pendant la marche de visibilité. Question 17 (see figure 4-15) asks participants if it is important to question the limits during the march. For gay men, most of the responses tended towards the positive side of the scale, with just over 71% answering between “1” and “3,” 40% of whom

177

90.00%

80.00%

70.00%

60.00%

50.00% Queson 19 Lesbians 40.00% Queson 19 Gay Men

30.00%

20.00%

10.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-17: Il est important de montrer que les participants sont comme tout le monde.

circled “1.” Lesbians, however, tended to answer less positively with just over 46% of participants marking either “1,” “2,” or “3”.33 At first glace, the data appears to suggest that gay men believe more strongly than lesbians that limits should be questioned during the march. Of course, what those limits are is up to the participant to answer for him/herself. And therein lies a problem: the number of participants, especially for lesbians, who left this question blank suggests that it was possibly too vague to serve as a

33 P-value of 0.807.

178

90.00%

80.00%

70.00%

60.00%

50.00% Queson 20 Lesbians 40.00% Queson 20 Gay Men

30.00%

20.00%

10.00%

0.00% 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Blank

Figure 4-18: Pour participer à la marche de visibilité, on doit être gay, lesbienne, bisexuel ou transgenre.

good measure. Even though there was a high percentage of gay men who indicated that they agreed with the statement, just over 10% of them also left the question blank. Since blank answers were relatively rare throughout the questionnaire—there were only fifteen occurrences for gay men and lesbians—this suggests that this question may have caused some confusion. Indeed, once the P-value is observed, it becomes clear there is no statistical significance between the two groups.

The next question (question 18, see figure 4-16) in the series was designed to take the previous question one step further, thereby teasing out the eventual differences between those participants who see the marche de visibilité as a moment when they can bring their sexual citizenship to the forefront, thereby testing the limits of respectable

179 (sexual) citizenship behavior in the public sphere, and those who instead see the marche as their opportunity to throw those respectable behaviors in the face of spectators as well as the other participants. Just over 23% of lesbians responded positively with answers ranging from “1” to “3.” In comparison with their answers elsewhere, however, only a small percentage agreed very strongly. Instead, over 61% of lesbians responded that they disagreed or disagreed strongly with the statement. The remaining 15% answered in the middle, indicating that they neither agreed nor disagreed very strongly. Gay men, however, were skewed towards disagreeing with the statement. Only about 10% of gay men answered on the positive side of the scale, and all of those participants marked “3.”

Gay men answered overall on the negative side of the spectrum, with nearly 68% disagreeing completely with the statement, and another 17% circling either “5” or “6.”34

Furthermore unlike question 17 (figure 4-15), no participant left the question blank.

While the majority of lesbians disagreed with the statement, they did so to a lesser extant than gay men. Does this suggest then that lesbians are more likely than gay men to promote their difference to the spectators to the point of shocking them? Indeed, the data does not appear to support such a claim since only small percentages of lesbians tepidly agreed with the statement. However, it is interesting nonetheless that gay men, who throughout the rest of the questionnaires rarely formed as tight a voting block as lesbians, suddenly respond largely in the same manner.

One of the few statements that solicited a rather uniform response from both gay men and lesbians was question 19 (see figure 4-17).35 Here participants were asked to rate

34 P-value of 0.015. 35 P-value of 1.000.

180 their attitude towards the statement that during the march, it is important to demonstrate to spectators that participants are just like everyone else. This question aimed at nuancing the previous statements and their responses. The previous series of statements demonstrate that participants generally believe that it is important to push the limits of what is acceptable in the public sphere without going too far into the realm of offending and/or shocking people. In contrast to question 17 and 18, then, question 19 indicates that participants overwhelmingly agree that it is important to promote an atmosphere of sameness rather than difference. Nearly 77% of lesbians and 71% of gay men answered very positively to the statement (“1”), while another 15.38% of lesbians and 17.86% of gay men answered positively (“2”).

Earlier, I proposed that the parade represents a kind of Bakhtinian carnivalesque moment, one that aims to subvert the established rules of public space of the city, an idea echoed most recently in the work of Kath Browne as well as Kevin Markwell and Gordan

Waitt.36 Markwell and Waitt state: “From this perspective it is suggested that festival spaces offer creative possibilities through temporarily suspending social relations and sustaining playful practices that may challenge established society norms.”37 On one hand, the presence of the march within the public sphere, transforming the streets of

Strasbourg into the stage upon which participants may walk, dance, and gyrate their way across the city represents a strong example of this transformation. Drag queens, with their extravagant dress and sexual innuendos, alongside men dressed in leather chaps and vests

36 Kath Browne, “A party with politics? (Re)making LGBTQ Pride spaces in Dublin and Brighton,” Social & Cultural Geography 8, no. 1 (2007): 63-87; Kevin Markwell and Gordon Waitt, “Festivals, Space and Sexuality: Gay Pride in Australia,” Tourism Geographies 11, no. 2 (2009): 143-168. 37 Markwell and Waitt, “Festivals, Space and Sexuality,” 146.

181 and very little else; lesbians in baggy jeans, tee shirts and cropped hair marching next to trans participants with signs that read “Je suis une femme à bite. Ça fait désordre…” (see figure 5-14), or “Je suis un homme à ovaires. Ça fait désordre… et j’en suis fier!” (see figure 5-15); their presence has the ability to queer the streets of the city, even if only ephemerally. These participants oblige spectators to reconsider their position of authority within the public sphere and the invisible discourses of power that structure their influence upon it. On one hand, then, the march questions the dominant discourses of public and private as well as what makes a proper sexual citizen. Placing their difference within sight of everyone to see, these sexual deviants oblige spectators as well as other participants alike to reformulate their perception of sexual citizenship. I argue that

Strasbourg’s Marche de la visibilité, as an annual event that has become a part of the summer festival calendar, achieves the goal of pushing the limits of acceptable public behavior, thereby creating a space where sexual deviants are tolerated.

Not all of the participants are there to change society radically. Indeed, many of the floats and/or group that participate in the march perform two roles. On one hand they force spectators to reconsider their privilege within the public sphere, confronting directly sexual citizens whose difference is used as a kind of separation between them. On the other, many participants function not as examples of difference, but of sameness. As evidenced by question 19, the great majority of respondents in the survey agreed very strongly with the idea that it is important to demonstrate that participants are just like everyone else.

I advance that the final question in the survey further demonstrates the participants’ desire for sameness. Question 20 (see figure 4-18) asks if only those people

182 who identify as lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender should participate in the march, a statement with which most disagreed very strongly.38 If participants wished to make a powerful statement that they are different from the heteronormative majority, I argue that the desire to have a march only for those people who consider themselves a part of the

LGBT community would have been much higher. So while there were a fair number of participants who agreed that it is important to question limits, they did not go any further with the desire to shock spectators, instead indicating that there is nothing to fear. Having proper sexual citizens of the Strasbourgeois community willing to participate and walk along side deviant sexual citizens aims therefore at a banalization of the latter group. I hypothesize that the inclusion of assumed heterosexual allies within the march then tempers the political and social risk involved in a march that showcases sexual deviants on a very visible scale. Furthermore, spectators are able to readily see that the gays are visibly not that different. Problems arise, however, when there are those members of the march who do underscore their difference or who mock conventions. Returning to the figure of the drag queen, for example, should again illustrate the possibility for subversive critique of the gender norms of society. With her ability to perform an over- the-top version of femininity, the drag queen is the most obvious example of one who is able to highlight the performative nature inherent in any kind of role, be it gender or otherwise.

The questionnaire employed by this project gathered quantifiable data in order to provide an empirically-based analysis of the perception Strasbourg’s Marche de la visibilité from the perspective of its participants. As a part of the overall goal of this

38 P-value 0.066.

183 research is to examine and approach Strasbourg’s pride parade from several vantage points, it is also important to examine the physical presence of the participants. To that end, in the following chapter I will turn to the visual aspect of the march through the use of images, photographs, and video collected since the beginning of the march in 2002.

Chapter 5

Participants and Spectators: A Visual Analysis of the Marche de la visibilité

Throughout this dissertation, I have often returned to the idea of symbolic importance. The city stands as a major node of communication and exchange on many levels, and symbolic capital is inherent within the urban landscape. Moreover, the symbolic importance we invest into certain streets and monuments that we erect in those spaces obliges us to think about space in very charged terms.1 Space is not neutral, a notion of which feminist scholars have been acutely aware for decades, and which has started to receive sustained attention from scholars not only in Geography but also in

Queer studies.2 As Phil Hubbard writes, “…space is not just a passive backdrop to human behaviour and social action, but is constantly produced and remade within complex relations of culture, power and difference.”3 The spaces within a city are constantly being

1 See Moszberger, Rieger, and Daul, Dictionnaire historique. 2 See also Browne, “A party with politics? (Re)making LGBTQ Pride spaces in Dublin and Brighton”; Markwell and Waitt, “Festivals, Space and Sexuality”; Begonya Enguix, “Identities, Sexualities and Commemorations: Pride Parades, Public Space and Sexual Dissidence,” Anthropological Notebooks 15, no. 2 (2009): 15-33; David Bell and Gill Valentine, eds., Mapping Desire: Geographies of Sexualities (London ; New York: Routledge, 1995); L. Knopp, “Sexuality and urban space: a framework for analysis,” in Mapping Desire: Geographies of Sexuailties, ed. David Bell and Gill Valentine (New York: Routledge, 1995), 149-161; Bell and Binnie, “Authenticating Queer Space: Citizenship, Urbanism and Governance”; Kath Browne, Jason Lim, and Gavin Brown, eds., Geographies of sexualities: theory, practices, and politics (Aldershot, Hampshire ; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2007); David Bell et al., eds., Pleasure Zones: Bodies, Cities, Spaces (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2001); Jon Binnie, The Globalization of Sexuality (London: SAGE, 2004); Bell and Binnie, The Sexual Citizen. 3 Hubbard, “Sex Zones,” 51.

185 invested and reinvested with meaning, to the seemingly paradoxical point that their symbolic capital is rendered “natural.” Filling the streets with something unexpected, something that skews the natural if only just slightly, provides for a powerful critique of the normative discourses of space. In this chapter I turn to the analysis of photographs and video taken during the march in order to complete and further complicate the analysis started in the previous chapter. In so doing, I continue to reflect upon the ways in which the notion of sexual citizenship informs and/or destabilizes French notions of the universal citizen. Through the lens of gay pride in Strasbourg, I am able to provide some possible answers to that question.

Methodology

The data gathered for analysis come primarily from two sources. First, I attended the 2004 and 2008 Marche des visbilités where I collected photographs, images, and video. Second, the group that organizes the march (Festigays) has an archive of photographs from 2002 to 2007. From these collections, I have focused primarily on images/photographs where there are signs and/or banners with linguistic messages. In providing an analysis of the linguistic messages they convey, I will arrive at a better understanding of the goal of the march for those who attend.

As a theoretical basis, I turn to Charles Sanders Peirce’s idea of “index,” a concept that other scholars examining Gay Pride parades have also employed to analyze

186 the different “tableaux” that are present during the parade.4 In his analysis of the Chicago

Gay and Lesbian Pride Day Parade, Richard Herrell explains the importance of examining not only the linguistic, but also the nonlinguistic signs:

To consider the semiotic devices at work in parades, we cannot be limited to the purely linguistic realm of semantics but must think about the vast complex of linguistic and nonlinguistic signs known as indexes. Anything in a communicative event that focuses the receivers’ attention on a component of the social situation is an index. Indexes signal the “presence of some entity” in the context of communication in which they are used. Purely indexical signs “signal some particular value of one or more contextual variable,” the meaning of which is purely pragmatic. Most important, they signal the structure of the context in which the index is used.5

In her analysis of Madrid’s Gay and Lesbian Pride Parade, Begonya Enguix advances the idea that

the Pride Parade is the context of “self-controlled self-presentation” and social visibilisation of a “community” that is generally not easily defined or identified. Indexes and symbols produce “thick” images that refer to, confirm, challenge and subvert social and self conceptions on identity.6

Enguix underscores in this passage that the parade, while often associated with the chaos of carnival, is in fact a space where participants perform a controlled presentation of themselves. This idea finds resonance in Charles Lindahl’s analysis of

Cajun Mardi Gras where he asserts that contrary to outward appearances, the celebration

4 Richard K. Herrell, “The Symbolic Strategies of Chicago’s Gay and Lesbian Pride Day Parade,” in Gay Culture in America: Essays from the Field (Boston: Beacon Press, 1992), 225-252; Enguix, “Identities, Sexualities, and Commemorations.” 5 Herrell, “The Symbolic Strategies of Chicago’s Gay and Lesbian Pride Day Parade,” 227. Herrel’s ideas are influenced by Pierce’s philosophy of semiotics ane he cites Charles Sanders Pierce, Philosophical Writings of Pierce, ed. Justus Buchler (New York: Dover, 1955). 6 Enguix, “Identities, Sexualities, and Commemorations,” 22.

187 is highly organized and regimented.7 However, the outward display may not achieve the goal for which the participants aim. To illustrate this idea, Enguix explain that “…one has to be an expert to read these representations, as their effect on an inexperienced audience can be exactly the contrary of that desired, i.e. the reinforcement of stereotypical figures.”8 Although I do not fully agree with Enguix’s statement that one needs to be an

“expert,” I can appreciate the idea. For the “uninitiated,” drag queens marching down the street with seven-inch platform shoes and neon hair to the sky may indeed be an indication of anything but the subversion of gender norms. Judith Butler states that identity, and in this case, gender identity is the result of repeated performances: “If the ground of gender identity is the stylized repetition of acts through time, and not a seemingly seamless identity, then the possibilities of gender transformation are to be found in the arbitrary relation between such acts, in the possibility of a different sort of repeating, in the breaking or subversive repetition of that style.”9 As Eugnix reminds us, however, while the ability to subvert the dominant discourse on gender norms may well be disrupted by gender performance, if the people “reading” this performance do not understand the code, the message may very well be lost or misinterpreted. To further complicate matters, Elizabeth Schewe, through her analysis of RuPaul, states that,

feminist critiques of male drag or female impersonation often conclude that male performers, like white performers in blackface, come from a position of power and thus “leave sexism intact” (bradford 25) and even “erase” women (Davy 358), since the performers’ “maleness at least

7 Carl Lindahl, “Bakhtin’s Carnival Laughter and the Cajun Country Mardi Gras,” Folklore 107 (1996): 57-70. 8 Enguix, “Identities, Sexualities, and Commemorations,” 23. 9 Judith Butler, “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory,” Theatre Journal 40, no. 4 (1988): 520.

188 partially locates their parody of femininity in a set of relations built on sexism” (bradford 25).10

Schewe continues by asserting that drag performances do not fall neatly into a binary where the performance is either subversive or not. Instead, drag performance is dependant on the time and space in which it is performed. Moreover, Schewe also advances the idea that even if a drag performance could be qualified as subversive, there remains the issue of the ability of the audience to decipher these codes:

And while I have suggested above that Lettin [RuPaul’s autobiography] works to reinstate the sexual and political context that had been evacuated from the bulk of RuPaul’s televised performances, nonetheless one must wonder to what extent mainstream readers are prepared to understand RuPaul’s disidentificatory photographic performances. It could be that the openness of RuPaul’s form—that very openness that invites readers to engage with his creatively juxtaposed images—also allows many readers to skip over such images as they translate the superficial viewing practices of music videos to this other pop genre: the combination of confessional autobiography and self-help manual in which RuPaul teaches his readers to find their authentic selves by trying drag.11

While drag may be the most visible of possibly subversive gender play, the presence of the thousands of other participants cannot be overlooked. Through my analysis of the images and video that I have collected, I aim to understand how the participants during Strasbourg’s march use the parade to perform their identity and to

10 Elizabeth Schewe, “Serious Play: Drag, Transgender, and the Relationship between Performance and Identity in the Life Writing of RuPaul and Kate Bornstein,” Biography 32, no. 4 (2009): 672; K. Bradford, “Grease Cowboy Fever; or, the Making of Johnny T.,” in The Drag King Anthology, ed. Donna Jean Troka, Kathleen LeBesco, and Jean Bobby Noble (Binghamton, NY: Harrington Park, 2002), 15-30; Kate Davy, “Fe/Male Impersonation: The Discourse of Camp,” in Critical Theory and Performance, ed. Janelle G. Reinelt and Joseph R. Roach, 2nd ed. (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 2007), 358, 361. 11 Schewe, “Serious Play,” 674–675.

189 what extent these identities either support or subvert dominant discourses on proper sexual citizenship.

Survey of Images

The goal of the parade is to achieve a higher level of visibility for the GLBTQ community of Strasbourg and the surrounding area. Inherent within this objective is the idea that in order to make an impact on spectators and those who would hear about the parade through other media such as newspapers, radio, and television, people need to be able to “read” the parade. The participants, floats, and other objects that form the procession therefore represent a rich text to be deciphered. The images that participants display represent a choice on their part. Here, participants are able to design and present themselves to the spectators as they choose. While participants have a large amount of leeway, their choices fall into a few different categories. First, participants can present themselves in “everyday” clothes that call little attention to themselves since they resemble what the majority of other city-dwellers on a Saturday afternoon are wearing.

The majority of participants fall into this category, wearing jeans, shorts, cropped pants, skirts, tee-shirts, sandals, flip-flops, etc.; simply put, nothing that is out of the ordinary for a Strasbourg afternoon in the middle of June. Another group of participants dress more provocatively, shedding layers of clothing to reveal midriffs, chests, legs, and more.

These participants are some of the most noticeable since they are often dancing on the trucks that act as elevated stages. A third group of participants are those in some form of costume, most visibly drag queens. This group is not limited to drag queens, however,

190 and themes are as varied as the participants and spectators themselves. Some notable costumes since 2002 were traditional southern German garb (i.e. dirndl and lederhosen), wedding dresses, and muppet-like creations complete with fuzzy heads and long tails.

One of the most sexually charged and publically daring displays actually took place during the first march in 2002 and has not been repeated since: a group of men in leather hats, masks, thongs, and chaps, or some combination thereof, complete with a sling and willing participants (see figure 5-1).

Figure 5-1: 2001, S&M. (see <>)

191 In 2002, the floats themselves have remained more or less the same and the groups and businesses that have taken the time to construct some kind of moving display have remained stable. The floats and displays vary, with some constructed and maintained by local social organizations like Alsarando, a gay and lesbian association that organizes hiking trips into the Vosges Mountains. On their website, they write that as a part of Alsace’s gay and lesbian fabric, it is important for the group to participate in

Strasbourg’s yearly marche de la visibilité:

En effet, nous ne pouvons pas travailler pour une homosexualité épanouie, sans honte ni bannière et vivre caché ce jour là. Les premières années, nous défilions derrière une banderole et un immense drapeau 6 couleurs mais depuis 2006, nous avons notre propre char que nous décorons.12

From this declaration, we witness the link that Alsarando makes between the importance of public visibility and living one’s homosexuality. The organizers of

Alsarando reject the idea that participation for the association is optional, while still respecting their members’ privacy.13 Furthermore, the group has demonstrated its continued support of the Marche by investing resources into constructing their own more permanent float (see figure 5-2 and 5-3).14 Along the lines of Alsarando, another group called Pelicanto is the gay and lesbian chorus of the region. This group often participates by waving banners and flags, but has never constructed a float of their own.

12 “Alsarando,” Alsarando, September 10, 2010, http://alsarando.apinc.org/. 13 Even though the organizers of Alsarando believe that one of their core responsibilities is participating in the Marche de la visibilité, they also state that their members are invited to partake on a voluntary basis. 14 Images dated 2008 are a part of the Author’s personal collection.

192

Figure 5-2: 2002, Alsaranado. (see <>)

Representing one of the oldest and largest associations in the march is the float of

La Lune, an organization for lesbians that celebrated its 30th year in 2010.15 The group organizes many events that occur on a regular basis like parties (sometimes with a theme) and outings to a range of locations (theme parks, bike rides, hiking, cinema, etc.). They also have a book and video library available to members and publish a monthly newsletter. On their website they state that they participate in Strasbourg’s Marche de la visibilité, but do not elaborate further. Similarly to Alsarando, La Lune also began marching in the parade with a banner and today now decorates a delivery truck in addition to the banner (see figure 5-4).

15 The organization’s official name is La Lune: l’association strasbourgeoise des femmes homosexuelles. See “La Lune,” La Lune, September 11, 2010, http://www.lalune67.fr/.

193

Figure 5-3: 2008, Alsarando. (personal collection)

Similar to La Lune, the group Emergence has participated in the march for a number of years. This organization’s main goal was to work towards a higher level of recognition for gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgender people. This group has discontinued regular meetings as of January 2008. In the years 2002-2007, Emergence’s participation ranged from banners and flags to a more decorated float with critiques and/or short questions aimed at underscoring and raising the awareness of discriminations against gays and lesbians (see figure 5-5).

Another group that has participated since 2002 is Support Transgenre Strasbourg.

This organization aims to provide a safe space for male-to-female (M2F) and female-to-

194

Figure 5-4: 2008, La Lune. (personal collection)

male (F2M) residents of the region where they can exchange information and explore the many issues that affect this community. Furthermore, this group and its organizers are often some of the most politically vocal of participants during the marche, decorating their float or carrying signs and banners with linguistic messages asking “À qui profite la norme?” or declaring “L’État est transphobe”, and “Nos morts sont politiques” (see figure 5-6).

Focused on raising awareness around AIDS and HIV, the group AIDES participates every year in the marche des visibililtés. This national organization has a

195

Figure 5-5: 2006, Émergence. (see <>)

regional network of offices and the Bas-Rhin department’s local office often decorates a float or shares in the decoration of a float with another organization or business.

In addition to these organizations, there are also political parties that participate.

Regular attendees include the Parti socialiste (PS) as well as its association for youth called the Mouvement des jeunes socialistes (MJS), the Ligue communiste révolutionnaire (LCR), and les Verts. Not surprisingly, all of these parties are aligned to the left of the political spectrum, which has traditionally been where issues concerning

French gays and lesbians have found their highest level of support. Unlike the preceding groups, the political parties mentioned here do not have their own dedicated float upon which to pass through the city. Instead, they rely on members of these organizations to

196

Figure 5-6: 2008, Support Transgenre Strasbourg. (personal collection)

carry banners and flags in order to make their presence known (see figure 5-7 and 5-8).

Two student organizations that have participated in the march for several years are Over the Rainbow and Evolution. The former is a group that welcomes HIV+ youth of high school and college ages, while the latter is an intercampus association for

GLBTQ students and their allies. As a testament to the exchange, appropriation, and translation of North-American gay culture in France, the name of the group Over the

197

Figure 5-7: 2007, LCR. (see <>

Rainbow is an unmistakable reference to gay cult-figure Judy Garland and the song of the same name from the film The Wizard of Oz.16

The Marche de la visibilité also includes several commercial establishments located within the city of Strasbourg as well as in Germany. One of the longest participating bars is the Offshore, a business located north of Strasbourg’s city center in the village of Bischwiller. Another bar that has participated for several years is the

16 For a discussion of the transmission and reappropriation of North-American gay culture within a French context, see Provencher, “Vague English Creole: (Gay English) Cooperative Discourse in the French Gay Press.”

198

Figure 5-8: 2005, Parti Socialiste Français. (see <>

Golden Gate, located in the touristy Petite France neighborhood of Strasbourg’s center.

In the last few years the Offshore has displayed rather large decorated tarps made to fit a delivery truck, inside of which a DJ and dancers jump around to techno music. The

Golden Gate, while missing the custom tarps, also takes over the interior of a delivery truck—generally provided by the company France Boissons—including a DJ and dancers. Other shorter lived bars and clubs include the Embuskade, Rapael’s HOM, and the Zoo (which then became the B&G: Boys and Girls), all of which were located in

Strasbourg’s city center. Hailing from Mulhouse, about 45 minutes to the south in the

Haut-Rhin department of Alsace, the bar Le Jet7 has also started to participate in

199 Strasbourg’s festivities. There has also been a small German presence in the march well.

Since 2002, the bar Tabu, located across the Rhine in the German city of Offenburg, has been decorating a float to present during the marche. When they didn’t present a float solely on their own, they often combined with the sauna Inox, located south of

Strasbourg’s city center in the suburb of Illkirch-Graffenstaden.

The groups, associations, and commercial establishments that I mention above are notable since they have all participated, with a few exceptions, in Strasbourg’s pride parade since its beginning in 2002.17 Other participants joined the parade for its inauguration but were not seen in subsequent years. Examples of such are Les Gareçons

[sic], a French-style espresso bar located in the Hauptbanhof of the German city of

Fribourg im Brigsau, which stands about an hour to the south of Strasbourg. Another

German participant who was present at the first march but did not return was Aids-Hilfe based in Offenburg. As the name suggests, this organization aims to provide information and resources to those affected by Aids in the Baden-Württemberg area of southwestern

Germany. Similarly, the Lesben- und Schwulenverband in Deutschland [Lesbian and Gay

Association of Germany] did not return to Strasbourg for additional appearances.

Surrounding these floats, banners, and flags are the 3,000 or so people who join the parade nearly every year. As I explained above, the range of participants is vast, similar to other marches of this kind around France. What do these various organizations,

17 Since 2008, the parade has welcomed other participants, such as TaPaGeS (Trans, Pédé, Gouines de Strasbourg), an organization whose mission is to highlight inequalities across the spectrum, not only from the larger “heterosexual” French population, but also from within, most notably the dominance of white, middle-class gay men.

200 groups, and participants tell us about how they see their sexual citizenship? In the following section, I will address these questions further.

Participants and Sexual Citizenship

An analysis of the video and photographs gathered demonstrates that the event is multivalent. Some participants appear to revel in the festive nature of the event, dancing along to the music pounding from the DJs situated on the bed of the floats/trucks. Each time a new song picks up speed, they jump, yell, and scream in delight. Indeed, many of the participants, their reasons for attending aside, appear to enjoy this part of the march very much. Scholars have argued that the underpinnings of the idea of “gay pride” in fact require that the event be a show of happiness and joy that is a response to the received notion that homosexuality is shameful. In their recently published edited volume, David

Halperin and Valerie Traub unite several currents of thought that address this understanding of the discourse of pride.18 David Caron, echoing an argument he made in his own book, states in his chapter that the notion of pride limits the different manifestations of queerness by constructing a binary situation in which queer people must either be proud of their sexual identity or ashamed of it.19 One of his main concerns with this construction is that it confines people to a kind of existential dilemma: if one is not proud of being gay, then one has not fully realized one’s self. To illustrate, Caron cites the example of men who are on the “DL” or down low, a term used to refer to men

18 Halperin and Traub, Gay Shame. 19 David Caron, “Shame on Me, or the Naked Truth about Me and Marlene Dietrich,” in Gay Shame, ed. David M. Halperin and Valerie Traub (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009), 117-131; My Father and I.

201 who have sex with other men but who do not publically declare a gay identity. Within the construction of gay pride, then, they are regarded as ashamed of themselves because they do not come out. Caron criticizes this line of thinking since it does not take into account the idea that a gay identity may find little resonance for the life experiences of these individuals. Instead, he proposes the idea of shame as a more productive replacement, the notion of which is able to surpass these binaries. As such, shame allows the queer person to explore connections to his/her fellow queers through shared group experience, an experience that Caron argues throughout his book is a more productive alternative to the familial model of community.

The current trend in many gay and lesbian pride parades is to show that participants are just like everyone else and therefore deserve the same kind of treatment.

Indeed, some of these issues have become contentious within gay pride marches themselves. Organizers sometimes try to limit certain groups and organizations from participating in order to present a more mainstream image. For instance, the group

Panthères roses of Nancy proclaimed on their website how they were denied access to the Nancy pride parade because of their politically radical stance and their in-your-face style of demonstration. Moreover, in order to participate with a float in the Nancy parade, organizations had to pay 100€, which the Panthères roses refused to pay in protest of what they see as the commercialization of the event. The Montreal pride parade, as described by David Bell and Gill Valentine, also produced a lot of debate over where the pride parade should go: by remaining in the gay village, some organizers argued that the

202 parade was, in essence, preaching to the choir.20 By taking the parade out of the village and into streets not associated with gays and lesbians, organizers contended that the parade would achieve a more productive kind of visibility, one where the people exposed to the march were not the same kind of people that may have come to see it in the first place. Furthermore, by tracing the path of the march outside the boundaries of Montreal’s gay ghetto, those spectators who would go to see the march would also be making their presence known in spaces with which they are not normally associated.

For the Strasbourg visibility march, I contend that no area of the city could be defined as the “gay ghetto,” even though during a debate on suicide and queer youth in

2008 it was suggested by one of the speakers that the neighborhood known as Petite

France had become Strasbourg’s “petit Marais.” Home to two bars/nighclubs, a gay- friendly restaurant, a sex shop, and a boutique that specialized in Asian-inspired décor, the Petite France neighborhood had, for some, reached a high enough level of commercial queer development to be designated a queer neighborhood similar to the

Marais.21 Known for its small winding streets, half-timbered buildings, and the Covered

Bridges dating from the Middle Ages, Petite France has received a great deal of attention in the last few decades with the growth of tourism as well as the decentralization of the state: the installation of the Musée d’art moderne et contemporain, École nationale d’administration (ENA), and the Conseil régional du Bas-Rhin; along with the

20 See Bell and Valentine, “Mapping Desire.” 21 Since that time, one of the nightclubs changed its clientele base and the restaurant was sold to new owners.

203 redevelopment of the river locks to create a kind of bateaux mouche-style tourist experience with boats circling the city-center by way of the Ill river.22

While Petite France may currently represent Strasbourg’s only prospect for a

Marais-style gay neighborhood, the visibility march does not, and indeed, cannot pass through its streets. Narrow, winding, and restricted, Petite France does not have the ability to welcome trucks or floats, thereby forcing the parade through the city’s other spaces. The urban geography of the city closes off the possibility for participants to remain within their supposed gay ghetto—if it exists at all. Participants are required to enter into the city’s normalized space, under the gaze of inhabitants and tourists alike.

Their visible and audible presence within these normalized spaces leaves little doubt that they are trying to draw attention to their physical presence within the space. Indeed, city space is infused with different meanings and constraints that, for Marianne Blidon, brings people together and separates them at the same time:

L’espace public est l’espace sur lequel les discours anti-communautaires se cristallisent parce que c’est le lieu de l’expérience sensible de tout citoyen. Or cet espace public n’est ni neutre ni ouvert à tous. Il est traversé par des tensions qui conduisent à des agrégations, voire à des ségrégations. Nier cette dimension, c’est méconnaître la réalité sociale et ignorer la dimension fonctionnelle des lieux.23

What makes Strasbourg’s visibility march interesting is that the participants are not exiting some kind of recognized space—like Paris’ Marais or Montreal’s gay ghetto—to enter into “heterosexualized” space with the goal of queering it; instead,

22 According to Batorama, this is the number one tourist attraction in all of Alsace, attracting over 700,000 tourists yearly. See “Batorama”, September 25, 2010, http://www.batorama.fr. 23 Marianne Blidon, “Espaces gays et idéal républicain, un débat mal posé,” Bulletin d’histoire politique 18, no. 2 (2010): 39.

204 participants are already in a heterosexualized space and remain within it. They do not return to the gay neighborhood after the march is finished, thereby safely putting themselves as sexual deviants back into a geographically localizable space.24 While the participants do not return to a specified queer space within the city, they do return to the place de l’Université. Here, participants listen to closing remarks by the organizers and mill about before finally dispersing. Later that evening, the soirée clôture takes place at a large venue called La Laiterie that hosts music events of all kinds throughout the year.

The Laiterie, like the city streets occupied by the visibility march, represents the malleability of the space: for one evening out of many, it is invested with “sexual deviants,” brought together by their desire to have a good time and dance the night away.

And as we will see with the city streets after the march, the Laiterie is swept clean shortly after the departure of the last reveler, ready to welcome the next event.

A survey of the images and video gathered for the march tells us that the majority of participants carry on in loosely assembled groups formed around the different floats and banners. To illustrate, the majority of people around the van decorated for the association La Lune are women who belong to the organization. The same follows for other groups such as Pellicanto, Alsarando, and the two or three political parties that attend most every year. By marching near or behind their banners, the visibility of those

24 It is important to recognize that this localizable space evolves and transforms. The notion of a gay neighborhood is indeed a rather contemporary idea due to the different kinds of visibility that these neighborhoods enjoy compared to other neighborhoods of the city that at one time or another were known for their deviant inhabitants and visitors. Moreover, many people may visit these neighborhoods, but not everyone can—or wants—to live there. See Caron, My Father and I especially chapter two; Revenin, Homosexualité et prostitution masculines à Paris, 1870-1918; Provencher, Queer French especially chapter five; Tamagne, Histoire de l’homosexualité en Europe: Berlin, Londres, Paris, 1919-1939.

205 groups is further heightened. In some respects, however, these social organizations may also be the target of critique by those who give little value to the idea of a gay and lesbian organization, and this from people who identify as homosexual or heterosexual. Some may view the idea of joining a group whose main criterion for inclusion is one’s sexuality as a move towards closing off the outside, towards communautarisme, where people would put forth their sexuality as that which defines them the most, and extending privilege to others who do the same. The message by the presence in the street of these social groups acts as a kind of tool for their own banalisation. By seeing that homosexual men and women are able to come together in social organizations that resemble any number of other organizations that do not privilege sexual identity outright works towards their “everydayness” where the presence of queer people is no longer a surprise nor a shock to most of society. The desire, then, to show spectators that the participants are “just like everyone else” appears to be one of the major reasons for attending the event, an idea that is corroborated by the questionnaire data in chapter four.

What sets apart some groups compared to others is their use of linguistic messages to critique or comment upon inequalities in society for queer people. Whereas groups such as Pellicanto and Alsarando only advertise their presence as a group that welcomes queer people to participate and do not make political or social claims nor pose critical questions to spectators or participants, other groups, brandish signs that ask their viewers to consider broad issues that affect the queer community as a whole. We turn to these linguistic messages in the following part of this chapter in order to better understand what kinds of statements are being made, what kinds of questions are being

206 asked, and how this rejects or reinscribes dominant French notions of proper sexual citizenship.

Linguistic Messages and Sexual Citizenship

I will examine the linguistic messages present during the Strasbourg visibility march in a chronological fashion, noting which groups or organizations are presenting these messages for consideration by both spectators and participants.

Located at the head of the procession in 2002 was a large delivery truck covered with a black tarp where organizers had written in large white letters two statements and one question (see figure 5-9, 5-10, and 5-11). The trio of messages were “Combattre l’homophobie ça commence à l’école et au boulot”; “À qui profite la norme?” and “Une loi contre l’homophobie maintenant!” Two out of the three linguistic signs have homophobia as their central theme. One contends that fighting homophobia starts at school and at work, while its partner message states that there should be a law against homophobia immediately.25 Both frame homophobia as an issue that affects queer people, one that that needs to be addressed in three locations: at school, at work, and in the

Assemblée Nationale. Moreover, by placing this float at the head of the parade, the organizers have clearly expressed a desire to begin the procession with what they feel are some of the most pressing issues at that time.

25 In 2002, a law protecting people against discrimination based on sexual orientation in the hiring process was approved. In the years that followed, amendments were added to existing discrimination laws that furthered protection for people based on their sexual orientation. Interestingly, the word homophobie or homophobe does not appear.

207

Figure 5-9: 2002. (see <>)

All three of these locations are a part of the public sphere. In the statement,

“Combattre l’homophobie…” the organizers mention both school and work, but do not mention the home. At first glance, one would think that fighting homophobia would first start in the home, where parents can impart values they believe important to their children who will in turn take them first to school and then to work. Does this suggest that the place for education of this kind is indeed in the public sphere? Is private space being held up as sacred, outside of the legislative reach? I advance the notion that this statement underscores at first glance the belief in the Republican mission of the school, where the

Nation’s citizens will be formed. The school represents the temple of the Republic, and it

208

Figure 5-10: 2002. (see <>)

is here that France’s citizens will learn to be proper sexual citizens as well: they will learn to combat homophobia like they will learn to defend the Nation against injustice and tyranny. This statement then underlines the French belief in education and how it will produce enlightened citizens that will then contribute beneficially to society. At the same time, however, we could read this statement as the failure of the school system to produce good citizens, ones who would understand that issues such as sexuality belong in the private sphere and should have no bearing on the public. After all, homophobic behavior could be read as the transfer of private morals into the public sphere, an idea that is just as much in contradiction with French universalism as those who argue against homosexuality in the public sphere.

209

Figure 5-11: 2002. (see <>)

The idea transmitted by these statements is that school and work are homophobic environments and that homophobia needs to be acknowledged, controlled, and reduced in these spaces. The declarations serve as a prompt to those who may be unaware that homophobia can act as powerfully destructive force for queer people. These linguistic

210 messages appear then to corroborate Didier Eribon’s claim that homophobia, and more specifically, insult is the founding moment of difference for queer people:

Au commencement, il y a l’injure. Celle que tout gay peut entendre à un moment ou à un autre de sa vie, et qui est le signe de sa vulnérabilité psychologique et sociale… Ce sont des agressions verbales qui marquent la conscience. Ce sont des traumatismes plus ou moins violemment ressentis sur l’instant mais qui s’inscrivent dans la mémoire et dans le corps (car la timidité, la gêne, la honte sont des attitudes corporelles produites par l’hostilité du monde extérieur). Et l’une des conséquences de l’injure est de façonner le rapport aux autres et au monde. Et donc de façonner la personnalité, la subjectivité, l’être même d’un individu.26

In the worlds of school and work, queer people are subjected to insults that structure their interactions with the rest of society. Eribon describes these insults like a kind of trauma that is inscribed upon the body in the form of timidity, embarrassment, and shame, and place limitations upon the queer body. The goal of the truck, with these two declarations flanking each other, seems to be a way to remind the spectators of the power of the homophobic injure and the need to take action in the public sphere. Still, the absence of a mention of the private sphere feels deliberate on the part of the organizers.

Since proper (sexual) citizenship is played out in the public sphere, the private sphere is left untouched and unmentioned.

The final message on the truck, “À qui profite la norme?” asks spectators and participants alike to ask themselves about the usefulness of the “normal.” By posing the question, the organizers not only ask spectators to consider who benefits from

“normality,” but also require the reader to understand what normal means. The question that the organizers pose could be asking the reader to consider his/her position of power

26 Eribon, Réflexions sur la question gay, 29. Insult plays such a large part in Eribon’s discussion that the English translation of the title is Insult and the Making of the Gay Self.

211 within society. People who are considered “normal”—in light of the parade in which the linguistic message is located, it seems clear that “normal” here refers to those who do not self-identify as gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender or queer—profit from their position: they are not stigmatized by their sexuality and therefore are considered proper sexual citizens in comparison to those who are considered deviant sexual citizens. The question functions as a kind of auto-evaluation of one’s position of power within society. In turn, those who are not normal do not profit from society; instead they are stigmatized and marked as “other.”

Situated in such a way, the question “À qui profite la norme?” appears on one hand as of challenge to French universalist ideals. It draws the reader’s attention to the fact that there are inequalities within society, and that those who do not fit the mold of la norme are not able to fully participate within that society. The question then ties together the two statements that flank it on the truck. Homophobia is therefore the result of those who believe that queer people are not a part of la norme. On the other, this can also

“articulate” questioning of the binarism at the heart of the way in which universalism functions de facto, pointing to some of its perennial contradictions and exclusionary history.

In reading this question, I am also reminded of Michael Warner’s book The

Trouble with Normal, where he discusses the politics of sexual shame and the self- sabotaging of the contemporary Gay and Lesbian movement are discussed.27 Indeed, “À qui profite la norme” may also function as a critique of contemporary gay and lesbian

27 Michael Warner, The Trouble with Normal: Sex, Politics, and the Ethics of Queer Life (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999).

212 political discourse where the goal is not a radical reconfiguration of society, but assimilation into traditional heteronormative behavior. Is the goal of the question to encourage readers to reconsider the definition of normal in order to include sexual deviants? This would be problematic because it does not de-center the idea of la norme, instead it reinscribes it as the goal to achieve. Conversely, if the goal of the question is an interrogation of the idea of la norme and how it will in the end not be beneficial to sexual deviants or to anyone else, then it functions as a critique of the gay and lesbian political discourse of inclusion. The next two signs support both of these interpretations.

The first image is of six participants, two of whom are carrying signs. One states,

“Non à l’hétérocolonisation”, while the other exclaims, “Egalité des droits”. The participants are standing around the truck I mentioned in the preceding paragraphs. The first of the two signs supports the second interpretation of the question “À qui profite la norme?” above, while the second sign supports the first interpretation. First, let us examine the word “hétérocolonisation”. Anchored by the visibility parade in which the sign is located, the word “colonisation” implies occupation and exploitation of an area by a group of people, here referring to the heterosexual appropriation of space. Located within the visibility parade, the sign underscores the unmarked nature of space as straight in urban geography. Like the parade itself, the sign announces the possibility of creating a space for queerness within the city by calling on spectators to repudiate heterocolonisation.

The second sign, “Égalité des droits”, indexes the idea that there is an inequality in the rights of people who identify as gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender. Their rights are not the same as others in society who are marked by heterosexuality. This is a theme

213 that reoccurs from the earliest parade and throughout its subsequent editions.

Furthermore, it has become the main rallying cry of most parades of this kind. Sexual deviants are not able to participate fully in society and are therefore denied certain rights that are extended to non-sexual deviants. Some examples of sexual deviants status as

“second-class citizens” are same-sex marriage, adoption by same-sex couples, as well as transgender rights of gender/sex identity at an administrative level. This sign upholds the

French tradition of fighting for the rights of groups who are oppressed. Within this framework, opponents are at pains to argue against extending rights to people since the notion of equality is strongly anchored in French culture and society.28

Since the act of fighting for equal rights is one that is very familiar within a

French context, this does not qualify as a politically radical strategy on the part of the sign-bearer. Indeed, fighting for equal rights or treatment by the law is a common theme in social organizations of this kind. In her book Social Movements in France: Towards a

New Citizenship, Sarah Waters argues that contemporary French social movements have a very strong civic dimension and that they are “about rights and about the struggle to obtain rights by different groups in society.”29 Drawing inspiration from Jacques

Guilhaumou,30 a French Marxist historian, Waters asserts that contemporary social movements are able to claim the French Revolution as their model. She states, “Social movements may represent a different set of groups in society and may invent new ways of acting and expressing themselves, but the processes which they reveal are very old,

28 See Waters, Social Movements in France. 29 Ibid., 41. 30 See Guilhaumou, La parole des sans.

214 manifesting a legacy of social and civic mobilization that has deep historical roots.”31

Instead of radically challenging French society, these politically and socially motivated groups are in line with a French-style usage of public space. That is to say that the public sphere is a place where groups come to critique oppressive measures by the government or unfair treatment in society. The sign “Égalité des droits” therefore acts as this kind of

French-style of protest that finds resonance within French culture as a whole. People who identify as queer are not necessarily persecuted under current laws, but they are denied certain rights that have been framed as universal and that should be applicable to all citizens of society. The other sign, however, does ask its reader to consider the nature of space and how the unmarked public sphere is indeed heavily marked by heterosexual dominance. While the parade is planned and executed by a centralized organization, we cannot conclude that there will only be one overall message for the entire event. Indeed, messages may be conflicting and contradictory at times; while these messages may not necessarily seem out of place in a gathering of this genre, they do sometimes point in differing directions, as we have seen here. On one hand, a participant points out the

(un)marked nature of the public sphere and how it is in effect dominated by heterosexuality. On the other, another participant employs the integrational discourse of equality and rights that is common to many social movements across France.

The next two examples of linguistic messages used during the march support

Waters’ assertion that new social movements demonstrate a strong civic dimension. The first refers to a series of banners presented by the association AIDES. They read, “À nos amours, à nos ami(e)s… aux 40.000 morts du SIDA”; “Aujourd’hui, la lutte contre le

31 Waters, Social Movements in France, 45.

215 SIDA c’est: se protéger et protéger son et ses partenaires”; “Continuons la lutte. Contre le sida c’est tous ensemble: Car tous responsables”. The second, smaller in scale and similar to the format of the two signs discussed in the preceding paragraph, reads “Le respect c’est pour tout le monde”. Both linguistic messages underscore the idea of equality and non-discrimination. In the case of the series of banners, the organization employs a language that is free of gender markings in an effort to reach both participants and spectators. By using gender-neutral language, AIDES endeavors to include anyone who is sexually active—no matter how they identify themselves sexually, instead of relying upon one identity to reach their audience, they rely upon the sexual act in general—in an effort to raise awareness of the continued spread of HIV/AIDS in France.

In the last banner of the tripartite series, AIDES relates to its readers that protecting oneself as well as one’s partner(s) is everyone’s responsibility. With the line, “Contre le sida c’est tous ensemble: Car tous responsables”, I am quickly reminded of the proper and improper sexual citizen. To be a good sexual citizen, one needs to practice safe-sex and use condoms or other forms of protection; not to do so endangers not only him/herself but also his/her partner(s) in an act that could be understood as improper sexual citizenship.32 The idea of responsibility here defines what good and bad sexual citizenship is. This is not simply an issue that is endemic to one group, but to the larger population, and therefore a demonstration of responsible civic involvement. The second sign, “Le respect c’est pour tout le monde” is another example of the civic nature of these groups of linguistic messages. Here, the participant underscores the notion that regardless

32 See Denis Provencher’s discussion of the film Drôle de Félix in his book Queer French.

216 of one’s sexuality, respect is a right to which everyone should have access. Disrespectful behavior should not be tolerated, and for that reason this sign echoes those earlier dealing with homophobia. Homophobic behavior is not, by today’s standards, acceptable within the public sphere. Éric Fassin concludes through his reading of Daniel Borillo that while homophobia still exists in France as elsewhere, what has changed is that overt homophobia is no longer acceptable within the public sphere. Fassin writes, “…on ne se demande plus tant aujourd’hui: comment peut-on être homosexuel? mais: comment peut- on être homophobe? En France, il est ainsi devenu plus infamant peut-être de s’entendre taxer d’homophobie que d’homosexualité…”33 Being a good citizen and not infringing upon the rights and wellbeing of others can therefore be considered an example of proper citizenship. Respecting one another, without mention of sexuality, upholds once again the idea of social movements fighting for the common good by making people aware of injustices done upon those who are less fortunate.

The last linguistic message for 2002 that I would like to discuss is presented by the transgender awareness group, Support Transgenre Strasbourg. Proclaiming, “Les

Trans sortent pour ne plus subir”, this group of participants is at times the most disruptive in their demonstrations in my estimation. Disruptive in that they do not readily fit into existing categories of classification and therefore have in some ways the most to gain and the most to say by a radical critique of the existing sexual structure of society.

Like the march as a whole, the linguistic message of the transgender group calls attention to the idea that trans people have been hidden away, either by force or by choice. This act

33 Fassin, L’Inversion de la question homosexuelle, 162. See also Daniel Borrillo, L’Homophobie, Que sais-je? (Paris: PUF, 2000).

217 of hiding, according to the banner, causes a great deal of distress evidenced by the use of the verb “subir.” The message implies that by exiting/coming out, indicated by the verb

“sortir”, trans people are able to escape—or at least have more control over—the pain and anguish they suffered while hiding. The message remains vague enough that the reader has to understand the idea of “sortir” within this context in order to make sense of it. What do they exit? And where are they entering? I advance the idea that, similarly to the coming-out narrative, trans people in this example are exiting the private sphere, the supposed safe-space of their home —who is to say that this space is any safer?—to enter as they are into the public sphere for all spectators to see.

In 2003, many of the same linguistic messages reappear along side the groups that presented them a year earlier. One remarkable addition, however, is the sign posted on the float for the bar Tabu located in Offernberg, Germany. On the front of the truck, signs with neon yellow backgrounds proclaim, “Les gays allemands accueillent les gays français avec leur amitié la plus grande.” What is striking about this message, compared with the ones I have discussed previously, is that the intended audience is not all spectators. Rather, the linguistic message is aimed specifically at “les gays français”, particularly maybe those who might frequent the establishment. On one level, the Tabu cultivates its clientele base by reaching out and underlining their common bond as les gays.34 On another level, the Tabu may also suggest that they can transcend national divides and be “good neighbors.” Furthermore, since the sign is written in French and not

34 Although only anecdotal, during my time in Strasbourg, I met several gay Alsatian men who enjoyed going to the Tabu or even farther afield—Zurich, for example—in order to find potential sexual partners. One of them even admitted that his limited knowledge of German heightened the excitement of the experience.

218 German, the Tabu reaches out to French speakers and encourages them to make the 30- minute trip across the Rhine River. Several other bars attend the event, but all of them only display the name of their establishment with little other in the way of linguistic messages. In fact, the bars and clubs of the city, like Le Golden Gate, Le C4, and

Raphael’s HOM are where the DJs are located and where most participants go to dance.

During the 2004 edition of the march, we see some of the same themes that were present in the previous ones. However, in addition to the regular title of the march,

“Liberté, égalité, visibilité,” organizers also added “parentalité” to the poster (see figure

5-12). The theme of marriage and especially same-sex adoption had become of particular importance at that time. Indeed, 2003 and 2004 saw the publication of several works aimed at discussing or examining the status of gays and lesbians in France.35

Furthermore, 2004 witnessed the broadcast of a three-hour variety show called

“Follement gay” on the private channel M6 followed later that year by the launch of

France’s first cable television channel specifically aimed at gays and lesbians, PinkTV.36

The French government also began to discuss updating the PaCS, and through a series of reforms, revised the French civil union in order to “repair certain deficiencies

35 Derai, Le Gay pouvoir: enquête sur la République bleu blanc rose; Didier Eribon, ed., Dictionnaire des cultures gays et lesbiennes (Paris: Larousse, 2003); Fabre and Fassin, Liberté, égalité, sexualités; Le Bitoux, Chevaux, and Proth, Citoyen de seconde zone; Rambach and Rambach, La culture gaie et lesbienne; Redoutey, “Gay Pride: marche revendicative et parade festive”; Louis-Georges Tin, Dictionnaire de l’homophobie (Paris: PUF, 2003). 36 In an edition of Têtu published before the launch of PinkTV, the magazine printed an article that examined the fight that had begun among French television channels to decide who would be the most “gay-friendly.” For an examination of PinkTV’s evolution from staunchly universal to more and more gay-male focused, see chapter 4 of Gunther, The Elastic Closet.

219

Figure 5-12: 2004. (see <>)

of the law of 1999 and to increase the protection of the partners.”37 The 2004 march also saw the most ambitious use of the city space to date. In 2002 and 2003, the march began at the Place de l’Université and ended near the Place de l’Étoile on the southern edge of the city center. In 2004, however, the march began near the southern edge of the city

37 Joëlle Godard, “Pacs Seven Years on: is it Moving Towards Marriage?,” International Journal of Law, Policy and the Family 21, no. 3 (2007): 315.

220 center on the Quai Koenig near the Place de l’Étoile. From here they marched directly up to the city center through the Place d’Austerliz, a major pick-up and drop-off point for tourists. Afterwards, they marched up the Rue de Arcades into the heart of Strasbourg, finally reaching the Place Kléber where they turned east towards Place Broglie and the

Place de la République. What is remarkable here is that instead of continuing on to the

Place de l’Université, the march doubled back and headed towards the train station. One of the largest squares in the city, the Place de la Gare was an impressive cobbled space where participants and spectators alike mingled among train passengers headed to and from the station. As I argued in chapter three, the 2004 march, through its use of the city and its geography, had one of the strongest symbolic messages of any of the parades before or after.

Dotted throughout the 2004 march were participants who echoed the theme of same-sex marriage as well as same-sex adoption promulgated by the organizing committee. Through the discourse of equal rights, these participants once again placed their public manifestation squarely within a framework familiar to French-styles of behavior in the public sphere. To illustrate, participants dressed in wedding dresses holding signs in both French and English that asked, “Where are our rights?” and “Mais où sont nos droits?” Anchored by the participants’ white, billowing wedding dresses, the linguistic messages underscored the idea that same-sex couples are not extended the same rights as opposite-sex couples when it comes to marriage. While the PaCS allows for certain rights under French law, and even after its subsequent reforms, it does not carry with it all the same rights of traditional marriage. In this respect, same-sex marriage has become a rallying cry for many same-sex couples. Denying rights to same-sex couples

221 points to an inferior status, a kind of second-class citizenry where only certain fully- fledged sexual citizens are able to benefit from rights extended by the state.

Located at the end of the march at the Place de la Gare, the organizing committee had a large sign constructed with messages written on both sides. On one side we find the first article of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights written by the United Nations:

“Tous les êtres humains naissent libres et égaux en dignité et en droits. Ils sont doués de raison et de conscience et doivent agir les uns envers les autres dans un esprit de fraternité.”38 On the opposite side of the declaration we find a collage of images of smiling children. Anchoring the images is a linguistic message that asks, “Vous pensez vraiment que tous nos parents sont hétéros?” in large blue letters. Placed below in slightly smaller red letters is its equivalent in German, “Denkt ihr wirklich, daß [sic] unsere

Eltern alle hetero sind?” In a European turn of events, Festigays, whose logo always made use of the European Union’s circle of stars, called upon the EU in order to underscore Strasbourg’s unique position as the capital of Europe and its symbolic capital.

With both signs, we see use of two of the major languages of the EU, French and

German, which also echoes Strasbourg’s Gallic and Germanic cultural and linguistic heritages. As one of the major cities in the region, on both sides of the Rhine River,

Strasbourg’s marche de la visibilité plays host to participants and spectators from around the region. The use of both languages demonstrates Festigay’s commitment to reaching as large an audience as possible. The march may take place in France, but it has ties to not only the region, but also Germany and Europe as the seat of the European parliament.

38 United Nations, “The Universal Declaration of Human Rights.”

222 Another striking example of the multiple planes upon which the march functions is a float that proclaims on the hood of the van “Nous ne sommes pas stériles!” Located on the bed of the truck is a stork holding what appears to be a baby swaddled in a blanket.

On one level, the image of the stork as the bearer of newborns is well anchored within the

Western imaginary. The image of the stork and child can be read quite easily by most spectators thanks to the bird’s place within popular culture. However, in an added layer of meaning, the stork is also a symbol of the region of Alsace as well as the national bird of Germany. Strolling through any of the tourist areas around the city of Strasbourg, one will find a multitude of knick-knacks and souvenirs dedicated to the white bird.

Employing the figure of the stork not only evokes the allegory of the arrival of a newborn into a family, but also the regional pride that the bird is able to symbolize for Alsace. Not to forget the reminder that we are all “procreators” (sex as sexuality).

The fight for marriage equality has been argued elsewhere to be a failure of the gay and lesbian movement to fundamentally change society. The argument is that by placing traditional marriage as the final goal to be reached, gays and lesbians are only reinscribing the primacy of the institution in society. In so doing, gays and lesbians reaffirm their secondary status within society since they are copying opposite-sex monogamous unions. In this respect, same-sex marriage is not a radical critique of society and does not aim for a reformulation of social bonds. Taking inspiration from

Judith Butler, instead of looking towards same-sex marriage as the model to be followed, the “original” to be “copied,” should we not instead seek to transform the way in which

223

Figure 5-13: 2004. (see <>)

we envision community and social groups, as David Caron suggests?39 Indeed, one participant in particular appears to be asking spectators just that (see 5-13). Swathed in a light purple dress, she holds a sign that reads, “L’Amour est à réinventer”, a reference to

39 Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity, ed. Linda J Nicholson (New York and London: Routledge, 1990); Caron, My Father and I.

224 a line in Arthur Rimbaud’s Une Saison en enfer. Within the context of the parade, I interpret this linguistic message along two possible lines. First, the reading suggests to the reader that traditional notions of heterosexual love need to be reexamined to allow for the inclusion of same-sex love. Pushing this idea further, I could also interpret the message to mean that we need to go even farther beyond traditional notions of love, in essence queering love. The sign puts into question all the received notions of love that we have imposed upon ourselves. What is love, how do we love, who do we love? By queering love, the participant destabilizes traditional forms of love that then subverts the family model upon which the modern nation-state rests. Finally, by evoking one of

France’s greatest literary enfants terribles, famous not only for his revolutionary verse, but also for his troubled relationship with the symbolist poet Paul Verlaine, the participant is able to gain from the symbolic power associated with the nation’s greatest art, its language and literature.

With the first marche de la visibilité three years behind them, we see many of the same participants, organizations, businesses, and themes in the years that follow. Like previous years, the theme of equal rights takes center stage. The poster for the event prominently displays a stork with multicolored peacock feathers behind it, with the message, “Droit au respect, respect aux droits!” printed in large black letters below it.

Throughout the parade we see evidence of this discourse of rights, even seeing the reuse of signs and posters from previous years.

New additions for 2005 are displayed on the van assembled by the transgender association, Support Transgenre Strasbourg, with large black banners on the front and sides. Harnessing the discourse of equal rights, one of the black banners reads “Droit égal

225 à l’emploi pour les trans’!”, which not only underscores social, but also economic equality. In what appears to be a contradiction, on the front of the transgender van, a large banner reads, “Être trans, c’est normal”, and on the passenger side of the van, another reads, similarly to previous years, “A qui profite la norme?” with the addition of a line below that reads, “À la haine LGBT…”40 These two messages seem to be in a contradictory relationship. The first linguistic message seeks to align trans people with those considered “normal”. The second banner, however, rejects the idea of “la norme” by stating that it seemingly fuels hate against people who identify as LGBT. There appears to be two different strategies at work here. One aims to align trans people with

“normal” society, proclaiming group membership with everyone else.41 Like the slogan

“Gay is good,”42 the message tries to erase the stigma attached to trans people by dispelling the myths of their supposed abnormalities through a performative utterance.

The other message intends to put distance between people who identify as LGBT and the undefined “norme” to which the banner makes reference. If we place these two linguistic messages within the context of alignment/rejection of proper sexual citizenship, the first message that proclaims that trans people are normal represents a kind of normalization or banalisation of trans people in order to remove the stigma of improper sexual citizenship.

The second message, however, works by criticizing the norm, thereby rejecting the idea that there is a norm to be reached or copied. This idea goes against the French idea of

40 Unfortunately, a participant is blocking the banner thus making it impossible to decipher it completely. 41 The notion of alignment and rejection can be traced to Swedish anthropologist Fredrik Barth. See his influential work Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture Differences (London: Allen & Unwin, 1969). 42 Will O’Bryan, “Gay is Good: How Frank Kameny Changed the Face of America,” Metro Weekly, October 5, 2006, http://www.metroweekly.com/feature/?ak=2341.

226 proper sexual citizenship since there is a norm, albeit one whose center is in constant reformulation and reconfiguration—that such debates on same-sex marriage and adoption

Figure 5-14: 2004. (see <>)

could even be taking place serve as an indication of the changing nature of what is considered the “norm.”

227 Trans participants, through their use of posters and signs, continue diffusing messages from both of the preceding perspectives. Messages such as, “Je suis une femme

à prostate. Ça fait désordre… et j’en suis fière !” or its equivalent message, “Je suis un homme à ovaires… Ça fait désordre… et j’en suis fier !” highlight the difficulty that trans people experience living their gender and sexual identity (see figure 5-14 and 5-15). The messages also reclaim identity for trans people by turning the tables on spectators: the disorder caused by their gender and sexual identity does not affect them; instead, it affects others. They are proud43 of the “gender trouble,” to borrow from Judith Butler,44 that their gender and sexual identity produces. A third message worn around the neck of one of the trans participants makes an even stronger charge against proper citizenship:

“La loi ignore les trans, ignorons la loi !” Not only does this sign underscore the invisibility of trans people before the law, but it goes even further and advocates for the strategy of civil disobedience. I read these messages as a rejection of group identity with the supposed “norms” of society and therefore for a rejection of proper citizenship in the hopes of creating a more inclusive one.

At the head of the Support Transgenre Strasbourg procession, we find two banners that appear to call upon a more acceptable discourse of social rights and critiques of the state. These two banners are “L’État est transphobe” and “Libre choix de l’état civil”. One of the difficulties for trans people is the ability to have official documents

43 Although Strasbourg’s parade is not called une marche de fierté like others of its kind around France, I cannot but notice the mention of the word pride within the context of the event. 44 Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity.

228 amended and/or changed to reflect their gender/sex identity. Indeed, the Parity law debate illustrates well the way in which biological sex has been enshrined in both the state and

Figure 5-15: 2005. (see <>)

society. Enda McCaffrey, for example, in his treatment of both the PaCS and the parity debates, notes that what seemed to pose the most problems was the idea that there is a

229 symbolic order (i.e. biological sex) that must be upheld. McCaffrey criticized the parity law for reinscribing biological sex into law. For trans people, the fight for the ability to choose one’s état civil flies in the face of this debate since it would, in many ways, evacuate biological sex of its classifying powers. For the paritaires, biological sex is the universal difference inscribed in all societies and cultures, and therefore it is the only one that should be enshrined in French law.

Similar to previous years, 2005 also saw its fair share of signs and banners that fit well into the notion of social movements that Sarah Waters describes.45 Fighting for equal rights for underprivileged groups, these new social movements continue to draw on powerful French national myths like the Revolution of 1789 to continue the fight of the

“sans-”, to borrow from historian Jacques Guilhamou.46 “Égalité des droits”,

“L’Homophobie tue”, and “Nous ne sommes pas des sous-citoyennes” reinforce the notion that people who identify as LGBT are often denied certain rights when compared to people who identify as heterosexual. And although the French state has begun to extend rights to same-sex couples—the PaCS, for example—, one sign illustrates the participants’ stance on the breakdown between theory and practice (see figure 5-16).

The parade for 2006 saw many of the same linguistic messages from previous years; the theme of equal rights was the most prevalent one. There were, however, a few interesting cases that I would like to discuss here. The float assembled by the German bar

45 Waters, Social Movements in France. 46 See Guilhaumou, La parole des sans. Here he calls attention to groups such as the sans-abris, sans-papiers, and sans-travails and their struggles for recognition from the State.

230 Tabu, a participant since the beginning, added a sign that proclaimed to spectators “Votre rejet fait de nous une minorité”. The sign places the onus for rejecting LGBT-identified

Figure 5-16: 2005. (see <>)

people onto supposedly heterosexual spectators. Constructed in such a manner, the phrase underscores the separation between “you” and “us,” a separation that the authors perceive as a fabrication: according to the message, the act of rejecting one group by another creates a minority, one that would not exist if the act of rejection did not take place.

These particular LGBT participants do not perceive themselves as a separate group from non-LGBT-identified people and in turn reject the label of minority. In so doing, these participants question the category and construction of “minorité.” Instead of declaring themselves a minority to be protected against the majority, these participants reexamine the construction of the idea and reverse it.

231 Another illustration of the linguistic alignment of a participant with spectators is demonstrated by a woman, video camera in hand, wearing billboards on her front and back. The signs proclaim that she is both a lesbian and “hétérophile” (see figure 5-17).

Like the previous linguistic message, this participant declares to her readers/viewers that, rather than rejecting heterosexual society to privilege lesbians and/or homosexuals—a kind of ghettoïsation or repli sur soi—, she instead shows her interest in heterosexual society by being hétérophile, in much the same way that one is francophile, or anglophile.47 I interpret this to be in response to the notion that French gays and lesbians close themselves off to the larger French society, rejecting the other by privileging the same. Instead, this participant demonstrates her openness, thereby destabilizing the idea that she, as a lesbian, is only interested in creating community with other lesbians.

Additionally, the sign may also take on a more playful tone, suggesting to readers that she is actively interested in females who identify as heterosexual.

In many of the examples that I have discussed to this point, the linguistic messages took the form of smaller “personal-sized” signs meant to be worn around the neck of the participant or held on a short pole so as to be seen above the crowds; or larger banners held by several participants or draped across the front, sides, or rear of the vehicles serving as moving canvases. Certainly influenced by the Alsatian summer weather that at times can be quite stifling, a female participant is dressed in a light

47 André Baudry’s post-WWII association Arcadie was self-defined as homophile rather than homosexual. For a book-length treatment of the association and its founder, see Jackson, Living in Arcadia: Homosexuality, Politics, and Morality in France from the Liberation to AIDS.

232 miniskirt and bikini top under the Strasbourg sun. Scrawled on her back in red lettering, the participant announces to her audience that “l’homophobie se soigne à

Figure 5-17: 2006. (<>) l’homopathie”—a play on words with “homéopathie” (see figure 5-18) This image is rather striking since, not only does that participant lend her support to the march by her presence, but she also inscribes upon her body a linguistic message to be read. In both

233 cases, she represents a message to be read and interpreted. Not only is her presence visible, but her body as canvas upon which messages can be inscribed is also visible if not foregrounded. Instead

Figure 5-18: 2006. (see <>)

234 of allowing society to inscribe its definitions and ideals upon her, she has taken it upon herself to define her body herself through the act of transforming it into a vehicle for a linguistic message.

In a further demonstration of the notions of new social movements, 2006 saw the addition of sings proclaiming LGBT persecutions in other parts of Europe, notably

Poland and Russia. Here again, we see the marche de la visibilité as a moment to raise the awareness of the plight of LGBT people in other parts of the world. Not only does the parade try to raise the visibility of the local LGBT people—who are seen as a minority within their own country—, but also of LGBT people in places where public demonstrations of sexual deviancy are sharply criticized and, in some cases, physically dangerous.48 The theme of raising awareness for LGBT people in other parts of Europe continues into other years as well, with 2007 specifically championing the cause of Polish

LGBT people; in 2008 the guest of honor was a Turkish LGBT organization that was, at that time, fighting for official recognition from the state.

In an effort to create a bond between both opposite- and same-sex parents, participants in the 2007 parade held signs that asked their readers to consider what kind of parents they are: “Parents hétéro, parents homos, parents tout court!” and “Êtes-vous des parents parfaits? Nous non plus”. In the first example, the sign evacuates gender

48 We must be careful not to simply map Western-Style ways of sexuality indiscriminately onto other cultures since they may not fully take into account cultural specificities that inform the relationship between sexuality and society. Looking to Eastern Europe or Russia, as the case may be here, as the measure of the strength of the world-wide international LGBT movement ignores the multiplicity of being that Western ideas and notions of sexuality may ignore. For these excellent points of discussion, I would like to thank Roy Chan and Anastasia Kayiatos for their talk “Sexuality and the Second World” given at the College of William & Mary on September 16, 2010.

235 from the idea of “parents”, thereby removing the polarity from the discussion. According to these signs, the gender of the person performing the role of the parent should not matter. The second sign endeavors to create a kind of bond with parents by evoking the insecurities parents feel raising their children. By their admission of not being perfect parents, they expose their vulnerability in an attempt to form a bond with “traditional” families who most likely feel the same way. The focus here seems to be on the well-being of the children and the desire to do right by them. In another sign that fits within the larger scheme of parenthood, participants insist on their status as both parents and citizens (“Parents et citoyens!”), which reminds its readers that same-sex parents are also citizens like traditional parents. Here, participants align themselves with the larger population of parents through a performative statement that declares the bearer to be both of those things, a parent and a citizen.

A year before its 40th anniversary, the 2007 marche de la visibilité had several references to Mai 68 and the Stonewall riots of 1969. Both of these events carry with them almost mythical attributes: Mai 68—like the French Revolution—demonstrates the power of collective action. Furthermore, since the modern French gay liberation movement can trace its beginnings to Mai 68 and the actions of a young Guy

Hocquenghem and the occupation of the Sorbonne,49 it serves as a rallying cry; the

Stonewall riots, although not a French event, through repeated references in many sexual/gay liberation movements, has been declared the founding moment for the modern

49 Martel, Le Rose et le noir: les homosexuels en France depuis 1968; Guy Hocquenghem, Le désir homosexuel, 2nd ed. (Paris: Fayard, 2000); Le Bitoux, Chevaux, and Proth, Citoyen de seconde zone.

236 sexual revolution worldwide.50 I argue that by placing both events on the same plane, within the same march, Stonewall becomes more intelligible for French participants and spectators. Now a part of collective memory, Stonewall has become a kind of lieu de mémoire for the LGBTQ community. Located on Christopher Street in New York City, people may still visit the establishment, consuming their way into the collective myth of

Gay liberation. Strasbourg’s marche de la visibilité, in a kind of metonymic action, stands in for both of these mythical events and becomes their present day interpretation. Calling upon the collective consciousness of spectators and participants, these references to Mai

68 and Stonewall index the power of collective action and the possibilities for change that they can effect. Furthermore, they also legitimize the march since they refer back to a kind of glorious past, implicitly evoking the French Revolution.

Indeed, 2007 demonstrated a slightly more militant side to the march, something that had little visibility in previous editions of the parade. Referencing Mai 68 with smaller signs worn around the necks of participants proclaiming, “Héritière de Mai 68” accompanied by truck-sized signs declaring “Mai 68 – Stonewall 69 ToutEs héritièrES nous en sommes fièrEs”. Additionally, a large banner announced “Stonewall était une

REBELLION”. At the level of the linguistic messages presented as a part of the parade, we can read this as a repoliticization of the march. It is true that according to the organizing committee of Festigays, a political message has always served as the motivating wellspring. However, the overt references to past public demonstrations to

50 See Martel, Le Rose et le noir: les homosexuels en France depuis 1968, 34; Eribon, Dictionnaire des cultures gays et lesbiennes, 448.

237 enact change were few, even if, through analysis, some of these linguistic messages do indeed call for a rejection of a French integrationist model.

Like many of the linguistic messages throughout the parade, “Stonewall était une

REBELLION” can be read in two ways. First, the sign functions as an index of the event that has become the founding moment of the modern sexual liberation movement that would follow in the 1970s and 80s. 51 While the origins of public demonstration in France are invariably linked to the Revolution of 1789,52 and the link between French gay pride parades and Stonewall is not a direct one, Stonewall stands nevertheless as the international symbol of sexual revolution. Therefore, the act of claiming Stonewall as a part of their history as LGBT sexual citizens functions as a reminder to spectators that they will react to unfair treatment in similar ways if necessary. The occupation of the city streets, although it is a moment of general revelry for many of those present, could also be interpreted as an organized riot. Returning to DaMatta, the appropriation of the city center mimics the controlled chaotic characteristics of carnival. The symbolic violence displayed here indexes the raucous aspects of a violent demonstration.

The sign operates not only as a reminder to spectators of the catalyst that

Stonewall was and continues to represent today, but also to the other participants of the march. In what could be seen as a moment of auto-critique, the sign “Stonewall était une

REBELLION” serves to remind participants that this event, this lieu de mémoire standing prominently within the genealogy of modern sexual liberation, was a moment of great

51 For an evolution of the French gay liberation movement since 1968, see Martel, Le Rose et le noir: les homosexuels en France depuis 1968; Le Bitoux, Chevaux, and Proth, Citoyen de seconde zone; Revenin, Hommes et masculinités de 1789 à nos jours; Gunther, The Elastic Closet. 52 See Guilhaumou, La parole des sans.

238 change—or at least it is remembered as such in order to strengthen its importance.

Stonewall needs to be remembered for the catalyst that it was, and its momentum should not be lost on us today. As the inheritors of the sexual liberation movement, the message invites participants to raise their fists again to combat injustice against LGBT-identified people.

2007 also saw the participation of the group TaPaGeS for the first time. Unlike the other associations that march during the parade, TaPaGeS presents itself as a politically radical organization that rejects heteronormative society, cultivating queer people’s anger in an effort to channel it towards social change. “TaPaGeS est un groupe de transpédégouines en colère qui luttent contre l'hétéropatriarcat et contre le sexisme.”53 Moreover, they declare that they are not fighting for a more tolerant world, but for a different one. During the march, members display signs that read, “Tu es belle quand tu es en colère…”. Harnessing queer people’s anger for social change represents then one of the main goals of TaPaGeS, a message that many of the other groups have not claimed. Indeed, most of the other floats and displays, excluding the Support

Transgenre Strasbourg, clearly exhibit more integrationist messages.

It is possible that people who already feel marginalized by society, people who would identify with the group TaPaGeS are more inclined to challenge more directly the dominating discourse of integration and “sameness” advocated by many LGBT groups since their position on the margins of society translates into gaining more than they could

53 TaPaGeS, “TaPaGeS”, 2010, http://tapages67.org/.

239 possible lose. Trans people, for example, are often persecuted from heteronormative society that rejects them, and the queer community that supposedly supports them.54

For the women’s group La Lune, we find a number of references to the family and the couple. Similar to Festigays, La Lune has taken the French motto of Liberté, égalité, fraternité, and replaced the latter with respect. Does this translate into the idea that the original motto of the French republic does not do a good enough job stressing the idea of respect for all? Indeed, fraternité already carries with it the idea of respect since it implies shared interests within a group. However, the word fraternité no longer appears to enjoy its universalizing powers in light of its ready replacement in examples such as this as well as the title of the march itself. While liberté and égalité continue to enjoy relatively straightforward understanding for French citizens, fraternité does not. Originally understood as a kind of “golden rule”—doing to others what you would wish them to do to you—, from a feminist perspective, fraternité stands as a reminder of the gender hierarchy in society. Similar to the fallacy of the “universal” citizen unmarked by gender, religion, and ethnicity, fraternité appears to disregard gender bias. The removal of fraternité in favor of respect both removes the male root of the word, but also underscores the lack of respect that women have experienced both socially and politically. On that same side of the float, there are two images of women holding hands, fabricated out of compacts discs with a black background. Below them we

54 During a talk given by Catherine Trautmann to the group Homosexualité et Socialisme (HES) held in Strasbourg in 2006, a heated debate took place between the president of the HES and an active member of Support Transgenre Strasbourg (STS). The president did not feel that many of the issues the representative from STS brought up were appropriate for the venue, to which she took great offense. Although anecdotal, I felt this was a striking example of trans issues being ignored in favor of a less aggressive agenda.

240

Figure 5-19: 2007. (see <>)

find in large black lettering on a yellow background, “Je suis la femme d’une femme.” On the opposite side of the truck, we find three more linguistic messages. Two messages on their own square backgrounds read, “Ma femme a dit oui, le maire a dit non”, and

“J’aime ma femme et alors?” Enclosed in what is supposed to be a door slightly ajar we find, “Osez ouvrir la porte” (see figures 5-19, 5-20, and 5-21). Except for the last one, each of these linguistic messages index the notions of family and/or the couple, which is reinforced by the visual image of the women holding hands. While these images may amend heternormative ideas of the family and of the couple, they still uphold them. Since

241 the message here indexes the family as the model to follow, it functions by aligning members of La Lune with the

Figure 5-20: 2007. (see <>)

larger public. In committed relationships and raising children, La Lune underscores its

“sameness” with the goal of dispelling the idea that same-sex desire among women is radically different from the “norm.” The themes that La Lune privileges within this space are all linked to monogamous relationships, love, the couple, and the family. This is even more strikingly rendered through the organization’s use of the visual imagery of two women holding hands, an image that is repeated on tee-shirts worn by members (see image 35). More striking than the image constructed of CDs found on the side of the

242

Figure 5-21: 2007. (see <>)

truck, this image transmits even more clearly the idea of “home” through the visual rendering of the females’ dresses that bear a striking resemblance to the same visual imagery used for bathroom identification. Furthermore, the placement of the heart in the middle of the two images underscores the overall message of love and the couple as the basis for the home. The usage of these symbols is indeed quite clever. Their ubiquitous nature, immediately recognizable as an index for “female,” gives the reader a false sense of assurance as to their meaning. However, through shrewd placement of the two figures, the reader’s tacit understanding of the message shifts, and what was once familiar must be reassessed and reinterpreted.

243 Slightly more ambiguous among these messages of family, home, and the couple, is the linguistic message placed within the drawing of a door standing slightly ajar: “Osez ouvrir la porte”. This linguistic message seems to carry with it several interpretations once we place it within the context of the image within which it is found as well as the larger context of the marche de la visibilité. On one level, the imperative here suggests a kind of relationship between the organization and the reader. Directed at the reader, it commands her to dare to open the door. To whom is the message directed? To the woman who is questioning her sexuality? The idea expressed by the verb “oser” implies that there is already a desire to open the door; the recipient of the command needs only to act upon this desire. Moreover, the image of the door in which the message is located already stands slightly ajar, which then invites the reader to pass through this representation into… what exactly? On which side of the door does the recipient of the command place herself? Is this an invitation to enter or to exit? And in that case, what is it exactly that the recipient of the command is entering or exiting? Within the context of the march, the door evokes the image of the closet. Although Denis Provencher claims that the metaphor of the closet is not one that has as much currency within a French context as it does within a North American one, I would argue that this image suggests that it is not a completely unintelligible one. Notwithstanding the suggestive powers of the message, the door could be read from a slightly different angle, as well. Instead of evoking the idea of the closet, it could suggest instead the idea of movement from an outside space—the street—to a more intimate one—the home. Influenced from other images of the home and the couple displayed by La Lune, this latter interpretation cannot be discounted. Indeed, anchored by the other linguistic and visual images that are present,

244 both interpretations are possible, and therefore work simultaneously. Dare to come inside, one message seems to say; Dare to come out, says the other. For the reader, then, the message depends on how she envisions her current situation, and which one therefore has more currency for her. Or, both messages may be equally intelligible at the same time. Coming out—declaring her sexuality—and coming in—to join La Lune.

In the final example that I will discuss as a part of the linguistic messages that are a part, around, and about the marche de la visibilité, we find for the first time a counter- message to the march. The linguistic and visual images that have been discussed previously have all been directed outwards, either to other participants or to the spectators taking it all in as the parade goes by. This last message, which appeared in 2007, changes this dynamic. Instead of being a part of the parade, or of an organization’s float or display, this sign, placed on the side of an apartment building hanging from a balcony, declares to readers, “Non à la gay pride! Oui à l’homosexualité sans différences” (see figure 5-22). What makes this interesting is the counter-discourse that this sign evokes.

Up to this point, the march has not been outwardly self-reflexive, or at least these discourses have not been visible. What has been visible are messages and images that in some cases challenge and in others uphold heteronormative formulations of the couple, family, and sexual citizenship. Here we discover a possible undercurrent of dissent among participants/spectators.55

Strasbourg’s gay pride, as we have seen, carries a variety of messages, both linguistic and visual, in which groups, organizations, associations, as well as unorganized

55 Behind the sign stand a female and a male spectator. From this do we assume that this is a heterosexual couple? A lesbian and her straight male friend? A gay man and his straight female friend? Or a lesbian and a gay man?

245

Figure 5-22: 2007. (see <>)

and unaffiliated participants come together for four hours on a Saturday afternoon. The message critiquing gay pride functions by presenting an opposition: on one hand, the message rejects gay pride. On the other hand, it advocates for homosexuality without

246 differences. What are these differences that the sign evokes? Are they differences from the heterosexual French population? Within homosexuality as a larger blanket term that includes other queer people? In both cases, however, the overarching message appears to suggest that, for the message’s owner, what is important is sameness as suggested by the modifier “sans différences”. Depending on to whom the message is directed, there are one of two ways we can interpret it. On one hand, it advocates for a rejection of differences, instead privileging sameness with what we assume to be homosexuality’s opposite, heterosexuality. Instead of promoting the idea that queer people are radically different, or rather, that queer people should challenge heteronormative society in order to restructure it, they should instead underline their sameness, aligning themselves with the dominant discourses of sexual citizenship. Another possible interpretation of the message could be read as something that has plagued LGBTQ movements since the sexual liberation of the 1960s and 1970s: working together. Are the differences to which the sign is referring more internal ones to the LGBTQ community? Is the author of the message trying to underscore the idea that members of the Strasbourg LGBTQ community need to come together and forget their differences? In either case, what seems to be at issue is the idea of “pride.” The act of being proud of something seems to point to the idea that this constructs some kind of barrier between groups. Being proud of being gay therefore separates those who are proud from those who are not, or those who cannot be because they are not gay. In what I would argue is a universalizing sweep, the author of the message wants participants and spectators to cast aside their differences, whether they be within the LGBTQ community or between that community and the larger heterosexual community.

247 Another interpretation could be that the author of the message wants to cast aside the association of being gay with being out and “proud.” As some scholars have argued56 one of the issues with the discourse of pride is that it constructs a binary opposition between being an out homosexual and a closeted one. If one does not subscribe to the dominant discourse of declaring one’s sexual preferences, then this translates into the idea that that person must be ashamed of his/her sexuality. Can we suggest that the author of this message aimed to destabilize the idea that one is either happy with one’s sexuality or ashamed of it? That cannot, unfortunately, be answered here with certainty; nevertheless, I argue that this remains a possible interpretation.

Video and the Marche de la visibilité

In the final part of this chapter I turn to a video that was recorded during the 2008 edition of Strasbourg’s visibility march. Here we are able to combine the visual, the aural, and the ephemeral nature of the march. The photographs that have been discussed up to this point have served their purpose very well. They have provided a canvas to study and analyze. They have given us in still motion an understanding of the event through a myriad of angles, subjects, and objects. This being said, the photographs do not offer us a complete picture of the ephemeral nature of the march. And it is to this idea that I turn in the final part of this chapter.

In chapter three, I discussed how the presence of the march in the city streets is able to alter or queer those spaces, an idea inspired by David Bell and Gill Valentine in

56 See Halperin and Traub, Gay Shame.

248 their edited volume Mapping Desire.57 In the introduction they discuss how the Montreal pride parade had been transformed from a “safe” event—where the parade would march through the already established urban zone known as the “gay ghetto”—to a more daring and transgressive one. By filling spaces not already defined as “gay” or “lesbian,” by investing city streets where sexual deviants were not normally associated, Montreal’s gay pride parade was able to queer these spaces by calling attention to their (un)marked heteronormative characteristics. With this in mind, I argue that Strasbourg’s march is able to achieve the same kind of “queering” of space that Bell and Valentine discuss.

Since Strasbourg lacks any kind of “gay ghetto” that would resemble similar areas in larger cities like Paris, San Francisco, or Sydney, anywhere the march goes queers that space for a time. Sexual deviants make an overt appearance that cannot be ignored in many parts of the city center. Participants’ presence demands attention, their numbers transforming the city center, using city streets as their walkways, diverting traffic and disrupting tram service.

Photographs of the march demonstrate this use of space by capturing the moment, the participants, and the spectators. And yet, photographs are not able to capture the ephemeral nature of the march since they will forever remain filled with their subjects holding signs or dancing down the street. The video, however, demonstrates the ephemeral nature of the march very well and the fact that, while very visible for a period of a few hours, it quickly disappears once it has passed.

In order to capture the march from different vantage points, I filmed the event in a number of locations across the city. First, I filmed the departure of the march from the

57 Bell and Valentine, Mapping Desire.

249 place de l’Université. For 2008, we find many of the same participants as in years past:

Alsarando, La Lune, Le Golden Gate, Tabu, Support Transgenre Strasbourg, AIDES,

Over the Rainbow, Ligue Communiste Révolutionnaire… With music playing from several of the floats strategically placed near the head, middle, and end of the march, the procession departs from the university and heads towards the place de la République.

Once passed, I continue alongside the march until I reach the beginning again. At that moment I locate another vantage point from which I am able to capture the march from a different angle. This procedure is repeated several times. The points at which I filmed from a stationary position are the place de l’Université, place de la République, Place

Broglie, rue des Arcades, rue de Zurich, and finally the return to the place de l’Université.

For each step of the march, the Préfecture cleared the way, diverting or blocking traffic and trams. Some years have caused more problems than others, with the 2004 and

2005 march resulting in a complete shutdown of two tramlines for nearly the entire duration of the parade. Since then, the march has kept to a circular pattern, and the disturbance of the tram around the place de la Répulique has been kept to a minimum. In some instances, only one side of the street was closed to allow traffic to circulate in at least one direction.

The march starts out from the place de l’Université, a banner at the front of the march proclaiming “l’homophobie et la transphobie provoquent le suicide,” a reminder of the theme of the 2008 march about raising awareness on suicide among people who identify as LGBTQ. Participants behind the banner carry a white coffin wrapped with a rainbow flag in an effort to reinforce the linguistic message and make the theme of

250 suicide that much more present for spectators. While they may be able to ignore the linguistic message at the head of the parade, the message transmitted by the coffin is unmistakable: death.

Death, and by association life, is a theme that is repeated at several points in the parade. Following the introductory banner and its accompanying coffin, a truck with the linguistic messages proclaims “Staying Alive!” and “Vivons!” Behind the Alsarando float is the organization AIDES, with their slogan, “Tous ensemble nous sortirons le SIDA du placard”. Further back Support Transgenre Strasbourg declares with a sign used in previous years “Nos morts sont politiques”. These references to life and death are striking considering what the video of the parade unveils.

One of the most notable examples of the ephemeral nature of the march was captured from the vantage point of the 1 rue de Zurich. Filmed from a second floor apartment that faced the busy quai, the spectator sees—and hears—the parade slowly approaching, with police officers blocking traffic from the adjoining streets. The march passes with much noise and merrymaking, banners and signs held high for all to see.

Then, as the last float goes by, with the final participants trailing behind, street cleaners appear. Anything left behind by participants is swallowed up by the automated machines flanked by workers, brooms in hand. Any trace of the march, even just minutes after it has passed, is removed, cleaned, scrubbed, and returned to “normal” again. The space, marked as queer when filled with participants, returns to its unmarked status once it is filled with the every day traffic of cars, busses, trams, and people. A few posters here and there remain, and signs posted on bus and tram stops alerting passengers that there will be

251 a disruption of service for a few hours that afternoon are, in many respects, all that remain visible after the last float passes.

It is not a surprise that the city wants to clean up the streets and return them to their normal post-card perfect appearance. The city of Strasbourg is a major tourist destination in eastern France and like almost any western city that aims to be a family- friendly tourist destination, it prides itself on the cleanliness and safety of its streets and neighborhoods, especially the ones tourists frequent the most.58 And yet, while it may not necessarily be surprising that the city strives to keep its streets free of litter and other debris, what is striking is the visual and by extension the symbolic effect it has on the parade. In an act aimed at ridding the streets of unwanted trash, I argue that by the same action the city of Strasbourg expunges elements that would mark the city streets as

“other.”

Conclusion

In this chapter I have analyzed images of Strasbourg’s marche de la visibilité dating from 2002-2008. Through a systematic reading of the photograph and video data, I have uncovered the multivalent nature of the parade as well as the, at times, conflicting messages produced by participants. In the beginning of this chapter I discussed the participants of the march with special attention to those associations and groups who have returned year after year to partake in the Saturday afternoon event. Next, I turned briefly to a discussion of the notion of pride and shame as well as the creation of queer

58 Strasbourg.eu et Communauté urbaine, “Ensemble pour une ville propre”, n.d., http://www.strasbourg.eu/environnement/collecte_dechets/ville_propre/.

252 space within the Alsatian capital, a city not especially known as a gay-friendly destination when compared to other cities across France. In the largest part of the chapter,

I analyzed photographs taken of the march and the linguistic messages they presented to spectators. Through a close reading of these texts, I uncovered that groups who are more marginalized than others tend to employ discourses of rejection, instead favoring signs highlighting their difference from society. Others employ familial discourses, highlighting their alignment with society and the commonalities between them. Finally, in the last part of the chapter I examine the ephemeral nature of the march and how streets are returned to “normal” after the event ends. To close this chapter, I would like to turn to this “cleaning up” of the city.

The act of scrubbing away at the public sphere carries with it a great deal of symbolism, and the question remains whether or not a residue of the marche de la visibilité remains after it disperses at the place de l’Université. Is the visibility of the parade enough to enact the kind of change the organizers and participants desire? There are two possible answers to this question. Like the participants themselves, the messages that they proclaim through their presence and their linguistic messages function in two different ways. On one hand, they uphold French proper ways of (sexual) citizenship within the public sphere. They do not radically challenge society to rethink its formations. Instead, they critique society in ways that are perfectly acceptable within a

French context. They demand equal rights for people who are excluded from fully participating within the public sphere, something that, when we revisit Sarah Waters, is

253 congruent with contemporary formations of social movements.59 Certain groups employ images that evoke the nuclear family unit as the model to uphold and follow. They proclaim that non-heterosexuals experience the same problems and issues as heterosexuals do, endeavoring instead to remove the idea that parents should be of the opposite sex. Instead, these groups focus on the figure of the parent and how anyone can be a parent regardless of that person’s sex. While the reconfiguration of the family unit represents a major change in the collective mentality of the French as well as other cultures that may be going through the same process of questioning and reconfiguration, the core idea of the family unit remains undisturbed.

Other groups, however, challenge the “norm” and question acceptable ways of being within the public sphere. The recent additon TaPaGeS, for example, reject ways of being that favor identification with a norm, instead favoring a discourse of difference.

This model of dis-identification is also employed by Support Transgenre Strasbourg, where organizers underscore their rejection of society in an attempt to draw attention to their often ignored and misunderstood situation.

With a growing body of scholarship focusing on rural and provincial queer life, further studies are needed in areas outside the great metropolises. Just as queer people existed before the sexual liberation of the 1960s and 70s, so have queer people existed outside major metropolitan areas. Within the field of French studies, scholars have begun to question the hegemonic position of the Marais, de-centering their gaze onto other parts

59 Waters, Social Movements in France.

254 of the capital.60 We should strive to uncover the multiplicity of queer ways of being and the ways in which geography informs them. The contribution I have made here represents a step in that direction.

60 For example, in recent years Denis Provencher has turned his attention to an ethnographic examination of the experiences of French gays and lesbians of Maghreb origin living in the suburbs of French cities. Moreover, David Caron undertook an examination of the Marais in his most recent book. Finally, Jeanne Robineau recently published a book-length ethnographic study on the gay and lesbian community in Rennes titled Discrimination(s), genre(s) et urbanité(s): la communauté gaie de Rennes.

Chapter 6

Conclusion

The goal of this work was to uncover the multifaceted nature of a grassroots event that presents a challenge to French understandings of proper public behavior. Through feminist and queer lenses, I explored French citizenship theories and practices since the

Revolution where I uncovered and underscored its exclusionary nature. Inherent within this institution is the binary relationship between those who belong and those who do not.

This binary can be further complicated, however: even among those who belong—those people who benefit from full-fledged membership to the state—, many are excluded from enjoying that same status within the nation. Feminists and feminist scholars were among the first to uncover the exclusionary nature of citizenship, rejecting the supposed unmarked characteristics of the “universal citizen.” Olympe de Gouges famously demonstrated in La Declaration des droits de la femme et de la citoyenne that the document that served as her inspiration reinforced the secondary role accorded to women, completely ignoring their status within the nation. Emerging from feminist scholarship, gay and lesbian as well as queer studies have continued to critique citizenship practices not only from the perspective of sex and gender, but also sexuality. Moreover, the ideals of Republicanism and Universalism further complicate matters by often precluding discussions of gender, sex, and sexuality since these are concerns that traditionally belong to the private sphere, and are therefore outside the realm of (public) political concern.

256 Gay pride parades bring the private out into the public sphere in a very noticeable way, and as such they complicate matters of sexuality and (sexual) citizenship.

Next, I turned to an analysis of the city of Strasbourg as the backdrop to

Strasbourg’s marche de la visibilité. After discussing the history and evolution of gay pride parades in France and Strasbourg, I developed an understanding of the symbolic power of the city and its geography. Here the works of scholars Maurice Agulhon and

James Lehning were invaluable.1 For both Agulhon and Lehning, the repeated use—or avoidance, for that matter—of specific Parisian squares, streets, and neighborhoods invests those spaces with symbolic power that can be strengthened with continued use.

By using the spaces of the city that hold within them this symbolic power, groups such as the marche de la visibilité are able to bolster their prominence, benefiting from the historical significance of the space and the functions of the buildings around them.

The prominence of Paris within French studies cannot be denied, nor can the importance of the capital within the landscape of French society, culture, and politics.

However, Paris cannot serve as the only example of “Frenchness,” and the study of other regions, from the urban to the rural, is absolutely vital in our effort to unravel what it means to be French in contemporary France. It is for this reason that areas once considered on the periphery of France serve as excellent sites of inquiry. Strasbourg, a border city with a long history of ties to both side of the Rhine, stands as an excellent example. Often touted as the most patriotic of regions, especially during its separation from France after the Franco-Prussian War, the region of Alsace has often had to prove it allegiance to la mère patrie. The politics of naming underscores the power inherent

1 Agulhon, “Paris”; Lehning, To be a Citizen.

257 within the geography of the city. Furthermore, by appropriating these spaces, people are able to leave their mark upon them, sometimes with a lasting effect, sometimes fleeting.

Building upon Agulhon and Lehning, I push these theories further with the addition of the work of Michel de Certeau.2 In his theorization of the everyday, de

Certeau likened the city to a linguistic system. Through repeated interactions with the city, the individual is able to construct his/her understanding of the structure. Individuals construct their understanding of the space around them by interacting with it. The buildings, parks, roads, sidewalks, bus and subway routes form the underlying system that individuals must grasp and adapt to their own understanding and usage of the space.

In Saussurian terms, the city represents a kind of langue whereas the activated individual usage of the system represents the parole. Through repeated use of the city, then, individuals may be able to influence the system. In terms of population movement within a city, new roads may be built, new pathways constructed, the introduction of a tramline to accommodate newly renewed downtown interest… like changes made to the linguistic system, these changes to the city structure represent lengthy processes.

Through prolonged interaction with the city, individuals piece together their understanding of the space around them. The path that one takes to work, for example, changes little from day to day, and one’s appreciation of the space is influenced by one’s interaction with it. By applying this idea to gay pride parades, I argued that the appropriation of the city streets by the participants represents an attempt to influence the overall system of the city. Streets normally used for the transportation of goods and

2 Michel de Certeau, L’Invention du quotidien, 2 vols. (Paris: Union générale d’éditions, 1980).

258 people, squares where tourists and inhabitants alike cross paths—albeit often with different goals—undergo a transformation, a reconfiguration. Through this appropriation and reappropriation of the streets and squares of Strasbourg, the marche de la visibilité succeeds in retooling the system, that is to say, users’ understanding of the city.

Moreover, this transformation brings to light the participants who cast aside their invisibility for visibility. No longer are people able to assume sameness, but are able to see difference, a difference that for many is unmarked; unless, of course, the individual adopts overtly decipherable cues through dress and/or speech.3 These repeated transformations, however, are ephemeral. The most visible of demonstrations during the weeklong event is the parade, and as demonstrated through video footage gathered during the event, life is quickly returned to “normal” once the parade has passed. On one hand, this could be interpreted negatively: the city wishes to erase any trace the march and its revelers may have left behind in an attempt to counteract any effect of change the event may have had. Indeed, the parade reaches its height of visibility in the city center, only to leave that space to return to a relatively quiet and out-of-the-way Place de l’Université.

On the other hand, however, the ephemeral nature of the parade enhances the “queer” quality it possesses. Like concentric circles in a pond, the parade disrupts the activity around it for a short while, calling attention to itself through loud music, floats, and waving flags. This effect lasts for a short while, underscoring the fleeting nature that is one of the tenents of queer. Finally, like change to the linguistic system, change to the

3 Indeed, articles of clothing—or their absence, for that matter—represents a choice, a desire to reflect outwardly one’s identity, or the identity that one wishes to represent. In effect, these choices can be interpreted as costumes, and as the well-known drag queen RuPaul noted, “We’re born naked. The rest is drag.” See her autobiography, Lettin it all hang out : an autobiography, 1st ed. (New York: Hyperion, 1995).

259 social system can be slow, and through these repeated events, participants may be able to achieve a level of banalisation where the issue of visibilité may no longer be the central concern.4

Following chapter three and its discussion of the city and the march, chapter four engaged with participants and spectators in order to understand their attitudes towards the event. Employing ethnographic methods of data collection, I constructed a twenty- question attitude survey where participants were asked to rank their agreement to a statement concerning the marche de la visibilité. As with any survey, there were many issues that needed to be tackled and which could have been improved for better output results. Nevertheless, the data collected helped shed light upon participants’ understanding and attitude towards the event. In the end, it was decided to focus specifically on the responses of participants who self-identified as gay men and lesbians.

After cleaning up the data and employing computer-aided statistical software programs, interesting findings were uncovered. First, there was a statistically important difference found between gay men and lesbians for many of the questions asked. In many instances, lesbians answered more approvingly to statements than gay men. For example, in instances where the importance of the march at different scales was at issue, lesbians tended to find the importance of the march for those areas greater than gay men. For certain issues, then, gay men and lesbians see their importance differently, with lesbians almost always answering more favorably than gay men in these instances. On the other hand, for the issues where there was not statistical relevance for the differences between

4 This presents its own set of issues since certain groups may not be working towards an eventual banalisation of their situation, instead remaining on the fringes in a continual effort to unsettle the “normal.”

260 gay men and lesbians, it is possible to interpret these findings as indicative of a convergence of opinion for both groups. While some may take issue with the sample size, it is important to remember that when surveying populations like self-identified gay men and lesbians, there exists an inherent basis of self-selection. Only participants who were willing to participate actually did so. Individuals who do not feel comfortable discussing their sexual preferences with a stranger might forgo taking part in the study. Moreover, individuals who exhibit same-sex desire might not decide to attend the parade for a number of reasons: the degree of being “out,” having made other plans, not wanting to participate, to name just a few possibilities. It is for this reason that the results of the attitude survey should be observed with some caution. Future research projects will benefit greatly from these preliminary studies insofar as the troubles and difficulties encountered here will be improved upon.

In the final content chapter of this dissertation, images and video of the marche de la visibilité became the central focus of analysis, of which photographs taken between

2002-2008 form the bulk of texts to be read. Through a close reading of these images, I am able to shed light upon the relatively understudied grassroots event. Some scholars have even argued that in order to capture the electricity of the first Parisian marches, one must now go to les provinces.5 The idea behind this being that the Parisian gay pride events have taken on a nature of their own; they lack the radical nature they once had when the gay and lesbian sexual revolution was at its beginnings in the 1970s.

Furthermore, the specificity of the location also plays an important role. Since cities demonstrate different characteristics that make them what they are—no one would

5 See Rambach and Rambach, La culture gaie et lesbienne.

261 confuse Paris with Bar-le-duc, for example—, geography scholars are calling out for analyses of these different locations.6 For instance, Sherrie Inness asks her reader to envision the experience of a lesbian in North Hampton, Massachusetts, in comparison with her experience in rural Ohio, for example. She writes, “Many gays and lesbians live in areas with small gay communities or no discernible gay presence; they are trying to survive in what are often inhospitable, conservative environments.”7 Indeed, she calls upon her own experience as a lesbian who has lived in these different locations and the stark contrasts between them. In her effort to locate and “read” other lesbians after her move to rural Ohio, she was surprised to find that the “vocabulary” upon which she had faithfully and blindly relied had suddenly become inadequate. Inness’ point was to demonstrate the importance of place within the study of the human experience, not just for gays and lesbians. The prevailing atmosphere of a city influences the inhabitants’ behavior, and the way a gay French man conducts himself while in the Marais may be very different than in Saint-Cloud.

Through a close reading of the images collected as a part of Strasbourg’s marche de la visibilité, I found that the overarching linguistic display focused upon the discourse of rights and the inequalities that exist between same- and opposite-sex couples. Pursuing this discourse of rights, I found that participants appeared to support two courses of action, either by aligning themselves with spectators—the assumption being that they are

“normal” (i.e. heterosexual). Conversely, participants would also employ, albeit to a

6 See Bell et al., Pleasure Zones: Bodies, Cities, Spaces. 7 Sherrie A. Inness, “Lost in Space: Queer Geography and the Politics of Location,” in Queer Cultures, ed. Deborah Carlin and Jennifer DiGrazia (Upper Saddle River N.J.: Pearson/Prentice Hall, 2004), 257.

262 lesser degree, a discourse of rights that focused upon their difference from “normal,” in what appeared to be an effort to create a new space outside of traditional normative sexual desire.

Finally, the video footage collected revealed the very ephemeral nature of the march itself. It is no surprise that the city wishes to return the streets to their former and primary uses: the transportation of people and goods. Moreover, the act of removing debris, garbage, litter, paper, and another number of objects left behind would be the same no matter what group passed through the streets and squares. Nevertheless, this

“cleansing” effectively removes any trace of the marche de la visibilité from the landscape, thereby returning the city to “normal.” The demonstrations and dancing are therefore rendered invisible, living on only in the minds of participants and spectators.

The question that remains is whether these personal and ephemeral traces of the marche de la visibilité are enough to enact the kind of change desired by participants? These, and other questions, will lead to further avenues of research, which will be considered in the following paragraphs.

Future Research

The end to any long-term project represents a great, yet challenging moment for any scholar. While pursuing the research questions set out in the beginning chapters of this dissertation, there came many moments when new and tantalizing subjects presented themselves. Indeed, one of the greatest difficulties is limiting the number of developments and digressions one takes along the way. Yet, these detours are not lost

263 forever within these pages; instead, they will influence and foster future research agendas.

The topics of citizenship, community, and belonging represent productive areas of inquiry. People are in a constant state of negotiation and renegotiation, unraveling and interpreting their place within society at micro- and macro-levels. Specifically within the field of gay and lesbian and queer studies, individuals who do not fit well within the confines of traditional models provide interesting lenses through which we are able to understand manners of appropriation, which may be extended to any minority group, like the elderly, the young, and immigrants. Furthermore, as the opprobrium upon same-sex desire decreases, how does this affect “sexual deviants” and their place within society?

And not only sexual deviants, but any group that has been separated from the majority for the characteristics that define it as “other.” Also, as the European Union grows to include more and more member states, the manner in which France redefines itself in relation to the larger European society warrants close attention. As Carl Stychin aptly states, the

French republic has two seemingly contradictory projects to carry out: on one hand, the republic strives to integrate disparate populations into one mold, championing the idea of the universal citizen who erases his/her private differences to enter the public sphere, thereby working for the greater good of the Nation; on the other, the republic must maintain its difference from other European member states, defending its exceptionalness.8 Indeed, that which defines “Frenchness” remains a very current topic in many spheres, academic and otherwise. Witness the project put forth by president

8 See Stychin, “Civil Solidarity.”

264 Nicolas Sarkozy’s government to define what it means to be French today, a project that received a great amount of critical attention and which was subsequently abandoned.9

The methodologies used in chapter three to read the city of Strasbourg and the marche de la visibilité that passed through its streets and squares could also be used to analyze other cities not only in France but in other Francophone countries. Each city presents new topographies, and it would prove very interesting to see how other regional demonstrations and gatherings make use of the space to help define their cause.

Furthermore, as our gaze continues to look past the métropole onto other French- speaking communities across the globe—Belgium, Switzerland, Québec, France’s overseas departments and territories, former colonies—, we can further our understanding of sexual citizenship. Additionally, while regional demonstrations of this kind provide us with a more complete understanding of the French queer experience, it cannot be denied that Parisian gay pride events also warrant closer scholarly attention. Indeed, the size and scope of the capital’s marche de fierté should be investigated in order to see if there are any lasting connections between itself and the other demonstrations that take place in

June all over the country.

The ethnographic data gathered as a part of chapter four greatly added to the innovative nature of this dissertation. The way in which this research project was laid out demanded the inclusion of participants. Concerns inherent within this method of data collection notwithstanding, it is vital not only to theorize but also to understand the practice. Without participant involvement, we lose sight of a substantial part of the

9 “Identité nationale: débat sur la poursuite des débats,” Le Monde (Paris, December 21, 2009).

265 overall picture we are trying to construct. Further studies of this kind are in great need.

Future projects could take a more traditional sociological route and rely upon quantitative analysis, which is what I attempted here in this dissertation. Larger and more diverse sampling sizes would greatly enhance the results obtained here. Another method would be a more qualitative approach where participants are involved in a longitudinal study involving recorded interviews. This not only would provide a more complete picture of the impact of gay pride on participants, but also serve as a manner to elucidate further our understanding of contemporary French gays and lesbians. Furthermore, the tropes of contemporary French queerness advanced in the works of scholars like Denis Provencher,

David Caron, Scott Gunther, or the late Lawrence Schehr, for example, provide interesting points of entry into our understanding of these areas; however, their validity should remain under a watchful eye in order to discern evolutions, modifications, and/or adaptations. With this work now complete, it is towards these new areas of research that I proceed.

Works Cited

Agulhon, Maurice. “Paris: La traversée d’est en ouest.” In Les Lieux de mémoire, edited

by Pierre Nora, 3:868-909. Paris: Gallimard, 1997.

Aldrich, Robert. “Homosexuality and the City: An Historical Overview.” Urban Studies

41, no. 9 (2004): 1719-1737.

“Alsarando.” Alsarando, September 10, 2010. http://alsarando.apinc.org/.

Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of

Nationalism. 3rd ed. London: Verso, 2006.

Augé, Marc. Non-Lieux: Introduction à une anthropologie de la surmodernité. Edited by

Maurice Olender. Paris: Seuil, 1992.

Baird, Barbara. “Contexts for lesbian citizenships across Australian public spheres.”

Social Semiotics 14, no. 1 (April 2004): 67-84.

Balibar, Étienne. Droit de cité. Paris: PUF, 2002.

———. Nous, citoyens d’Europe ? Les frontières, l’État, le peuple. Paris: Éditions La

Découverte, 2001.

Baron, Beth. Egypt as Woman: Nationalism, Gender, and Politics. Berkeley and Los

Angeles: University of California Press, 2007.

Barth, Fredrik. Ethnic Groups and Boundaries: The Social Organization of Culture

Differences. London: Allen & Unwin, 1969.

“Batorama”, September 25, 2010. http://www.batorama.fr.

267 Bell, David. “Pleasure and Danger: The Paradoxical Spaces of Sexual Citizenship.”

Policial Geography 14, no. 2 (1995): 139-153.

Bell, David, and Jon Binnie. “Authenticating Queer Space: Citizenship, Urbanism and

Governance.” Urban Studies 41, no. 9 (2004): 1807-1820.

———. The Sexual Citizen: Queer Theory and Beyond. Cambridge: Polity, 2000.

Bell, David, and Gill Valentine. “Introduction: Orientations.” In Mapping Desire:

Geographies of Sexualities, edited by David Bell and Gill Valentine, 1-27.

London; New York: Routledge, 1995.

Bell, David, and Gill Valentine, eds. Mapping Desire: Geographies of Sexualities.

London ; New York: Routledge, 1995.

Bell, David, Jon Binnie, Ruth Holliday, Robyn Longhurst, and Robin Peace, eds.

Pleasure Zones: Bodies, Cities, Spaces. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press,

2001.

Binnie, Jon. The Globalization of Sexuality. London: SAGE, 2004.

Le Bitoux, Jean, Hervé Chevaux, and Bruno Proth. Citoyen de seconde zone: Trente ans

de lutte pour la reconnaissance de l’homosexualité en France (1971-2002). Paris:

Hachette Littératures, 2003.

Blidon, Marianne. “Espaces gays et idéal républicain, un débat mal posé.” Bulletin

d’histoire politique 18, no. 2 (2010): 33-42.

———. “La Gay Pride entre subversion et banalisation.” Espaces populations sociétés,

no. 2 (2009): 305-318.

Borrillo, Daniel. L’Homophobie. Que sais-je? Paris: PUF, 2000.

268 Boswell, Laird. “From Liberation to Purge Trials in the ‘Mythic Provinces’: Recasting

French Identities in Alsace and Lorraine, 1918-1920.” French Historical Studies

23, no. 1 (2000): 129-162.

Bouamama, Saïd. “Petite histoire d’une grande idée.” In La Citoyenneté dans tous ses

états: De l’immigration à la nouvelle citoyenneté, edited by Saïd Bouamama,

Albano Cordeiro, and Michel Roux, 31-44. Paris: CIEMI and l’Harmattan, 1992.

Bourcier, Marie-Hélène. Queer zones: politique des identités sexuelles et des savoirs.

Paris: Balland, 2001.

———. Sexpolitiques: Queer Zones 2. Paris: La Fabrique, 2005.

Bourdieu, Pierre. Sur la télévision. Paris: Raisons d’agir, 1996.

Bradford, K. “Grease Cowboy Fever; or, the Making of Johnny T.” In The Drag King

Anthology, edited by Donna Jean Troka, Kathleen LeBesco, and Jean Bobby

Noble, 15-30. Binghamton, NY: Harrington Park, 2002.

Le Bras, Hervé. Une Autre France: Votes, réseaux de relations et classes sociales. Paris:

Odile Jacob, 2002.

Browne, Kath. “A party with politics? (Re)making LGBTQ Pride spaces in Dublin and

Brighton.” Social & Cultural Geography 8, no. 1 (2007): 63-87.

Browne, Kath, Jason Lim, and Gavin Brown, eds. Geographies of sexualities: theory,

practices, and politics. Aldershot, Hampshire ; Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2007.

Bullock, Barbara E, and Luke L Eilderts. “Prononcer mâle ou prononcer mal: Linguistic

Markers of Effeminacy in Early Modern French.” The French Review 83, no. 2

(2009): 282-293.

269 Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. Edited by

Linda J Nicholson. New York and London: Routledge, 1990.

———. “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and

Feminist Theory.” Theatre Journal 40, no. 4 (1988): 519-531.

Caron, David. AIDS in French Culture: Social Ills, Literary Cures. Madison: University

of Wisconsin Press, 2001.

———. My Father and I: The Marais and the Queerness of Community. Ithaca: Cornell

University Press, 2009.

———. “Shame on Me, or the Naked Truth about Me and Marlene Dietrich.” In Gay

Shame, edited by David M. Halperin and Valerie Traub, 117-131. Chicago:

University of Chicago Press, 2009.

Certeau, Michel de. L’Invention du quotidien. 2 vols. Paris: Union générale d’éditions,

1980.

———. L’Invention du quotidien: Arts de faire. Vol. 1. 2 vols. Paris: Union Générale

d’Éditions, 1980.

Chauncey, George. Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Makings of the Gay

Male World, 1890-1940. New York: Basic Books, 1994.

Chauvaud, Frédéric. Les experts du crime la médecine légale en France au XIXe siècle.

Paris: Aubier, 2000.

Christodoulidis, Emilios A., ed. Communitarianism and Citizenship. Avebury Series in

Philosophy. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 1998.

Clifford, Dale L. “Can the Uniform Make the Citizen? Paris, 1789-1791.” Eighteenth-

Century Studies 34, no. 3 (2001): 363-382.

270 Colombani, Jean-Marie. “Nous sommes tous Américains.” Le Monde, September 13,

2001.

Conner, Randy. “Les Molles et les chausses: Mapping the Isle of Hermaphrodites in

Premodern France.” In Queerly Phrased: Language, Gender and Sexuality, edited

by Anna Livia and Kira Hall. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997.

Corcuff, Philippe. “L’Individualisme contemporain en question.” Le Débat 119 (2002):

126-132.

DaMatta, Roberto. “Carnival in Multiple Planes.” In Rite, Drama, Festival, Spectacle:

Rehearsals toward a Theory of Cultural Performance, edited by John J

MacAloon, 208-240. Philadelphia: Institute for the Study of Human Issues, 1984.

Davet, Gérard. “Nadine Morano, la revanche de Madame Sans-Gêne.” Le Monde (March

28, 2008). http://www.lemonde.fr/.

Davy, Kate. “Fe/Male Impersonation: The Discourse of Camp.” In Critical Theory and

Performance, edited by Janelle G. Reinelt and Joseph R. Roach, 355-371. 2nd ed.

Ann Arbor: University of Michigan, 2007.

Delanty, Gerard. Citizenship in a Global Age: Society, Culture, Politics. Buckingham

Philadelphia, PA: Open University Press, 2000.

Derai, Yves. Le Gay pouvoir: enquête sur la République bleu blanc rose. Paris: Ramsay,

2003.

La Documentation française. “Qui est citoyen en France?” Vie publique, 2006.

http://www.vie-publique.fr/decouverte-institutions/citoyen/citoyennete/citoyen-

france/tous-habitants-france-sont-ils-citoyens-francais.html.

271 Duby, Georges, and Robert Mandrou. Histoire de la civilisation française. Vol. 2. Agora.

Paris: Armand Colin, 1984.

Enguix, Begonya. “Identities, Sexualities and Commemorations: Pride Parades, Public

Space and Sexual Dissidence.” Anthropological Notebooks 15, no. 2 (2009): 15-

33.

Eribon, Didier. Réflexions sur la question gay. Paris: Fayard, 1999.

Eribon, Didier, ed. Dictionnaire des cultures gays et lesbiennes. Paris: Larousse, 2003.

Evans, David. Sexual Citizenship: The Material Construction of Sexualities. London:

Routledge, 1993.

Fabre, Clarisse, and Éric Fassin. Liberté, égalité, sexualités. Edited by Hugues Jallon.

Paris: Belfond, 2003.

Farenga, Vincent. Citizen and Self in Ancient Greece: Individuals Performing Justice and

the Law. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006.

Fassin, Éric. L’Inversion de la question homosexuelle. Paris: Amsterdam, 2005.

Favell, Adrian. Philosophies of Integration: Immigration and the Idea of Citizenship in

France and Britain. 2nd ed. Migration, Minorities and Citizenship. Houndmills,

UK: Palgrave, 2001.

Feldblum, Miriam. Reconstructing Citizenship: The Politics of Nationality Reform and

Immigration in Contemporary France. Albany: State University of New York

Press, 1999.

Festigays. “1er Communitqué de presse.” Archives Festigays, 2002.

http://archives.festigays.net/dtn02/d20231.htm.

———. “Archives”, 2011. http://archives.festigays.net.

272 ———. “La Marche de la fierté homosexuelle le samedi 15 juin 2002 à 14 h.” Archives

Festigays, 2002. http://archives.festigays.net/dtn02/d20219.htm.

Foucault, Michel. Histoire de la sexualité: La volonté de savoir. Vol. 1. Paris: Gallimard,

1976.

Frader, Laura Levine. Breadwinners and Citizens: Gender in the Making of the French

Social Model. Durham, London: Duke University Press, 2008.

Gambetta, Léon. Discours et plaidoyers politiques de M. Gambetta. Edited by Joseph

Reinach. Vol. 4. Paris: G. Charpentier, 1881.

Gillespie, Wayne. “Thirty-Five Years after Stonewall: An Exploratory Study of

Satisfaction with Police among Gay, Lesbian, and Bisexual Persons at the 34th

Annual Atlanta Pride Festival.” Journal of Homosexuality 55, no. 4 (2008): 619-

647.

Godard, Joëlle. “Pacs Seven Years on: is it Moving Towards Marriage?” International

Journal of Law, Policy and the Family 21, no. 3 (2007): 310-321.

Grange, Juliette. L’idée de République. Edited by François Laurent. Paris: Pocket, 2008.

Green, Donald P., Dara Z. Strolovitch, Janelle S. Wong, and Robert W. Bailey.

“Measuring Gay Populations and Antigay Hate Crime.” Social Science Quarterly

82, no. 2 (2001): 281-296.

Gruszczynska, Anna. “Sowing the Seeds of Solidarity in Public Space: Case Study of the

Poznan March of Equality.” Sexualities 12, no. 3 (2009): 312-333.

Guilhaumou, Jacques. La parole des sans: Les mouvements actuels à l’épreuve de la

Révolution française. Paris: ENS, 1998.

273 Gunther, Scott Eric. The Elastic Closet: A History of Homosexuality in France, 1942-

present. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.

Halberstam, Judith. In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives.

New York: New York University Press, 2005.

Halperin, David M., and Valerie Traub, eds. Gay Shame. Chicago: University of Chicago

Press, 2009.

Harvey, David Allen. Constructing class and nationality in Alsace, 1830-1945. DeKalb:

Northern Illinois University Press, 2001.

Herek, Gregory M., J. Roy Gillis, and Jeanine C. Cogan. “Psychological sequelae of

Hate-Crime Victimization among Lesbian, Gay, and Bisexual Adults.” Journal of

Counseling and Clinical Psychology 67, no. 6 (1999): 945-951.

Herrell, Richard K. “The Symbolic Strategies of Chicago’s Gay and Lesbian Pride Day

Parade.” In Gay Culture in America: Essays from the Field, 225-252. Boston:

Beacon Press, 1992.

Hillman, Susanne. “Men with Muskets, Women with Lyres: Nationality, Citizenship, and

Gender in the Writings of Germaine de Staël.” Journal of the History of Ideas 72,

no. 2 (2011): 231-254.

Hocquenghem, Guy. Le désir homosexuel. 2nd ed. Paris: Fayard, 2000.

———. Le Gay voyage: Guide et regard homosexuels sur les grandes métropoles. Paris:

Albin Michel, 1980.

Hubbard, Phil. “Sex Zones: Intimacy, Citizenship and Public Space.” Sexualities 4, no. 1

(2001): 51-71.

274 Hudson, Wayne, and Steven Slaughter, eds. Globalisation and Citizenship: The

Transnational Challenge. London: Routledge, 2007.

Hunt, Lynn. The Family Romance of the French Revolution. Berkeley, Los Angeles:

University of California Press, 1992.

“Identité nationale: débat sur la poursuite des débats.” Le Monde. Paris, December 21,

2009.

Inness, Sherrie A. “Lost in Space: Queer Geography and the Politics of Location.” In

Queer Cultures, edited by Deborah Carlin and Jennifer DiGrazia, 254-279. Upper

Saddle River N.J.: Pearson/Prentice Hall, 2004.

Jackson, Julian. Living in Arcadia: Homosexuality, Politics, and Morality in France from

the Liberation to AIDS. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009.

Johnston, Cristina. “(Post-)Queer Citizenship in Contemporary Republican France.”

Contemporary French and Francophone Studies 12, no. 1 (2008): 89-97.

Knopp, L. “Sexuality and urban space: a framework for analysis.” In Mapping Desire:

Geographies of Sexuailties, edited by David Bell and Gill Valentine, 149-161.

New York: Routledge, 1995.

Koopmans, Ruud, Paul Statham, Marco Giugni, and Florence Passy. Contested

Citizenship: Immigration and Cultural Diversity in Europe. Social Movements,

Protest, and Contention 25. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005.

Kutner, Michael H., Chris J. Nachtsheim, and John Neter. Applied linear statistical

models. 5th ed. Boston: McGraw-Hill Irwin, 2005.

275 Kymlicka, W., and W. Norman. “Citizenship for Some but not for Others: Spaces of

Citizenship in Contemporary Europe.” In Theorizing Citizenship, edited by

Ronald Beiner. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995.

“La Lune.” La Lune, September 11, 2010. http://www.lalune67.fr/.

Labaste, Youssef. Letter. “Réponse à ton interview”, February 23, 2008.

Landfried, Julein. Contre le communautarisme. Paris: Armand Colin, 2007.

Lehning, James R. To be a Citizen: The Political Culture of the Early French Third

Republic. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2001.

Leruth, Micheal F. “The Spectacle of the State in Postmodern France: The ‘Controlled

Madness’ of Jean-Paul Goude’s Parade for the Bicentennial of the French

Revolution”. Ph.D. Dissertation, The Pennsylvania State University, 1995.

Lindahl, Carl. “Bakhtin’s Carnival Laughter and the Cajun Country Mardi Gras.”

Folklore 107 (1996): 57-70.

Lister, Michael, and Emily Pia. Citizenship in Contemporary Europe. Edinburgh:

Edinburgh University Press, 2008.

Lister, Ruth. Citizenship: Feminist Perspectives. Edited by Jo Campling. New York: New

York University Press, 1997.

Lister, Ruth, Fiona Williams, Anneli Anttonen, Jet Bussemaker, Ute Gerhard, Jacqueline

Heinen, Stina Johansson, et al. Gendering Citizenship in Western Europe: New

Challenges for Citizenship Research in a Cross-National Context. Bristol, UK:

Policy, 2007.

Markwell, Kevin, and Gordon Waitt. “Festivals, Space and Sexuality: Gay Pride in

Australia.” Tourism Geographies 11, no. 2 (2009): 143-168.

276 Marshall, T. H. Citizenship and social class, and other essays. Cambridge: Cambridge

University Press, 1950.

Martel, Frédéric. Le Rose et le noir: les homosexuels en France depuis 1968. Paris: Seuil,

1996.

Martin, Biddy. “Lesbian Identity and Autobiographical Difference(s).” In The Lesbian

and Gay Studies Reader, 274-293. New York: Routledge, 1993.

Massey, Doreen. “Space/Power, Identity/Difference: Tensions in the City.” In The

Urbanization of Injustice, edited by Andy Merrifield and Erik Swyngedouw, 100-

116. New York: New York University Press, 1997.

McCaffrey, Enda. The Gay Republic: Sexuality, Citizenship and Subversion in France.

Hampshire and Burlington: Ashgate, 2005.

Merabet, Sofian. “Queer Beirut: Social Transformations in a War-torn City”. Ph.D.

Dissertation, Columbia University, 2009.

Meyer, Philippe. Histoire de l’Alsace. Paris: Perrin, 2008.

Ministère de l’Intérieur, de l’Outre-Mer et des Collectivités Territoriales. “L’inscription

sur les listes complémentaires des ressortissants de l’Union européenne.” Liste

ressortissants UE, March 2007.

http://www.interieur.gouv.fr/sections/a_votre_service/elections/comment_voter/li

ste-ressortissants-ue.

Mizielinska, Joanna. “‘The Rest is Silence...’: Polish Nationalism and the Question of

Lesbian Existence.” European Journal of Women’s Studies 8, no. 3 (2001): 281-

297.

277 Morse, Alexander Porter. A Treatise on Citizenship, by Birth and by Naturalization.

Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, 1881.

Mosse, George L. Nationalism and Sexuality: Respectability & Abnormal Sexuality in

Modern Europe. New York: Howard Fertig, 1985.

———. The Image of Man: The Creation of Modern Masculinity. New York: Oxford

University Press, 1996.

Moszberger, Maurice, Théodore Rieger, and Léon Daul. Dictonnaire historique des rues

de Strasbourg. Illkirch, France: Le Verger, 2002.

Najmabadi, Afsaneh. Women with Mustaches and men without Beards: Gender and

Sexual Anxieties of Iranian Modernity. Berkeley: University of California Press,

2005.

Nicolas, Christian. “L’interview de Fabienne Keller.” Têtu, 2002.

Noiriel, Gérard. Le creuset français: Histoire de l’immigration, XIXe-XXe siècle. Paris:

Seuil, 1992.

Nora, Pierre, ed. Les Lieux de mémoire. 3 vols. Paris: Gallimard, 1997.

Nye, Robert A. Masculinity and Male Codes of Honor in Modern France. Berkeley:

University of California Press, 1993.

O’Bryan, Will. “Gay is Good: How Frank Kameny Changed the Face of America.”

Metro Weekly, October 5, 2006. http://www.metroweekly.com/feature/?ak=2341.

Phelan, Shane. Sexual Strangers: Gays, Lesbians, and Dilemmas of Citizenship.

Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2001.

Pierce, Charles Sanders. Philosophical Writings of Pierce. Edited by Justus Buchler. New

York: Dover, 1955.

278 Pocock, J. G. A. “The Ideal of Citizenship Since Classical Times.” In Theorizing

Citizenship, 29-52. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995.

Provencher, Denis M. “Mapping Gay Paris: Language, Space and Sexuality in the

Marais.” Contemporary French and Francophone Studies 11, no. 1 (January

2007): 37-46.

———. Queer French: Globalization, Language and Sexuality in France. Hampshire

and Burlington: Ashgate, 2007.

———. “Tracing Sexual Citizneship and Queerness in Drôle de Félix (2000) and Terik el

hob (2001).” Contemporary French and Francophone Studies 12, no. 1 (2008):

51-61.

———. “Vague English Creole: (Gay English) Cooperative Discourse in the French Gay

Press.” In Speaking in Queer Tongues: Globalization and Gay Language, edited

by William L Leap and Tom Boellstorff, 23-45. Urbana and Chicago: University

of Illinois Press, 2004.

Provencher, Denis M, and Luke L Eilderts. “The Nation according to Lavisse: Teaching

Masculinity and Male Citizenship in Third-Republic France.” French Cultural

Studies 18, no. 1 (2007): 31-57.

Rambach, Anne, and Marine Rambach. La culture gaie et lesbienne. Paris: Fayard, 2003.

Rauch, André. L’identité masculine à l’ombre des femmes: De la Grande Guerre à la

Gay Pride. Paris: Hachette Littératures, 2004.

Redoutey, Emmanuel. “Gay Pride: marche revendicative et parade festive.” Urbanisme

331 (2003): 71-74.

279 Revenin, Régis. Homosexualité et prostitution masculines à Paris, 1870-1918. Paris:

L’Harmattan, 2005.

———. “Paris Gay 1870-1918.” In Hommes et masculinités de 1789 à nos jours :

contributions à l’histoire du genre et de la sexualité en France, 22-41.

Mémoires/Histoire. Paris: Autre, 2007.

Revenin, Régis, ed. Hommes et masculinités de 1789 à nos jours : contributions à

l’histoire du genre et de la sexualité en France. Mémoires/Histoire. Paris:

Autrement, 2007.

Richardson, Diane. “Claiming Citizenship? Sexuality, Citizenship and Lesbian/Feminist

Theory.” Sexualities 3, no. 2 (2000): 255-272.

———. “Constructing sexual citizenship: Theorizing sexual rights.” Critical Social

Policy 20, no. 1 (2000): 105-135.

———. Rethinking Sexuality. London, Thousand Oaks: SAGE, 2000.

———. “Sexuality and Citizenship.” Sociology 32, no. 1 (1998): 83-100.

Richardson, Diane, Janice McLaughlin, and Mark E Casey, eds. Intersections between

Feminist and Queer Theory. Hampshire, New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006.

Riesenberg, Peter. Citizenship in the Western Tradition: Plato to Rousseau. Chapel Hill:

The University of North Carolina Press, 1992.

Robert, Paul. “Citoyen.” Edited by Josette Rey-Debove and Alain Rey. Le Petit Robert.

Paris: Dictionnaires Le Robert, 1993.

———. “Nation.” Edited by Josette Rey-Debove and Alain Rey. Le Petit Robert. Paris:

Dictionnaires Le Robert, 1993.

280 ———. “Nationalité.” Edited by Josette Rey-Debove and Alain Rey. Le Petit Robert.

Paris: Dictionnaires Le Robert, 1993.

Robineau, Jeanne. Discrimination(s), genre(s) et urbanité(s): la communauté gaie de

Rennes. Paris: Harmattan, 2010.

Rosello, Mireille. “The National-Sexual: From the Fear of Ghettos to the Banalization of

Queer Practices.” In Articulations of Difference: Gender Studies and Writing in

Frace, edited by Dominique D Fischer and Lawrence R Schehr, 246-271.

Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997.

Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. Du Contract social: ou Principes du droit politiques. Lyon:

Imprimerie d’Amable le Roy, 1792.

Roux, Michel. “Le paradoxe des identités.” In La Citoyenneté dans tous ses états: De

l’immigration à la nouvelle citoyenneté, edited by Saïd Bouamama, Albano

Cordeiro, and Michel Roux, 209-239. Paris: CIEMI and l’Harmattan, 1992.

RuPaul. Lettin it all hang out : an autobiography. 1st ed. New York: Hyperion, 1995.

Saussure, Ferdinand de. Cours de linguistique générale. 4th ed. Paris: Payot, 1965.

Schemeil, Yves. “Democracy before Democracy?” International Political Science

Review 21, no. 2 (2000): 99-120.

Schewe, Elizabeth. “Serious Play: Drag, Transgender, and the Relationship between

Performance and Identity in the Life Writing of RuPaul and Kate Bornstein.”

Biography 32, no. 4 (2009): 670-695.

Schleiner, Winifried. “Linguistic ‘Xenohomophobia’ in Sixteenth-Century France: The

Case of Henri Estienne.” Sixteenth Century Journal 34, no. 3 (2003): 747-760.

281 Schuman, Howard. Method and Meaning in Polls and Surveys. Cambridge, MA; London:

Harvard University Press, 2008.

Service Public. “Titres de séjour des étrangers en France”. Administration française,

2010. http://vosdroits.service-public.fr/N110.xhtml.

Sibalis, Michael. “‘La Lesbian and Gay Pride’ in Paris: community, commerce and

carnival.” In Gay and Lesbian Cultures in France, edited by Lucille Carins, 51-

66. Bern: Peter Lang, 2002.

———. “Urban Space and Homosexuality: The Example of the Marais, Paris’ ‘Gay

Ghetto’.” Urban Studies 41, no. 9 (2004): 1739-1758.

Silverman, Maxim. Deconstructing the Nation: Immigration, Racism and Citizenship in

Modern France. London: Routledge, 1992.

Sinha, Mrinalini. Specters of Mother India: The Global Restructuring of an Empire.

Durham: Duke University Press, 2006.

Soral, Alain. Jusqu’où va-t-on descendre? Abécédaire de la bêtise ambiante. Edited by

Franck Spengler. Paris: Éditions Blanche, 2002.

Soukaz, Lionel. Race d’ep. 16 mm, Drama, 1979.

Statistical Consulting Center. Letter. “RE: 09-1-015: The Study of the People’s Attitude

to Gay Pride Parade in Strasbourg”, March 17, 2009.

Strasbourg, Ville et Communauté urbaine de. “Strasbourg.fr”, 2006.

http://www.strasbourg.fr.

Strasbourg.eu et Communauté urbaine. “Ensemble pour une ville propre”, n.d.

http://www.strasbourg.eu/environnement/collecte_dechets/ville_propre/.

282 Stychin, Carl F. “Sexual Citizenship in the European Union.” Citizenship Studies 5, no. 3

(2001): 285-301.

Stychin, Carl F. “Civil Solidarity or Fragmented Identities? The Politics of Sexuality and

Citizenship in France.” Social & Legal Studies 10, no. 3 (2001): 347-375.

Surkis, Judith. Sexing the Citizen: Morality and Masculinity in France 1870-1920. Ithaca:

Cornell University Press, 2006.

Tamagne, Florence. Histoire de l’homosexualité en Europe: Berlin, Londres, Paris,

1919-1939. Paris: Editions du Seuil, 2000.

TaPaGeS. “TaPaGeS”, 2010. http://tapages67.org/.

Thiébot, Emmanuel. La Gay Pride, mascarade ou juste cause? Edited by Jacques

Marseille. Paris: Larousse, 2009.

Tin, Louis-Georges. Dictionnaire de l’homophobie. Paris: PUF, 2003.

Tomsen, Stephen, and Kevin Markwell. “Violence, Cultural Display and the Suspension

of Sexual Prejudice.” Sexuality & Culture 13 (2009): 201-217.

United Nations. “The Universal Declaration of Human Rights”, 1948.

http://www.un.org/en/documents/udhr/.

Verbunt, Gilles. “Citoyenneté, nationalité et identité.” In La Citoyenneté et les

changements de structures sociale et nationale de la population française, edited

by Catherine Wihtol de Wenden, 238-247. Paris: Edilig/Fondation Diderot, 1988.

Vogler, Bernard. Histoire culturelle de l’Alsace. Strasbourg: La Nuée Bleue, 1994.

Waitt, Gordon, and Kevin Markwell. Gay Tourism: Culture and Context. New York:

Haworth Hospitality Press, 2006.

Walby, Sylvia. “Is Citizenship Gendered?” Sociology 28, no. 2 (1994): 379-395.

283 Ward, Jane. “Producing ‘Pride’ in West Hollywood: A Queer Cultural Capital for Queens

with Cultural Capital.” Sexualities 6, no. 1 (2003): 65-94.

Warner, Michael. The Trouble with Normal: Sex, Politics, and the Ethics of Queer Life.

Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999.

Waters, Sarah. Social Movements in France: Towards a New Citizenship. French Politics,

Society and Culture. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003.

Weber, Eugen. Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France 1870-

1914. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1976.

Weil, Patrick. Qu’est-ce qu’un Français? Histoire de la Nationalité française depuis la

Révolution. Paris: Grasset, 2002.

Wihtol de Wenden, Catherine, ed. La Citoyenneté et les changements de structures

sociale et nationale de la population française. Paris: Edilig/Fondation Diderot,

1988.

VITA

Luke L. Eilderts

Department Modern Languages & Literatures Office: (757) 221-3694 The College of William & Mary Home: (814) 321-3233 Washington Hall 204 – PO BOX 8795 E-mail: [email protected] Williamsburg, Virginia 23187-8795 [email protected]

EDUCATION

2004-Present Candidate for the Ph.D. in French and Francophone Studies The Pennsylvania State University Dissertation: “Liberté, égalité, visibilité: Citizenship, Sexuality, and Visibility in Strasbourg’s Marches de la visibilité” Committee members: Professors Barbara E. Bullock (co-chair), Meredith Doran, Vera Mark, Heather McCoy, Bénédicte Monicat (co-chair)

2003 M.A. French The Pennsylvania State University

2001 B.A. French and German (Highest Honors) The University of Wisconsin–La Crosse

RESEARCH INTERESTS

Twentieth- and twenty-first-century Cultural studies, citizenship, gender, French sociolinguistics, French/Francophone media culture

PUBLICATIONS

“Prononcer mâle ou prononcer mal: Linguistic Markers of Effeminacy in Early Modern French.” Barbara E. Bullock, co-author. The French Review 83.2 (2009): 282-293.

“The Nation according to Lavisse: Teaching Masculinity and Male Citizenship in Third- Republic France.” Denis M. Provencher, co-author. French Cultural Studies 18.1 (2007): 31-57.

“Le Devoir des Petits Français: Masculinity and Codes of Male Conduct according to Ernest Lavisse” University of Wisconsin-La Crosse Journal of Undergraduate Research 5 (2002): 185-196.