sign in sign up
<<
Home , Atticus Circle, Gaydar, LGBT social movements

FORGING THEIR OWN WAY: Visibility, , and Cultural Change On Minnesota’s Iron Range

A DISSERTATION SUBMITTED TO THE FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA BY

Andria Jean Strano

IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

Advisors: Kathleen E. Hull Rachel A. Schurman

December 2016

© Andria Jean Strano 2016 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND DEDICATION

First and foremost, thank you to all of the amazing people who were willing to share their souls, experiences, and fears with me. Without your trust and honesty, this project would not be what it is. Through our conversations and experiences, I learned so much about both the Iron Range and myself.

Projects like this are the culmination of many efforts and I have been most fortunate to work directly with phenomenal scholars at the University of Minnesota who provided friendship, inspiration, and constructive support. The sincerest thank you to my committee: Drs. Kathy Hull, Rachel Schurman, Ron Aminzade, Teresa Gowan, and

Zenzele Isoke – I was extremely privileged to have had the opportunity to learn from you.

From the very beginning, your excitement about my topic served as fuel that both helped me start off strong as well as continue pressing on during the multiple rounds of edits.

Kathy and Rachel – I have greatly appreciated the ways you have challenged both this project and me as co-advisors. I have treasured your advice about life and guidance in crafting this project into what it is today. Thank you for reading multiple versions of this lengthy document and providing such helpful feedback. Ron and Teresa – some of the most inspiring and productive conversations I had were during meetings in your offices and homes. Zenzele – you have provided invaluable guidance and insight as an outside committee member. Thank you for the many hours you spent guiding my project.

I will forever appreciate your collective support and assistance in finding a clear analytical voice and better understanding the role of activism through intellectual pursuit.

Drs. Cawo Abdi and Penny Edgell – I am extremely appreciative of the time you i spent sharing insights regarding sociology, feminism, academia, and life. Penny, your insights into cultural sociology pushed this project in productive ways. Kathy and Penny, thank you for the working group you hosted – the feedback I received from the group was priceless. Cawo, your encouragement and writing tips were very appreciated.

Drs. Vania Brightman, Erika Busse, Maureen Clark, Danielle Docka, Kyle Green,

Meg Krausch, Rachael Kulick, June Msechu, and Sarah Whetstone – thank you. In your own ways, you helped me keep my head on straight, feet steady, and eyes forward during graduate school. You still inspire me daily. Meg and Sarah – thank you also for your feedback on Chapter 4, specifically.

Additionally, Drs. Diane Maluso, Martha Easton, and Andrea Rosati – you collectively challenged me in so many ways as an undergraduate. This document wouldn’t exist without your support. The time I spent learning with and from you are some of my most cherished memories.

I am eternally grateful to my wife, CJ Strano, for the seemingly endless support you have provided during this project. Thank you for being my tireless editor and sounding board. You have kept me sane, inspired, fed, and productive during this challenging process and many life changes.

I am also incredibly thankful for the generous and invaluable funding provided by the Richard and Beverly Fink Fellowship and the University of Minnesota’s Department of Sociology. Lastly, but certainty not least, thank you to my current colleagues for providing an intellectually engaging atmosphere and for your steadfast encouragement.

This is dedicated to my mother, Gerianne Stawarski, who taught me the importance of education, hard work, and tenacity. ii ABSTRACT

This is a study of , , bisexual, and (LGBT) people on

Northern Minnesota’s Iron Range. Minnesota’s important history of LGBT activism extends into contemporary times. The Iron Range is notable for many reasons, including strong Nordic influences, geographical remoteness, and historical extractive mining and logging economies. I utilized ethnographic fieldwork, participant observation, and semi-structured life history interviews. In total, I spent thousands of hours of fieldwork and interacted with over 100 people in the Iron Range’s LGBT and ally communities. I conducted 30 formal interviews with participants aged 19-78 years old.

This dissertation argues that positive and restrictive regional norms and narratives impact

LGBT Rangers’ understandings of self, as well as collective LGBT identities and communities in specific ways that, in turn, construct regionally-specific sociocultural modes of strategically navigating their lives, relational power dynamics, and affiliations with others. I make three important contributions to existing sociological and interdisciplinary scholarship on gender and sexuality, identity and community development, and place.

First, challenging scholarship limited by a static understanding of the relationship between , sexuality, and gender, I illuminate how different cultural and blurred regional gender norms create flexible, socially-condoned gender expressions and (mis)readings of these performances. Additionally, Iron Range culture creates the possibility of valued in both heterosexual and non- heterosexual women and strategic maneuvering within the hegemonic gender order. Second, through my introduction of the glass closet, I provide rich empirical examples demonstrating how iii the combination of place-based norms and narratives (i.e. strong personal boundaries, heteronormative assumptions, and desire for conflict avoidance), as well as presumed enables strategic and sagacious maneuvering. I illustrate highly nuanced visibility politics and how same-sex desires and behaviors are not recognized (or are misrecognized) due to place-specific factors. Finally, I introduce the disidentified culture, complicating discussions about motivations for and possibilities of assimilation within contemporary society. I demonstrate how rural LGBT people strategically and pragmatically balance community-based and sexual identities; actively

(symbolically and physically) distance themselves from other LGBT people; and utilize silencing to their advantage.

Keywords: Rural, LGBT, allies, gender, sexuality, masculinity, closet, visibility, identity

iv TABLE OF CONTENTS Acknowledgements And Dedication i Abstract iii List Of Tables vii List Of Figures viii 1: INTRODUCTION 1 A Socially Constructed Battle: versus Sociology 16 Constructing, Performing, Living, And Regulating Gender And Sexuality 27 Theorizing Place and Making Space for Rural Queerness 41 Assumptions Regarding Rural Places and Myths about Rural LGBT People 48 Minnesota’s Importance in LGBT History 56 2: METHODOLOGY 64 Mixed Method Approach 68 Ethnographic Fieldwork and Participant Observation 70 Life History Interviews 73 Ethical Considerations 75 A Few Notes on the Data and My Analysis 78 3: THE RANGE MENTALITY, PAPER PITCHFORKS, AND GLASS CLOSETS: PROTECTIVE AND RESTRICTIVE REGIONAL NORMS AND NARRATIVES 81 Be Nice and Avoid Conflict 83 Print It Like You Mean It 92 The Range Mentality and Other Place Narratives 95 A Mix of Underground/Unsafe and Out/Welcome: Competing Narratives 100 It’s Impolite To Ask: The Glass Closet Created By Regional Culture 104 People Are Queerer When They Are Strangers: Protective Regional Narratives 109 Resisting Urban Migration Narratives: Why Rangers Stay and Return 116 Conclusion 120 4: COMPETING SEXUAL IDENTITY CULTURES AND VISIBILITY POLITICS 122 It’s Different Being Queer Here: Identity Politics and Nuanced Rural LGBT Scripts 127 Underground is Our Normal: East Range’s Disidentified Sexual Identity Culture 141 Rainbow Flags And Antiquing: West Range’s Identity and Integrationist Mix 149 Impact of Varying Family Responses and Increasing Support 154 If You Don’t Know, You Don’t Need To: Competing Visibility Politics 160 Why Iron Range Sexual Identity Cultures Are Different 163 Conclusion 179 5: DIFFERENTLY GENDERED (DYK)OTOMIES, REGIONAL , AND VALUED MASCULINITY IN WOMEN 182 Doing Gender and Identity In a Queer Space and Time 186 The (Mis)Reading of “Butch” Within Iron Range Culture 200 Conclusion 208

v

6: RAGING, AMBIVALENT, AND BENEVOLENT ALLIES 209 Promise and Perils of Principle-Based Allies 210 Ally Expectations of Representation, Visibility and Assimilation 231 Conclusion 238 7: CREATING CHANGE - STRATEGIC VISIBILITY AND ALLY CONNECTIONS 241 Shifting the Narrative about LGBT Rangers 242 LGBT Organizing on the Range 246 Names, Logos, and Intended Members 257 Conclusion 265 8: THIS IS DIFFERENT - THE MARRIAGE EQUALITY MOVEMENT 267 Gaining Momentum Via “Conversation Campaigns” 270 City Folks Don’t Understand Who We Are Or What We Need 285 Conclusion 295 9: LOOKING FORWARD: THE RANGE IS CHANGING 297 Project Review and Summary of Findings 297 Broader Sociological and Interdisciplinary Implications 303 Limitations of This Study and Avenues for Future 313 REFERENCES 320 APPENDIX A: SEMI-STRUCTURED INTERVIEW GUIDE 342 APPENDIX B: CONSENT FORM 344 APPENDIX C: BREAKDOWN OF STATEWIDE RESOURCE LIST BY AREA 347

vi LIST OF TABLES

Table 1: Demographic Factors on the West And East Range 127

Table 2: Perceived Local Diversity and Support From Broader/Lgbt Community Associated With The Three Identity Orientations 166

Table 3: Access to Broader/Local Lgbt Community and Media Associated with the Three Identity Orientation 168

Table 4: Select Differences in Local Lgbt Organizations and Associations with Identity Politics and Integrationist Orientations 253

vii LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 1: Map of the Iron Range 65

Figure 2: Visual Representation of Three Orientations to Sexual Identity Cultures 144

Figure 3: Second Alliance Logo (2009) 262

Figure 4: Third Alliance Logo (2011) 262

vi ii

1: INTRODUCTION

My interest in my dissertation topic derived from a serendipitous encounter and subsequent provocative conversations with three Iron Range about their non- normative (i.e. “butch”) appearance, relationships, and involvement in local and regional politics. I was intrigued by our discussions concerning identity and community construction, visibility, and gender performance, because they posed intriguing challenges to contemporary interdisciplinary scholarship. These elements became two guiding paradoxes of my research.

The first paradox is: How do lesbians construct identities and communities on the

Iron Range, given that they are understood in popular culture and academic scholarship as being a) “out of place” as people living in rural areas with queer desires/behaviors, and b) unsafe, isolated, and suffering from incomplete senses of self, due to lack of access to clearly marked LGBT-friendly places and people? The second paradox is: How does the Iron Range, a place with a notably heterosexist and homophobic culture, provide opportunities for visible and valued non-normative performances of gender and sexuality (e.g. female masculinity)?

This dissertation challenges current scholarship on LGBT lives, which has significantly increased understandings of the fluidity and multiplicity of identities, sexualities, and performances. This work has demonstrated that virtual, material, and imagined (sub)communities play important roles in identity formation and management, personal well-being, and social change. However, while it has increased our

1

understanding of the place-based complexities of sexuality and gender, this scholarship has been primarily urban- and coastally-based, leading to the brushing aside, overwriting, and sometimes silencing, of rural sexualities.

While the social sciences have played a notable role in documenting gay and lesbian histories, lives, and communities, it is imperative that we continue to theorize the consequences of constructing (and placing limits upon) certain identities and communities through representations and visibility, as well as social, physical, and symbolic boundaries. Moreover, scholars interested in rural queer lives have noted that urban queer people often mythologize their nonmetropolitan counterparts as disconnected, lonely, and constrained by their location. This assumption is the dominant U.S. paradigm when theorizing about gay/lesbian lives (Bell 2000) and follows a “metronormative narrative” (Halberstam 2005), where nonmetropolitan subjects move to an urban area, “come out,” and then can fully express their identities, which are drawn out and nurtured as they become part of a welcoming LGBT community.1

Howard (1999:63) demonstrates how LGBT community histories cohere through this steady narrative, and as such, rural spaces are imagined as “gay America’s closet”. This ever-present narrative maps onto the narrative (see Brown

2000; Gross 1993; Seidman 2002), where it is assumed that moving from “a small town to the big city” is also a transition from closeted to “out and proud” (Howard 1999;

1 This assumption spreads even farther than the borders of the United States, as demonstrated by a comic strip created by the Japanese lesbian manga artist Takashima. The premise of the story, distributed in multiple countries and online, is that Rica, a “naive country girl, makes her gay debut when she moves to Tokyo and ventures into Shinjuku Nichoume, the city’s gay and lesbian district. On her first night at the local gay , she meets the cool Miho who helps her understand the lesbian community” (The Anime Almanac). 2

Halberstam 2005). The urban is seen as the pinnacle and natural site for queer visibility and is frequently conflated with sexual enlightenment (Halberstam 2005), personal satisfaction, safety, and community. “Coming out” under the closet model/paradigm represents an “end of inauthenticity and self-alienation” for both the person and their wider community (Tucker 2009:9). As such, those who have not come out, visibly declaring their non-heterosexuality are understood as suffering from a lack of exposure to gay politics and a “false consciousness” (Binnie 2004). Some critics have suggested that this narrative is harmful to queer movements and people because it follows the “everyone is the same, looks the same, and wants the same things” logic pervasive in today’s dominant LGB politics.2 Tucker (2009:9-10) agrees, arguing that this is “conceptually dangerous” logic that suggests that those who do not free themselves from the despair of “the closet”, and do so in the particular ways outlined as

“acceptable” within of the mainstream (arguably urban) LGB movement, are in denial about their identity and outdated.

Empirical evidence is piling up to refute this narrative. Howard (1999) explores the practices of rural who did not adopt a gay identity or become part of a gay community. He demonstrates that the closet model does not fit perfectly, for men at least, and that many LGBT people from small and rural towns migrate to the city out of necessity but yearn to return. Gray (2009a:5), in her ethnography of rural queer youth, argues, that “without question rural [LGBT people] negotiate queer desires and

2 I have purposely excluded the “T” and “Q” here, because transgender and queer rights and concerns are not represented nearly as often as lesbian, gay, and bisexual concerns in the dominant movement’s discourses.

3

embodiments under different logistical realities” and examines how small-town familiarity both restrains and assists youth.

Continued research on rural LGBT populations will provide new insights into both shifting LGBT subjectivities and the complex relationships between hegemonic discourses, class, race, sexuality, gender, and place (among other intersections). Most of the literature concerning LGBT identity is based in urban settings and grounded in middle-class identities, due to both “metronormativity” (Halberstam 2005) and the difficulty in gaining access to rural and working- class LGBT populations (Bell &

Valentine 1995; Gray 2009a; Taylor 2009). As a result, conclusions about rural LGBT

(especially lesbian and bisexual) lives have been largely based on speculation or on information garnered from lesbians who left rural areas to move to cities. Moreover, networks and power relations among and between smaller sub-communities has been largely under-theorized.

While scholarship on rural lives is increasing, scholars remain unequally focused on the experiences and identities of gay men, regardless of place, and middle- to upper- class lives, in general. This significantly limits our knowledge of lesbian communities, identities, and gender expressions, as well as working-class LGBT lives.

There also remains a lack of connections, both theoretical and empirical, across smaller and larger LGBT communities – many studies focus on either lesbians or gay men.

Also, little attention has been paid to the roles of heterosexual “allies” (i.e. supporters of

LGBT people/movements) in LGBT identity formation and community building. The limited scholarship on allies suggests they can provide insight into the interconnected dynamics of power, identity, community, and exclusion. 4

As my research is driven by both micro-level and macro-level questions, my research methods aim to address both the “everyday lived experiences” of my research participants, as well as discursive and institutional level factors that contribute to representations and regulations of rural-ness and rural queerness. As such, I have chosen a multi-method approach that allows me to address the range of my questions and make critical connections among them: ethnographic fieldwork, participant observation, and semi-structured life history interviews. The following sections briefly discuss the academic literature, as well as the historical and contemporary political landscapes, in which my research is situated.

Gender and Sexuality Have Always Been in the Spotlight; Sociology Was Just Preoccupied (1800s – 1940s)

There was a discernable lack of consideration given to issues of gender and sexuality within the sociological canon. This observation has concerned contemporary scholars of gender and sexuality, who argue that these silences continue to haunt the discipline. Debates concerning the extent and value of social scientific theoretical and empirical advances versus disciplines that align more closely with the humanities, especially concerning the origins, implications, and applications of queer theory, are important ones in the history of the study of gender and sexuality and are still alive today.

As Seidman (1994) argues, despite the increasing salience of gender and sexuality due to the rising influence of the initial waves of the women’s movement in

Europe and the United States during the construction of the classic sociological texts, there was a distinct silence around these issues, and “for all their aspirations to theorize

5

the human as social, and to sketch the contours of modernity, the classical sociologists offered no accounts of the making of modern bodies and sexualities” (P. 167). Seidman posits that the privileged status of the “so-called classic sociologists” in terms of gender and sexuality made them deaf and/or blind to the active public struggles around issues of bodies, sexualities, desires, and sexual acts in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and later, during the “breakthrough” period of classical sociology between the 1880s and World War I. This is especially notable because during this period there was an undeniably escalating tension over moral and political struggles concerning issues such as gender equality, divorce, abortion, pre-marital and extra- marital sexual exploration, masturbation, prostitution, pornography, homoerotic behaviors, education about sexuality, and obscenity (D’Emilio and Freedman 1988;

Katz 1990).

This silence on issues of gender and sexuality had far reaching implications for the modern social sciences, according to Seidman. He argues that the canonical thinkers most likely mistook their own privileged gender and assumedly heterosexual experiences as the natural and valid statuses, and because of this, never considered the importance of the changing social formations and modern regimes around bodies, genders, and sexualities. “Just as the bourgeoisie assert the naturalness of class inequality and of their rule, individuals whose social identity is that of male and heterosexual do not question the naturalness of a male-dominated, normatively heterosexual social order,” Seidman (1994:167) argues.

The heterosexist lens of the classical sociologists led to a resolute lack of sociological investigation into issues of sexuality and gender, and additionally, as 6

Seidman (1994) explains, “their own science of society contributed (unwittingly, we like to think) to the making of this regime whose center is the hetero/homo binary and the heterosexualization of society” (P. 167). While sociologists grappled with important and timely issues such as urbanization, juvenile delinquency, factory conditions and cultures, economic reconfiguration, the commercialization of social life, racial politics, and unionization, they largely ignored not only the growing moral debates surrounding gender and sexuality, but also the growing social movements and budding academic interest in the subjects.

About the same time that Margaret Sanger was pushing the women’s movement forward by discussing the importance of institutional change around poverty and race and connecting those changes to agendas interested in challenging the sexual and gender orders, Freud’s sex- driven psychoanalytic theories were beginning to garner

American acclaim, and literature providing sexual advice was flourishing. Although academic explorations into gender and sexuality had begun, and sociologists “were surveying all other conceivable topics, and while a proliferation of sex surveys was stirring public debate (Davis 1929; Dickinson and Beam 1932; Kinsey 1948, 1953), sociologists did not deploy their empirical techniques to study ”

(Seidman 1994:168). Few discussed issues of sexuality in detail or advanced related theorization (Seidman 1994:168).

If the unfortunate truth is that sociologists lagged behind during the nineteenth century (as well as the first few decades of the twentieth) in examining the growing public excitement and changing social landscapes around issues of sexuality and gender, then how do we account for the shift from the all-too-silent 7

canon to contemporary sociological conceptualizations of gender and sexuality and the popularity of issues of sex, sexuality, and gender within the discipline? The answer is epitomized – perhaps ironically, considering he is as far removed from both academic theory and the classical sociologists as just about anyone –by the larger-than-life singer

Elvis Presley. With his shockingly sexual dance moves, sultry lyrics, and self- proclaimed lack of control over his desires for food, sex, rock and roll, and drugs, Elvis was part of a rapidly shifting cultural ethos, where the public debates over issues of open displays of sexuality, different physical and psychosocial needs and desires, and institutional regulation of the public and private spheres (such as religious control over family values) were becoming louder and more liberal. Scholars noted cultural shifts:

[T]he 1950s witnessed rock music, the beginnings of the women's movement, the appearance of organizations, and the figures of the beatnik and the rebel, for social and sexual transgression went hand in hand. The made sexual rebellion into a national public drama. The women's movement, , , the … and manuals such as The Joy of Sex… made sexual rebellion central to social change” (Seidman 1994:169).

The times were a-changin’, even in sociology.

Radical Times Change Everything, Even the Ivory Tower (1950s – Present)

The 1950s and subsequent decades brought with them cultural and political upheaval. The years following World War II are sometimes presented as a time of increased conservatism, with a significant focus on family and community building, but

“the war, patterns of mobility, prosperity, and social liberalization loosened sexual

8

mores” (Seidman 1994:169).3 In addition, the rising number of social movements provoked people to question their assumptions about their roles in society, as well as the role of society. This led to significant shifts in people’s understandings of themselves and the world at large.

Beginning around the 1950s, some very important investigations into sexuality were taking place, causing controversy, and for some, paradigm shifts. While sexological studies – focused on biological drives and sexual behaviors – have been taking place since the late 1900s, studies like the ones conducted by Kinsey and his co-researchers (Kinsey 1948, 1953) strongly impacted studies of sexuality and public understandings of what constitutes “normal” behaviors and types of people during the

20th century. Kinsey’s studies of female and male sexuality suggested that and heterosexuality should be conceptualized on a continuum rather than as discrete categories. They also suggested that homosexual behavior (at least in men) was far more common than previously believed.

While Kinsey’s findings were groundbreaking in many ways and posed distinct challenges to what was conventionally understood as normal (versus pathological) sexuality, sociologists argued that “the exclusive focus on bodies, organs, and acts lost sight of the crucial question: What do these behaviors mean to their participants? How are such meanings generated and negotiated?” (Gagnon and Simon 1973:6; Epstein

1994:191). In an interview reflecting on his multiple decades of work on sexuality,

Gagnon retrospectively argues that, despite what were certainly provocative discussions

3 This rise in mobility was due to concerted focus on building a national highway system and increasing the availability of lower-cost transportation options, postwar financial boom, and considerable increases in the number of people pursuing higher education due to incentives such as the G.I. bill. 9

at the time, Kinsey and other sexologists had a limited perspective because they believed that even though homosexuality exists, it is not the norm, and orgasms were the foci of their research on sexual behavior (Schmidt 2005, quoted in Gagnon and

Simon 2005:312). Additionally, positions sex “in its simplest formation… as an overpowering, instinctual drive” (Stein 1989:1) in which a “basic biological mandate” must be contained by cultural and social forces (Gagnon and Simon

1973; Weeks 1985). Other scholars interested in sexual behavior argued biological instincts and culturally shaped behaviors were distinct. While this work attempted to establish a distinction between “sex” and “society” by questioning sexology’s biological basis, it also provided “for more sociological interpretations of sexual behavior and identity [and] in the end (Freud's) libido theory veered toward nature, postulating a fixed sexual drive, which is for the most part, independent of social structure” (Stein 1989:1).

Stein (1989) argues that it was here that the work of sociologists began to demonstrate the potential disciplinary contributions of sociology regarding the study of sex, noting that while biological drives certainly play a part in sexuality, these drives are “plastic” – shaped by cultural and social factors. Sociologists began to study how group membership affected sexual behavior. They challenged themselves and studies of sexuality to elucidate why there is substantial cultural variance in sexual behaviors and preferences – something the models focused solely on inherent biological impulses and drives could not explain. As Berger and Luckmann (1967) posit, a person's

“biological constitution does not tell (people) where they should seek sexual release and what they should eat” (P. 181). 10

Early sociological studies of sexuality during the 1950s and early 1960s were mainly organized around studies of “deviance”, with scholastic inquiries revolving around the “sexual underworld of hustlers, prostitutes, prisons, tea rooms, baths, and bars” (Seidman 1996:7). Conceptions of homosexuality within sociology were pushed forward through notions of and labeling theory, which argued that there are certain social roles which place rigid constraints upon behavior and individual choice, through the social construction of deviance and the labeling of certain types of people, such as homosexuals, as “deviants.” Labeling theorists argued against the idea of an essential difference between homosexuals and heterosexuals, positing that the labels of “deviant” versus “non-deviant” or “normal” obscure the fact that the perceived differences between these groups are simply the effect of the creation of these cultural categories (Stein 1989).

McIntosh (1968) utilized labeling and deviance theories to challenge the scientific quest to find the cause(s) of homosexuality, as well as to challenge similarly universal assumptions being made about homosexuals/homosexuality. These assumptions included the idea that homosexuality was a “condition” expressed equally and without variance across time and among societies, and that this

“condition” was identifiable by appropriate medical professionals. Examining anthropological evidence across time, McIntosh suggests that the way that modern

Western societies conceptualize sexuality is a recent development.

She argues that searching for the causes of homosexuality is an unproductive scientific venture, stating that “the failure of research to answer the question has not been due to lack of scientific rigor or to any inadequacy of the available evidence; it 11

results rather from the fact that the wrong question has been asked. McIntosh (1968) argues that scientists are implicated in a process of social control through uncritical acceptance of the “popular definition of what the problem is” and the way that they understand homosexuality “as a social problem” (P. 183). Applying labeling and deviance theories to sociological understandings of sexual categorization, McIntosh argues that the social process of labeling homosexuals as deviant provided two distinct mechanisms of social control; first, by creating the category of deviant homosexual(s), there is an unmistakable distinction between the socially condoned “us” and the socially condemned “them.” This labeling “helps to provide a clear-cut, publicized, and recognizable threshold between permissible and impermissible behavior” deterring against people “easily drift(ing) into deviant behavior” (P. 183). The second important mechanism of social control, McIntosh posits, is that the construction of a

“specialized, despised, and punished role of homosexual keeps the bulk of society pure in the same way that the similar treatment of some kinds of criminals helps keep the rest of society law-abiding” (P. 184).

One disadvantage of this practice as a technique of social control is that the labeling process emphasizes and solidifies characteristics labeled as deviant within an individual. This is a type of self-fulfilling prophecy because when a culture places people within distinct binaries (i.e. homosexual and heterosexual, deviant and non- deviant), these categories become polarized and “highly differentiated” from one another. Additionally, McIntosh makes the important distinction between the homosexual role and homosexual behavior, arguing that in modern societies, the role of

12

homosexuals come laden with expectations (stereotypes) that press upon and constrain individuals as a type of primary status.

Scholars studying the social construction of sexuality found Goffman's (1963) work on stigma fruitful in considering the way that “discreditable” individuals managed their identity – what they chose to disclose and to whom, as well as how they attempted to “pass” as normal in a time dominated by pressure for individuals to remain “in the closet”.4 While these early studies inquired into homosexuality, they maintained the functionalist underpinnings of a drive model of sexuality, inherited from psychoanalysis, which identified “normal” versus “deviant/wayward” sexual desires and argued that society's role was to keep these undesirable sexual impulses contained.

As such, they were most interested in “the coping mechanisms of discredited and discreditable sexual beings” (Gamson and Moon 2004:47), tended to “find uniformity, rather than diversity, consistency rather than change”, as well as assume/privilege a heterosexual, procreative sexuality (Stein 1989:1). Studies of sexuality within sociology were pushed in new directions by symbolic interactionist and social constructionist theories suggesting that sex is socially constructed and does not exist outside of its socio-cultural molding. 5 Disagreeing with the functionalist view that family and religious institutions socialize people into specific sexual behaviors and

4 Epstein (1994) notes that scholars during this time also built off of the core tenets of symbolic interactionism and the more general “social construction of reality” (Berger and Luckmann 1967), as well as components of Meadian sociology (e.g. labeling theory). 5 Gagnon and Simon (1973) argue against Freudian understandings of childhood sexual development (such as the Oedipal and Electra complexes which understood sexual development as ending in early childhood) that not only is sex more than a drive, but as a product of social forces, it is shaped and reshaped throughout one's lifetime. 13

roles, they posit that sexual behavior is a more interactive and fluid process, which is embodied in their concept of sexual scripts and understanding of cultural scenarios.

Gagnon and Simon (1973) first discuss the metaphor of “sexual scripts” as a way to highlight the drama [à la Goffman's (1959) discussion of dramaturgy in everyday life], attempting to define the “who, what, where, when, and why of sexual conduct–guiding our sexualities at personal, interactional, and cultural–historical levels” (Plummer 2005). As such, cultural scenarios are sets of beliefs that structure social activity, identifying what roles are involved in the activity, appropriate times and places for the activity, as well as the other types of activities that are acceptable.

While a scenario provides the general guidelines around behavior, when social actors match their specific preferences and follow guidelines for interaction, their behavior constitutes a script.

Driven by an urge to “de-naturalize” sexual behaviors and identities, scholars continued critiques against normative, medicalized, and functionalist understandings of sexuality. Epstein (1996) argues that this scholarship demonstrates that “sexual meanings, identities, and categories were inter-subjectively negotiated social and historical products – that sexuality was, in a word, constructed” (P. 145). Sociologists occupied themselves less with searching for universal laws governing sexuality (i.e. whether there are characteristics that all homosexuals possess) and the “macro- structural determinants” of sexuality, and instead shifted their theoretical framework from a “nature” to a “nurture,” or “identity” model of sex. Studies adjusted their attention away from “the homosexual” in terms of “deviants” straying away from

14

standard and acceptable social norms (and sexual scripts) - a fixed and universal type of person - toward “homosexuals” as a social category (Nardi and Schneider 1998:4).

American attitudes about sexual morality, gender equality, racial relations, , and abortion became increasingly liberal from World War II until the late

1980s (Smith 1989). However, an attitude plateau was hit in the 1990s and some beliefs, especially those regarding religion, the morality of homosexuality, and the necessity/desirability of lesbian and gay people acquiring legal rights and social standing equal to their heterosexual counterparts have shifted back-and-forth. These attitudinal adjustments accompanied demographic changes, widespread cultural ideological shifts, and the successful framing and (re-)framing tug-of-war between the so-called “conservative” and “progressive” movements (Loftus 2001). The feminist and lesbian/gay movements were two of the most influential social movements of the time and created waves both within and outside of academia. U.S.-based feminist and LGBT movements have unique origins and histories, and were (are) at times in concert and at other times at odds with each other. That said, their sustained impact on studies of sexuality was fostered by the dual punch provided by the timing of their similar critiques, as well as their productive tensions.

De-centering heterosexuality became a critical component of sexuality studies, particularly through what would become known as “queer theory”6. Scholars, such as

McIntosh (1968), Katz (1990), and Foucault (1978), propose that sexuality and erotic desire are historically contingent and multifarious, and that heterosexuality (as well as

6 The choice of naming the growing body of work “queer theory” was a deliberate and important maneuver; the political act of reclaiming the word queer is part of a long history of minority groups attempting to take control over language that had previously been used to harass and oppress them (Epstein 1994:195). 15

monogamy) became extremely important and identified as “normal” during the

Victorian era. This resulted in the creation of individuals with desires and behaviors then identified as “abnormal” beginning to see themselves as sexual deviants with stigmatized identities (with causes identifiable by the medical profession). They posit that the modern conceptualization of homosexuality, or more specifically, “the homosexual” came into being during this time period, along with other sexual types

(both deviant and non-deviant), due to these shifts. The “tactics of power” changed from “an emphasis on sexual behavior to one on sexual personhood, in place of the opposition between natural and unnatural acts, sexual experience would be divided into normal and abnormal identities. Sexuality therefore became a central site for the construction of subjectivity” (Epstein 1994:192).

Within this revised sociological approach, there was a greater possibility for human individuality and agency. Also central to this shifting paradigm in studies of sexuality were shifts in American values and the burgeoning feminist and gay liberation movements. Indeed, sociology of sexualities “came of age” alongside the more interdisciplinary feminist studies and gay and lesbian studies. These fields were heavily influenced by social constructionism (and the postmodern turn in the humanities), as well as social turbulence occurring outside (and sometimes within) the

“Ivory Tower’s” walls.

A Socially Constructed Battle: Queer Theory versus Sociology

During the 1970s and 1980s, studies of sexuality changed from thinking about sexual behavior and scripts to considering how sexuality organizes social life in

16

terms of identity and community construction, as well as political action. Taking cues from social constructionism, phenomenology, labeling theory, as well as influential theorists of the time, ethnographies of gay and lesbian identities and communities boomed (e.g. Krieger 1983; Levine 1979; Newton 1972; Plummer 1981;

Wolf 1980). Sociologists also focused on the feminist and gay liberation movements

(e.g. Adam 1987; Altman 1982; Ponse 1978; Taylor & Whittier 1992), making space for discussions of gender and sexuality within research documenting the trends and effects of .

Sexuality scholars have made important contributions to theorizing about identity, exploring the numerous and complex processes by which gay men and lesbians organize their identities, noting “how they do things between their , politics, and sexuality; how they negotiate the unsettling periods in which identity seems to be in flux; and how they retrospectively interpret their personal biographies to conform with present self-understandings and to achieve a consistent sense of self”

(Epstein 1994:192). This body of work utilized the emerging constructionist perspective and conceptualized identity as a particularly salient frame when studying gays and lesbians, and their continuously forming communities. The attention to the salience of identity for gays and lesbians within academic writing corresponded with the rise of the mainstream lesbian and gay movement. The movement’s voice was getting louder and proposed a specific type of “identity politics,” which privileged the act of “coming out” and argued that this act was imperative for the transition from individuals to a “public … group identity [with] a political strategy for social change” (Escoffier 1985). 17

Some scholars (e.g. Moraga and Anzuldua 1981; Sedgwick 1990; Smith 1983) challenged what they viewed as a detrimental “politics of sameness”, through which the feminist/lesbian and gay movements attempted to organize themselves as cohesive forces with unified desires, subjectivities, and needs. While this served a purpose in terms of movement building, social critics argued that this strategy eclipsed the many forms of diversity present within these groups (e.g. racial politics within the lesbian and gay and feminist movements, and sexuality within some facets of the ). Importantly for queer theory, they argued that the emphasis on organizing around cohesive and limited categories of identity seriously constrained one of the main goals of the gay liberation movement (to challenge the very foundation on which regimes of “normalization” rested) – even though it was perhaps “a necessary starting point and potentially productive at that” (Epstein 1994:192).

Although scholars of sexuality and social movements cannot completely sidestep identity politics, there has been fruitful discussion on how to conceptualize its role and utility in the past and future (see Garber 2001; Nicholson and Seidman 1996;

Phelan 1989, 1994; Bernstein 2005). Additionally, studies of the construction and maintenance of identities and communities now attempt (or should) to incorporate

“intersectionality” (Crenshaw 1993), fluidity, complexity, and increasingly, temporality and spatiality, into both their research questions and their analyses.

Many scholars argue that gay and lesbian identities are intimately tied up with capitalism, visibility, and the push and pull of politics surrounding notions of the family, community, and the public/private divide. D’Emilio (1983), for example, examines the connections between the rise of capitalism and the creation and 18

solidification of gay and lesbian identities. D’Emilio and other scholars argue that the free labor system of capitalism affected not only financial and production systems in the

United States and elsewhere, “allow(ing) large numbers of men and women in the late twentieth century to call themselves gay, to see themselves as part of a community of similar men and women, and to organize politically on the basis of that identity”

(D’Emilio 1983:103). Additionally, it led to a “profound transformation in the structure and functions of the , the ideology of family life, and the meaning of heterosexual relations” (1983:103). D’Emilio traces how the multi-century long turn away from household, farming, and “cottage” economies, in which the survival of each family member was dependent on the cooperation of everyone in their home, to a more urban-based free labor economy created a crucial distance between home and work, personal and public. As such, D’Emilio (1983) argues that “the family took on new significance as an affective unit, an institution that produced not goods but emotional satisfaction and happiness” (P. 130) and, as the need for child labor decreased, expressions of sexuality were released from the “imperative to procreate” (P.

105).

These changes in family and labor structures had two important unintended consequences for gays and lesbians. Capitalism created the potential for 1) a person's livelihood to be unassociated with family ties - and therefore less of a need to be married and have children – and 2) a greater ability to relocate and find/create communities of like-minded people. From this changing economic system, community-building opportunities such as gay bars, YMCAs, cruising areas, lesbian literary societies, private social clubs, etc. were born. 19

The war years of the 1940s were especially important in the formation of both a new gay consciousness and well developed gay community and subculture, which before then was “rudimentary, unstable, and difficult to find” (D’Emilio 1983:107). The war created an opportunity for young men and women to leave the confines of their birth community (often small towns and cities) and explore the greater opportunities for networking and sexual expression that larger cities were beginning to provide.

Additionally, the nature of war-time work placed many men and women into sex segregated situations, due to their employment in the military or as civilian production workers. This “freed [them] from the settings where heterosexuality was normally imposed” (D’Emilio 1983:107).

Communities of gays and lesbians continued to grow in larger cities such as San

Francisco and City, as well as smaller cities such as Des Moines and

Buffalo. By the time of the riots in 1969, gays and lesbians in cities had a significant local and national network, accessible through events, newsletters and magazine.7 The formation of these communities was critical for many gays and lesbians. Rejected from their traditional family structures, many LGBT people formed

“chosen families” (Weston 1994), clustered into “gay ghettos” which provided a subcultural buffer between them and heterosexist society. The gay and lesbian community network served as a way to find friends, sex and dating partners, physical safety, employment, and gay- and lesbian- centered entertainment. Researchers demonstrate that this network, which served an important purpose historically, is

7 Recent scholarship (e.g. Herring 2010; Howard 1999) demonstrates that rural LGBT communities existed before and during this time, however they were less structured and harder to locate.

20

simultaneously concrete and ephemeral. The LGBT community can sometimes seem monolithic and “placeless” (Stein 1997:185), due to its invocation as a description of local, national, and sometimes international networks of gays and lesbians.

Numerous scholars note this confusion, particularly in reference to “the lesbian community”, where it was hard to pin down exactly what study participants meant when they mentioned participation in “the community” due to ever-changing definitions, even when utilized by the same participant (Kreiger 1983; Gordon 2006;

Wolf 1979). Moreover, these scholars and others (e.g. Esterberg 1997) argue that “the lesbian community” is often a reference to numerous, notably smaller, overlapping communities which can be identified by the “type” of lesbians who are part of it (e.g. bar dykes, softball dykes, lipstick lesbians, artsy lesbians, academic lesbians, and so forth).

These subcommunities are notably divided along the lines of class, recreational activities, race, and gender presentation (Gordon 2006). Some of these divisions run so deep that some subcommunity members are essentially invisible to members of the other subcommunities due to their paths rarely, if ever, crossing (Gordon 2006; Taylor

2007). Working-class lesbians, some scholars argue, are particularly invisible to and/or ostracized within the larger lesbian community (Taylor 2007). Others, such as

Valentine (1993a; 1993b; 2000), demonstrate that the interrelatedness of these subcommunities varies depending on the size of the community in question, in addition to how ostracized the local community feels in relation to the larger heterosexual local community.

21

Moreover, Stein (2006:85) demonstrates that, especially with the recent “loss” of centralized community spaces designated as solely queer (such as bars), lesbians can feel that they are completely devoid of a community even while living among literally millions of lesbians (such as in ). Even so, participants in various lesbian and gay subcommunities express that they feel part of a more widespread community that provides both a specific cultural milieu and knowledge base (complete with easily accessible jokes about lesbians and U-Hauls and gay male affinity for Cher, for example). The “community” also serves as a regulatory structure with (unfortunately fuzzy) rules regarding appropriate gay and lesbian interests, attire, and professions, as well as dating and friendship scripts (Gordon 2006). Studies of gay male social networks found similar evidence of a non-homogenous gay male community (full of subcommunities all their own) organized in terms of class, race, etc.

(Adler and Brenner 1992).

The gay and lesbian movement came into existence “almost overnight” because of the formation and solidification of these communities across the nation

(D’Emilio 1983), and its increasing power was met in force by a revived right-wing,

“pro-family” fundamentalist movement, as well as the increasing oppression of lesbian and gay men. Weston (2009) eloquently and humorously explains this double-edged sword:

At the time, movement activists had gone to great lengths to educate the public about what they termed the “myth” that lesbians are inevitably butch and gay men are invariably effeminate. Not every lesbian looks like she drives a big rig, they patiently explained. Not every gay man spends his evenings practicing the moves required to lip-sync his way to fame in a show. hail from every

22

walk of life and may or may not gender-bend. Moral: Heterosexuals who are convinced that they have never met a lesbian should probably think twice. While activists hammered away on these points, an illustrated religious pamphlet called “The Gay Blade” was making its way from hand to hand throughout the country. Do not be fooled, its anonymous authors warned: “They occupy all kinds of jobs. Their identity for the most part is carefully hidden” (P. 137).

As gay visibility increased in the post-World War II era, “oppression by the state intensified, becoming more systematic and inclusive” (D’Emilio 1983:108), with bans on gay and lesbian involvement in various aspects of the federal government, including the military, and widespread government surveillance, invasions, and forcible disruptions of the meeting places, homes, and organizations of gays and lesbians. D’Emilio (1983) argues, along with other scholars, that “the danger involved in being gay rose even as the possibilities of being gay were enhanced” (P. 108), both through state induced and extralegal violence. Additionally, as gay and lesbian communities and culture solidified, so did their commodification and regulation – of aesthetics, spaces, and mannerisms – by themselves and others. As the old idiom goes, there is no free lunch, and so the same capitalistic forces that birthed gay and lesbian identities came to seek repayment.

Research into identity management and the social construction of sexualities , , bisexualities, and other configurations of gender and sexuality, such as transgender and (cis)gender8 subjectivities - continues to form a significant amount of the work presently taking place across the disciplines. Within academia, scholarship utilizing queer theory has focused its lens on broad and varied topics, arguing that other perspectives “rely on conceptual dualisms (male/female

8 (Cis)gender is when a person’s gender identity matches the sex they were assigned at birth and the social roles culturally understood as appropriate for their gender and sex (Shilt and Westbrook 2009). 23

gender models, natural/artificial ontological systems, or essentialist/constructionist intellectual frameworks)” that reinforce the notion of minority as “other” and “create binary oppositions which leave the [heterosexual] ‘center’ [of power] intact” (Stein and

Plummer 1994:182).

Queer theory ultimately began as a political act by academics unhappy with contemporary formulations of gay and lesbian research. They felt studies of sexualities were too focused on investigating specific kinds of gay and lesbian lives, identities, and communities, which neglected and silenced other identities and experiences (e.g. pansexual, bisexual). They also felt these studies fueled discourses of normalization and sameness, as well as limited potential challenges to what they saw as a destructive gender and sexual order.

Stein and Plummer (1994) and King (2008) identified a few “hallmarks” and

“features” that most queer theorists follow. Two of these features are arguably queer theory’s most important contributions: the introduction and exploration of the concept of heteronormativity and further elaboration of the “contingency and multiplicity” of sexual identities, bodies, practices, and desires, which (unlike gay and lesbian studies) takes “heterosexuality as seriously as homosexuality” (King 2008:424–425) in elaborating how sexuality is “constitutive of and constituted by racialized gender and class formations” (Ferguson 2005:88). King (2008:425) argues that because queer theorists do not prioritize studying homosexuality over heterosexuality, interrogating rather than assuming polar differences, they are able to investigate and denaturalize all types of identities and desires, demonstrating how the categories of homosexuality and heterosexuality emerged in “concert with each other”, as well as better understand the 24

ways in which these categories remain “inextricably interconnected (and) mutually constitutive” (Foucault 1978; Katz 1990; Sedgwick 1990).9

Recently, scholars (e.g. Russell 2011) are focusing on how people come to identify as allies [e.g. becoming “politically gay” heterosexuals (Meyers 2008)], as well as their motivating factors for doing so. This research also considers the costs and benefits associated with acting on behalf of LGBT people as a member of a privileged social group. Scholars highlight the nexus of individual, social, and cultural elements in heterosexual identity development (e.g. Ingraham 2005). This literature explores how heterosexuality is created and maintained, as well as how heterosexuals understand non- heterosexual identities. Scholars suggest that ally perceptions of LGBT people are tied to their understandings of their own heterosexuality (e.g. Worthington, Dillon, & Becker-

Schutte 2005). While much of the early research focused on the role of heterosexual allies within the educational system, such as career counselors (e.g. Chojnacki & Gelberg

1995), recent literature emphasizes involvement in broader movements. Researchers explored the ways activists strategically use their straight identity as a tool in order to successfully achieve LGBT movement objectives (Cortese 2006); how ally awareness of their own heterosexual privilege impacts their engagement with and support of LGBT rights (Mohr 2002); motives for ally engagement with heterosexual identity (Russell 2011); and possible predictors for such engagement (Fingerhut 2011).

This interdisciplinary body of research has begun to answer the question of why

9 This focus on heterosexuality is a key component of queer theory, one that attempts to release the burden of deviance from homosexuality and flip it onto heterosexuality. As understood by queer theory, heterosexuality is “a highly unstable system, subject to various slippages, reliant upon carefully constructed individual performances of identity, and dependent upon the exclusion of homosexuality for its very identity” (Stein and Plummer 1994:183).

25

and how heterosexual allies become involved in LGBT social movements. Vela-

McConnell (1999), for example, found that heterosexual LGBT activism preceded a clear understanding and social consciousness about LGBT issues. In her research, feelings of personal responsibility increased as allies learned more about LGBT concerns as a result of initial involvement in LGBT activism. Scholars have also connected personal experiences of being marginalized; strong senses of moral and social responsibility

(Vernaglia 2000); having early experiences with LGBT people, especially in a manner that normalized non-heterosexual identities (Stotzer 2009); and strong levels of dispositional empathy (a psychological concept where empathy is understood as a stable character trait instead of a context- or situation-specific reaction).

While this literature is growing, little attention continues to be paid to heterosexual allies outside of educational and therapeutic settings. Additionally, as

Russell and Bohan (2006) argue, heterosexual allies have been considered ancillary within LGBT movements by both social movement scholars and popular culture; they are seen as “well-meaning people, often with a close relationship to a lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgender individual, who are ‘helping’ out the movement and who need guidance to provide that assistance” (P. 388). Contrary to this, scholars have found that many allies, especially those with “principle-based motives” (Russell 2011) have clear and personal reasons for their LGBT activism that do not perfectly align with LGBT or queer movement agendas nor the concerns of their LGBT counterparts. Critical examinations drawing out the nuances of heterosexuality may be queer theory’s next frontier.

Gamson and Moon (2004) suggest that queer theory has been one of the most recent influential forces on sociological studies of sexuality. Queer theorists, on the 26

other hand, suggest that social scientists over-rely on fixed identity categories, an uncritical/outmoded stance on social movements, and an overemphasis on causal models. In my view, these critics were too quick to dismiss the social sciences. The pitting of queer theory/humanities/cultural studies against the social sciences is both unnecessary and unproductive.

A significant part of the tension over the origins and potential of queer theory has to do with its multifarious, complex, and inconsistent invocations both outside and inside of academia. While many queer theorists are “using social constructionism as if it were a new discovery” (Stein and Plummer 1994:180), and numerous scholars attribute the solidification of the constructionist perspective to the writings of Foucault, other scholars demonstrate otherwise. The concepts of constructionism antedate

Foucault’s theorizing and the challenges posed by queer theory have their roots in many disciplines, even though they have been more widely received in the humanities and cultural studies than in the social sciences. In this way, the tension between queer theorists and social scientists is largely socially constructed. Contemporary social scientists are working (as they have in the past) alongside scholars in the humanities and cultural studies to push our understandings of identities, power dynamics, and sexualities forward.

Constructing, Performing, Living, And Regulating Gender And Sexuality

I know what butch is. I know and I’m going to tell you, so listen up and take notes. First of all, butch is a noun. And an adjective. And a verb. Butches only ever wear jeans, and boots, except if they’re wearing suits, and they keep their hair clipped down to a flat top you could putt off. Except if they have to for work. Or if they want to for

27

sex. Or if they want to for some other reason. But otherwise it is denim and leather and butch wax, kid, and don’t you forget it. Unless you’re vegan… I know what butch is. Butches are not beginner FTMs, except that sometimes they are, but it’s not a continuum, except when it is. Butch is not a trans-identity unless the butch in question says it is, in which it is, unless the in question says it isn’t, in which case it’s not. There is no such thing as butch flight, no matter what the or elders say, unless saying that invalidates the opinions of femmes in a sexist fashion or the opinions of elders in an ageist fashion. Or if they are right. But they are not, because butch and transgender are the same thing with different names, except that butch is not a trans-identity, unless it is; see above (Bergman 2006:12-13).

The body of work amassed by feminist, lesbian and gay, and queer theorists over the past few decades is wondrously vast in terms of both topic and volume. This body of scholarship demonstrates that gender and sexuality are consistent principles upon which society is organized, along with other axes of privilege such as race, class, age, sexuality, physical ability, and nationality. These studies interrogate how both a person’s sex and gender performance impact his/her social status, finding that how a person “does gender” (West and Zimmerman 1987) can substantially raise or lower his/her position within society.

Importantly, scholars argue that a critical component of a person’s social standing rests on the extent to which the way s/he “does gender” embodies and reproduces the accepted relationship between masculinity and , in addition to heterosexuality (Connell 1995; Schippers 2007). Daily micro- and macro-level interactions based on gender and sexuality are constantly being (re)negotiated and can be observed in all arenas of social life. People’s beliefs about gender and sexuality

28

have an enormous impact on their daily lives and interactions with others, as well as their personal and collective decision-making.

Importantly, notions of femininity and masculinity and the way these are constructed also shift across time, class, and community. I am particularly interested in the “liminal spaces” or “spaces of betweenness” (Browne 2006b; Knopp 2004) where gender and sexuality become confused, illegitimate, misrecognized, or even unrecognizable. I am also interested in how discourses about gender and sexuality and what is deemed “normal” shifts with (and even within) groups of people and across time and space. As demonstrated by Bergman, gender and sexuality are not exactly clean-cut or easy to pin down. Gender and sexuality are what they are, until (or unless) they aren’t.

Masculinity and femininity have been important in the study of gender and sexuality. Scholars have interrogated their shifting content and traced when and why the shifts occurred. These studies have advanced contemporary understandings of gender and sexuality because the micro-level relations of everyday performances of masculinity and femininity can place macro- level social phenomena, such as racism, sexism, and into greater relief. Queer theorists and critical sexuality scholars demonstrate the utility of using masculinity and femininity as a compass to assist with mapping how societies are organized (e.g. Pascoe 2007).

Advertisements, such as the one below put forth by Dockers in 2009, are brimming with information about contemporary discourses about gender and sexuality, which often include classed undertones, as well. Campaigns over the last few decades by Dockers, McDonald’s, and a few car companies have presented particularly 29

intriguing messages describing good/real masculinity versus bad/fake/inferior masculinity. Their logic clearly follows masculinity theory, as the bad/fake/inferior masculinity is often presented as feminized.

However, while studies of both hegemonic and non-hegemonic have

been increasing in empirical and theoretical expansiveness, scholarship concerned with

the various potential configurations of femininity, along with the contexts and

consequences of those configurations, have been discernibly abandoned. Connell

(2005) asserts that bias toward masculinity studies obscures the ways in which gender

is relational, arguing that women are central to constructions of masculinity, and that

“patterns of masculinity are socially defined in contradistinction from some model

(whether real or imagined) of femininity” (P. 848).

Despite the lopsided levels of attention to the contradictions and (in)consistencies of masculinity, some scholars have attended to the historical emergence and contemporary configurations of hierarchies of femininity. Poovey (1984), for example,

30

demonstrates how Victorian writing placed conceptions of femininity within the lifestyle of the upper classes, a lifestyle “of ease, restraint, calm, and luxurious decoration. It was a category of pure, white, heterosexuality, later translated into the ideal for middle-class women” (Skeggs 2001:297). This description directly contrasted with depictions of working- class and non-white women, (and later, lesbians) who have been coded as the robust (often masculinized), deviant (sexually and otherwise)

“other” (Gilman 1992; Hart 1994; Skeggs 2001). Moreover, she importantly posits that there are two different ways of doing femininity, which are conflated when the female body is “read”. 10 She suggests that a distinction must be made between appearing feminine, which she calls “the labor of looking feminine” and “the labor of feminine characteristics”, such as appearing caring, supportive, passive and nonassertive.

Discourses of femininity particularly emphasize appearance, which Skeggs argues became the “signifier of conduct… and the means by which women were categorized, known, and placed by others” (2001:297). Skeggs and others (Hey 2003; Taylor

2006; Walker 2001) argue that the various articulations and categorizations of femininity fall particularly on classed lines, for both heterosexual and non- heterosexual women. While there is certainly a dearth of scholarship around femininity in general, scholars have created a significant amount of work on lesbian lives and identities.

10 Following Bourdieu (1979, 1986, 1987, 1989), Skeggs (1997, 2001) suggests that these differences both cause and are caused by access (or lack thereof) to different forms of capital. 31

In fact, much of the work in this area, documenting the changes in lesbian lives and identities since the 1950s, has grappled with lesbians’ relationship to femininity.

This work on lesbian communities and genders has frequently documented tension between lesbian identities/bodies and performances of femininity. Even so, for all of the work over the past decade attempting to separate gender from sex, sex from roles, and gender from gender performance, understandings of masculinity (and the field of masculinity studies in general) have remained staunchly velcro-ed to the male body.

Why is this? Is it because scholars do not believe that the “male” can be separated from masculinity? Is there something about the privilege denoted by masculinity, even in its most diluted and devalued forms, that is discursively withheld from those not automatically given access to it due to having been born genetically female? Or, is there something about the idea of masculine women that continuously turns off (and scares?) both the general public and scholars? I suspect that the answer is complex and encompasses components of all of these questions. However, the questions are intriguing in and of themselves. Despite the fact that there have been unfortunately few scholastic attempts to document historical and contemporary configurations of female masculinity, existing work demonstrates that there are various ways in which female- bodied people access/have accessed multiple types of masculinity, and that these types are both driven and restricted by individuals’ temporal and class positioning.

Halberstam (1998a) expresses her shock that

[S]omehow, despite multiple images of strong women (such as bodybuilder Bev Francis or tennis player Martina Navratilova), of cross-identifying women (Radcliff Hall or Ethel Smith), of masculine-coded public figures (Janet Reno), of butch superstars (k.d. lang), of muscular and athletic women (Jackie Joyner-Kersee), 32

of female born transgender people (), there is still no general acceptance or even recognition of masculine women and boyish girls (P. 15). a dedicates her book to addressing “this collective failure to imagine and ratify the masculinity produced by, for, and within women” (P. 15). She suggests that when you separate constructions of female masculinity and (i.e. lesbianism), in attempt to understand the lives in question through the social context of their time, we are presented with many different examples of female masculinities.

Despite Halberstam’s valiant attempts to start a revolution, the recent history of masculinity in women has been fraught with confusion, regulation, and suspicion. From the sexological association of such masculinity with a “collapsed” system of gendered inversion and deviant sexual desire and conduct (Butler 2003; Halberstam 1998a,

1998b) to the “butch/ wars” in lesbian and feminist culture during the 1960s and

70s, which viewed butch/femme couplings as suspicious re-inscriptions of traditional male/female relationships. Some saw these couplings as “unhealthy, not to mention politically incorrect, imitation(s) of sexist male-female power relations” (Gamson and

Moon 2004:4; Gibson and Meme 2002).

In the 1980s, butch/femme gender roles once again resurfaced, playing a part in the notorious “sex wars”, in which feminists debated the appropriateness of eroticism, including lesbianism, pornography, and BDSM. In the 90s, butch women continued to perplex non-butch lesbians and feminists, who once again questioned whether they were sexist, and also – fascinatingly - argued that butch visibility created femme invisibility. In other words, the concern was that lesbians whose gender presentations

33

were undoubtedly female only “register” to larger society as challenging heteronormativity if visibly coupled with butch women.

This invisibility posed challenges to femmes who wanted to be visibly fighting the “queer fight” against normativity, as well as find other like-minded women for a sense of community and/or dating partners. Walker (2001) explains, “the butch's mimicry of the masculine produces the slippage that makes her visible as a lesbian, while the femme mimes the appearance of the heterosexual women so seamlessly that the distinction between the femme and heterosexual women becomes impossible to maintain” (P. 33).11

Butch visibility has also posed problems within the burgeoning LGBT movement, as it challenged their goals for quiet assimilation. Smith (1989) documents how lesbians who practiced butch/femme publicly were denounced as part of a “working class culture centered on gay bars”, while those who were more middle-class “wish(ed) to be accepted by the heterosexual middle-class, which for them is the embodiment of normality” (P. 402–403). Smith (1989) describes how the only organization solely dedicated to lesbian concerns at the time, the (DOB), which hosted meetings and ran the first lesbian magazine The Ladder, rejected “the blatant sexual message of butch/femme [as] a strategy for ‘improving’ their image in two ways: minimizing the sexual nature of lesbianism that heterosexual society feared and stressing that lesbians could be responsible and successful citizens” (P. 403). The

DOB also placed significant pressure on lesbians working at the organization to adopt

11 Walker is specifically talking about ’s relationships in , but similar discussions can be found in literature discussing the femme sense of invisibility today (e.g. Halberstam 1998b; Martin 1997; Munt 1998).

34

a feminine appearance. As the DOB presidential message explained in the second issue of The Ladder in response to their concerns, “The kids in fly front pants with the butch haircuts and mannish manner are the worst publicity that we can get.”

Smith (1989) argues that an important component of these anti-butch undercurrents was the middle-class consciousness of the magazine's readers and authors. Many scholars note this tension between working-class lesbians and middle and upper-class lesbians, positing that the intensity of this stigmatization also varies along class and racial lines. In her research on in black communities in , Moore (2006) found women who displayed non-normative gender expressions, such as dressing in a masculine manner, were less accepted in higher class circles, even within their own racial communities.

Perhaps it is the butch lesbians’ visibility that has created the conditions for such a strong and varied community, as demonstrated by the elaborate butch/femme bar culture of the 1950s and 60s (Kennedy and Davis 1993; Faderman 1991; Nestle

1987). This visibility, however, has served butch lesbians a heavy hand. After all, she is the “ideal model for sexologists”, as Walker (2001:34) argues, “because her gender difference is marked, [so] she is visible as a lesbian, and proves that the body is the site

(and the sight) of sexual ‘deviance’” (P. 34). This visible deviance has created a feeling of being “out of time and place” that follows the narratives presented by butch lesbians of their lives (Feinberg 1993; Browne 2006a). As Halberstam (1998b) explains, “the narrative of the butch has been one of loss, loneliness, and disconnection” (P. 64).

Their story isn’t all doom and gloom, however. Some scholars, such as Taylor (2006), have demonstrated that, for some groups of lesbians (especially working class ones), the 35

inexpensive and relatively low-effort butch aesthetic can lead to the argument “that being butch, you get more gay for your money” (P. 171).

The Visible is Political

Stein (1993) declares, “it’s the butch lesbian who’s been synonymous with lesbianism in the public imagination” (P. 4). Almost a decade later, Ciasullo (2001) astutely responds, arguing that an important distinction must be made between cultural imagination and cultural landscapes. She suggests, “this same butch who is so closely aligned with the idea of lesbianism is curiously absent from… mainstream images and discourses of lesbianism” (emphasis in original, P. 579). Ciasullo draws out a further insightful distinction between representation and visibility, stating, “to be sure, representation promises visibility, but visibility means not only that one is present but that one is being watched. It also means that certain images get singled out as watchable” (emphasis in original, P. 584)

These are critical distinctions that should be considered within contemporary studies of sexuality, especially as scholars are beginning to identify the flaws in and silences created by a visibility model of gay and lesbian politics, in which there is a ubiquitous path from unhappy and closeted (sans identity, community, love and support) to “out and proud” (where all these things are yours, and more…). Scholars are beginning to ask, “At what cost is this visibility gained and what does it really get gays and lesbians?” in studies of media representations (Russo 1987; Barnhurst 2007), coupling and parenthood (Kurdek 2004; Lewin 1993), legal rights and citizenship

(Richardson 2000), and the shift from closeted pervert to respectable community

36

members and family (wo)men.12 In some ways, the increasing visibility of gay men and lesbians has reaped significant rewards and has even “shaken up” some of everyday existence (e.g. conceptions of family life, gender roles, and culture). In other ways, however, this visibility has had great costs, which differ among the types of people being affected.

Scholars argue that politics of visibility have been a component of the LGBT movement in particular ways. The (at the Stonewall bar) in New York

City on a few nights in are valorized, as one gay publication put it, “the hairpin drop heard round the world” (D’Emilio 1983:232), and are considered by many to be the start of the modern gay liberation movement in the United States. Despite this, accounts of the history of the riots are misaligned in interesting ways, and depending on whom you talk to (or who the writer was), you may be told that drag queens started the riots, or butch lesbians, or gay men, or some combination of the above. Scholars argue that the importance of Stonewall lies less in the actual resistance that occurred that night (since similar resistances against police regulation had also taken place elsewhere, such as in San Francisco), but in the fact that the “gay community” was structured enough to claim the riots as an integral part of its history.

Scholars have given much less attention to around the roles of non- normative women within the riots, and the early gay and lesbian movement in general.

The beginnings of privileging visibility over silence are clear here and the politics of visibility have both served and haunted the liberation of LGBT people ever since.

12 See Bernstein and Reimann 2001; Lehr 1999; McQueeney 2009; Stacey 2004, 2005; Valverde 2006; Ward 2008. 37

For example, those suffering from stigmatization around embodiment of a subordinate masculinity have made strategic choices. Many gay men, in response to this oppression chose to become hyper-masculinized “clones” that exaggeratedly mimicked hegemonic masculinity, dressing in hyper-masculine attire (with popular “clone” outfits including that of construction workers, military men, and cowboys), emphasizing body-building, and valuing sexual promiscuity and aggressiveness (Levine 1998).

As political power and economic stability became increasingly available to gay men, they distanced themselves from all forms of gender transgression, seeking to be and date men who presented themselves as heterosexual through stereotypically straight behaviors, interests, and attitudes. As a critical mass of gay men created distanced from femininity and aligned with hegemonic masculinity, they ensured that the movement for acceptance of non-heterosexual orientations would not pose any direct or serious challenges to the hegemonic gender order (Young 1995). The “clones” clearly demonstrate the powerful impact of hegemonic masculinity’s repudiation of femininity upon individuals, subcultures and communities, and broader social institutions.

The politics of visibility have also shaped LGBT lives in other notable ways.

Through this, queer aesthetics and spaces have been commodified and colonized by the mainstream. I am especially interested in the commodification and colonization of lesbian bodies. Scholars have documented the recent increase in depictions of lesbians and lesbian culture in mainstream culture, arguing, “first in movies, then music, in historical dramas and soap operas, and finally fashion and advertising, ‘the love affair with lesbianism’… has been flourishing” (Hawkes 1996:142). Indeed, what has been 38

called the “year of the lustful lesbian” has turned into decades. This obsession with

“lesbian chic”, first documented in the 1990s, involves an appropriation of lesbian sexuality and a (re)stylization of the lesbian body to make it more consumable to the larger (mainly heterosexual) audience.

First, she is depoliticized, as Esterberg (1996) suggests

…in recent years, a very different face is being put on popular depictions of lesbianism – more ‘feminine,’ less political… This new “chic” lesbian is shown trading her support group for a shopping bag. She is no longer out to change the world – only her wardrobe (P. 275).

These depictions also notably scrub the gritty, abrasive feminist, and the masculine from the lesbian body. Many lesbians have expressed dismay over this unfortunate response to the desperate demand for visibility, concerned that they cannot see themselves in this whitewashed, feminized, heteroticized version presented on screen.

Additionally, Ciasullo (2001) argues there is a repression of bodies which do not meet the hegemonic feminine ideal; she notes that certain bodies are made invisible, notably those of butch women, women of color, and the working-class. When they are presented, they are pathologized.13

It is immensely important for scholars to pay attention not only to those who are allowed (and not allowed) to speak verbally, but also, to those who are allowed (and not allowed) to “speak” visually. The types of bodies, identities, and desires presented as available (more than just whether they are determined to be normal or abnormal) should be important foci for sociologists, because cultural representation is intimately

13 This is slowly changing, such as Ellen DeGeneres’ androgynous attire on her popular talk show and increasingly true-to-life portrayals of masculine women on television, such as in Tig Notaro’s One Mississippi. 39

connected (although not synonymous) with personal imagination regarding the types of lives that are possible.

Representation involves not only visibility (for better or worse), but also, and importantly, leads to recognition, which is intimately related to power and access to resources (Skeggs 2001). The positive side of recognition is the ability to find others like you – and that similar others exist – which provides the opportunity to collectively configure identities. If you are recognizable, it is likely that you can be readily placed within systems of inequality, whether it's the gender order, the racial order, or some other way that society arranges itself. But what if you are not visible, or made invisible like butch women in the media? What if your gender performance causes you to be misrecognized or unrecognizable?

Fraser (1995) argues that there has been a shift from a politics of distribution - based on structural inequality, such as class - to the politics of recognition, which she considers the organization of cultural inequalities, which are often centered on gender, race, and sexuality. Fraser argues that to be misrecognized

…is not simply to be thought ill of, looked down on, or devalued in others’ conscious attitudes or mental beliefs. It is rather to be denied the status of full partner in social interaction and prevented from participating as a peer and social life – not as a consequence of distributive inequality (such as failing to receive one's fair share of resources or “primary goods”), but rather as a consequence of institutionalized patterns of interpretation and evaluation that constitute one as comparatively unworthy of respect or esteem. When such patterns of disrespect and disesteem are institutionalized, for example in law, welfare, medicine, and/or popular culture, they impede parity of participation, just as surely do distributive inequalities (P. 280).

40

Similarly, Skeggs (2001) argues that misrecognition is a continual process, which is

“not just interpersonal” but also “has institutional effects” (P. 296) and Taylor (1994) suggests that misrecognition can inflict harm and is a “form of oppression, imprisoning someone in a false, distorted and reduced mode of being” (P. 75). As Berlant and

Warner (1998) argued claims of who can be recognized are tied to formulations of identity politics and have “shifted the terrain in terms of who can make political representations and be recognized as worthy of public legitimation” (Skeggs 2001:296).

The politics of visibility and (mis)recognition are particularly interesting when we consider the spatial organizations of people and movements.

Theorizing Place and Making Space for Rural Queerness

“The country is a foreign land. It shouldn’t be, yet it is,” states Perec (1997

[1974]:68). Gieryn (2000) argues that the complex relationships that individuals have with place(s) have serious implications for social scientific research. He draws an important distinction between places and spaces, suggesting that places are infused with meaning and value, structured in some way, and varies by gradient (i.e. home, neighborhood, city). He posits that place “is not space” which he says is better conceptualized as “abstract geometries (distance, direction, size, shape, volume) detached from material form and cultural interpretation”. He continues, arguing that

“space is what place becomes when the unique gathering of things, meanings, and values are sucked out” (2000:466).

Places are more than demarcated areas of dirt and mud, open except for a few sections of trees or perhaps layered upon by slabs of cement and corporate logos.

41

Places consist of ever-changing and overlapping meanings, purposes, and identities, encompassing physical, virtual, and imagined spaces. Sociological considerations of place fall into five notable areas: 1) physical, virtual, and imagined spaces; 2) studies of communities and identities; 3) bodies as sites; 4) symbolic and social boundaries; and 5) rural and urban places.

The first considers the nature of places, physical or intangible, and people’s relationship to them. The Internet, for example, provides incorporeal meeting places for groups of people with normative, non-normative, and stigmatized interests.

Moreover, imagined places can play a role in identity formation of people with non- normative identities who do not have access to others like them within close physical proximity. These imagined places are different than virtual places because they involve a person believing that a physical place exists where they can go in the future to meet like-minded others and be accepted. Imagined communities can hold particular importance for sexual minorities. Whether physical, virtual, or imagined, all of these places are real and legitimate sociological sites of inquiry in the sense that their existence impacts individual and group interactions, choices, and life courses.

Studies into the American cultural imaginary of cities versus smaller towns, as well as the construction of suburban identities and rural commuter towns have been a significant part of social scientific investigation into the social roles of places.14

Hummon (1990) demonstrates that collective imaginaries of places impact their construction and future, as well as the senses of community possible within them.

Hummon suggests that beliefs about community are “fundamentally interpretive”

14 See Bell (1994) and Gans (1968). 42

rather than “a simple ‘reflection’ of reality” (P. 9). Moreover, scholars (particularly in geography) argue that social construction of space and place – their continuous formations and reformations — are intimately and dialectally connected with power relations, various identities, and sexualities that are formed by, lay claim to, and alter them (Bell et al 1995; Knopp 2004; Knopp and Brown 2003). Additionally, they have challenged perceptions of identity development as a fixed and consistent process, highlighting the way that identities vary by context and social locations (Green 2008).15

In general, they demonstrate the utility of considering the construction of ever-changing and heterogeneous identities (Epstein 1987; Valentine 2007).

Brown-Saracino (2015) contributes to this literature through her consideration of how and why lesbian, bisexual, and queer identities varied substantially across what she had identified as similar cities, with common place-based attributes. Following existing literature regarding identity attributes, she expected to find relatively similar identities and communities.16 To explain the variance in identities and community orientations she found, she focuses on place “elements” in order to highlight the “interactive nature and effect of groups of elements, rather than isolated individualized variables” (P. 4).

15 For example, scholars consider how differences between rural, suburban, and urban locales (Brekus 2003; Carr and Kefalas 2010; Gray 2009a; Haynes 2001; Hummon 1990; Kazyak 2011), region and religion (Barton 2012), national origin and immigration status (Carrillo 2002); class (Kennedy and Davis 1993), employment (Connell 2012, 2014), gender (Strano 2010; Kazyak 2012), race (Laumann et al. 2004; Moore 2011) and generation (Whittier 1995; Stein 1997) impact identity and community development. 16 When determining her four small cities for comparison, she followed Cooke and Rapino (2007)’s findings that lesbian migration is oriented toward small cities with multiple “natural amenities” McGranahan (1999). Her four “like sites” share attributes such as higher education institution, nearby regionally recognized “leftist” political orientation, and relatively close distances to a larger city (accessible within a two to four hour drive). 43

Additionally, reframing Hennen (2008)’s idea of sexual culture (focused mainly around sexual activity), she argues the utility of studying sexual identity cultures.17

Importantly, sexual identity cultures are “locally produced, rather than…emerging from broad subcultures or communities that span place” and impact “orientations to self- and group understanding” (P. 2).

Shifting sociological attention toward sexual identity cultures will begin to address questions about “how people in ostensibly similar structural positions can employ and produce competing narratives that guide their actions and self understandings”

(Moon 2012:1340). Importantly, following Rubin (1984) and Brubaker and Cooper

(2000), this conceptualizes identity as including a place-based feedback loop (both creating and being created by) a specific place’s culture. It also moves away from individualized understandings of identity.

Considering identities and identity politics (Bernstein 1997, 2005) as configured on regional as well at local levels allows a much clearer understanding of their place- specific variations, as well as the particular impact that local variance in narratives and

“place character” 18 have on activism. 19 It also enables macro- and micro-level examinations of similarities among, as well as variance within and across, multiple types

17 She argues studies of sexual identity culture promote a “sociology of difference” following the Chicago School. See Abbott (1997) for a discussion of the contemporary relevance of the Chicago School’s approach and how identities are configured in “particular social times and places” (P. 1142). 18 Paulsen (2004) describes “place character” as a “particular combination of geography, history, economy, demography, politics, organizations, culture, and aesthetics” (P. 245). 19 See Guenther (2010) and Reger (2012). Also, Moon (2012) analyzes four distinct narratives of identity politics among Jewish Americans, which she are analogous to contemporary trends in LGBT identity politics. This approach has also been utilized to address further narrowed foci, such as how immigrants develop and orient to their new neighborhoods (Hinze 2013; Kasintiz et al. 2009); how progress toward racial equality in urban neighborhoods is stalling (Sharkey 2013); and how a “people of color” identity was formed within the movement in the Southwestern United States (Pulido 1996). See also Lacy (2007) and Robinson (2014). 44

of locales (e.g. between rural and urban areas, across cities, etc.). This flexibility allows for a multitude of research questions and foci, as well as the ability to continue to address metrocentric and binary assumptions about places and the people who live in them.

Particularly of interest to my own research, Brown-Saracino provides a clear model for considering differences in narratives – regionally, and importantly, within region – as well as operationalizes sexual identity culture as a meaningful variable for analysis. Building on current themes within sexuality literature, Brown-Saracino (2015) measures sexual identity culture by:

informants’ articulation of a set of dispositions regarding, first and foremost, (a), self-identity or description, but also including (b) coming out, (c) integration with heterosexuals, and (d) extant modes of framing sexual identity and difference, such as the dominant agendas of contemporary, national GLBQ organizations (e.g. legal recognition of gay marriage) or current trends in queer theory (P. 13).

As place-based elements and dominant regional norms draw people toward and push them away from integration with local heterosexuals, her model provides an important analysis of possible reasons for these distinctions, as well as associated consequences.

Specifically, demonstrating the complexity of place-based identity formation, she found that various elements contribute to stronger identity politics or integrationist orientations. 20 Furthermore, she maps why and how regional and within-region differences in identity orientations influence both involvement in and the success of local identity-based movements and organizations.

Bodies are also important places; they are sites of desire and pain, which are both

“relational(ly) (re)produced” (Browne 2006a, 2006b) and “have a materiality, ‘a

20 See Brown-Saracino (2011) for a robust discussion of this. 45

thingness’ … that is always constituted through discourse” (Bell et al 2001:viii; Butler

1993). Bodies can be considered sociological sites, simultaneously public and private landscapes, through an extension of Gray’s (2009a) conception of boundary publics:

“iterative, ephemeral experiences… moments in which we glimpse a complex web of relations that is always playing out the politics of negotiations of identity” (P. 92-93).

Considerations of bodies as sociological sites of interest have recently increased. This work demonstrates that symbolic boundaries (conceptual distinctions within a culture about different groups of people, practices, objects, etc.) play an integral role in constructing social boundaries (material and non-material inequalities in access to opportunities and resources).

Symbolic boundaries, through cultural markers (such as those related to class and race), are used to frame and re- frame, as well as enforce and normalize social boundaries (Lamont and Molnar 2002). The ways that these boundaries are maintained and the mechanisms by which they are promoted or resisted are important empirical questions, which sociology is well situated to begin addressing. Rosenfeld

(2009) provides a great example, advancing an important contribution to current theorizing about gender performance by suggesting that, for some gays and lesbians, living in a heteronormative society not only includes being confronted by anti-homosexual bias, but also provides resources for succeeding in a predominantly heterosexual society. Importantly, Rosenfeld demonstrates the value of interrogating the mechanisms by which individuals maneuver society, not simply the social and symbolic boundaries they are within and up against; however, she does not

46

satisfactorily explore how someone’s spatial and temporal location influences their ability to be strategic.21

The politics of visibility are also a distinct component of the imagined and physical boundaries between rural and urban places. Recent social scientific descriptions of sexual identities and communities have done a good job at situating themselves in a place – however, until recently, an urban and coastal place. Scholars such as Abraham (2009), Bailey (1999), Castells (1983), and Laumann et al (2000) have examined the role of urban life in organizing sexuality (and vice versa): from the construction and regulation of friendship; dating and sex networks; to notions of morality and religiosity, safety, and pride.

These scholars and others have also considered the important roles that gender and racial differences, as well as disparate flows of and access to economic capital, have on various communities and political claims making. Micro-analyses of gay and lesbian home life (Carrington 1999), places of worship (Shokeid 1995), commitment ceremonies (Hull 2006), and popular gay and lesbian locales (Boyd 2003) have provided a much-needed presentation of both the diversity and continuity of gay and lesbian life. Browne (2007) examines how everyday space is heterosexualized; Taylor

(2006, 2009) examines the ways in which working class lesbians are made unwelcome within certain (middle- and upper-class) spaces; and Skeggs (1999), Browne (2006a),

21 Activists have challenged social and physical boundaries, including attempting to subvert marriage laws through innovative use of space and technology. Chuck (2010) describes how a pilot temporarily diverted into Canadian air space (where gay marriage was legal) in order to officiate the ceremony. CNN Wire Staff (2010) describes how a Texan couple’s “e-marriage” was officiated by a Reverend in Washington D.C., where gay marriage was legal at the time. These examples demonstrate both the fragility and flexibility of boundaries and the value of considering the interplay between social, symbolic, and physical boundaries. 4 7

and Casey (2004) demonstrate how heterosexual women shift power dynamics when they co-opt and “de-” lesbian/gay spaces.

Assumptions Regarding Rural Places and Myths about Rural LGBT People

Scholarship in the social sciences and humanities often focuses on either rural or urban places, or “in between” places like suburbia. Despite their attempts to develop multi-faceted and contingent theories by deconstructing binaries and breaking through assumptions about gender and sexuality, theorizations of masculinities and femininities, as well as LGBT movements, are either seemingly placeless or are decidedly urban-based. Four assumptions appear to drive this metro-centered research: 1) rural places are undesirable/undesired and people only live in rural areas when they cannot leave; 2) rural places currently only have significant push factors, and as such, people do not often move to rural areas; 3) rural areas have not been an important site of social change since the industrial revolution; and 4) rural areas are racially, culturally, and ideologically homogenous and prohibit/inhibit diversity while metropolitan areas are diverse in both types of people and ideas. The current sociological focus on urbanization is to our theoretical detriment; addressing these assumptions is critical for strengthening future research agendas.

Contrary to assumptions one, two, and three, America’s rural areas, just like its cities, continue to change in terms of industry and economy, population, demographics, and culture. As of the 2010 Census, approximately 20 percent of

Americans live in rural areas (U.S. Census Bureau). Moreover, there has been a significant shift in American domestic migration patterns, “due entirely to an increase

48

in… the number of people moving from metro counties to nonmetro destinations minus those moving in the opposite direction” (Kusman 2007). The U.S. government suggests that this is due to changing lifestyle and job opportunities across the country

(Kusman 2007). Cities and rural areas are continuously shifting. Smith (2007:275) describes this shift:

[R]ural places have witnessed unprecedented reconfigurations of… local economies and cultures, service and retail provision, and rural politics (Woods, 2005). A key factor is the increasing tempo and extended scale of the spatial motilities and networks of contemporary societies (Marsden, 2006), in conjunction with the growing penchant for rural living (Halfacree, 2006).

Definitions of what constitutes “rural”, “small town”, “suburbia” and “urban” areas change depending on who is constructing them, whether they are social scientists, people residing in or imagining these places, or the government (Comerford et al

2004).22

The definitions in use vastly impact the picture given about broader U.S., as well as local, demographics. Cromartie and Bucholtz (2008) state, “the share of the U.S. population considered rural ranges from 17 to 49 percent depending on the definition used… exhibiting considerable variation in socioeconomic characteristics and well- being of the measured population.” Some scholars (Halfacree 1997; Murdoch 2006;

Panelli 2006) argue that rural geographies need to be considered in more diverse and less homogenous terms. Murdoch and Pratt (1997) and Cloke (2006:21) suggest that scholars use the term “post-rural” studies, which “involve(s) social constructions of

22 These definitions usually include considerations of population density (Ginsberg 1993), economic factors, inhabitants’ attitudes/values, the strength of norms, and the ability to wield social sanctions within the community. 49

rurality, and draws on more postmodern and poststructural ways of thinking, especially about the role of culture in socio-spatial distinctiveness”. Smith (2007:277) argues,

“The epistemological undercurrent of the post-rural” which specifically utilizes in- depth qualitative place-specific case studies “has, without doubt, yielded a consolidated knowledge of formerly neglected and hidden ‘other’ populations, and [demonstrated] the fluid and shifting sociocultural constructions of rurality at the micro level (e.g.

Milbourne, 1997)”.

Smith posits that “a compelling understanding of the minutiae of rural sub- populations and marginal social groups… has spiraled, [providing] groundbreaking insights into the interconnected dynamics of power, identity, community, exclusion and so on (e.g. Cloke et al., 2002; Little, 2002)”. The notable rural scholarship contradicts assumption two (the that social change does not currently occur in rural areas).

Halfacree (2007:125) comments on this:

Throughout much of the global North today, challenging and critical questions are being asked with respect to how the “rural” parts of these countries are developing and, perhaps still more importantly, should or could be developing. This reflects a strong feeling that rural change, although something that has of course always been with us, has intensified in terms of both pace and persistence, and that this change is also seen as being increasingly total and interconnected (Woods, 2005).

Sherman (2009) demonstrates the theoretical and empirical potential of studying social change in contemporary rural America, interrogating how the economically- driven downturn in rural Golden Valley, California intersects with discourses of morality, individualism, whiteness, and masculinity. Sherman demonstrates the

50

fruitfulness of researching shifts in family life, identities, and the forces pushing and pulling people from, to, and in rural areas.

Halfacree (2007) argues that rural spaces contain a “potentially radical ‘message’” and suggests that studies of the rural can be divided into three, often overlapping, segments: 1) “rural localities”, which are “inscribed through relatively distinctive spatial practices, linked to production and/or consumption activities”; 2) “formal representations of the rural… such as those expressed by capitalist interests, cultural arbiters, planners or politicians”; and 3) the “everyday lives of the rural”, which are

“inevitably subjective and diverse, and with varying levels of coherence/fracture. They both take in and, to a greater or lesser extent, subvert the other categories” (Halfacree

2007:137). There is not a consistent definition of rurality. However, sexuality scholars have noted one commonality – the urban and rural are consistently constructed in academic (as well as average American) imaginations as singular entities despite geographic and cultural differences, as well as distinctions in cultural imaginaries of the “North” and the “South”.

Scholars have argued that the rural is constructed on a rural/urban binary23, with the rural constructed against the urban’s cosmopolitanism and fast-paced lifestyle, contradictorily signifying both a place of tranquil solitude and idyllic, community- oriented simplicity and a place that moves backward or remains stagnant culturally - full of poverty, oppression, and ignorance (Herring 2010; Knopp 2007; Stein 2001).

The disdain for non-metropolitan areas in the American metropolitan cultural

23 Some scholars have attempted to divert the restraints of binary systems by suggesting that the rural and urban exist on a continuum. For an interesting discussion of the origins and critiques of this concept, as well as considerations of possible future utility, see Halfacree (2009). 51

imaginary is notable, as demonstrated by this list of terms used to describe rural areas and the people in them:

country, country bumpkin, rube, hayseed, Hoosier, hillbilly, clay eater, redneck, yokel, yooper, hick, Hicksville, backwater, boondocks, trailer trash, the middle of nowhere, the midwaste, flyover country, the sticks, the backwoods, the hinterlands, the outskirts, Sticksville, Shitsville, shitkicker, jerkwater, Podunk, Bumfuck, East Bumfuck, East Bumblefuck, East Butt-Fuck, BFE, Butt-Fuck Egypt (Herring 2010:1).

Conceptualizations of the non-metropolitan are often infused with racial (often regarding whiteness, e.g. redneck), class-based (e.g. clay eater), and sexual (e.g. variations of butt-fuck) metaphors. Moreover, through words and phrases denoting landscape characteristics (e.g. middle of nowhere), descriptions of living and employment arrangements (e.g. shitkicker), and the abundance of garbage metaphors, the rural is imagined as worthless and inferior to non-rural areas (e.g. midwaste). The metropolitan imaginary of the lack of diversity in rural areas is key component of assumption four, that “rural areas are racially, culturally, and ideologically homogenous and prohibit/inhibit diversity while metropolitan areas are diverse in both types of people and ideas”.

I am particularly interested in what I consider sub-myths about rural queerness and queer people within this assumption. These sub-myths are prevalent in some capacity in much of the literature on gender and sexuality, either through inattention to issues of queer rurality or blanket statements about rural queer lives. As I see them, these sub-myths are 1) rural LGBT people do not exist; 2) Rural LGBT people are not visible in or supported by their community; 3) Rural LGBT people want to (and do, if they have the means) move to urban areas in order to find people like them, inducing

52

self-worth, community, and acceptance; 4) Rural LGBT populations do not have any structure or network (i.e. community organizations); and 5) Rural LGBT people have the same desires, interests, and needs as their urban counterparts.

A handful of studies of LGBT people in rural areas over the past few decades have been challenging these sub-myths and notions of monolithic rurality, as well as demonstrating that we do not know that much about non-urban areas at all. Studies into sexuality in rural areas, for example, have shown significant differences between moral discourses surrounding and support for homosexuality (Stein 2001), opportunities for and the shape of political organizing (Gray 2009a), and reasons why LGBT people stay and leave. Queer rural to urban migration was once considered the norm, due to conceptualizations of the rural as an unquestionably hostile environment and what

Herring (2010) terms the myth of “compulsory metronormativity”24 that was heavily promoted by the gay and lesbian movement. However, studies are beginning to show that this is (and was) not the full story.

Rural queer scholars have explored the available social support systems for gays and lesbians (D’Augelli, Collins, and Hart 1987; Leedy and Connolly 2007;

Phillips et al 2000) and the social exclusion of certain types of people in rural areas

(Shucksmith 2004). Additionally, scholars have considered the use of media in creating a space for dialogue around homosexuality (Tiemann 2006), as well as the way it fosters identity construction (Gray 2009a) and shapes understandings of gender

(Kazyak 2011). A particularly notable body of work is being amassed documenting gay

24 This appears to be an extension of ’s (1980) theory of compulsory heterosexuality. 53

and lesbian (but mostly gay) lives, identities, and communities in the southern U.S.

(Howard 1997, 1999; Johnson 2008; Whitlock 2009).

Much research still needs to be done regarding the push and pull factors of lesbian and gay migration to and between metropolitan and non-metropolitan areas.

However, scholars have recently started to document the joys and struggles of going to and/or living in these “neglected geographies” (Phillips 2004:25), such as for lesbian separatists who are part of the land-dyke movement (Anahita 2009), aging lesbians

(Comerford et al 2004), and (Hennen 2008; Morgensen 2008). Some work along this vein has also made connections between “counter-urban” movements and the various reasons cited by gays and lesbians for setting up households in rural areas.25

Recently, researchers have begun making connections among and distinctions between rural queer social movements and urban queer ones. Herring (2010) provides some fascinating glimpses into the ways in which rural-based gays and lesbians impacted the larger LGBT movement, forming their own counter-urban networks and magazines in the 1970s, such as Country Women and RFD26 as a response to the urban gay social life (e.g. bath houses and circuit parties) and urban- based magazines such as the Advocate, which claimed to speak for gays and lesbians

25 Bell (2001) posits, “The rural may offer the best site to escape the patriarchal and heteronormative strictures embodied in the urban fabric; add to this contemporary spiritual and ecological trends in some quarters of queer culture… the country[side] begins to exert a powerful pull on some people” (P. 99). 26 RFD was started by a small group of rural gay men. The title derives from the phrase "Rural Free Delivery," although many now think that it stands for "Radical Faerie Digest,” a signifier of its co- optation by the group. See Herring (2010) for an extensive discussion of the transformation of RFD from a magazine by and for rural gay men to a magazine for (mostly) urban gay men interested in idealizing rural living. 54

nationwide but did not represent their interests or concerns. Through analysis of the changes in the stylistics and the content of these magazines from the 1970s on, Herring documents the ways that these magazines posed a challenge to understandings of national LGBT lives and identities, but also some unfortunate ways in which urban gay men colonize and (re)create urban/rural hierarchies in rural areas. This body of research also tentatively considers the ways in which rural bodies and aesthetics, as well as material and virtual space have become places of consumption for middle- and upper- class urbanities.27

The narrative of queer rural lives as closeted, lonely, and inauthentic is so pervasive that heterosexuals and homosexuals have both come to expect these stories and are concerned/surprised when life histories do not follow this path (Weston 1994;

1996; 1998). Moreover, this narrative narrows our understanding of identity, visibility, and sexuality in the U.S. and beyond. Recent scholarship has begun to demonstrate that the meanings of and desires for LGBT visibility, as well as the possibilities to achieve it and the strategies employed to do so, vary across time and place. The metronormative sub-myths about rural queerness and the single track of the closet model have important implications for the politics of visibility and must be considered within contemporary scholarship on sexuality.

27 Hennen (2008) and Moregenson (2008) also document the ways that urban gay men view the rural as a luxurious, temporary site of consumption and recreation – a brief reprieve from the mundane tasks of metro-life. 55

Minnesota’s Importance in LGBT History28

Often overlooked when considering the histories of LGBT civil rights in the country, Minnesota has significantly contributed to laws related to gender, sexuality, and sexual orientation. The harsh weather and heavily wooded land inspired a productive logging and fur as well as a culture of hard labor, community support, and resilience. These conditions contributed to Minnesota’s significant history of tolerance

(considering the time periods) toward varying gender expression.29

In the early 1960s, Minnesotan LGBT neighborhoods began to form around community centers, coffee houses, bars, and bookstores.30 The formation of these neighborhoods was documented through organizational records, life histories and memoirs, as well as police and other state departments, who monitored LGBT neighborhood growth. While Minnesota certainly has instances of and discrimination, police raids on bars and other meeting places were less frequent than in coastal cities.

Minnesota has fostered many important LGBT civil rights figures, including:

Thom Higgins who infamously mashed a pie into anti-gay activist ’s face

28 A version of this section was previously published in the edited volume Stewart, Chuck (ed.). 2014. Proud Heritage: People, Issues, and Documents of the LGBT Experience. Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO and has been reproduced with permission from the publisher. 29 For example, records of Lucy “Joseph/La Roi” Lobdell document how she traveled from upstate New York to Meeker County, Minnesota in 1856, living and working as a man in order to obtain better wages and treatment than were given to women during the time period. While she was eventually discovered to be a woman and deemed a criminal for it, writings indicate Minnesota may have been more open to her cross-dressing than New York was at the time. During the same time period, the demanding and isolated working conditions also led to the state encouraging the early loggers to find and foster male companionship to increase the long-term logger retention rate. The loggers sometimes entertained each other by dressing in female attire, which reportedly contributed to the inspiration for the British comedy group Monty Python’s skit about lumber jacks cross-dressing (Murphy et. al. 2010). 30 The first lesbian/feminist bookstore in the nation was in Minneapolis. The Amazon Bookstore Cooperative operated from 1972 to 2012. 56

during a 1977 press conference in Iowa; Steve Andean, a University of Minnesota graduate, who founded the influential Campaign (HRC) in 1980; and

Allan Spear who became the first openly LGBT person to serve in a state senate when he came out in 1974. Additionally, Julie Clark, elected to the Minnesota House of

Representatives in 1981, holds the record as the longest serving openly lesbian member in a state legislature in the United States.

Minnesota also has been the birthplace of many important “firsts” for LGBT people as well as some laws only a step behind the most progressive cities in the country.

Notably, in 1974, the St. Paul City Council approved an amendment to the St. Paul

Human Rights Law that prohibited discrimination in employment, education, housing, and public accommodations on the basis of “affectional or sexual preference.” This law created significant debate within the community and mapped onto debates being held nationwide.

Neighboring Minneapolis was having similar discussions and influential anti-gay community leaders were fighting the advancement of gay rights. In 1975, Minneapolis approved the first-known statute prohibiting discrimination against transgender people, amending the legal definition of, “affectional preference,” to include the phrase, “having or projecting a self-image not associated with one’s biological maleness or one’s biological femaleness.” St. Paul followed suit and adopted comparable protection for lesbian and gay people, as well as trans-inclusive language, in a 1990 amendment

(Chaudhuri, 2008; Bronson, undated).

A precedent-setting case that took almost a decade to resolve began in St. Cloud,

Minnesota following a tragic accident with a drunk driver in 1983, which left Sharon 57

Kowalski mentally and physically challenged. Sharon’s family denied Karen Thompson, her partner, guardianship or visitation rights. An important Minnesota Court of Appeals case that drew national attention was In Re Guardianship of Kowalski. In 1991, the resolution provided Thompson guardianship rights and was heralded as a significant

LGBT rights victory.

Eighteen years after his first introduction of a similar bill, Republican Governor

Arne Carlson signed the 1993 Minnesota Human Rights Act. This groundbreaking law was one of the most comprehensive non-discrimination laws nationwide at the time, in part, because it was the first law nationwide to explicitly protect transgender people in employment, housing, education, and public accommodations. The law also strengthened

Minnesotan laws regarding attacks against transgender people.

Minnesota has also had notable legal and cultural milestones in educational and health care arenas. Established before the Stonewall riots in 1969, the group Fight

Repression of Erotic Expression (FREE) was founded at the University of Minnesota.

FREE was the first campus organization established by and for gay students in the

Midwest and the second nationwide, shortly behind Columbia University who established their organization in 1968. The Minnesota Daily documented the organization’s establishment, with an article entitled “Free U starts 'homosexual revolution.’” The article was one of the first published accounts of the gay liberation movement in Minnesota. In

February 1970, FREE successfully organized the first documented gay rights protest in the state. In 1971, despite an extremely unpleasant campaign, Brandon Baker (then

President of FREE) was elected to be the first out gay student body president of a major

University in the United States. 58

The contemporary same-sex marriage debate also has its roots in Minnesota.

Activists Brandon Baker and Michael McConnell attracted national attention in 1972 when they applied for a marriage license in Minneapolis. After Baker, a U.S. Air Force veteran, was fired from the Air Force for being gay, the couple relocated to Minneapolis.

McConnell worked at the University of Minnesota while Baker studied law. Until 1973, no laws explicitly banned marriages based on same gender or sex. When Baker and

McConnell sued the Hennepin County District in order to obtain the license when the district clerk refused to provide one, a trial court dismissed the claim.

They appealed the decision and the Minnesota Supreme Court issued a brief – but landmark – opinion in 1971, upholding the initial decision to dismiss the case. The opinion stated: “The institution of marriage as a union of man and woman, uniquely involving the procreation or rearing of children within a family, is as old as the book of

Genesis.” The Minnesota Civil Liberties Union filed an appeal in the U.S. Supreme

Court and the case was unanimously dismissed in 1972. The U.S. Supreme Court issued a one-sentence decision stating they are dismissing the case “for want of a substantial federal question.”

As with the provisions offering protection to transgender people, same-sex marriage was contentious both inside and outside of LGBT communities. Many, including Minnesota’s influential pro-gay activist, legislator, and University of

Minnesota Professor, Allan Spear, considered advocates for same-sex marriage rights

“lunatic fringe” activists, feeling strongly that other protections were more important to secure. Nationwide, many early gay activists personally and politically objected to same- sex marriage activism; they were more interested in obtaining sexual freedom and 59

liberation than fighting for the right to be monogamous and have relationships officially and legally recognized. I demonstrate this lack of homogeneity within community goals and values in my research, as well.

In early August 1971, in an effort to obtain state recognition of their relationship,

McConnell legally adopted Baker in a Hennepin County court. Judge Lindsay Arthur said, “regardless of popular conception, adoption is not limited to children.” The Judge also approved Baker’s request to change his name legally to Pat Lynn McConnell although he continued to use the name Brandon Baker in public. Later that month, with dogged determinism, Baker and McConnell applied for a marriage license with the

District Court in Mankato, in Blue Earth County. Baker used his new legal name on the license application.

Baker and McConnell were granted the license and Rev. Roger Lynn, a Methodist minister, sanctified the marriage in a traditional ceremony on September 3, 1971. Their little-discussed marriage made Minnesota the first lawful same-sex marriage in the

United States. A Hennepin County Attorney argued the license was invalid because it did not meet the state’s requirement that marriage licenses be issued in the bride’s county of residence but, when a grand jury considered the case, they, “found the question not worth pursuing.” There was never an explicit invalidation by a judicial body therefore retaining the legality of the marriage.

In June 1972, Spear and Baker also helped shape and lobby for the Gay Rights

Caucus at the State Convention of the Minnesota Democratic–Farmer–Labor (DFL)

Party. That year, the proposed platform included repealing laws and pushing for legislation “defining marriage as a civil contract between any two adults.” This was 60

another nationwide “first” by Minnesota, as it was the first time a primary political party in the United States demonstrated support for marriage equality. Minnesota continued the decades-long debate regarding same-sex marriage in the state. In 1999, Minneapolis created a domestic partners registration ordinance with other Minnesotan cities following suit. While important, legislation provided limited legal rights and did not provide any federal recognition or rights. Tensions surrounding same-sex marriage were heightened nationwide. As in other states, unsuccessful attempts to legalize it were proposed in Minnesota. There were also blocked attempts at constitutional amendments barring same-sex marriage within the state, as well as recognition of same-sex marriages from other states.

In 2011, grassroots campaigns all over Minnesota were activated on both sides when a constitutional amendment limiting marriage to “one man and one woman” (thus banning same-sex marriage) was introduced. Much like their efforts against LGBT advancement in 1975, the Minnesota Catholic Conference’s top political priority was ensuring the passage of the amendment.31 Despite this, many Catholics (as well as people of other religions) were critical in the success of Minnesota’s pro-LGBT legislation.

Following months of heated debate, the amendment was narrowly defeated by a

51-47 percent vote in November 2012 (Aslanian 2012). This was the first time that an amendment of this nature was defeated, garnering both local and national attention.

31 In 2010, the Archdiocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis produced a DVD, which called same-sex marriage “an untested social experiment.” The Church distributed the DVD to registered Catholic voters statewide. Protesters returned thousands of the DVDs to the Church (Peoples 2013). In 2011, Archbishop John Nienstedt led the Catholic Church in spending approximately a million dollars supporting the ballot measure banning gay marriage. 61

LGBT activists recognized the opportunity to use the momentum gained by the debates over the amendment, as well as the democratic majority in the state legislature and

Democratic Governor supporting same-sex marriage. Less than a year later, on May 13,

2013, Minnesota’s legislature successfully legalized same-sex marriage, becoming the

12th state to do so. Governor Mark Dayton signed it into law.

Minnesota continues to be a thriving location for LGBT people and activism. In

2006, Minneapolis had the fourth-highest percentage of gay, lesbian, or bisexual people in the adult population, after San Francisco, Seattle, and , respectively. Census data from 2010 shows that Minneapolis ranked fourth in percentage of same-sex couples per 1,000 households in large cities, after San Francisco, CA, Seattle, WA, and Oakland,

CA, respectively. St. Paul ranked nineteenth in the ranking (Murphy et al. 2010). In

2011, Minneapolis was named the “gayest city in America” by The Advocate (Albo

2010), but, in 2012, it dropped down to seventh (Breen 2012). While the magazine’s ranking systems are not scientific, it does provide testimony to Minnesota’s significant

LGBT historical and contemporary culture. While similar figures are not available for rural areas, my research demonstrates that many much smaller towns in Minnesota also have a significant LGBT population as well as active LGBT community organizations and events.

In this dissertation, I demonstrate how regional norms and narratives (both positive and restrictive) impact LGBT Rangers’ understandings of self, as well as collective LGBT identities and communities in specific ways that, in turn, construct regionally-specific sociocultural modes of strategically navigating their lives, relational power dynamics, and affiliations with others. In the following chapters, I discuss my 62

study methodology (Chapter 2); importance of protective and restricting regional norms and narratives on local LGBT identities and communities, as well as resistance to urban migration (Chapter 3); competing sexual identity cultures on the East and West Range and their consequences for identity development, integration with heterosexuals, and visibility politics (Chapter 4); how regionally-specific notions of femininity and masculinity provided blurred boundaries around gender, and therefore allow butch women strategic latitude in with which to construct their (gender) identities and live their lives (Chapter 5); the complexity of heterosexual ally identities, roles within local LGBT movements, and motives for involvement, as well as how they both reject and uphold anti-LGBT regional norms (Chapter 6); the different faces of LGBT community-building on the Iron Range, including organizational tensions and strategies of negotiating the region’s competing sexual identity cultures and desires regarding visibility (Chapter 7); and the provocative, often contentious actions and discussions that occurred during my research leading up to the marriage amendment, including the important and varied contributions by heterosexual allies (Chapter 8). Chapter 9 concludes my dissertation with a discussion of the future implications of my research.

63

2: METHODOLOGY

During the journey from Minneapolis to the Iron Range, the city lights fade quickly into the distance and the four lane highway limits itself to two lanes sooner than you would imagine. Without the distraction of the city glow, the stars are much brighter and there is a lot more of a lot of things – a lot more trees, a lot more shadows, and some people there suggest, a lot more stories. LGBT locals candidly refer to Highway 169, one of the main roads stretching across the Iron Range from Bemidji to Virginia, as the

“rainbow corridor”. Inquiring into how the route earned its moniker, I was told that local

LGBT community members refer it to in this way because, “like the rainbow, there are gay people of various shades [of queer] along the corridor.” Many LGBT events on the

Iron Range happen along that stretch of road, which is another reason it was given this nickname.

As I continued my research, the road’s appellation rang true; I found myself driving back and forth on this road frequently, meeting people and attending events. The mere existence of a “rainbow corridor” suggests that the communities of people and events were significant enough to warrant titling, as well as continuous and consistent reference. Years later, as I drove down Highway 169 for one of the last times, I reflected on the culmination of my project and was struck by how “on point” the reference to variance was.

Minnesota’s Iron Range is notable for many reasons. In addition to the scenery, these include the area’s strong Scandinavian cultural influences, relatively large Native

American population (due to the presence of reservations), geographical remoteness, and historically important extractive economy of both mining and logging. The population of 64

towns on the Iron Range varies from below 200 people to approximately 16,000 people, including neighboring farms and deeply rural homes. The Iron Range is frequently divided both on state maps and in participant discourse as the culturally distinct “East

Range” and “West Range” (designated in orange and purple respectively in Figure 1 below). Mining towns, such as Eveleth, Hibbing, and Virginia, make up the East of the

Range, and historically logging towns, such as Grand Rapids, make up the West Range.

The Southwest tip of the Range is roughly three hours and the Northeast tip is approximately five hours North of the Twin Cities (Minneapolis-St. Paul).

Fig 1. Map of the Iron Range (Minnesota Alliance for Geographic Education)

The Iron Range has characteristics similar to many rural areas. It has a large amount of open land full of plants and wildlife and its cities and towns have limited 65

economic development and small populations relative to metropolitan areas. As forests and lakes are abundant on the Iron Range, hunting, fishing, canoeing, ice hockey, and other outdoor activities are popular. “The Range”, as those who live there affectionately

(and sometimes self-deprecatingly) call it, is an interesting mix of both socially conservative and blue-collar values, due to the heavy influence of unions and local mining, logging, and factory cultures.

While there are clear, broader social norms across the Iron Range, there are also notable distinctions between neighboring towns and communities. As you drive across the Iron Range, along with a slight change of accents, you find a distinct change in how regional borders are defined, as well as the social-cultural characteristics and attitudes that govern these smaller communities. Next to the winding roads, the earth near

Hibbing, Virginia, and Eveleth is tinted the deep red color of rust. Never far from sight, the ore and mines provide a visual signifier, which helped create and continues to solidify a collective “Ranger” identity and culture.

The West side of the Range feels and sounds notably different. The dirt is browner and the houses appear newer, overall. Grand Rapids appears to have had a facelift within the last 20 years; it has brick-lined walkways in the center of town, a relatively new art gallery that hosts an “art walk”, and a large, bustling school with a well-cared for field and running track. Compared to the East Range, bars are set off of the main street, replaced by restaurants and a coffee shop. Sasha and Stephanie, two women of color in their late-20s to mid-30s, living in a “deeply rural”, tiny town near

Virginia, Minnesota, emphasize the importance of considering cultures within regions.

Sasha says she “describe(s) the Iron Range as a collection of very small, very isolated 66

towns, each with their own unique culture.” She highlights the significant cultural variance between towns despite close geographic proximity:

People say Grand Rapids is not the Iron Range. That's because [East Rangers] have determined that. They say, "Those are just Rapids people" but it really is part of the Range. And, for example, Eveleth and Virginia are just 4 miles apart and people from Eveleth have slightly different views of everything than people in Virginia. They are competitive about it. There are towns like that all over the Range. There are also distinct pockets of faith - people in this town are mostly Methodist and people in this town are more Catholic, etc.

It is notable that these discernable differences are identifiable between towns only a few miles away. There were important nuances in how narrators spoke about and identified various towns on the Iron Range. These micro-level distinctions provide opportunities for residents to establish variances in social status and have opportunities to live in locales that fit their political and religious beliefs, as well as desires for certain types of community and social interactions.

Participants provided many additional examples of within regional and micro- level differences. These relatively minor differences in location (i.e. East Range or West

Range); religion (i.e. Catholic, Lutheran, or Protestant); and settings of homes (e.g. living in town versus in the woods or on a lake) were very meaningful to residents. As one participant notes, these distinctions created a suburb-like atmosphere and clear social boundaries. While suburbs are normally considered in terms of towns (and sometimes small cities) with much larger populations, as well as distinct cultures and inhabitants encircling an even larger city, these subtle differences in culture also occur on a significantly smaller scale. Despite these micro-local differences, all of the towns on the

67

Iron Range have an “umbrella culture” that is “pretty Eurocentric, very white, and mostly

Christian” according to participants.

Both West Rangers and East Rangers often protested when I would say they were all Iron Rangers. For both groups, the “true” Iron Rangers were on the East Range regardless of where the geographical distinctions were drawn on maps. Because of this, those on the West Range appeared to adhere less strongly to regional norms and narratives regarding appropriate ways to discuss controversial subjects like sexuality.

Additionally, there appeared to be a much greater emphasis on the importance of being an Iron Ranger as well as an LGBT person for those on the East Range. This dual emphasis encouraged stronger adherence to regional norms, including understanding (and perhaps even encouraging) limited and very context-specific visibility from LGBT

Rangers. Comparatively, those on the West Range appeared much more likely to pressure others to be out and visible in the community, which was a clear rejection of norms prioritizing giving others privacy for things that are deemed their own business as well as ignoring discussions related to sexuality.

Mixed Method Approach

I am using the Iron Range as a case study through which to understand both the particularities of Iron Range LGBT lives and to draw broader connections to other

LGBT people, identities, and communities, as well as national movement agendas and discourses. Ethnographic fieldwork, participant observation, and semi-structured life history interviews allowed me to address my research questions and make critical connections among the “everyday lived experiences” of my narrators, as well as the

68

broader factors of rural LGBT lives. I selected a mixed method approach because I was interested in understanding what narrators thought and said, what others felt and said about them, as well as how they navigated their lives.

Preliminary Fieldwork

Since I began to explore this as a potential research topic, I spent time getting to know the Iron Range and LGBT Iron Rangers. I was warned by Iron Rangers, when I initially posed the idea to some of them, that I would be met with opposition and suspicion by many, and that it would take a long time (years, they said) to gain the trust and respect of the population. They argued that participants had a lot to lose and little to gain by sharing their lives with me. Because of this, and from the first few experiences I had on the Range, I knew that I needed to take this research project slowly but steadily.

Trust between the researcher and narrator(s) is a critical component of life history and ethnographic research, and over time, this intersubjective relationship can lead to unique and productive insights.

I started the preliminary and exploratory phase of my project in 2008 and completed final data collection in early 2013. While this may seem long compared to other ethnographic studies, which are usually conducted in a time span of a year or two, multiple factors contributed to this timing. The main factor was the slow process of obtaining access to Iron Range LGBT communities and people. I was correctly warned about needing to earn the trust of community members and I worked to establish this trust through consistent contact via email and phone, as well as appearing at as many important group/organizational events as I was able. The length of time I have spent “in

69

the field” doing preliminary analysis proved critical to gaining and maintaining access with these organizations and people.

I recruited participants through local advertising and involvement with local

LGBT organizations.31 Participants informed others about my study, but I did not utilize a “snowball sample” because I did not directly solicit potential additional participant information from those who participated. From November 2008 to April 2011, I conducted over a thousand hours of (IRB-approved) preliminary research supported by the generous Richard and Beverly Fink Fellowship. This fieldwork consisted of making/maintaining contacts with Iron Range LGBT organizations and those who responded to my initial advertisement. Through this multi-methodological approach, I was particularly well situated to study, analyze, and identify tensions that arose concerning the politics of visibility in identity and community construction.

Ethnographic Fieldwork and Participant Observation

My ethnographic fieldwork included spending time in participant homes, places of worship, and leisure. I looked at pictures that narrators shared of their lives, attended organizational meetings and events, and read coming out letters and journal entries regarding LGBT Ranger experiences. Additionally, I reviewed news stories and other media accounts about LGBT lives on the Iron Range, to which they directed me and/or that I found in the local newspapers. This enabled me to better understand how sexuality, gender, class, and activism intersect on the Iron Range. Participant observation gave me additional insight into their worldviews, experiences, and social locations,

31 For the most part, these initial participants were more political and activist-minded than the later participants who I met during events and meetings. 70

which I would not have accessed simply through general observation or interviews.

During my preliminary research, I became aware of two distinct and relatively recently formed LGBT organizations. These organizations were not “field sites” in a static or formal, comparative sense. Instead, they served as two evolving physical and virtual hubs – a means to access networks, events, participants, and discourses.

One organization is based out of the Hibbing/Virginia area and the other is located in the Grand Rapids/Bovey area. These two organizations are grassroots; they are completely volunteer-run and funded. They have neither clear, set meeting areas nor a static membership base due to both lack of consistent resources and concerns about visibility. These two organizations reach hundreds of members through mailing lists, events, and through virtual community construction. The two organizations have somewhat overlapping but mostly different membership bases. In my preliminary fieldwork, I spent a significant amount of time with the key organizers of both of these organizations, as well as attending general organizational meetings (both open and closed meetings).

During my second phase of research, these organizations allowed me full access to their board meetings and events. Both invited me to be an active participant in the organizations. Through this generosity, I was provided access to community members that would have been extremely difficult otherwise. Because they allowed me to see both the more polished as well as contentious conversations that happened within their groups,

I gained considerable insight into the basic concerns, goals, and interests of both individuals and organizations. I was also able to better understand their similar and distinct methods of identity and community-building, boundary-making, and social 71

activism. I was not interested in doing a full-scale organizational study. Instead, the two organizations served as another avenue to meet participants, become involved in critical discussions, and participate in organized events.

In total, I have spent thousands of hours in the field through numerous intensive multi-day visits as well as more concentrated visits that spanned multiple months at a time. I often drove hours to meet people even when living in the area and sometimes close to 5 hours when living in the Twin Cities. In addition, I shared frequent phone calls, emails, and text messages with over 45 contacts, ranging from age 18 to 79. Many participants were much more comfortable with the ethnographic and participant observation elements of my research. These participants chose not to take part in a recorded interview. I have incorporated my experiences with them throughout, but removed all identifying information, as they did not sign a consent form. Overall, I interacted with over 100 people in the Iron Range’s LGBT and ally communities.

The narrators in this study lived in multiple towns and cities across the Iron

Range, with populations ranging from approximately 200 to 16,000 people. Some of the narrators live in places that barely receive electricity and telephone service, while others live in more developed towns. They span multiple networks and communities. Many do not know each other at all or only know of each other’s existence, either by hearing about them through discussions with their friends or seeing them around town.

In the second phase of data collection, I also paid close attention to interactions between LGBT people and heterosexual allies, as well as the actions of heterosexual allies during events. I took detailed field notes (or notes to jog my memory when writing more detailed notes later) in a notebook. I also recorded notes through voice memos in 72

order to keep track of important details and quotes. Scholars often learn as much through glances, silences, and others’ responses to participants’ words and actions as through their own reflections. Moreover, researchers learn through examining their own reactions, whether positive or negative. As ethnographer Leslie Salzinger (2003) succinctly states,

“The use of the embodied, emotional, thoughtful self as a research ‘instrument’ is well suited to the enterprise of making connections between the purportedly public and private,

[and] between economics and gender” (P. 3). In my field notes, I also recorded my own thoughts and feelings, which was later included in my analysis.

Life History Interviews

Lastly, I conducted semi-structured, recorded life history interviews. They lasted approximately 1-2 hours on average; some lasted considerably longer. Instead of asking about discrete experiences or beliefs, life history interviews ask open-ended questions that focus on obtaining life stories often moving chronologically throughout a person’s lifetime. I asked questions related to the participants’ LGBT or ally identities, their connections to local and urban LGBT community organizations and networks, their thoughts about living on the Iron Range, etc. Based on their responses, I asked relevant follow-up questions. For many participants, these interviews were very conversational in style and we moved from topic to topic however seemed natural. (See Appendix A for complete interview schedule for both LGBT participants and heterosexual ally participants). Interviews for both phases of data collection were conducted at locations such as applicants’ homes, restaurants, the residence where I was staying, and sometimes my car. Some applicants preferred to meet at a restaurant near their home initially and

73

then drive to a more remote location in order to feel like they had increased privacy.

Occasionally, participants chose to have their interviews in small groups.

In the initial exploratory phase of my research, I collected 9 interviews with lesbians, aged 19-78. This preliminary research significantly impacted my knowledge of the region, credibility with contacts, and their willingness to participate in my project.

Based on my preliminary findings, I conducted additional interviews with lesbians/queer- identified women. Additionally, as it became clear that the lesbian communities on the

Iron Range were intimately connected with the non-heterosexual male and heterosexual ally communities, I expanded my participant pool to include key participants from these groups. I interviewed until I felt I reached reasonable saturation. In total, I conducted 30 formal interviews; the breakdown is below.

TABLE 1 Interview Participant Demographic Breakdown By Identity and Age

Participant Group West Range East Range Participants Participants

Identity

Lesbian/Queer-Identified Women 9 11

Gay/Queer-Identified Men 3 3

Heterosexual Allies (Men and Women) 4 0

Age

18-29 5 5

30-49 4 3

50-69 6 4

70-79 1 2 74

Through this method, researchers can better understand narrators’ current attitudes and behaviors, as well as the historical and context-specific factors that have shaped their lives. Researchers can also observe the choices narrators have made, as well as the connections between the different factors influencing their lives (Goodson and

Sikes 2001). Life histories often include more details about individual lives than can be acquired through surveys or a structured interview format, highlighting the dual roles of human agency and social structure in individual life paths.

I chose to do life history interviews because they emphasize participants’ biographies in establishing how living on the Iron Range has shaped their lives in terms of sexuality, class, activism, etc. Life histories enable claims to be made regarding specific social categories – in this case, Iron Range LGBT people and their heterosexual allies – to “reveal the operation of otherwise obscured transactions, social conventions, mythologies, [and] meanings” of the region (Maynes, Pierce, and Laslett 2009:129). Life histories are especially well situated to make claims concerning various aspects of culture, agency, and the subjectivities of diverse groups.32 This method is also useful in making claims concerning how participants perceive their social locations, statuses, relationships, and experiences.

Ethical Considerations

32 Over the past several decades, the use of life histories within the social sciences has been growing and for good reason. See Portelli (1991), Blee (1993), Duberman (1994), and Stacey (1998) for varied exemplary demonstrations of life history research. One of the most important aspects of life history methods is the destabilization of the researcher-subject power dynamic. Another critical component of the utility of life history and ethnographic methods is that they – arguably more than statistical analyses –acknowledge human idiosyncrasies, contradictions, and diversity while also demonstrating the various structures that inhibit and promote certain types of social interactions and choices when compared with others. See Maynes, Pierce, and Laslett (2009). 75

Throughout this project, I have been acutely aware of the ethical issues inherent in life history and ethnographic methods. I have discussed the potential forms of writing that this project might take, as well as the potential audiences of the writings, with my narrators at length.33 These discussions included the potential harm that could arise from being “outed” or providing “too much detail” about themselves and/or their communities.

The possible harm of life histories, whether intentional or unintentional, is amplified when the stories take place and the people live in small, close--‐knit communities. That my words can potentially cause harm is of extreme concern to me and I have taken multiple steps in attempt to reduce this harm.

First, I did not place undue pressure on narrators to share their stories or conceal my identity. During preliminary fieldwork, I resisted collecting life histories on more than a few occasions where I was concerned that the person may have felt coerced by peer pressure to participate. Throughout my research, I was pointedly transparent about my reasons for arriving in their social networks and towns when meeting new people, explaining my research project and leaving the door open for further discussion and/or involvement, if desired.

Second, I devised an intricate consent form (See Appendix B), which included the ability for narrators to choose whether they would like to use a pseudonym for their first

33 I view this project as collaboration between the narrators who chose to share their stories and me. I prefer the term “narrator” over “participant” and certainly over “subject” because it serves as a consistent reminder that the words and stories on these pages do not ultimately belong to me. While I have much to gain in terms of my status as a life history researcher, my narrators perhaps have something to gain but also potentially have much to lose. 76

and/or last names, as well as control other identifying information about themselves.34 If they desired to use one, I allowed the narrators the option to choose the names themselves. In my preliminary fieldwork, some narrators shared interesting stories about their reasons for choosing the names they did, which provided additional insights in their lives. Due to the probability of their identities being discovered, I discussed the option of obscuring specific location details. Many of the preliminary fieldwork participants greatly appreciated this option. Additionally, because of the overwhelmingly white racial makeup of the Iron Range, as well as the limited number of people for someone to potentially connect these stories to, I asked the participants if they want me to intentionally remove some details from the products of this research, such as racial identifiers and organizational connections.

Both the participants and I recognized that it is impossible to write about close- knit communities, especially one about LGBT organizations within small communities, without providing details that could potentially be linked to them in some way. Thus, in attempt to protect narrator anonymity, I removed or edited some information, such as participants’ professions, while remaining as true to their social and class positions as possible.35

34 As Couser (2004) asks, how do you write about someone’s life if doing so is potentially violating their privacy and causing them harm? Not many people, if any, live completely isolated lives, which means that life histories have the potential to harm not only the individual narrators, but also their families, friends, and communities through the information they present to the world about a person or group of people. Even the use of pseudonyms cannot provide full anonymity or completely reduce harm. 35 In the future, my goal is to turn this dissertation into a book that is more publically assessable. If and when that happens, I will provide participants increased control over the way their stories are presented, as sociological and critical analysis will not be the highlight of the text.

77

A Few Notes on the Data and My Analysis

Throughout the fieldwork process, I took “notes on notes” in order to explore analytic themes as they emerged (Kleinman 1993; Lofland & Lofland 1971). I transcribed my field notes and analyzed my interviews, partly using Atlas.ti software and partly through the traditional ethnographic analytical tool of organizing quotes and other data together on my living room floor, organically forming themes as I went. The topics found in this dissertation jumped out at me both during fieldwork and during this coding process. When I finished data collection, I reviewed my interview transcripts and notes to further expand my analysis.

I studied a small and marginalized population and did not aim for statistical generalization. However, my research questions and approach led to broader empirical knowledge about rural lgbtq cultures, as well as multiple generalizable theoretical abstractions that can be examined and expanded upon across other locations and cultures – specifically, my concepts of the glass closet and disidentified identity. In some ways, such as in Chapter 5, I am using these life stories in a method akin to

Burawoy’s (1998) extended case method, as I am using these stories as anomalous cases in an attempt to revise and expand current theories. For this dissertation, I have chosen to focus on clips from life history interviews and conversations that arose during fieldwork with specific narrators because their stories exemplify the phenomenon I am describing here. Also importantly, these narrators were the most articulate and reflexive on the larger patterns involved and so I was able to let the similarities and uniqueness of their stories speak for themselves, challenging contemporary theoretical assumptions about the complex nature of gender, space, and sexuality. While my research centers around 78

lesbians on the Iron Range, I also include robust discussions of non-heterosexual men’s and heterosexual allies’ lives.

There is a possible “selection effect” in my research. Just as research on LGBT lives and communities has imagined rural spaces as unwelcoming and hostile due to the experiences and thoughts shared by LGBT individuals who chose to leave them, my research is focused on those who chose to stay. Therefore, individuals who experienced particularly extreme forms of rejection and hate may not have stayed in the area or been willing to speak with me. Additionally, while I was able to build significant rapport in the community, there were a few people I encountered throughout my research who did not appreciate my project. One woman, towards the beginning of my project, was convinced that I was writing a lesbian “sexposé” and documenting Iron Ranger lives in order to “out” them. Due to the private nature of the community, I believe there are people who were uncomfortable with me asking questions and felt that I was overstepping appropriate social boundaries. As one Iron Ranger put it, some people felt that “If you don’t already know something, you probably shouldn’t know it.”

Documenting and analyzing examples of the strategic negotiations (Gray 2009a) and other ways that rural LGBT people are active social and cultural agents steering both their lives and communities is crucial to expand both academic and non-scholarly understandings of contemporary LGBT lives. Along with this, it is also imperative to similarly document and analyze the ways that rural LGBT people continue to feel constrained, alienated, and/or disenfranchised – as well as the structural and interpersonal reasons for these perspectives. Although this latter focus risks reifying

79

negative and incomplete images in popular imagination about non-metropolitan LGBT lives, it is important to continue to document these trends and concerns.

Sometimes, LGBT lives – regardless of social or physical location – include depressing realities that may appear less transformed that we may expect (or desire) in

2016. Through my research, I attempt to walk this line – addressing both the productive, agentic, and strategic elements as well as the restricting and limiting factors of Iron

Range LGBT lives. Ultimately, I aim to draw attention to some of the regional nuances and expand discussions related to rural LGBT lives rather than either romanticizing or glossing over the adverse elements of rural areas.

80

3: THE RANGE MENTALITY, PAPER PITCHFORKS, AND GLASS CLOSETS: PROTECTIVE AND RESTRICTIVE REGIONAL NORMS AND NARRATIVES

When I started my research, I expected to see and hear about clear and intentional displays of homophobia and based on previous research, as well as what I had heard about the Iron Range and rural areas in general. While there was some overt discrimination, most of the negative treatment was much more subtle, more nuanced. As these statements and acts could often be attributed to regional norms, they were harder to identify and easier for community members to dismiss or justify.

There are important distinctions between what Iron Rangers do and what they say, as well as what they imagine about each other. Moreover, as Iron Rangers do not live in a cultural vacuum, narratives about their urban counterparts as well as narratives about the

Iron Range from those counterparts provide essential insights into their cultural and social backdrop. Micro-local and regional cultural differences significantly impact the development of LGBT Range identities and communities. I found three important regional norms: 1) Iron Rangers are conflict avoidant, which many term “Minnesota

Nice” 2) Iron Rangers are strongly deferential to community, particularly religious, leaders regarding moral guidance and proper ways of behaving; and 3) Iron Rangers strongly value community and family ties.

Additionally, while I noted pervasive narratives espoused by both Rangers and non-Rangers about the Range being generally intolerant to difference and slow to change

(stuck in the “Range Mentality”), I found significant evidence that it is changing. These regional norms create an environment where: a) sensitive subjects (like sexuality) are often not discussed at all, but when they are discussed, it is in unique and specific ways 81

and b) competing narratives about LGBT Rangers being both out/welcome and underground/unsafe exist. While similar in some aspects to other rural areas and accounts of “living in the rural”, I highlight these regional norms due to their notable importance regarding the lived experiences of local LGBT people.

In this chapter, I discuss the influence of these place-based norms and narratives.

I demonstrate how newspapers are strategically utilized as sites for maintaining, as well as challenging, cultural boundaries. I examine how narratives about home, community, and the familiar provide protective and strategic options for Rangers. As part of this consideration, I suggest that some Rangers intentionally and successfully navigate homophobic and heterosexist expectations, pushing cultural boundaries within what I call the glass closet, formed by this particular combination of regional norms.

The combination of regional norms provided some Rangers with the ability to strategically navigate their lives as same-sex couples (or sleeping with others of the same sex). Specifically, cultural norms regarding strong personal boundaries, especially surrounding sex, heteronormativity, and desires to avoid conflict provided Rangers some opportunities to act on same-sex desires with limited social repercussions. While many individuals were out to some in their communities, there were a few social rules they had to follow in order to keep the protective “glass” barriers intact. These social expectations provided the closet’s framing and structure; the glass represents the fact that some same- sex couples were visible to community members. Lastly, I argue that regional norms and narratives both include and encourage resistance to urban queer migration narratives.

82

Be Nice and Avoid Conflict

One strong element of Iron Range – and more broadly Minnesotan – culture establishes appropriate ways to behave in public, treat your family, neighbors, and friends, as well as when and how to share your opinions. The phrase “Minnesota Nice” is often used to describe this set of cultural norms. This includes being polite and keeping a friendly emotional and physical distance from things that are not your business. (Per local norms, this is almost everything.)

The flip side of this includes ignoring, avoiding, and handling interpersonal conflict (if it, in fact, must be addressed) in the quietest and calmest way possible. In a

Star Tribune article entitled “Minnesota Nice? It’s like ice”, the norm is described as a

“well intentioned… disinclination to intrude” and a “propensity toward understatement and reluctance to make a fuss” (Veldof and Bonnema 2014). The “natural [Minnesotan] aversion to conflict and confrontation” creates an environment which leaves some people to wonder what isn’t being said or dealt with. “Why aren’t we allowed to talk about certain things?” the authors ask.

These culturally driven propensities had profound impacts on my narrators’ lives, including their decisions about coming out, reactions from family and neighbors, and ability to locate and sustain LGBT friendship networks. Michelle provides an example of the boundaries and limitations of this norm:

My grandma is (high ranking) in the DFL but she isn't big on GLBT stuff. It’s kind of awkward. I don't bring it up but sometimes she just talks. She (supports) civil unions, but it is one of those “They are under the radar” and “Why do you gays have to be so loud?” It might be because she's older… around here, there's a stigma…you shouldn't be talking about it unless it smacks you in the face.

83

Michelle and other family members find her grandmother’s outspoken opinions uncomfortable. As she explains, this discomfort derives less from her grandmother’s actual opinions than from her breaking regional social norms by brazenly sharing her thoughts. In fact, her grandmother’s frustration that gays (including her bisexual granddaughter) are “so loud” is in line with typically expressed sentiments on the subject.

Michelle gives her the benefit of the doubt even though her grandmother has repeatedly broken significant regional norms, chalking the transgressions up to being elderly.

Additionally, her grandmother’s feelings that lesbians and gay men are fine to acknowledge their relationships, as long as they (quietly) have civil unions and do not attempt to lay claim to the institution of marriage are an example of some of the inner workings of the politics of visibility regarding LGBT people on the Iron Range.

Many narrators describe the impact this conflict avoidance had on perceptions of lack of . A visit with Sam (short for Samantha), a white androgynous woman in her late 20s who self-identifies as queer, provides an example of this. When I arrived back at Sam’s house in Grand Rapids from a visit with a lesbian couple in

Hibbing, her family was celebrating together. Sam’s aunts were in the kitchen eating, her mother, father, and some other relatives were sprawled on Sam’s oversized couch, and her brother-in-law was teaching her nephew to box on the boxing stand that Sam keeps in the living room.

Everyone politely and quickly introduced themselves and within ten minutes the entire family – all 14 of them – had packed up their things, divided all of the food among themselves, and had their coats on to leave. I expressed concern about interrupting Sam’s family party to her later on and she said, slightly embarrassed, that her mother knows I 84

am a lesbian and that her mother had called all of the family members alerting them to my presence. Her family’s desire to not interact with me speaks volumes about why Sam remained completely closeted for many years. The very polite – and lightning fast –way they all went their separate ways after my arrival also demonstrates the typical

Minnesotan way of (not) handling uncomfortable situations.

Over lunch one weekend about 45 minutes away from where Sam lives, Rose – a white woman in her 50s with large glasses, a friendly smile, and salt and pepper hair – describes how her father responds to her being out. “When there are gay things on TV,” she says, “such as with Prop 836, we just don’t talk about it.” She waves to the third person she has recognized in the restaurant in the half an hour we have been there and then says, “When I went to Grand Rapids in 2005 for discussions on the gay marriage ballot, I told my father and he simply said, ‘There is no such thing as gay marriage.’”

That was the end of the conversation that day and it was never discussed after that. In this way, conflict avoidance includes definitive but politely dismissive statements that establish (or re-establish) boundaries around appropriate topics of conversation. These reactions attest to the silencing power of heterosexism. If families do not acknowledge that their family member is LGBT and refuse to engage with their non-normative sexuality or gender, then they can pretend it does not exist.

This notable silence is continued forward via educational institutions on the

Range. I was frequently told that discussions around sexuality in schools of all levels were absent, inaccurate, or critically lacking, which contributed to the confusion and

36 Proposition 8 (aka “Prop 8”) was a 2008 California ballot proposition where voters chose to change the state Constitution to restrict the definition of marriage to opposite-sex couples and eliminate same-sex couples' right to marry, thereby overriding portions of the previous ruling that allowed same-sex couples to marry in California. 85

silence around related subjects. Kristie, a white woman in her early 20s, had started college in the Twin Cities but had moved back home for financial reasons. She discussed a recent class at a local community college where her classmates espoused sexist and homophobic beliefs. Kristie did not speak up because she did not want to “start any drama”.

Kristie believes her professor skipped/quickly moved through the topic of sexuality because she believed it “really set people off (and they don’t) want people to feel discriminated against.” Despite sexuality being a typical part of that course’s syllabus, her professor waited until after the class to demonstrate any potentially controversial pro-LGBT thoughts and did not provide relevant resources until she was explicitly asked to do so. Kristie and her professor were both following local (and perhaps statewide) social norms of avoiding conflict when possible (as well as not appearing intrusive regarding sensitive subjects). However, if Kristie had not approached her professor, she would not have received the resources she needed. Overall, the combination of cultural and geographic seclusion, limited education, and conflict avoidance led to limited awareness of, and often-complete silence around, LGBT identities and concerns.

Most Paths Led to Straight Marriage

As access to like-minded people and relevant resources is critical for identity and community development, the dearth of these (along with social stigma) took a toll. The majority of the lesbians and gay men I spoke with shared that their early (and often middle) years took one of two paths. They discussed either a) not understanding their

86

sexuality and marrying the opposite sex, as was/is socially expected of them, or b) struggling with and attempting to suppress their sexuality, often dating and marrying a person of the opposite sex. Many of these opposite sex relationships lasted significant periods of time, frequently over a decade, before the person came to terms with their sexuality and actively sought same-sex relationships.

During an interview, Tracey (a white woman in her 50s) and I had a long conversation about how the lack of information about LGBT people, coupled with the area’s heterosexism, led to her eventual marriage to a man:

I grew up 90 minutes away from [Virginia]… I’m 53 years old and I don’t ever remember hearing the word “lesbian” (or) “gay” when I was growing up. Maybe in high school, but I wasn’t exactly sure what it meant.

People were supposed to grow up, get married to someone of the opposite sex, have kids, and go to church on Easter and Christmas. So, we did. I did.

Even as she found herself drawn to local lesbians that she met, Tracey was confused by and repressed her desire for some time due her lack of knowledge and the negative things she had heard about homosexuality. The narratives about sexuality and relationships did not include the possibility of non-heterosexual identities and coupling, so it never crossed her mind that she might not be heterosexual. She elaborates about the first time she met Julie (who would eventually become a mentor to her):

I was really drawn to Julie and Julie’s friends. I always liked people who might be considered different… so I was kind of chalking it up to that. Then I started feeling really defensive about anti-gay statements and that sort of thing and I also thought that was strange. I never thought I would be a lesbian initially because the whole thing seemed icky [and] it’s always talked about as unnatural.

Tracey’s association of lesbianism with “icky” follows the anti-gay and staunchly

87

heterosexual narratives she heard growing up. Charlotte shares a similar statement,

I wasn't quite sure what “gay” was but I couldn't live here; it was too oppressive. You couldn't utter the word and if you did, it was “queer”, and that was nasty. You just weren't that way in the 1950s. Not in a small town. I left when I was 17.

Her account of how she felt at the time maps onto the customary depictions of queer life in small towns. Her statement also highlights how different things are now.

I Didn’t Turn Into a Pillar of Salt

The impact of religion on identity and community development was ever-present.

Unexpectedly, religious discourse and members of local religious communities appeared as key players in my fieldwork. My first introduction to local-level pressures was through the area production of “Hell House”. Even though “Hell House” had not been active in the area for years, narrators repeatedly mentioned it. In June 1997, Minnesota

Public Radio‘s Amy Radil reported,

Hell House debuts in Minnesota this Halloween. Hell House is billed as a guided tour of Hell - one with a Christian evangelical message. Tour guides lead visitors through scenes intended to shock, disturb, and convert.

It's opening night... With the help of 11,000 feet of black plastic sheeting, the church has been transformed into a dark, twisting maze.

The first group of visitors, three adults and five kids around the age of 12, are ushered into the opening scene: a funeral parlor. They take their seats in the back. The actor in the casket portrays a gay man who has died from AIDS. Other actors play mourners, dressed in black and weeping. A tour guide, who identifies herself as one of Satan's minions, appears from a cloud of machine-made fog, wearing a hood and ghoulish makeup. The guide taunts the mourners, and tells them that a death by AIDS is a victory for Satan.

88

Demon: Now he's gone forever, into eternal fire with all the rest of the twisted, perverted, sin-infested souls [emphasis in original].

The article relays that the “kit” was produced by a church in Colorado and sold for $150 each.

The church near Grand Rapids (in a town with a population of 665 people in

2010, according to the Census) was one of 175 churches nationwide to purchase one.

Though “Hell House” only lasted a few years, it left a strong impression on the community’s collective consciousness. While many I spoke with had never attended the event, they were aware it existed. They pointed to it to indicate how religion was used to scare people. One participant mentioned that the mere fact that the community “seemed okay” with its message was enough for her to think that she would not be able to come out to them.

Moreover, religion provided a socially acceptable avenue to get around restrictive social norms. In many congregations, people were empowered to speak to as well as about their LGBT neighbors – both inside and outside of the physical bounds of the church. Shawn, a white gay man in his late 20s, provides an example of this:

When I was in 8th grade, [I went to a wedding] in North Dakota and one of [the bride’s relatives] is gay. I remember my family said, “Why doesn't he come inside the church?” “It's because he knows that God is too strong in here; he doesn't feel comfortable.” In my head, I was like, why doesn't he come in? Because you are going to verbally attack him! That’s why he doesn't feel safe.

I wished he would come talk to me, [so I could know] I talked to someone who is gay and am okay with it. I didn't die; I didn't turn into a pillar of salt.

As evidenced by the story above, Shawn was desperate for proof that he could be gay and not be admonished by a universal force. His family also felt like the church encouraged

89

anti-LGBT sentiments and provided a “protective” buffer for them in both physical and symbolic terms. When Shawn did come out many years later, his family “ambushed” him with a doctor that pushed anti-gay therapies and his pastor (whom he was previously very close to) disparaged him.

Jacob, a self-employed white man in his early 30s, shares, “I grew up with a charismatic right and wrong, black and white, going to the [county] fair was wrong, gay was wrong.” For Jacob and other participants, religion was used as both a moral compass and a heavy-handed social guide. Religious influences were sometimes very positive, as well. As the music person for a “pray the gay away” church full of “old hippies on Jesus people music”, Jacob found solace in music and his church community while trying to determine his sexuality. After dating a woman on and off for some time, Jacob confirmed he was gay. After this realization, he left his position at the church a year before he came out because “the pastors would have caught hell.” Jacob reports they are

“his two biggest supporters now” and like a second set of parents.

In general though, religious boundary-making around who and what activities are acceptable, normal, and expected were strong on the Iron Range. Religion was used to draw clear boundaries around what music you should listen to, who you should spend time with, and when, how, and who you should date. For Jacob, this guidance indicated that he should not leave his community to attend secular events such as the state fair.

This is important because it served a dual purpose – reinforcing regional cultural boundaries and limiting exposure to other (potentially critical) perspectives.

Consistent with other research (Barton 2012; Stein 2001), when religion is used this way, it has serious consequences for communities. On the Iron Range, religion 90

maintained social order and community homogeneity. It served as a method of conflict avoidance and was a way for families to justify not supporting their LGBT sisters, uncles, parents etc. Lisa, an ally in her late 20s, says, “I think religion plays a part but the biggest part is families and culture – they are using it as their basis (for not supporting), like, ‘Well, this is what the Bible says.’" Jessica agrees, "There are hundreds of passages that man should do this or that, or this or that will happen, and many of them are ignored or dismissed or rationalized around here by saying ‘That (situation is) different.’” Along with encouraging conformity from community members – often through conscious and deliberate selection of specific Biblical references – these monolithic conversations in religious circles around homosexuality limited identity development for many LGBT Iron

Rangers. Religion was one of the most impactful social institutions in many of my narrators’ lives–they often grappled with religious pressures from childhood into adulthood.

These regional norms around silencing are similar to Barton’s (2012) concept of a

“toxic-closet condition of inarticulation” where LGBT people are unable to fully share their sexuality and relationships with others (P. 104). Much like what Barton found, by not speaking about their sexuality openly (despite how their friends, colleagues, and family members actually feel about their sexuality) Rangers were “collude[ing] in a silence that ultimately signals that homosexuality is too shameful to discuss.” Because

Rangers are “practiced at hiding [their] sexual identit[ies], it’s simply easier not to talk about it,” which creates “a self-perpetuating cycle of homophobic silence, which is extremely difficult to change (Barton 2012:105).

91

Print It Like You Mean It

Interestingly, religious discourse flourished in local newspapers. Newspapers and their online extensions were clearly designated in local culture as appropriate sites for maintaining social boundaries as well as challenging the status quo. Newspapers also play an important role in providing an avenue for community conversation. Because newspapers allow an increased distance from others compared to in-person conversations, they provide a type of social shield when sharing opinions. This is especially pertinent for controversial or uncomfortable discussions, such as around sexuality and religion. They also reduce the pressure on the opinion-sharer, as a letter to the editor is reviewed by at least one other person before it is printed. John, a white ally in his early 30s, discusses how his position as a journalist has allowed him to understand this connection:

Anonymity is important for honesty. Minnesota Nice, if it is controversial, wellll…. it might be construed as mean, so I should keep my mouth shut. It’s Minnesota passive aggressive. Minnesotans are definitely more willing to write in a letter to the editor than speak publicly.

Local newspapers served as a main avenue of community discussion and often either fueled or rebutted religious intolerance and anti-LGBT dogma on the Iron Range.

Throughout my fieldwork, positive and negative opinions abounded around a myriad of

LGBT issues – many of them directly or indirectly framed in religious terms and metaphors. I collected (and was given by others) multiple examples of this. As my printed collection of newspaper editorials continuously grew, I wondered how pervasive this discussion really was in the local newspaper scene. I performed a quick online

92

search of area newspaper records, which provided a list of well over 100 letters to the editor on the subject (both supportive and not).

I was struck by how many average, local citizens utilized the “letters to the editor” and local opinion sections. Additionally, there was a notable amount from those in the medical profession, very visibly providing support for and against various

(perceived) LGBT issues, including AIDS, same-sex desire, transgender identities, and more. Because they were seen as medical experts, many in the area felt these editorials were very impactful – for better or worse. For example, in 2006, a local therapist who strategically included Ph.D. after her name wrote an article printed in the Grand Rapids

Herald Review entitled, “Transgender individuals act to right what is wrong” in response to a previous opinion piece where the author included transgender individuals in his list of “perverts” the community needed to watch out for. In 2009, an editorial was posted in the same paper entitled “Change is possible, sinners can be saved”. The author provided his name and listed his credentials as “MD”. His piece begins:

I was very saddened to read the extensive front-page article… promoting the (GLBT) Alliance. My concern is that people might be encouraged to remain in, or experiment with, this unhealthy lifestyle... The physical and emotional ramifications [of homosexuality] are most easily documented, the spiritual health risks are less obvious but have more eternal significance.

In closing, he cites Bible verses and encourages those “afflicted” to seek religious assistance.

A few months later, many additional letters were printed. One, providing support for the anti-LGBT letters written by local medical professionals, mentioned:

As [pro-LGBT editorial writer] pointed out in the previous week's extensive article, what happens in the bedroom is no one's business except 93

those involved. We agree. So why do she and her friends insist on flaunting and promoting their private business with a huge front-page newspaper article and, worst of all, presenting it to vulnerable school children as "normal?" It seems to us they are inviting confrontation.

A month after that, another letter to the editor was printed, entitled: “Letters are hateful and bigoted”. The author, in part, states,

I moved… over 3 years ago, and still subscribe.... I have always looked forward to receiving the bi-weekly copies in my mail as they (are) like letters from home.

However, I have been very disturbed in the past several weeks to read the bigoted and hateful letters about gays… It is appearing more and more the (newspaper) is a bulletin board for every homophobe in Itasca County… most attempting to justify… harmful diatribes with selective passages from the Bible.

In general, newspapers served as the written, delayed equivalent of an online forum, with someone posting an opinion and then, a week or so later, someone responding, and so on. While some newspapers on the Iron Range allow (or used to allow) anonymous letters to be printed, much like online forums, many of them stopped printing anonymous opinion pieces. They now require posters to provide identifying information such as name and hometown prior to printing. Additionally, as local newspapers enjoy a broad and consistent readership base, the printed opinions were widely disseminated, saved, and discussed, compared to opinions on online forums, which tend to be fleeting in impact and easily missed. Many of these newspapers had ways to comment online as well, which were also sources of lively discussion.37

37 Radio did not appear to be valued and utilized in the same way. This was potentially due to the lack of anonymity it provided compared to letters to the editor. Additionally, following regional norms, local radio stations did not provide a comparable forum to discuss sensitive, politicized topics. 94

The Range Mentality and Other Place Narratives

Through my fieldwork and interviews, three distinct narratives came up repeatedly: 1) the Iron Range is generally intolerant to difference, which includes a portrayal of Iron Rangers as racist, homophobic, and heterosexist; 2) the Iron Range has extremely slow rates of cultural change; and 3) the Iron Range is changing. Importantly, contrary to some perceptions, the Range is experiencing significant and relatively fast cultural change. However, these cultural shifts are not occurring homogeneously; geographic and other factors influenced these shifts at varying rates and often surrounded a few specific types of change (e.g. acceptance of diversity).

Interestingly, when discussing narratives about the Range, locals often used the phrase “the Range Mentality.” Hostile reactions to difference are often attributed to the

“Range Mentality”, a trope that serves as a stand-in for “typical uncouth and/or bigoted

Ranger.” For example, Paul – a white man in his 40s who moved from another state to his wife (Melissa)’s hometown of Cohasset – says,

One phrase that seems to explain it all: "It's a Range thing." Why would someone go to class in pants that look like they just went through the lawn mower? It's a Range thing. Why would a 22-year -old ask a 15-year-old out on a date? It's a Range thing. Why would you call someone with different skin “nigger” to their face? It's a Range thing.

Essentially, the Range Mentality narrative was drawn upon as a way to understand and describe relationships between Rangers, as well as amongst Rangers and non-Rangers.

This phrasing also suggests that they are at least intuitively aware of possible disconnects between the stories told about living on the Iron Range and the lived experiences of Iron

Rangers. These narratives are important because they provide “models of who and how one should be in the local context” and alter the way people experience local conditions,

95

particularly related to perceptions of safety and acceptance (Brown-Saracino 2015:41).

In some ways, the well-known Range Mentality narrative safeguarded those who wanted to act in stereotypically bigoted ways. Because people just shook their head at the Range

Mentality and accepted it as a given, some beliefs and actions went unchallenged and un- examined. This includes a lack of self-reflexivity by some Rangers of all sexualities, who drew upon the Range Mentality concept to wholeheartedly grasp the stereotypes they held even if/when challenged. “I’m just such a Ranger”, I was once told after someone shared a racist joke, as if that explained and excused it.

Iron Range as Intolerant and Slow to Change

In every single interview, narrators imparted some version of the narrative that the

Iron Range is intolerant and that cultural change occurs slowly. Stephanie, for example, describes the Iron Range as “very close-minded.” “It is like we are still living in the

1970s,” she says. Many narrators spoke about the Range Mentality as distinct from, and a deterrent to, inclusiveness. Perceptions of Rangers are strongly associated with prejudice and social class – for my narrators, those who strongly subscribe to the Range

Mentality are “bad”, undesirable Rangers. They are also discussed in terms of special distinctions. The “East” Range and “West” Range are sometimes used as code for lower class/rednecks/racists and privileged/more cosmopolitan, respectively. For example, Paul feels there are differences between the Grand Rapids area and the rest of the Iron Range.

He believes that Grand Rapids is not an Iron Range safe haven or exception, but there is a spectrum of intolerance that increases as you go deeper up the East Range. “The further up the [East] Range, the worse the quagmire,” he says. I heard a similar response from

96

almost everyone I spoke with in the Grand Rapids area (and some living further into the

Iron Range).

Participants shared numerous examples of four types of prejudice – racism, heterosexism, homophobia, and sexism. Julie reflects on her experiences when she was younger:

When I was growing up, Native Americans were as discriminated against as African Americans. I had friends who were Native Americans, but that wasn't the norm. They did a lot of drinking growing up, but they weren't necessarily allowed in the bars; if they were, it was in a specific place in the bar.

I often heard many stories that the “normal” behavior on the Iron Range was to ostracize and discriminate against people of color. Lisa, who was born in in the area but moved to a few urban areas across the U.S. before returning to the Iron Range for middle school, found the general intolerance particularly troubling and problematic:

I have seen people refusing to allow their daughters play with a black girl at McDonalds. My daughter and some others were playing with her and one mother came screaming, “I won't have any of my kids playing with this nigger."

A few years ago, there was a Muslim family in town. They were the nicest people, but their daughter didn't want to wear shorts for gym and her school was not at all supportive. The family was so tormented that they asked to be relocated.

Along with an example of local intolerance against cultural difference, Lisa is also demonstrating how important maintaining these boundaries are to some Rangers. Racial tensions serve as strong enough local pressure points that they were willing to break the norm of conflict avoidance in attempt to reestablish order. Sasha argues that encountering anyone of color challenges Rangers because the area is almost 100% white,

97

stating, “People are shocked that we have African Americans here because they never see them or ignore them if they [do].”

As part of general intolerance of difference, many Rangers expressed discomfort with “outsiders” who were not born on the Iron Range. Julie says newcomers are

“viewed with skepticism” and that “it’s not so much bigotry” versus lack of acceptance.

Sasha has a unique perspective on the complexity of what it means to be understood as a

Ranger. Her family is one of the first families in her entire surrounding area that included black people. She explains,

My grandparents were married when it was still illegal; my grandfather is a white man, my grandmother is a black women. It was really shocking when they moved here in the early 1970s. My mom went to the same high school that I did from 13 years and up, but even so, I was like a new kid starting in kindergarten and all the way through. People didn’t treat me like we were really part of the community. I got called the N word, even though I am really pale and have blue eyes. I was also a Jehovah's Witness and the school was predominately Lutheran.

Sasha “grew up with religious homophobia at home and social homophobia at school” and reports the religious homophobia was “more subtle”. She recalls,

(A few) people thought some guys were gay in the church and that (it) was wrong, but it was mostly whispers. It was less homophobia and more heterocelebration… You know, you are all going to get married and have babies and you are going to make cookies for your husband and you are going to love it.

Non-native Rangers, both allies and those part of the LGBT community, mentioned they feel they are not allowed to be fully part of the community despite living there for roughly a decade.

It was clear that bigotry was pervasive within the local LGBT communities as well. I frequently overheard and was directly told racist jokes and stereotypical

98

statements at local LGBT events and Itasca GLBTA Alliance (known locally simply as the “Alliance”) Board of Director’s meetings. Charlotte also provides an example of this:

A good friend who is gay is very, very prejudiced. He went into Lowes and looked at (signs in both Spanish and English), got the manager, and said, “This is America. We speak English in America. If you don't take the signs down, I'm not shopping here.” That's amazing to me that a gay person can be that prejudiced.

Charlotte’s friend is displaying and relying on the pervasive Range Mentality to enable him to make racist and xenophobic judgments. This demonstrates that, while regional norms indicate you should not speak candidly about sex or sexuality, race and nationality were fair game.

That said, many participants pointed to the fact that they used to not know any black people or families and now they know (of) one or two as signs of progress. They also indicated that the increase in black students attending area colleges was helpful in efforts to move toward racial equality, even though it was not necessarily easy for black students. Interestingly, it only took a slight change in perceptions, actions, or resource availability for Rangers to mention there has been social progress and notably cultural change. For example, multiple allies on the Range mention the area is much more

“progressive” and safe for LGBT people simply because the Alliance exists in Grand

Rapids (regardless of its effectiveness as a community organization or in outreach efforts). Notably, allies report feeling the area is much better for LGBT people than

LGBT people themselves. This is most likely due to reduced ally sensitivity to anti-

LGBT cultural norms and actions.

99

A Mix of Underground/Unsafe and Out/Welcome: Competing Narratives

I was told an interesting mix of narratives about how the Iron Range was for

LGBT people. I was told how restrictive and unsafe the Range was and that this forced most LGBT Rangers to go “underground”. Conversely, I was told the area was safe and welcoming to LGBT people – with some important caveats. These competing narratives demonstrate the impact of regional norms and stereotypes, as well as hint at some of the cultural changes occurring.

Courtney, a white bisexual woman in her early 30s from the East Range, provides a clear example of the former. After they moved back and were in the same community as her parents, Courtney and her girlfriend felt they could not display affection because they were too scared. “Scared physically and all of it”, Courtney says. Sasha and

Stephanie also discuss the fear that many feel in the area. They describe a few lesbians in their 20s who are extremely closeted and do “not want anyone outside of their close, intimate circles to know, not even a link up on Facebook.” When I ask if they feel there is a perception of safety (or lack thereof) for LGBT Rangers, they respond that it is different for women and men.

Sometimes, those who are out or coming out in the community choose to ignore some of the negative reactions they receive as well as potentially unsafe spaces in order to feel more comfortable. For example, some lesbians and gay men in their late teens and early 20s told me that a local bar in Hibbing was “completely gay friendly”. Sasha dispels that idea, mentioning that she used to work there. While the bar tolerates the queer youth, they do not necessarily support or invite their patronage.

100

Things did appear more difficult for gay men on the Iron Range. I was told as much by participants, who said that most gay men are “very careful and under the radar.”

The local community was aware of multiple instances of violence in nearby towns, including some extremely serious and recent hate crimes. Someone Charlotte and

Martha knew, for example, was badly beaten in a restaurant bathroom. When I asked what the police had done to respond, she said, “Nothing happened. They did not charge

(the perpetrator) because (the victim) was too afraid of what would happen afterward”.

This underreporting and concern about “what would happen afterward” could have been dually related to fears of being re-victimized by his abuser but also victimized by police and support staff that hold strong expectations regarding masculinity – namely, real men

– and Range men in particular – do not report crimes of assault. Instead, they just deal with the abuse. This is particularly true of sexual assault.

Upon reflection, Charlotte says, “Gay women are not harassed like that up here.

Sometimes I think the men think they can change us … or they just leave us be because we are not hurting anybody.” Her statement is an interesting statement on local culture because it suggests that some Rangers may feel like gay men are offensive to the community by their mere existence. Charlotte provides another example:

A good friend of ours held a Valentine's Day party at his house. He even managed to get Target to donate us all of his decorations! We stuffed them in snow banks all the way up to his house. The next morning, he went outside and "Fag" was written on many of them. It was someone who lived on the same lake. So that and the beatings… the physical beatings are what scare them the most.

Lesbians of all ages and older gay men across the Range expressed similar concerns about the continuing safety concerns they perceived for gay men. While

101

Charlotte and some other participants were quick to share a story of harassment against gay men, they were less likely to discuss physical harassment against lesbians. Rape seemed to be the more common experience with victimization for lesbians on the Iron

Range. Courtney reflects on her ex-girlfriend’s rape as she paces in quick, tight circles around the room:

It is more accepted for women to be queer. I would be more afraid if I was a man because people are unpredictable, especially when alcohol is involved. People get stupid and there are a lot of rednecks around here. You would be arrogant not to be careful. Celeste was raped to “rape the gay out of her”. The man said if “you haven't had (straight) sex, you can't be gay until you have had what we have to offer”… that is a good example of why (women) should be afraid, too.

Physical harassment from “rednecks” was not the only concern. During my time up north, I was surprised by how openly some lesbians shared anti-gay sentiments, often disparaging statements about effeminate men. At one party, for example, I heard a few influential lesbians in that community describe how a local gay man was “ridiculous” because of the clothes he wore (skinny jeans) and his mannerisms. As part of this conversation, one woman moved her hands around limply while she talked in a high voice in a parody of the man. While others were laughing, she says, “How is anyone supposed to take him seriously?” In this way, lesbians sometimes policed the boundaries of gender as much as heterosexuals did. This appears to be due to their interest in downplaying cultural differences. They felt like it hurt all LGBT Rangers if gay men drew negative attention to themselves.

Brandon explains how his masculine appearance allows him to avoid this stigma:

It’s a lot harder for gay men to blend in up here. You would be hard- pressed to find a straight effeminate man here, but butch women are a lot more common. I don't get the stigma, but it is annoying sometimes 102

because people don't know and I have to go out of my way to tell everyone. I have to (say), “I know I don't fit the stereotype of what you think of about gay men....” People are like, “You can't be gay; you are big, bulky, manly.”

Due to his masculine appearance, Brandon is saved from ridicule but has to actively convince others of his sexuality. Consistent with what Kazyak (2011) found, the prevailing narrative about masculinity and men assisted in creating a protective cultural layer for multiple gay men.

However, my fieldwork also demonstrated a harmful consequence of these assumptions. A worker from the Rural AIDS Action Network (RAAN), a non-profit organization that provides services on the Iron Range and surrounding areas, noted that they often had trouble convincing HIV positive men to obtain regular treatment due to lack of financial means as well as stigma. She explained that gay men were often closeted and felt that the community finding out about their HIV positive status would

“out” them in an unpredictable way. This fear was a strong influencing factor for many

Range men. Unfortunately, according to the RAAN worker, after being told they were

HIV positive, quite a few clients requested to cease contact due to the stigma despite lack of other feasible treatment options.38 As long as they are masculine in appearance, Range men typically do not have to worry about being “read” as gay, however, an HIV positive diagnosis would not allow them to continue to pass as a typical Ranger.

These assumptions about men negatively impacted non-heterosexual men’s access to social services in other ways, as well. For example, a pervasive idea was that men

38 See Whitehead, Shaver, and Stephenson (2016) for an in-depth discussion of how stigmas related to disclosure of sexual orientation and gender identity impact health care utilization for LGBT people in rural areas. 103

always wanted sex and therefore could not be raped. At a meeting with a Grand Rapids- based sexual assault advocacy center, we discussed an increase in sexual assault calls from local men and the confused response from their local call center advocates. One man had recently called regarding a sexual assault where he had been tied up and raped with a household object by someone he considered a friend. The call center staff wasn’t sure what to do since he had identified as bisexual – they thought perhaps this meant it was simply consensual foreplay. The leaders of the center determined that additional training in this area was needed and were concerned because they had some advocates who clearly subscribed to the assumption above. This is alarming because many in the community viewed these advocates as local experts on the subject.

Another recent assault on a local gay man was discussed. In this case, there was a lack of police response to a man reporting he was raped. The police officer who arrived at the scene wasn’t sure whether or not the victim could actually be raped and therefore, whether or not a rape kit should be ordered. Even more disturbingly, the rape crisis volunteer that arrived on the scene also displayed a lack of clarity about proper protocol.

Overall, it was clear that deeply held assumptions and fears kept gay men from receiving necessary social services.39

It’s Impolite To Ask: The Glass Closet Created By Regional Culture

In her analysis of Bible Belt gays, Barton (2012) argues that even though regional

“expressions of homophobia are rampant”, everyone is “interacted with in ways that

39 As in other parts of the country, both opposite-sex and same-sex domestic violence are significant concerns. However, the violence appeared amplified and commonplace on the Iron Range. A significant number of the women I interviewed described experiencing domestic violence and/or sexual abuse in their lifetime. 104

maintain a presumption of heterosexuality” – even those clearly presenting as queer – as part of regional norms surrounding politeness (P. 87). The combination of regional norms provided some Rangers with the ability to strategically navigate their lives as same-sex couples (or sleeping with others of the same sex) within what I call the glass closet.

Specifically, norms regarding strong personal boundaries, especially surrounding sex, heteronormative assumptions, and the desire for conflict avoidance allowed Rangers to act on same-sex desires with little concern in a few types of situations. This is a glass closet because individuals were not closeted to many in their communities, but there were a few social customs and rules they had to follow in order to keep the protective “glass” barriers intact. While these provided the closet’s framing and structure, the glass represents the fact that same-sex couples were visible to community members. Just as glass is fragile, so is the glass closet – if this smokescreen was broken, it was not easily restored.

Kazyak (2011) discusses a similar concept, which she calls “artificial anonymity”.

However, she argues that others “might know about and tacitly accept sexual identity…

[based on] the close-knit nature of rural life” and a “tacit agreement” that people should mind their own business (P. 581). My findings refute her argument that, “Rather than be able to remain anonymous as one could in the city, the close-knit nature of rural life makes it nearly impossible to go unnoticed, thus fostering a sense of visibility (P. 575).

Instead of the “live and let live attitude” that Kazyak found, where community members know about, “explicitly recognize” (P. 575) and chose to ignore homosexuality, my findings indicate that, due to geographically specific factors, non-heterosexuality is often not recognized (or misrecognized). 105

One relatively common strategy for exploring same-sex feelings and relationships

(while avoiding loss of social support networks and possible stigmatization) was for married women to have relationships with other women. While older lesbians were more likely to marry a member of the opposite sex, gay men shared similar stories as well.

Quite a few men that I met during events identified as gay and were married to women but out in the “underground” local gay community. Similar to the “down low” culture in urban communities of color, their opposite-sex relationships created a safety net through which to meet and sleep with others of the same gender - but not necessarily self-identify as LGB in order to avoid stigmatization and expectations of involvement with the LGBT community (King 2005).

For example, during an Alliance meeting, Doug (who I had just met) and his friend mentioned that Doug has been married for 40 years and has multiple children with his wife. He has been with men for years as well, but his wife and children do not know.

Another group member asks if he is concerned his wife will find out, since we were openly discussing LGBT-related things in a public restaurant. He shakes his head no and explains that no one will question him because he is known as a married community member. His friend says that it is common for married men to have same-sex partners on the side. For Doug and others, their glass closets are maintained by their known martial status. As long as they are not being overtly sexual in public in a fashion that cannot be ignored, their marriages to women (especially when they resulted in children) thwarts suspicion from the community– and even their own families.

These relationships were not always a guarded secret, however. Many of the women engaged in these relationships are honest with their husbands about them. As I 106

noted in my field notes, one of the first times I learned about this was during an Iron

Range GLBTA meeting:

There are two women [here tonight] in their late twenties I have not seen before. As part of their introduction, they share an encounter they had earlier this week. They work [second] shift, so they were woken up by a mail delivery for the one woman’s [the homeowner’s] husband in the middle of the day.

They giggle as they talk about how they came out in little clothing and answered the door holding hands. I ask if they were nervous about him thinking they were lesbians or that she was having an affair. They say that he probably didn’t think about it because she’s married. Her husband knows and doesn’t care. The only time he cares is when he is home; then she needs to be with him only.

Similarly, one of Theresa’s relationships was a ten-year partnership with a married woman. Describing the relationship, she says, that her girlfriend and her girlfriend’s husband “lived together like brother and sister”. Her girlfriend had other female relationships before her, which her husband was aware of. She says they were “discreet” but “went everywhere together” as a couple. “I don't know what they thought of her because she was married, yet she was spending time with me. Some people said, 'Where's your husband?’ and she answered, ‘He's home sleeping where he should be,’” she says.

Theresa‘s relationship was not hidden in the way that many closeted relationships are.

While they did not advertise that they were dating, their close friends knew. They publicly dated, spent nights at each other’s homes, and otherwise spent a lot of time together. Any questions that people had about their relationship were either passive aggressive or asked extremely quietly to just the two of them. Over the 13 years they dated, Theresa says they “didn't run into opposition.”

107

As with the married men, the couples’ lack of physical contact in public and the cover of one partner’s heterosexual marriage, enabled them to successfully avoided overt suspicion from community members. However, in some cases, even being minimally clothed and holding hands was still not enough to break regional heteronormative assumptions. Additionally, in these cases, the fact that their husbands were aware (and supportive) of the arrangement made it even easier to navigate public spheres with little consequence. Unlike Barton (2012)’s toxic closet where “the homosexual self-censors”

(P. 88) and denies themselves the opportunity for public same-sex relationships due to the

Bible Belt’s homophobic culture, the glass closet provides the ability to have these relationships in public while not having to address homophobia directly.

Susan and Danielle have a similar, but slightly different arrangement. They have been monogamously coupled for decades and are well established in their community.

During a visit to her church, I ask Susan if she and Danielle are out at church. As Susan prepares to sing in the choir that Danielle directs, she thinks about the question and says,

“No. But people would never dream of asking Danielle to something and not invite me as well.” She says, “it is kind of like ‘don’t ask, don’t tell, but we know’”. As part of a tour of their home, they show me their two separate bedrooms. Susan comments that, while the separate bedrooms are for medical reasons, it helps community members who come over when they are entertaining because they can pretend they are “just roommates even though they know we aren’t.”

Susan and Danielle provide just enough reasons for their neighbors and church friends (many of whom openly discourage same-sex sexuality and relationships) to conveniently avoid discussing their relationship with them or each other. Interestingly, 108

even so, there is an unspoken acknowledgment of their standing as a couple in the church community, as evidenced by their joint invitations to family-related events. Their glass closet is maintained by this illusion, but would crash down if they were to come out as a couple. A close friend of theirs who is familiar with their arrangement has warned them that they will likely lose support from most community members if they come out, and

Danielle will undoubtedly lose her employment at the Church. Gray (2009) argues that

LGBT people “recast rural environment where ‘everyone knows about them’ but they are expected to remain functionally invisible… (which is) dangerous, though perhaps not as much as the urban-generated depictions of rural places lead us to believe” (P. 96).

Indeed, the glass closet provides an acceptable alternative for everyone within regional restrictions – the (clearly fabricated) façade of heterosexuality allows everyone involved to remain involved together in their religious community.

People Are Queerer When They Are Strangers: Protective Regional Narratives

Gray (2009a) argues, “Particular categories of recognition count more than others in a politics of LGBT visibility carried out in rural communities” (P. 37). An important theme that arose during my fieldwork was that lesbian and gay people feel much more welcome, accepted, and supported in their own small towns than they did in even the next town over (which could be as short as a 10-minute – approximately 4 mile – drive). The perception that they knew the people involved – whether they were truly supportive of them, neutral to their sexuality, or (in some cases) extremely uncomfortable with their sexuality mitigated some concerns about coming out, being safe, etc. This deep knowledge of where everyone fit in the larger community network reduced the fear of an

109

unknown person “gay-bashing” or treating them poorly. As there were few true strangers around to encounter, it was easier to understand where each person was coming from and how to handle interactions with them - both positive and negative. 40 Additionally, I found that community members often accepted LGBT neighbors as long as they fit within regional and micro-local norms.

A handful of participants provided interesting and direct counterpoints to Range narratives about how intolerant and unsafe the area is, which many others (mostly lesbians and bisexual women, but also some gay men) perceived as true. I heard that the

Iron Range was completely welcoming for gay men from a number of gay men in the area. Shortly after I had a similar conversation about how safe things are with a gay man, we went to a bar and he was dancing by himself to the music. He was having a great time, but as I was looking around the bar, it was clear on some patrons’ faces that they were clearly uncomfortable with the man’s playful swaying and sashaying to the music. After speaking with others about this disconnect in perception about the area as well as performing additional ethnographic research, this difference appears to hint at important cultural shifts and tensions.

For some gay men, the desire to be out instead of being fearful is strong, which may lead to being (or pretending to be) overconfident in their interactions with others.

This is similar to Brown-Saracino’s research, which notes some participants believe they are completely safe despite perplexingly living in areas with higher anti-LGBT hate

40 Gray (2009a) similarly argues that violence in rural areas is “[N]otably most often experienced as intimate, exacted by those who (people) presume they know rather than random acts of ‘stranger danger’ that pervades the psyches of most queer urban dwellers based outside populous city nightclubs. [For rural queers], it seem(s) unfathomable that such extreme violence would be exacted by a mob of people [they] consider neighbors. Violence by loved ones was a much more familiar scenario, but through its familiarity, seemed easier to predict and circumvent” (P. 115). 110

crimes than the other sites she studied. Brown-Saracino (2015) posits that this difference between reality and perception was due to very strong place narratives (including marketing) about their area as a very LGBTQ-friendly place that “instruct(ed) residents on how to interpret or weigh other place elements” (P. 44). While, in my research, statements of unquestionable safety also appeared to be mostly promulgated by younger gay men who lived in or near the more progressive areas on the West Range, I also heard this from numerous younger LGBT people on the East Range which is viewed as less progressive and welcoming overall.

Shawn one of the gay men who viewed the area as accepting of LGBT locals, shares a story about the protective nature of conceptions of familiarity and community.

He says, “I really haven’t (felt unsafe). You asked me if I think I feel safe because I am so well established. I didn't feel unsafe when I wasn't.” He explains that his perception of safety has to do with whether or not he is considered part of a certain community versus his sexuality. Shawn explains, “Are there parts of rural northern Minnesota that I do feel unsafe in? Yes. Is it because I’m a gay male? No.” He elaborates,

The parts I would feel unsafe in … I’m not from that area. It’s that small town [drops his voice really low] you're not from ‘round here mentality. Would I feel safe going into some tiny bar up on the Iron Range? Probably not. At least by myself. It has to do with the fact that I’m just not part of that community. I don't fit into it. Being a gay male could be a factor, but it is not the predominant factor.

While Shawn believes that community ties are the difference between being

“placed” in a community or labeled a stranger, there were some blatant displays of homophobia on the Range. Julie’s reaction to one of these displays provides another

111

example of how ideas of community and otherness work on the Iron Range to facilitate feelings of safety and belonging. She shares:

A billboard (was) placed in Virginia (that advocated for) marriage equality… it had two men on it. Someone sprayed that red, probably with a paint gun. That kind of chilled me. It looked like blood.

I made a number of calls and I stopped at the office in Virginia (that) owned the property. I said, “I'm not asking if people agree with the message that's there, but to leave it up like that leaves a stronger message of hate and fear. It needs to go.”

Julie was pleased – by the time she returned after her meeting, the billboard had been removed.

Julie explains that the “billboard incident” was the only memorable, serious incident (she recalls) during the past few decades. She says, “That was the first time since 1974 when I moved back here that I felt any measure of fear.” One of her main concerns with the blatant display of homophobia was that it created an unfamiliar element in her community; such a display was uncharacteristic of regional culture. She says,

I have no problem with people who know me… I feel safe with them. If they know me, they know I am a good person. I'm not a bad person just because I live a different lifestyle… But someone who doesn't know me, someone who is a bigot, someone who is a hate mongering, spiteful person, that person could harm me… so that was the first awareness I ever had. When that sign went down and enough time passed, I feel like I can walk the streets of Virginia and feel safe…

Julie associates displays of bigotry like this and people who “don’t know her” with those outside of her community. These unfamiliar, bigoted people were the ones that cause concern and even fear. Despite other experiences that Julie shared about discrimination in the area, none of them caused surprise and concern to this level (and, importantly, none

112

of them led to similar feelings of otherness or being targeted within her own community).

When Julie went down to Duluth to a meeting, she shared with them what was going on.

She was very upset by the relative lack of concern displayed by her colleagues. Julie didn’t understand this because it was such a noteworthy event for the area and for many

Iron Rangers, an aberrant, atypically aggressive demonstration of homophobia and heterosexism. The fact that outsiders (from nearby Duluth) did not recognize the action’s significance emphasizes how regional norms on the Range are distinct, even from other relatively close areas in Minnesota.

Brandon thinks micro-aggressions like this strengthens the local community. He explains,

It’s just another layer of normal, another bump in the road, you just keeping going. It makes the community stronger because you have more to band together about. There is more cause to keep contact so we know we are not alone. Just knowing someone else is there; it is a widespread neighborhood. They may think that nitpicking the whole community will wear us down, but it makes us stronger.

Brandon is simultaneously discussing the broader local community, as well as the LGBT people living nearby. Because everyone is so spread out geographically and there are no centralized meeting spaces or areas, he feels that situations like this remind LGBT

Rangers to support each other, even from afar, as they form a ”very widespread neighborhood.”

Brandon mentions how his small community is really close knit, which was a double-edged sword for him. He explains, “You know everyone. You can't help but know everyone and your parents know everyone. You never see someone walking down the street you don't know and if that does happen, you will know them soon.” While

113

Brandon appreciated this sense of community and recognized the social security it provided, he felt strongly that it was a “stifling” environment. “There is no room for error,” he said. “You are always expected to do whatever everyone is doing. There isn't really room for growth and if you don't go with the majority, people treat you like a stranger,” he continued. Brandon is describing an important distinction here between what makes someone a valued community member versus an ostracized or disowned one

(i.e. a “stranger”). Not conforming to social pressure and norms was the most important breaking point for Brandon’s community (and other communities that I was in).

While homophobia was undeniably present, I found that communities were often willing to accept their gay and lesbian members as long as they looked, acted, and spoke in accordance to accepted Iron Range (and local town) norms. For example, during a community event, a middle-aged gay man shares that he was completely out with his partner to his town members and surrounding communities and that he is generally accepted (or at the very least, left alone) because he used to be a farmer, “doesn’t cause trouble” in the mine where he currently works, and actively supports his community.

Community members pigeonhole each other into one (or maybe two) principal identities, and that impression follows them as they age. Brandon says, “If you do something in your teenage years, it determines you for the rest of your life.” For example, he says, “I sing opera but that's all anyone knows about me. People say I have an amazing voice, but they don't ever talk about how I played basketball, football, etc.” For the ex-farmer, his community-given identity was cemented around being a giving, hardworking neighbor who is active in the community. He has lived in the surrounding areas his whole life, so these positive elements of his identity and reputation protect him against negative social 114

impacts. Importantly, he is also a large, tough-looking, masculine man whose presence does not directly pose any threat to hetero-normative society.

On the Range, there appears to be context-specific degrees of “otherness”.

Courtney says, “I don't know if it is an Iron Range thing or a small town thing, but… people can talk badly about you but once an outsider comes in and talks badly about you, then [the outsider] better look out. [Locals] will have your back.” Courtney provides a related story:

A kid I grew up with finally came out even though everyone knew. He said he was so afraid and that he was always so nice to everyone so that when he finally did come out, no one would hate him…. Everyone from this close-minded, religious small town, people who may have been judgmental [changed] because he is one of their people and they have a personal experience with him…

Her story demonstrates the strategic choices that some make when very young, due to local politics. Courtney’s friend knew that, if he created strong local allegiances, he would have a much greater chance of being accepted when he decided to be open about his sexuality. His extremely positive local ties and being “one of their people” opened up a space for dialogue around and acceptance of his sexuality that would not have existed otherwise.

This perception of who truly belongs in the community also led to unexpected displays of support from community members. Jacob says:

I moved before I came out. I was concerned that maybe I was making a huge mistake moving back. In the 8 or 9 years I’ve (been) back, I only had two problems ever; twice at the bar. One time, the owner kicked (the guy) out and the other time, three older ladies basically kicked (the guy) out. [The bar owner] is super religious, but he wanted people to mind their own business…

115

Jacob explains that, even though the three women and the bar owner are not allies and even share anti-gay sentiments, they protected his right to exist in their bar and in their community.

Instead of place narratives about their specific towns or, more generally, differences between the West and East Range fully accounting for this mismatch between the stories I was told about the degree to which they are welcome and protected in their communities, regional narratives about being familiar community members also had an important impact. Support from community members comes both from whom you know and how they know you. Regional narratives delineating which individuals are considered familiar community members, versus strangers, are incredibly important.

Being considered a community member, especially if you have a positive community- given identity, serves as strong protective factors for LGBT Rangers.

Resisting Urban Migration Narratives: Why Rangers Stay and Return

One of the first things that non-Iron Rangers would ask me when I explained my research subject was, inevitably, “Why don’t LGBT Iron Rangers move?” From very early on in my research, I knew that this was a pivotal question to address. I could tell that this was an important topic for those on the Iron Range as well. I found notable resistance to urban migration narratives, grounded in perceptions of local community, feelings of comfort and belonging, as well as previous experience with and assumptions about urban areas.

As Brandon explains, these associations are important and strong enough to overpower anti-LGBT interactions experienced by Iron Rangers:

116

Most of my friends are staying up here [after high school]. They don't want to move out of their safe zone. There isn't a mass exodus. Even the gay people; they are used to (some) backlash; it's normal. Even a friend who came out and had uncomfortable experiences does not want to leave.

While Brandon views his friends with slight disdain as he counts down to his move to

Minneapolis, he recognizes that he is outside of the norm for wanting to leave the area.

Shawn says he sometimes misses the more active dating scene in metropolitan areas, but notes his friends in the Cities also report similar dating troubles. Jacob also notes the lack of dating pool as a drawback, but says his reasons for staying are plentiful. His reasons include close proximity to a strong family network and feeling attached to the land.

Sasha moved back to the area after living in Chicago because it was “too much of a shock” and she wanted to return to family. Multiple narrators mentioned the reduced cost of living in the area compared to city living as a factor for returning and/or staying.

Discussing her reasons for living on the Range, Kristie argues that people mistakenly believe urban areas are better. She says both rural and urban areas have a lot to offer, however the value of each type of place is different. Regarding the differences between metropolitan areas, specifically Duluth and Minneapolis, versus her town, she says, “everyone knows everybody and everybody has dated everybody.” Theresa associates urban areas with increased dating options and promiscuity. Additionally, many narrators carry strong assumptions about the unpredictable and dangerous nature of metropolitan areas. Madison, for example, says:

I think about feeling comfortable down in the Cities, having more experiences, both with women and in general. Staying up here, it’s comfortable. I know what it’s like. I don’t know what it is like actually living there. I guess I’m used to the woods; being comfortable with my surroundings. Down there, I have no idea what is going to happen. I know

117

all parts of the Cities aren’t bad but you listen to the news and these people got shot and I’m like crap! I don’t want to get shot…

Similar to Woodell, Kazyak, and Compton (2015)’s findings, assumptions about urban areas, as well as the LGBT people in them, were common in discussions about living on the Range. Additionally, narrators clearly distanced themselves from the negative stereotypes they associate with urban queers who they believe do not share their interests, values, and morals.

Questions about whether they would be happy, comfortable, challenged, and able to be their full selves crossed the minds of those participants who considered leaving (or returning to) the Iron Range. Interestingly, while a few people mentioned moving farther away than this, the vast majority considered it a huge cultural shift – and life change – to move to Duluth or the Twin Cities. For months, Shawn had a running mantra in his head,

“I don't want to live up here. I can't stand it up here. This is where I grew up… There is nothing good for me here”. When he eventually decided to stay, it surprised both him and his friends. He explains:

Part of it was because I was gay, but I also saw myself as much more metropolitan. The typical thing I hear from pretty much every single gay guy I talk to is, “Why don't you live in Minneapolis? The fast-paced life.”

It actually does irritate me… even non-GLBT people like my oldest sister down in Minneapolis [says], “You would be so much happier down here!” And I'm like really, really? What do I need in my life that I don't have here?

Through his conversations with friends and family, Shawn is resisting metrocentric narratives. Shawn explains that his sister feels like living in a metropolitan area would give him “community”. Her statement is indicative of the strength of metronormative assumptions about sexuality for both heterosexuals and non-heterosexuals. Despite their

118

conversations, she finds it difficult to believe that he is supported and happy living so close to their hometown. He says, “Are (my friends) all gay? No. But they are all fantastic”. The convenience of small-town living and Shawn’s networking opportunities provided by living in a smaller community outweigh his previous desire for a “fast-paced life”. He continues:

I became extremely well connected. Where else can someone at 28 be appointed to [multiple community boards]? A lot of [the reason I stay here] has to do with the fact that I know I am making a big, positive impact. If I were living in [an urban area], a) I know I wouldn't be as involved with as many organizations, that's a given, and b) even if I was super involved, would I impact so many lives?

This ability to be an extremely active member of his community was extremely important. He believes that his multi-faceted leadership helps break down assumptions about him as a gay man. Shawn argues that this, in turn, allows him to be a more effective advocate for local LGBT people and their needs, especially because he is out.

Resistance to urban migration narratives on the Iron Range is primarily motivated by a few factors. Similar to other research, feeling connected with community members and the land was important. Additionally, associating with concepts of the “rural life” as idyllic and an alternative to dense traffic and crime-ridden urban areas influenced my narrators’ desires to stay. Lastly, I found two additional compelling forces for my narrators. Specifically, they were influenced by perceptions of LGBT people and communities in urban areas, as well as their beliefs that they could have increased influence over their rural lives and communities.

119

Conclusion

Buffered from the effects of urbanism and subsequent stretching of the public/private divide (D’Emilio 1983), Rangers have retained notably smaller boundaries between the public and private. Scholarship over the past few decades has highlighted the importance of feeling connected to an LGBT community (or overlapping subcommunities), regardless of how well defined or easily accessible (Esterberg 1997;

Gordon 2006; Kreiger 1983; Wolf 1979). Despite competing narratives about LGBT people, most reported various levels of support before and after coming out. I expand current research regarding the “different logistical realities” (Gray 2009a) of rural LGBT people, as well as the impact of small-town familiarity on rural LGBT communities by considering how regional norms (e.g. “Minnesota Nice”) affect identity and community building. Based on the importance of familiarity and strong family ties, contrary to some research as well as popular narratives, LGBT Rangers were often averse to leaving. This familiarity within small communities serves as a protective factor; lack of anonymity helps people feel comfortable (or at least familiar) with them. Rangers recognize the need to be flexible and supportive because their communities are small and interconnected. Participants also mentioned that contributions to the local economy and

“hardworking” natures were protective buffers against anti-LGBT rhetoric and actions because they were seen as “true Rangers.”

Despite some discomfort with non-heterosexuality, Rangers maintained the

“status quo” versus making loud statements of hate or support. Rangers might express anti-LGBT feelings in the abstract (e.g. vandalize signs), but were much less likely to make hateful statements to an out person. Additionally, newspapers served as a main 120

avenue of communication for Rangers on sensitive subjects due to the buffer they provided between author and reader. Lastly, regional norms created the unique opportunity for a “glass closet.”

121

4: COMPETING SEXUAL IDENTITY CULTURES AND VISIBILITY POLITICS

I don't know if they're really like everybody else, or if they're able to pretend they are. – Madeleine L'Engle, A Wrinkle in Time

If identity is a collective accomplishment, we must examine the contexts in which identities are discussed, practiced, and contested. – Brown- Saracino (2015)

I found an interesting variance in sexual identity cultures on the Iron Range

(Brown-Saracino 2015). Through sociological explorations of sexual identity cultures, we examine important everyday lived experiences (Butler 1990) as well as understand identity as practice (Brubaker and Cooper 2000). By focusing on sexual identity cultures, drawing cross-site comparisons, and examining the lived construction and reconstruction of identities, scholars are better able to understand why and how identities are locally shaped.

While Brown-Saracino (2015) seeks to “look beyond major categorical differences (e.g. urban/rural)” (P. 1), she notably limits her analytical framework by gearing it toward “urbanists” (P. 10) and pointing to cities as “defining influences” (P.

14). Notably, a few of her comparison sites were equal in population and other attributes to those considered within rural studies, so questions remain regarding the differences between rural areas, small towns, suburbs, and cities. Importantly, my findings do not align with the three main orienting guideposts she outlines for sexual identity cultures

(numbers and acceptance, place narratives, and evidence of a city’s social character, particularly pertaining to its LBQ population). Specifically, she argues that the following

122

city elements directly influence her informants’ quality of life and are components of

“city character”:

(1) the proportion and spatial distribution of LBQ women and indicators of safety and acceptance; (2) place narratives… (3) encounters with evidence of a key (for LBQ women) feature of the socioscape41; the character of the LGQ population, both in terms of its demographic traits and identity culture (P. 36).

By limiting her model to discussion of city character and including elements that many rural areas do not have in her definition of sexual identity cultures, she inadvertently reinforces some metrocentric analyses she was trying to dispel.42

For rural LGBT people, community and family networks are highly valued and provide a protective buffer against anti-LGBT stigma. Additionally, regional visibility politics, norms, and narratives significantly impact the possibilities and desire for different identity politics orientations. In this chapter, I expand on Brown-Saracino’s argument that place-specific narratives and other specific “city elements” lead to different social networks and “orientations to identity” driven by either integrationist (i.e. post- identity/assimilationist) politics or identity politics. Specifically, I build on Brown-

Saracino’s conception of sexual identity cultures and follow Ross’ (2005) edict to consider ways to unpack the closet paradigm.

Brown-Saracino’s (2015) sexual identity cultures model, which focuses on small cities, suggests LGBT people in rural areas should all be firmly entrenched in identity

41 See Sivakumar (2000) and Carrington (2002) for other uses of the term “socioscape.” 42 Another important distinction between my own and previous research is that many scholars, including Brown-Saracino (2015), are particularly interested in answering questions related to lesbian migratory patterns and why lesbians appear to concentrate spatially nationwide (Gates and Ost 2004; Cooke and Rapino 2007); how cities attract certain categories of residents, such as lesbian couples (Kantsa 2002); and the transition away from ghettoization of LGBT communities within urban areas (Ghaziani 2011, 2014, 2015).

123

politics due to lack of access to LGBT resources, low levels of overall acceptance of

LGBT people and concerns, and extremely low levels of visible LGBT community leaders. However, my research demonstrates that some LGB Rangers are transitioning toward an integrationist identity orientation while others are not. Interestingly, these differences are appearing despite having “like cases” in many respects. I loosely follow the set of dispositions Brown-Saracino has outlined as being integral, i.e. self-identity, coming out experiences, integration with heterosexuals, and extant modes of framing sexual identity and difference. Instead of focusing on socially liberal areas identified as thriving LGBT enclaves (either relatively new or declining), I consider how sexual identity cultures are constructed and accomplished in places without any of these elements discussed as integral in producing LGBT identities, networks, and communities.

Comparing my narrators living on the East Range with those living on the West

Range, I demonstrate how the regional norms on the Iron Range and various (sometimes competing) narratives have significant consequences for visibility politics as well as identity and community development. I particularly consider the consequences when community reputation and familiarity are more highly valued compared to other aspects of identity, including introducing a third identity orientation – “disidentified identity” – to describe a sexual identity culture on the Iron Range that does not fit either identity politics or integrationist beliefs. Lastly, I redefine the orienting guideposts for sexual identity cultures, arguing that in rural areas, the strongest influencing factors are: a) higher levels of perceived local diversity and network overlap, b) increasing institutional support, c) more visible and influential heterosexual allies, d) reduced adherence to

124

regional norms and narratives, and e) increasing visibility of and access to broader LGBT communities and related media.

In the following sections, I suggest refinements to Brown-Saracino’s (2015) definition of sexual identity culture and the elements that influence orientations to identity. Additionally, I analyze sexual identity construction within a specific, relatively insular region (versus comparing cities across different states). Also, my research prioritized native-born Rangers and those who have been there for decades. Because of this, my findings differ from many other studies whose research questions focus on the impact of relocation on identity construction. Ultimately, I examine how sexual identity cultures are created in places where residents are less mobile and do not tend to relocate due to shared interests.

Geographically Proximate But Culturally Distinct: Two Iron Range Cases

Identity politics and resulting tensions are principal driving forces for LGBT

Rangers. Feelings and decisions about visibility wove themselves throughout my narrators’ life stories. Historically, considerations of how, when, and to whom to come out to, how out is comfortable, what to do if/when you are outed, etc. have been unavoidable in LGBT lives. My research demonstrates the importance of considering place-specific narratives, norms, and other elements when considering how and why concerns over visibility are more (or differently) contentious in some areas than others.

Despite geographic proximity – approximately 40 minutes (35 miles) away from each other – the two sites highlighted in this chapter have constructed two different sexual identity cultures. On the East Range, I found evidence of a strong identity politics

125

culture, while on the West Range, I found evidence of a transition from identity politics to an integrationist culture. This cultural divergence is notable because it goes against what much of the literature on sexuality indicates is necessary for this change.

Specifically, much of the scholarship suggests that living in an area with socially progressive attitudes, high levels of acceptance of LGBT people by heterosexuals, and both ample LGBT people and resources is necessary for this transition.

These two sites are interesting comparison cases because they share some level of adherence to the regional norms and narratives discussed previously. Additionally, both sites have similar population demographics including race, income, and median resident age. (See Table 1 below.) Residents are predominately white and have a similar mix of occupations/industry. Furthermore, both sites have higher education institutions

(community colleges) nearby and are generally socially conservative.43

43 Brown-Saracino demonstrates that no single place element or a mix of these (e.g. the economic or demographic contours of a place) directs identity culture.

126

TABLE 1 Demographic Factors on the West And East Range

Demographics West Range (Grand Rapids) East Range (Hibbing)

Race White 93.9% 95. 3% Hispanic 1.2% 1.1% Black 0.6% 0.6% Native American 1.9% 0.9% Asian 0.6% 0.4% Two or more races 2% 1.9%

Population 10,869 16,361

Total number of Households 4,900 7,569

Mean Household Income $54,256 $49,408

Per Capita Income $25,163 $23,087

Pop. Below Poverty Level 12.2% 17.1%

High School Graduate or Higher 93.6% 90.2%

Bachelor’s Degree or Higher 24.1% 18%

Data Source: 2010 U.S. Census. As demonstrated, both cities have very similar demographics.

It’s Different Being Queer Here: Identity Politics and Nuanced Rural LGBT Scripts

Consistent with research on LGBT assimilation, the integrationists in Brown-

Saracino’s study viewed sexual identity as “ancillary”. Conversely, those who displayed an identity politics orientation viewed sexual identity as “life-defining” and identified themselves and others in either/or terminology (e.g. gay or straight) (Brown-Saracino

2015:24). They also often discussed sexuality in overarching terms that negated variation in identity over the life course, such as using “lesbian” and “gay” to include anyone who was not heterosexual (regardless of whether they had been sexually active with someone

127

from the opposite sex or identified as bisexual in the past). Across the Range and almost without fail44, I noted that identities were discussed using similar terminology.

Additionally, the participants in Brown-Saracino’s study had social networks centered on other lesbians, ensured that their organizations and social areas were clearly designated in some way through naming or visual identifiers, and desired to live in an area with a lesbian majority population. On the Range, there was a complete lack of designated social areas and two (newish) LGBT organizations. As I demonstrate, the combination of cultural seclusion and regional norms led to limited awareness of LGBT identities and concerns. Many Rangers (of all sexualities) were notably unfamiliar with the acronym “LGBT”. In some cases, it was even used openly as a code word without fear of stigma because of the lack of recognition it brought from others. In contrast,

Gray (2009a) found that rural queer youth in Kentucky use the terms “LGBT (or GLBT)” almost exclusively when discussing people in the area. She believes this consistent reference to LGBT people as a “bloc constituency”: indicates how pervasive the terminology has become in general parlance; highlights her participants’ connections to urban youth groups; and their regular consumption of online national LGBT media sources which emphasize LGBT solidarity. Language shapes our reality in important ways (Sapir 1929; Wharf and Carroll 1956), including what we think about, how we perceive the world, and how we navigate our lives (Foucault 1978). As language also shapes what we think is possible, the lack of recognition regarding LGBT words on the

Range is notable.

44 Two participants self-labeled themselves as queer and a few labeled themselves as transgender. 128

Previous research indicates that those who have an integrationist identity desire an

LGBT-tolerant environment where they can be out, as well as broad social networks that encompass a variety of sexualities and interests. Integration is most desired when people feel that their area is tolerant, safe, and welcoming. Integrationists often downplay their sexual identity or resist labels altogether, as well as appear ambivalent about the sexual orientations and identities of those within their networks. Another defining feature of an integrationist sexual identity culture is that LGBT groups, bars, and organizations stop specifically defining themselves by sexuality. They also cease participation in symbolically or physically distancing behavior (e.g. having separate lesbian bars or

LGBT-only floats in parades).

On the Iron Range, I found a different variation of identity and integrationist orientations on the West Range. While some on the West Range demonstrated ideals and behavior aligned with identity politics, including desiring “community with a big C”

(Brown-Saracino 2014), others prioritized interactions with others who shared their interests versus sexual orientations. Often, narrators on the West Range simultaneously highlighted the importance of having a local LGBT community supporting others in a way that only they can (due to what they felt was a unique combination of identities, narratives, and social norms) and the importance of creating and maintaining strong ties with their heterosexual neighbors and community members.

Sometimes You Have to Reinvent the Wheel Out Here

The lack of highly visibly out people to serve as mentors and create an LGBT community foundation on the Range led to extremely individualized approaches to

129

identity development. “You have to figure out everything on your own, like how to come out to your mom. Sometimes you have to reinvent the wheel out here,” Courtney says.

This, in turn, created a perceived stagnation in LGBT community growth. Narratives of

“scarcity” are frequently connected with identity politics, where people are yearning for others they feel like they can connect with on the basis of shared traits and interests.

Sasha, Stephanie, and I discuss how it feels like there is a scarcity of lesbians in the area, which makes it difficult to feel part of the LGBT community. Sasha explains, “It's hard to find new friends in the community because you just see the same people.” Even now that she is coupled, she continues to yearn for a sense of community:

I was thinking about starting some kind of lesbian group yesterday because I was looking for any sort of lesbian. Do you guys bicycle? Do you do drum circles? I will dress like a gypsy if I have to… but I couldn't find any kind of connection at all. The closest I found was the Aurora Center in Duluth but it was closed, so I was like, well… I guess there is nothing.

Quite a few narrators suggest that the smaller, or at least less visible, LGBT community inspires feelings of solitude and longing. This narrative was also often coupled with the concept that there are many LGB (not so many T) Rangers – they are just difficult to locate and connect with.

Demonstrating identity politics, narrators went through great lengths to connect with others who share their sexualities. Tracey, also from the East Range, very actively sought connections with others with non-heterosexual identities. She recalls, “There was this couple I was pretty sure they were (lesbians] and so (my wife and I) would walk by their house so I could look in the windows.” When lesbians in rural areas find like others, their relationships are theorized as more important than for urban lesbians, who

130

have a much larger pool of possible lesbians to network with (McCarthy 2000). Despite the fact that Tracey and her partner knew many lesbians in the area –in their own neighborhood even – the overarching narrative of scarcity in rural areas impacted both her identity orientation and her behavior.

Multiple participants mention how they feel there is a lack of tangible and visible community. In addition to this, many posit that another inhibiting factor is the lack of designated safe places; there are no churches or businesses with rainbow flags. The lack of designated, consistent, physical gathering space was referenced in multiple formal and informal conversations throughout my research.45 This creates an environment where people feel extremely alone, even when partnered. It also impacts relationship development, as Brandon describes:

It is really, really slow-working. You get to know them, feel them out and how they feel about it. If they are accepting, you go a little further. You don't want to get close and then have them freak out. You basically have to feel people out individually every time. It is very nerve-wracking; you are constantly worrying.

This process is how Brandon approaches new friendships as well as potential dating partners. He sighs and says, “It is definitely unconventional dating.” This continuous struggle is indicative of living within the closet model. As Sedgwick (1990) argues, the closet is an ever-changing dance, where “new walls spring up around them… new closets… new surveys, new calculations, new draughts, new requisitions of secrecy or disclosure” (P. 46). Moreover, as Barton (2012) notes, the “language of the closet (out

45 Whether or not it would truly assist community formation is debatable, however. Some participants feel it would initially be ostracized but eventually become a welcoming and well-utilized gathering place. Others feel that such a visible space would never acquire community support and would be actively avoided by people concerned about affiliation with the space. Additionally, such a space would require currently unavailable resources and staff. 131

versus in) suggests a binary experience, but in real lived experience, coming out and staying out happens along a continuum” (P. 98). A significant portion of Rangers’ everyday lives includes negotiating this continuum.

This includes closely regulating disclosure. Courtney says, “It’s a different kind of being queer out here because you have to be so secretive or you feel like you have to be.” This desire to remain private (out to only a few close friends), firmly in the closet, was common. In line with regional norms and expectations, part of this appears to relate to the idea that it truly was not anyone else’s business who your sexual partners are. This desire/need to limit the flow of information about sexuality appears stronger on the East

Range than on the West Range. It also appears more respected by others. On the West

Range, I noted significantly increased levels of pressure to come out and conform to area leaders’ ideas of what it meant to be an LGBT Ranger.

Kiss My Bride, but I Was Too Afraid

Even participants who did have access to mentors, friends, and other resources indicate similar internal pressure on their subsequent decisions to be out. Tracey, for example, says:

When Naomi and I started going out, I remember thinking, “Well… I can do this and I don’t have to be out.” But then I started getting mad at myself that I would even think that [being closeted was the best option].

Despite Tracey’s clear support from community members, she still feels uncomfortable based on the cultural stigmas against lesbian relationships. This discomfort significantly impacts her everyday life and decisions. Tracey describes how she and her then fiancé used their ceremony in 1992 as an intimate stage for local activism:

132

As part of the ceremony, we signed all of the powers of attorney, the partnership agreement, the wills, all of that. We had a notary public up there. We made it part of the ceremony so people could see what we went through whereas straight couples just sign a marriage license.

We had about 75 people at the ceremony and a Unitarian minister. [The next time we went to Church], these old Finnish women were coming up to us asking us how married life was.

She says she “was really nervous about it”, especially for her son who was a young teenager at the time. Tracey shares how many of her political friends, including lawyers, judges, and multiple state legislators attended their wedding:

That was great. It was kind of crazy making though, when we were deciding who to invite. I never would've done that if it was a straight wedding. I was nervous about inviting certain people, so we would invite maybe one person in a couple and not the spouse. I feel bad about that now, but I didn't want trouble.

She reflects on this and continues:

We didn't hear any backlash. The one thing we did hear was there was a Sheriff's Deputy who was out at a bar one time and a friend of ours was telling us that he was going on about, “Can you believe that these two women are getting married?” and “He had half a mind to go and break up the ceremony” and blah, blah, blah.

Tracey says, “Even with the support of the crowd, at the part where I could kiss her, I didn't. I chickened out.” Despite their highly political ceremony and clear community support, Tracey and her wife also chose not to publish their wedding announcement in the local paper.

Tracey recalls another time where this stigma and internalized homophobia directly impacted her public relationship with her wife. “It was my uncle's funeral,” she says then continues “I didn't have [her wife] sit by me in the front row. I didn't say, ‘No you can't sit here,” but when I saw another family member I told her, ‘Oh you should sit

133

here.’” As Tracey reflects on this, her face scrunches a bit and you can tell the situation still bothers her. When I ask her why she made that choice, she says, “I think our relationships are dismissed as real relationships to the point that we have… have trouble... legitimizing it. All the time. Even now.”

Tracey explains she actively reminds herself to properly introduce her wife. She says, “I have vowed that in the least I won't ever call her my friend. But even lately, this happens.” Tracey has become more comfortable being out as time passed. She describes the transition away from not acknowledging her relationship publically:

There was a time where I didn’t just tell everybody that I met that I was a lesbian, which I pretty much do now. I mean I don’t hide anything. I try and [mention] my partner early on so that people understand and don’t say anything.

Sometimes I think they don’t get it because Naomi’s a lawyer… it is kind of funny. So I sometimes have fun with it. Sometimes I’ll say, ‘No, she’s my life partner’ and then they are still not sure what I’m talking about at all. You can always see when the light bulb goes on.

Tracey’s intentional word play highlights how heterosexist the Iron Range has been in the past, as well as how it is slowly changing so that Tracey’s statements about her relationship are not met with blank stares. Her continued internal struggle, even after being partnered for decades, also demonstrates the pervasiveness of habits built around self-censoring due to fear and conflict avoidance. Many participants, like Tracey, shared that coming out allowed their relationships to grow differently than they would have been able to otherwise.

While most LGBT Rangers were out to family and friends in some capacity, they were also strategic about their levels of “outness” which varied based on context. Sasha and Stephanie, for example, are both out at work but to differing degrees. Sasha “leaves

134

it open” so she is able to better control discussions about sexuality. While strong proponents of being out, Stephanie and Sasha recognize the importance of being strategic about how and when they express that facet of their identities. Collectively, these narratives indicate that LGBT Rangers carefully and decisively navigate their interpersonal interactions. Additionally, there are extremely limited (but increasing) positive social scripts for LGBT Iron Rangers to follow, resist, or actively edit.

I Didn’t Know How to Act: Limited Positive LGBT Scripts Across the Range

Some Range lesbians report that “contact dykes” played critical roles in providing them with positive social scripts and identifying assisting lesbians in the area who are otherwise unconnected to the local network. These mentors enable their new friends/mentees to create competing (positive) narratives about their sexual identities and lives on the Range. For many others, however, regional norms and narratives, as well as limited exposure to a visible welcomed LGBT community, creates an environment with limited social scripts to follow. This contributes to a continuous loop of younger teenagers afraid to come out to their families and communities. Stephanie explains:

A lot of people around here are scared that they are going to be stoned, like it is actually going to happen. I've always had an attitude of ‘if you don't like me, just stay away,’ but a lot of people don't have that, someone to tell them it is okay or show them it isn't all that scary.

Brandon says something very similar to this regarding whether he feels there is an LGBT community in the area:

Nobody up here has the exposure to gay culture or community because it is all rural and no one can get the exposure because they are all too afraid to leave. Their only exposure is what they see and it is just not accurate at all.

135

Importantly, stereotypes and stigmas related to being non-heterosexual come from straight people thinking about gay people as well as gay people thinking about gay people. Echoing others, Brandon notes the clear connection to Iron Range broader norms and narratives, stating, “We aren't people for confrontation, we just ignore it so it goes away.” However, he says, “that doesn't work so well for sexuality.” Many narrators discuss a delayed self-acceptance because of internal struggles, pressures to meet social expectations taught from very young, as well as the lack of knowledgeable people willing and able to act as a sounding board.

Brandon wanted to connect with other LGBT people after he came out. Searching

“gay” and northern Minnesota” on the Internet led him to the Iron Range GLBTA.

Coincidentally, someone he knew was running it. The first event he attended was almost an hour from his house. It was a low-key event that included hot chocolate, snacks, and, of course, sledding. He recalls,

When I first went to the sledding party, I thought… Wow, I could easily get along with these people. I could see them on the street and think nothing of it. This is completely normal and laid back. It really opened my eyes. I had had no exposure to gay people before the event.

In this way, the lack of visible LGBT community, relative lack of resources, and the general social isolation amplifies confusion and concerns about those with non- heterosexual identities. While some studies (e.g. Woodell, Kazyak, and Compton 2015) indicate that rural locales are becoming much less restricting environments for locating a gay community, especially due to social media and the Internet, my research indicates that locating other LGBT people remains complicated for some. Additionally, as

Stephanie and Brandon explain, for some Iron Rangers, LGBT people are seen as

136

unfamiliar “others” based on their limited exposure. It is because of this, as well as the lack of positive regional narratives, that Brandon was surprised to learn that hanging out with other LGBT people could feel “normal” and even fun.

Narrators (particularly on the East Range) frequently made similar statements about “not knowing how to act” once they determined that they would like to come out.

For example, despite Shawn’s support from his sister and a few others, he did not feel comfortable with his sexuality for some time. He attributes this to his religious upbringing and regional methods for discussing non-heterosexuality. Even after moving out of state for college, he was always worried someone would overhear him discussing something related to being gay and offend them. “I realized that I wasn't being completely true to myself because I never knew how to be. I didn't know how else to feel,” he explains.

These negative cultural scripts Shawn encountered held an ideological monopoly on his consciousness long after he moved from the area. In true Minnesotan fashion,

LGBT people were often discussed in a roundabout way, which obscured the complete story and contributed to negative perceptions. Shawn says, “There was just this undertone” to how people would say the words. “Growing up, this one guy's wife had left him for another woman and it was a rumor talked about in town and I took the longest time to figure out what that meant. Years,” he elaborates. Even though he didn’t fully understand the situation due to the vague rumors, he shares, “Prior to realizing what that meant, I knew it wasn't good because of how it was talked about.” Homophobia is strong enough that it latches on our psyches even when only insinuated.

137

“It was pre- ‘that’s so gay’ time, but it was Matthew Shepard time”, he continues.

Notably, quite a few participants mention that Matthew’s murder was devastating and felt particularly relevant to them as LGBT people living in rural areas. A few indicate that their perception of their position and safety in their community changed for the worse after his murder. This speaks to the increased relevance rural LGBT people find in some types of stories and narratives versus others (e.g. stories of urban anti-LGBT violence).

Compared to urban violence, which they disassociate with on a few levels, Matthew’s murder felt uncomfortably close to home. On a related note, while a few narrators report appreciating occasional travel to places with larger and more visible LGBT communities, many others, however, did not find significant comfort in going to urban areas, gay bars, and Pride parades. Madison explains,

I’m usually with straight people all of the time. Going down there and hanging out with gay people and going to the gay bars was just weird… I wasn’t used to… I’m still not used to… girls dancing on each other and guys grinding on each other and I mean, I dance with girls obviously but I just, I don’t know, I have been in the straight world so long it is weird to see that.

Spending her formative years trying to fit into Iron Range culture left a mark on

Madison’s psyche. While many on the Iron Range, like Kristie, Sam, and Shawn found

Pride parades liberating and exciting, others, like Madison, found it “overwhelming.”

She explains,

There were so many people and so many rainbows. It was a good experience, but I didn’t know what to do with myself. I knew everyone there was gay or gay friendly and at the same time I still was afraid to get judged

Even though she was out to her friends, Madison was not comfortable coming out to many in her town because she knew some were extremely religious and she had heard

138

others make anti-gay jokes and comments. Events like Pride threatened exposure on an uncontrollable level.

Even now, years after she started coming out, she shares that she still feels uncomfortable with overtly gay or lesbian sexuality. She recalls that she was watching an LGBT movie the other day and she found herself “kind of questioning, should they really be doing that? Two girls and two guys?” The feelings and thoughts made her take pause. “At the same time, I told myself, ‘Really? You are gay,’” she says. Despite being more comfortable with her own sexuality, Madison’s continued internal battle demonstrates the stronghold that regional norms have as well as their long-standing impact on the region. Additionally, some narrators find gay bars and Pride events stressing versus liberating and associate them with urban queerness.

Secret Basement Lovers and Straight Women Who Kiss Other Women When Drunk

The pressure (whether real or perceived) from others to stay in the closet, as well as the lack of other possibilities presented in Iron Range culture, resulted in many women

I met or heard about staying in the closet and interacting with each other only in specific ways and/or under a thin guise of heterosexuality. Stephanie says many women “don't think it will work [to couple with a woman] so they end up in terribly sad 20-year heterosexual marriages.” “Or become the straight women who really want to kiss you when they are drunk,” Sasha adds.

Stephanie’s previous relationship provides an example. Prior to meeting Sasha, she dated a “straight” woman almost four years. This relationship was extremely closeted and appears demonstrative of a larger regional pattern. In this relationship, her

139

girlfriend “was very, very straight and her family was very, very Lutheran …and not in that fun, liberal Lutheran kind of way.” “I was 26 or so when we started dating and she was in her mid-30s, so she was quite a bit older and her kids were teenagers,” she says.

Stephanie relays. “I was her secret that lived in the basement.” Her girlfriend’s kids called her “Auntie Stephanie” because she would help drive them around and support the household financially. Despite this, her girlfriend upheld the ruse and did not share who

Stephanie really was to her children until they had been dating for 2 years.

Stephanie’s emphasis of “very, very straight” came across as sad because her long-time girlfriend struggled so much with the idea of being an out lesbian couple that it caused an uncomfortable living arrangement for Stephanie and “a miserable relationship.” Having never experienced an out couple on the Iron Range (even though she had seen other successfully out couples elsewhere), Stephanie had no clear examples to follow. She resigned herself to the relationship for much longer than she was happy because she “just thought that was how it was going to be. I thought this is how gay people do it around here…. the community is hiding.” She explains that she openly discussed this struggle with her then girlfriend and that her girlfriend would promise they would move away so they could be out in public.

This internal pressure to follow perceived acceptable (i.e. extremely private and/or closeted) types of same-sex relationships also hurt Courtney’s relationship because she could not balance her professional position as a nurse with being an out bisexual woman in a same-sex relationship. She says she didn't know how to be in a relationship with a woman in public and was scared that people would hate them and her patients

140

wouldn't want her to treat them. Being closeted was “not okay” for either of them and significantly contributed to their break up.

Another example of the consequence of regional silences around LGBT people and the lack of positive scripts to follow is provided by the well-attended “Female

Impersonator Show” that occurs roughly once a year in Hibbing. I attended a show in

2010, which included dinner and performances by drag queens from across the state.

During the event, quite a few women became significantly intoxicated, as well as notably and overtly sexual very quickly. Along with groping the drag queens, they sexualized and romantically connected with each other. The narrator who invited me to the show and made a comment about how “this happens all of the time – the women are afraid to come out, so they get their kicks here.” Because this wasn’t considered a “real gay” event, it provided a safe liminal space for the women struggling with or exploring non- heterosexuality because it was an event where same-sex desire and actions are framed as

“just having fun” by the local community. Additionally, retention of the outdated name

“Female Impersonator Show,” which has remained the same for over a decade, appears to create a purposeful and symbolic separation from the contemporary LGBT community.

Underground is Our Normal: East Range’s Disidentified Sexual Identity Culture

Across the U.S., conceptualizations of cultural sameness in terms of assimilation have become possible over the last few decades due to changing economic, cultural, and political circumstances. These cultural shifts have been linked to the destabilization of gay neighbors in urban areas as public attitudes toward LGBT people and families have dramatically improved (Sullivan 2005; Ghaziani 2011) and heterosexuals increasingly 141

welcoming to, and even seek out, same-sex neighbors (Ghaziani 2015). Cultural sameness discourses are part of assimilation, which is a significant shift from the coming out era where openly declaring one’s sexuality was prioritized and people almost exclusively networked with those with similar sexualities. While “post-gay isn’t ‘un- gay’” (Collard 1998), people who adopt an integrationist identity are often described as

“a new type of gay” and “post-mo” (postmodern homosexual) by some authors (Aguiree-

Livingston 2011). Integrationists self-define as more than their sexuality and

“disentangle from a sense of militancy and struggle, feel free from persecution despite persisting inequalities and prefer sexually mixed company” (Ghaziani 2015:760).

On the Iron Range, I found evidence of a sexual identity culture that importantly diverges from both contemporary identity politics and integrationist orientations. What I am labeling a disidentified sexual identity culture highly values and prioritizes cultural sameness. Far from “post-gay” integrationist approaches, instead of being derived from progressive cultural shifts away from feelings of difference and oppression toward mainstream acceptance, the disidentified sexual identity culture is created through the confluence of significantly consistent regional norms and lack of cultural shifts relative to other places in the country.

Notably, the disidentified sexual identity culture includes strategic identity negotiations that, unlike identity politics noted above, does not ascribe value to or find self-fulfillment in coming and being out. Similar (although not completely analogous) to

Munoz’s (1999) theorization about “disidentification”, as well as Gray (2009a)’s findings regarding rural queer youth, there is neither a complete rejection or acceptance of dominant ideologies or cultural pressures regarding visibility. Instead of following “a 142

politics of gay visibility that judges allegiance and mental adjustment to one’s identity by a willingness to pronounce it (Gray 2009a:166)”, those with a disidentified orientation strategically and pragmatically balance their community-based and LGBT identities.

Part of this balance includes a lack of overwhelming and compelling desire to network with others who have similar sexuality identities and behaviors. Howard’s

(1999) historical analysis of queerness in rural (southern) communities demonstrates that

“Queer discourse… relied on a careful etiquette of revelation and (dis)identification” (P.

128-129). Similar to what I found, this was part of broader cultural pressures that valued suppression of cultural (including sexual) differences and enabled those in rural areas to utilize silences and silencing to their advantage when exploring their sexualities. Figure

2 below demonstrates how this sexual identity culture maps onto current conceptions of identity politics and integrationist orientations. This model extends the typical continuum model of sexual identity formation.

Specifically, it enables exploration of different types of identity formation occurring outside of urban areas, which follow a different logic and value structure due to regional norms and pressures. Juxtaposed against ubiquitous conversations about post- gay identities, my findings underscore the importance of considering the significant variance in LGBT sexual identity cultures across the nation. Moreover, this further challenges our typical conceptions of the closet model because the components that make up the closet structure are not the same for everyone – and, in fact, there are distinct differences in whether someone feels constrained within the closet.

143 FIG. 2 Visual Representation of Three Orientations to Sexual Identity

Typical spectrum in sexuality literature

Identity Politics Orientation Integrationist/Assimilationist Orientation

• Self-recognition as LGBT • Self-recognition as LGBT Pre-Identity • Coming out prioritized • Sexual identity is only one aspect of who they are Politics Sexual identity is life defining High levels of perceived safety and acceptance (Closeted) • • • Lack of perceived safety and acceptance • Desire to connect with others with similar based on their sexuality interests, regardless of sexuality (while still part of • Belief in “strength in numbers”; focus on a larger LGBT community) documenting LGBT history and • Relocation out of LGBT enclaves, if existed community-building High adherence to • Gay enclaves established in many cities regional social norms that prioritize community relationships Disidentified Orientation

• Self- recognition as LGBT • Community membership highly prioritized • Sexual identity is not life defining • Cultural sameness valued and sexual difference • Lack of perceived acceptance based on downplayed sexuality • Symbolic/physical distancing from other LGBT • Coming out not valued community members • Varied levels of being in the closet • Minimal LGBT community-building • Gay enclaves never existed

144

Prioritizing Community Ties and Maintaining Quiet Lives

Those with a disidentified sexual identity culture appear to be strongly motivated by internal pressures to be viewed positively in their communities. Brandon explains how coming out can impact this balance:

You can feel too out sometimes. You don't want to add to the negative stigma and be just another one of those gay people that you always see. You want to show people that just because you [are gay], it doesn't change who you are.

For Rangers, there is strong pressure and, arguably, a social need, to maintain family and local community connections. Coming out can endanger these connections, not just in terms of acceptance, but also in terms of changing designated (and well-understood) roles in various social situations. Also, importantly, many narrators were concerned about being stereotyped as (and promulgating) stereotypes about LGBT people they didn’t feel fit them. As Brandon states, they didn’t want to be seen as one of those people. Brandon elaborates, “Coming out can become the one thing people remember you by, but it doesn't have to be.” Jacob shares a similar sentiment, saying that he thought about all of this when coming out on his 30th birthday. “It’s a bigger deal in a small town; there's no shutting that door once you open it,” he says. In this way, coming out sometimes poses a danger of having the community’s understanding of your place and identity re-written and/or over-written.

Another consequence of this sexual identity culture is that it limits the ability of

LGBT Rangers to be comfortable in LGBT-focused social settings. Martha elaborates:

We invited (a colleague) who grew up in Hibbing to one of our “Lavender Potlucks”. She clammed up and said, “We don't socialize around here.” 145

The way she said it, it was clear that she was not going to socialize with anyone who was out. Even today, I still see her and visit but that's something we never, ever, ever talk about even though she has been partnered longer than we have.

Almost exclusively on the East Range, I found evidence of generalized indifference about

– as well as active symbolic/physical distancing from – other LGBT community members, which I believe is a hallmark of disidentified sexual identity culture. Brandon provides an example of the indifference demonstrated by some community members:

“It’s an underground movement here. You band together for an event or if an issue arises, like a political issue, but then you will all just scatter and go back to your quiet lives once it is over.”46

For many with a disidentified sexual identity culture, there is context-specific interest in locating and networking with other LGBT people in the area. Aside from during critical times requiring larger-scale community attention and involvement, annual events (which only a few attend), or when seeking romantic connections, many LGBT

Iron Rangers are comfortable with their “quiet lives” which follow regional norms and maintain the status quo. Theresa, for example, has not come out to her family members or her colleagues at work. She states, “If I’m not in a relationship, I don't feel like it is necessary to be out.” In an attempt to meet people in order to widen her potential dating pool, Theresa also started wearing rainbow jewelry and “stuck a little rainbow fish on

(her) truck to see if people noticed.” Notably, this search for a partner was compelling

46 I suspect that this sexual identity culture may be occurring on the West Range as well, however, at much lower rates. While I did not have any narrators mention anything akin to this orientation on the West Range, I believe this might be because I did not cross paths in a meaningful way with those who subscribe to it. This could partly be because community members knew me as an out lesbian working on a queer Iron Range project.

146

enough for Theresa to go against her general inclination against being out. She elaborates on how this desire shifted her sexual identity culture:

A few years ago, I would have been afraid to [attend an LGBT event because I might] run into a relative, but knowing who I am and this is my lifestyle, I'm not going to hide. I mean, I don't go hollering that I'm gay to the world... There is a little apprehension, but I figure eventually that's the only way I’ll meet someone.

So far, the rainbow paraphernalia has not successfully attracted potential dating partners.

Theresa’s general inclination is toward a disidentified sexual identity culture.

While Theresa continues to seek connections to the LGBT community because she is looking for a long-term relationship, she does not consider herself a part of the broader community. “I'm not a real active lesbian. I'm more of a behind-the-door kind. I mean, I don't do the parades,” she says. Other narrators also stated that their sole purpose in attending any local LGBT community meetings and events was to, as one put it, “find someone who is interested in having a quiet life with me back home.” Theresa is not closeted, as she dates women and is out to close family members and friends, but she is not actively out. She is disinterested in the coming out process or connecting with other

LGBT people (i.e. identity politics) outside of relationship purposes.

I heard the phrases “quiet life” and statements like “I’m not an active lesbian” frequently on the East Range. This distinction was usually made as part of a larger discussion about how they feel their lives and worldviews are different from those espousing identity politics and integrationist orientations (although not stated explicitly in those words). Similar phrases are used to discuss assimilation. LGBT assimilationists state they are “boringly normal” (Ghaziani 2015:765) as well as reject “political activist”

147

labels.47 In this case, instead of saying this to demonstrate how far they have been accepted into the mainstream, the effort to normalize their lives and downplay differences is an attempt to seem like the average Ranger.

One of the reasons this downplaying occurs is because forging familiarity and community when living in a small town – regardless of sexuality – was paramount.

Theresa says, “In a small town, I worry about what other people think. When it comes down to it, you have to live with people in this town, so you want to try to stay on good terms.” Tracey also discusses how living in a rural community impacts her social networks, “You can’t piss off your Republican neighbor either, so you have to negotiate.

You can’t be extremist about anything because you will need them for something later.

Or you can piss them off and become friends with them again!” Although spending time with other lesbians was important, they recognized the need to balance their personal political feelings and visibility with community connections.

Importantly, contrary to those who participated in the “great gay migration”

(Weston 1995) concentrating in urban enclaves, Iron Range LGBT people are and have always been fully integrated with heterosexuals based on both geographic and social necessity. Instead of viewing cultural sameness in terms of widespread acceptance of their sexual identity, those who subscribe to disidentified sexual identity culture seek to assert cultural sameness with the goal of maintaining the status quo in their communities.

Compared to internalized homophobia, which is inward facing and driven by self- protection, fear, and/or shame, those with a disidentified sexual identity culture are

47 See Barton (2012), Benson (2004), Kazyak (2011) for discussion of the “boring” and “good” gay tropes. 148

outward facing and motivated by positive associations with their communities and the benefits received by those associations.

As Gray (2009a) argues, one’s credentials as a local are “pivotal to the broader politics of rural recognition and representation” (P. 37). By downplaying sexual difference and focusing instead on pre-established community identit(ies) and long- standing social networks, these LGB Rangers strategically maintain access to the privileges associated with being valued community members. Brandon explains, “It seems unusual but people have been quiet for so long that they are used to it that they don't want to change their lifestyle now. It's not that they don't feel safe; it's just normal for them.” As another narrator puts it, “If your needs are being met, what is the point of otherizing yourself and possibly losing your support network?” As conversations about sexuality are discouraged regionally, it is difficult to anticipate reactions prior to coming out. While much of the literature on sexualities considers safety and acceptance as two sides of the same coin, many LGBT Rangers indicate that they draw an important distinction between feeling safe and feeling accepted in their communities when deciding whether to come out.

Rainbow Flags And Antiquing: West Range’s Identity and Integrationist Mix

One of the most visible lesbian couples on the East Range, Julie and her partner are the “only resident queers in the whole neighborhood” they have lived in for almost 28 years. Out to most, she believes they are “very well liked and accepted” and her partner participates in the local “women's hobby club.” That said, compared to their East Range

149

counterparts, many West Rangers express strong feelings about visibility and both identity and integrationist orientations.

Charlotte says visibility was discussed upfront. Being out as a couple was a deal breaker. “Before Martha and I had our commitment ceremony,” she says, Martha told her they could not be together unless she was completely out. “She had fought too hard to get where she was and would not hide again. I agreed and she rolled me out in a ,” she says. Martha explains, “On my wedding day I said [to myself], ‘If this doesn't work then you are going to live the way you were intended to live’”. Martha falls between identity politics and integrationist sexual identity cultures and feels that living in an authentic way is critical for happiness.

For both Martha and Charlotte, their 1997 civil union in Vermont – after being together a year – was a symbolic way to establish the legitimacy of their relationship for their family and friends. Charlotte explains, “When we got married, it took. This was real - it was a deeper commitment than what we had otherwise.” Martha agrees, responding,

It has also helped the community look at us as a married couple… We have always presented ourselves as a married couple but now we can say, “Yes, we are legally married in Canada.” Because they need to know.

As Hull (2006) argues, their ceremonies provided the opportunity to communicate the reality and commitment of their relationship, as well as to “assert the fundamental sameness… with heterosexual marriages (P. 40).”

Like Tracey and her wife, Charlotte and Martha also debated whether they should place an announcement in the local paper. Understanding the importance of strategically maneuvering their rural area, they announced their civil union in Vermont via the Duluth

150

newspaper versus their local one because their policy was to “print anything that was turned in” and they didn’t think their local paper would print it. They were not sure what the reactions would be, but in the end, they said that they were greeted with mixed responses:

We were going into [our Lutheran church], I can’t remember what we were there for, and some people were saying (she uses an upbeat and fast voice) “I saw your picture in the paper,” while others said (she uses a deeper, more solemn and slow voice) “I saw your picture in the paper.”

Because legal legitimacy and public recognition were so important to them,

Martha and Charlotte worked hard to be accepted in their community. These efforts paid off - their covenant ceremony in Minnesota (after their civil union) was extremely well attended. Highlighting their strong beliefs about visibility and the importance of proudly declaring their relationship to others, they had multiple commitment ceremonies in multiple states as the laws changed over the years, and were eventually legally married.

An extension of their ”lifelong process of coming out”, “these events provided a collective “opportunity for healing and validation” (Hull 2006:40).

Shawn, on the other hand, demonstrated a staunchly integrationist identity. He spoke with me at length about how it was important to him that his sexuality was only one facet of his personal life, his personality, and his choices. For this reason, when he moved home, he almost didn’t join the local LGBT group. He explains, “Being gay isn't my life and my life doesn't revolve around that attribute.” Generally, Shawn believes that being non-heterosexual is not a main (or the main) part of their identity for many LGBT

Rangers. He explains this by way of analogy:

Say you are really into antiques and you only go to the big antique show once a year, but other than that you don't really do anything with antiques. 151

You have your group of friends that you socialize with all of the time, and sure they might know you like antiques, but antiquing with them isn't a priority and sure they might come antiquing once in a while.

The association of sexual orientation with occasionally shopping for antiques - a hobby – is categorically integrationist because it demonstrates the prioritization of interest- based connections, regardless of sexuality, and rejects the idea that connecting with others who share your sexuality on a regular basis is necessary for health and happiness. While not universal, other participants also shared this perspective of “not really needing” an LGBT community, providing an alternative to the metro-centric perception of LGBT people in rural areas dying for contact with a like-minded community. Providing another example,

Shawn states, “For some people in this area, having that annual Pride picnic once a year completely satisfies their LGBT community needs.” He continues, “Do they need to be informed or involved in anything else the rest of the year? Nope. Some people need one or two things a month.” For some Rangers, their LGBT identity was simply one small component of their larger, multi-faceted identity – something they may be passionate about, but does not “make or break” their happiness or comfort.

Jacob also has a staunchly integrationist outlook. He doesn’t feel like there is any real LGBT community in the area, although there are clusters of LGBT people he is aware of in towns like Grand Rapids. In general, he is okay with this and wouldn’t like

“living in a gayborhood, like in the Cities, where everyone is gay”. This perception of

Minneapolis as having a gayborhood is an interesting comment on how Rangers conceptualize and stereotype the Cities in comparison to their towns, as scholars (e.g.

Ghaziani 2011) have considered Minneapolis’ gay community to be spatially dispersed.

152

Additionally, Jacob “doesn’t want to feel obligated [to attend a local event] because a bunch of queers are putting it on”.

The interest in (and ability to) be out and recognized as a having multi-faceted identity has been heralded as a hallmark of post-identity politics (Brekhus 2003; Brown-

Saracino 2015; Seidman 2002).48 In direct contrast to the East Rangers (with either identity or disidentified sexual identity cultures), he reflects, “I don't like the term community… we're all the same… maybe there's a need for it, but maybe not”. He continues, “I mean, I’d like to get together once in a while, but … if I was to build my own ideal community, it wouldn't be just gay people”. In this way, Shawn and Jacob seek to remain valued community members, as well as avoid narrowing their possible social networks or limiting their identity complexity.

Notably, despite this, Jacob also echoes others’ sentiments that it is “hard to meet people” and that there are a “lot more gay people that are not out.” He says, “I wish the gay community did do more things together”. Instead of hanging out with people “he wouldn’t really hang out with” aside from their involvement in a local LGBT-related event, he “would like a queer camping thing, but far enough that people from all over the

Cities, would come, or to have a gay getaway in the winter somewhere”. This indicates that sexual identity cultures may be flexible and overlap at times – for example, even those who clearly hold integrationist values may maintain a need for occasional identity- based connections.

48 Microsexual orientations often include an understanding of sexual and gender identities as fluid and identity with identity combination that include hyphenated, microsexual identities, such as “gender queer” (Armstrong 2002; Moon 2012). Often, these identities include a mix of descriptors based in sexuality, gender, profession, and lifestyle. Interestingly, Brown-Saracino (2015) found that an area heavily focused around these microidentity networks (Portland, Oregon), integration did not appear to be a priority.

153

Additionally, for many LGBT Iron Rangers, living where they can be out and welcomed for their sexuality is not part of their decision to stay there. Some East

Rangers do not care whether they are out and active in the LGBT community as long as they have a steady same-sex partnership. Contrary to Brown-Saracino (2015) who found that those who espouse identity politics “wish for safety and security… but do not explicitly celebrate the formation of ties with those who do not share their identity” (P.

15), I found that even those who did not feel completely comfortable or welcome in their communities due to their sexual orientations were still highly invested in heterosexual integration.

Compared to previous research focused on residential choices, my findings underscore the existence and relevance of these sexual identity cultures within areas where a lack of integration with heterosexuals was never really an option or a choice.

While Brown-Saracino (2011) suggests that commitment to integration with local heterosexual friends and neighbors only occurs if people can be open about their sexuality, I found that this commitment was not predicated upon how out individuals are or their ability to be generally out and accepted.

Impact of Varying Family Responses and Increasing Support

Feelings of acceptance and community are deeply rooted in the buildings and land that we call home, as well as the family members we are close to. Concerns about being out to family members (and the rest of the community) arose frequently during my fieldwork. Sasha now has her family’s full support a decade after coming out, but explains her mother initially struggled with the idea.

154

Courtney’s coming out story provides an example of the complex relationship between family support and identity orientation. Her entire extended family was “very strict Catholics” and gave her “a lot of pressure to be with someone, even in 9th and 10th grade”. Even so, compared to many Rangers, Courtney did not receive any negative information about same-sex relationships growing up and didn't have an inner struggle about her . Courtney’s mom called her and said, "What is going on with you and that woman? Are you in a relationship or what?" When Courtney responded affirmatively, her mother countered, “Well, I would rather (your daughter) was raised by her father instead of two moms." You could tell that her mother’s statement still significantly affected Courtney. She reflects, “That really hurt because he is a loser. He is an unemployed pothead. That was the most hurtful thing anyone has ever said to me.”

She scoffs, “My [drug] rehab and unplanned pregnancy and all of that just rolled off her back, but the lesbianism… oof.”

Two years later, Courtney started dating the man who would become her husband.

The first time they spoke with her parents, as a couple, was bittersweet. She recalls,

“My mom pulled out a book and said ‘This is the quilt that I am going to make for the blue-eyed baby boy you are going to have together’”. Courtney recalls, “I was really fucking pissed”. Courtney paces around the room as she tells me about this time in her life. She pauses and then says, “It's not fair that I could never marry Celeste but I can marry this man.” Courtney has never stopped fighting for marriage equality. The 2012 marriage amendment provided an opportunity for her and her husband to work together toward the cause. Her mother and father have also supported LGBT rights and marriage equality to a lesser greater degree. Courtney shares, 155

After the “Laramie Project” came to Big Fork, my mom had asked the parents of a gay son she knew to please go and watch this show. Their son had asked them and they said “no”. It was a big step for my mom. Also, my dad talked to a lot of people and posted a lot on Facebook [against the marriage amendment].

In a way, that felt like they were apologizing to me, but it is easy because I'm married to a man and I gave them a grandbaby.

Courtney’s family reactions strongly impacted her identity development and feelings about herself. Additionally, they affected her sexual identity orientation – the more unsupported she felt by her family regarding her same-sex relationship, the more invested in identity politics she became. Despite these examples, it was notable how many people relayed stories of family and community support. This support was sometimes direct and immediate, sometimes indirect, and sometimes a bit slower, a process of learning, understanding, and accepting. There were certainly teens and adults whose families rejected them after they came out, but these stories were remarkably fewer than popular culture and researchers assume.

A few participants also discuss how their children or stepchildren reacted to their identities and relationships. Some shared that their kids had no problems with their relationships. For others, like Tracey, support was a little harder to obtain. When her new partner moved in with her when her son was about 12, she overheard him telling one of his best friends who was sleeping over that her partner was a “live-in maid who got up early and came over and cooked us breakfast.” Another time, her son told a few people she was Tracey’s sister “whose office got blown away in a hurricane.” Things slowly became better with her son.

156

In general, most lesbians in the area have children, often from previous marriages, and for the most part this does not seem to cause much difficulty. As do straight parents and friends, children of same-sex couples grapple with their own coming out process.

Tracey’s son demonstrates the shock and struggle of navigating newly perceived otherness and “interactional disorientation” (Barton 2012:247) within a society that generally expects heterosexuality, prioritizes cultural sameness, and conflates gay with childlessness (Garfinkel 1967).

If My Family Accepts Me, That Is All That Matters

Family acceptance is often the difference between Rangers feeling unsupported versus feeling at peace with their sexualities and truly feeling part of their communities.

Michelle didn’t have to actively come out to many friends and family members because they already suspected that she was not heterosexual. Not having to come out reduced pressure and feelings of stigma around her sexuality. For Stephanie, the idea that she was attracted to did not concern her. In high school, she would “even joke with (her) friends and they would say, ‘you just fell off the horse’ and (she replied) ‘my horse has up and gone and I don't know where it is,’” she recalls. Stephanie had significant support when she came out and it helped that her grandmother knew before she did. She shares,

“I was going on a date and my grandmother asked me where I was going. When I told her, she said ‘A boy? So you aren't a lesbian?’” Stephanie said that she never really came out to anyone. She recalls, “I just started introducing people to my girlfriend and they said, ‘Oh okay…’” She mentions that “Minnesota passiveness”, (i.e. not disagreeing but not really agreeing either), played a part in her mother’s reaction.

157

In general, Stephanie says that her family is “extremely supportive” and has even protested on her account, “to the point of throwing rainbow apples at people. Literally.”

She explains that during the months prior to voting on whether there should be an amendment to the state constitution banning same-sex marriage, “My little cousin, from

Hibbing, was really distraught that people had ‘Vote Yes’ signs up. She painted rainbow apples with slogans that said, ‘Love knows no bounds’ and tossed them in the people's yards. She is very protective.” The marriage amendment debate provided another opportunity for her family to show support:

My other grandmother was the only person I was not going to come out to because she was 80 at the time. One day, she started talking to me about gay marriage and said, "I don't know why these people don't want them to get married. Who cares!" and I said, "I agree, Grandma." and she said, "And when are you going to introduce me to your girlfriend?" You can't get anything past Grandma.

Stephanie sums up her stories with a definitive statement, “If my family accepts me, that is all that matters, everyone else is outside of my bubble.” Because family ties are intricately related to community support in rural areas, family support made a significant difference in my narrators feeling “placed” in their hometown communities, as well as in their identity orientations.

Increasing Support

Supportive networks and role models are very important in navigating the often- difficult road of discovering and accepting same-sex attractions and developing a non- heterosexual identity. Along with family support, many reported feeling more comfortable with their coming out process after becoming close friends with gay men and lesbians, especially the rare few who were visibly out in the community. There are clear

158

indications that the availability of information related to LGBT identities and people is increasing. Corresponding with this increase in resources, local narratives about the possibility of being accepted LGBT Iron Rangers who are not deeply shameful or isolated are spreading.

I found my narrators’ life stages, along with their relationship statuses, impacted whether they actively need an LGBT community. Theresa reflects that most women that she knows are coupled and “keep to themselves”. It could be a safety factor, but I think it is (that) they don't need any outside social gatherings. We are at a stage where being home is better than going out,” she says. Julie, a few decades older than Theresa, shares something very similar,

I don't seem to have that need anymore. Earlier on, it seems important to know there are others, to find that support, to have that community. When you get (older), you've been there, done that, it's established, you don't need that to be who you are, to confirm your beliefs, to just be.

Julie’s life history demonstrates a clear transition between identity politics and integrationist orientations over the decades. Along with this, she also underscores the importance of community support – demonstrating that this need is not singular to a particular sexual identity culture orientation. Instead, the existence of three sexual identity cultures within 35 miles challenges the idea of a singular “post-gay” era as well as demonstrates the importance of regional influences.

Michelle is another example of age-specific orientations to identity and desire for community. When she joined the drama club in high school, “pretty much everyone said they were bisexual even if they weren't – it was considered cool”. For Michelle, it wasn't important that her drama club friends really were LGBT; the important part was that they

159

were willing to say they were. This effectively reduced stigma and enabled her to develop her identity and explore her sexuality more quickly and painlessly than others her age on the Range. It also impacted her identity orientation, which was between identity politics and integrationist. Additionally, while her experience is typical on the

Range, it mirrors trends described by Savin-Williams (2006) where the “new gay teenager” is much more likely to exist in a world where acceptance and support is becoming commonplace. This is a glimmer of hope that LGBT Rangers in a few decades will live in a more supportive cultural milieu than they currently do.

If You Don’t Know, You Don’t Need To: Competing Visibility Politics

The different sexual identity cultures on the Iron Range strongly impacted regional visibility politics. LGBT people are often thought of in binary terms – either they are out or they are not. On the Iron Range, things were not as clear-cut as this and individuals of each identity orientation had different (sometimes conflicting) expectations of other LGBT people.

I attended three annual Itasca GLBTA Pride picnics during my fieldwork, all held in Grand Rapids. These events demonstrated the importance of regional norms and narratives, as well as how the three sexual orientation cultures co-exist (and sometimes collide) on the Iron Range. One of the first things I noticed during the initial picnic was that the event felt more like a business luncheon than a celebration or expression of community. The event was held in the local park that year, which I learned was a contested and recent change from previous years where it was hosted at Charlotte and

160

Martha’s house. Some felt the switch to a public venue left them unnecessarily exposed, and even, as a person shared, “too loud of an event” for the area.

In direct contrast to what I was used to, having attended Pride events all over New

York and also in the Twin Cities, you were not drawn to the gathering space by thumping bass blaring through loudspeakers and greeted by oodles of glitter, rainbow flags as far as the eye could see, and drag queens in seemingly impossible high heels. Instead, the park was notably unadorned and the event could have easily been missed. In true Iron Range fashion, it was more of a wink and nod of LGBT Pride than a gregarious dance. The event, which centered on a cookout, appeared to be relatively well attended, with at least

40 people there. There were a few small booths, including one with a representative from

OutFront Minnesota who had driven up from Minneapolis for the event. I noticed that most people paid them little attention. There also appeared to be very little mingling or networking – people stuck closely in tight-knit groups.

Notably, during the second Pride picnic, I overheard a conversation between a woman (who appeared to be in her mid-fifties) and one of the event organizers. She had been asked if she wanted to provide contact information for the Alliance in support of their attempt to increase their documented community network. She refused and also appeared agitated at the request to write her name down on a “Hello, My Name Is…” name tag, “If you don’t know me already, you don’t have any business knowing me,” she said.

I did not have any luck conversing with this woman, although I tried. Even so, she clearly felt the requested information – including announcing her name to those she didn’t know at the event – was an affront to past practice as well as her privacy. Also, I 161

noticed a significant decline in repeat attendance during the second picnic. That year, the

Alliance decided to try to reach some people who may not already know about them.

They advertised the event to the larger community through fliers and through multiple community calendars (on the radio and in newspapers). The presence of a newspaper reporter taking pictures during the second and third picnics also caused a stir – some were excited to see the increased publicity for the local community while others felt strongly that it violated regional norms and expectations.

While there were a few new faces at the picnic, the distinct absence of the previous years’ crowd made a clear statement. Similar tensions over visibility and who should be invited to local LGBT community events, including house parties and potlucks, have occurred over the years. Michelle shares strong concerns over this type of closed- door politics, citing it as the source of her inability to locate local LGBT people and the relatively active group that has been in her area for years, unbeknownst to her.

Considering how long she had lived in the area, she was surprised that neither she nor anyone in her network had ever heard about it. On the Range, Michelle explains,

“Knowledge travels through word of mouth, so if you don't know someone who knows, you aren't going to learn about it.” Many describe the difficulty tapping into the local networks. Because of this, many LGBT and ally community members were searching for resources, as well as a sense of community, and inadvertently denied access to them by the very group they were searching for. Moreover, they sometimes felt unwelcome, intrusive, or isolated even when they did locate the LGBT community or learned about an event. In this way, regional norms of staying mostly within tight community networks

162

and coming across as unsociable to newcomers created additional layers of isolation for some.

I witnessed this occur during a few events that were advertised by the Alliance as

“everyone welcome”. People arrived to events in groups and rarely communicated with others outside of their social networks. Additionally, when a few people arrived who did not appear to know anyone, there was a noticeable lack of welcoming behavior or statements by any of the organization’s members. As Michelle discusses above, these people generally left shortly after arriving and assessing they did not have a pre- established “network niche” through which they could comfortably enjoy the party.

Some Rangers have various small, members only – and often lesbian or gay men only - groups, maintained via word of mouth invitations and personal recommendation.

Others want events open to whoever is interested in showing up, regardless of orientation or network. This tension surrounding visibility politics maps onto differing Range cultures – those who are more inclined to identity politics want closed, identity-based groups and personal connections due to concerns about safety and the need to control their levels of “outness”. Integrationists desire high levels of network overlap and expressed minimal concerns about safety.

Why Iron Range Sexual Identity Cultures Are Different

Rangers do not fit the three main orienting guideposts Brown-Saracino (2015) outlines for sexual identity cultures and that she indicates directly influence her informants’ quality of life. LBQ women are more likely to demonstrate a post-identity politics/integrationist identity the more safe and accepted they feel, as well as the more

163

spread out they are (i.e. physically integrated with heterosexuals). Additionally, she found that the areas with high levels of integrationist politics had lesbians in visible and prominent elected positions, reported an “abundance” of lesbians in the area, were neither spatially separated nor concentrated, and had an tradition of place-claiming via LGTBQ- identified land/business ownership.

Conversely, in areas with higher levels of identity politics, she found lower proportions of welcoming institutions (such as churches), reported higher rates of harassment and concerns for safety (even though they reported feeling “safe enough”), a declared “scarcity” of lesbians in the area, and less substantial but more concentrated local lesbian populations. Moreover, she found that those with identity politics orientations had increased feelings of outsiderness/outside togetherness and “daily conditions (which) prohibit them from forgetting about their sexuality” (Reger 2012:38).

Lastly, cities with the strongest orientations toward identity politics had recently lost a marriage equality referendum in their state.

The Range’s sexual identity cultures do not follow these same parameters.

Neither site has out or visible LGBT elected officials or a significant “abundance” of

LGBT people, spatial integration with their heterosexual neighbors has always occurred, and there is no evidence of place-claiming. Instead of the elements Brown-Saracino

(2015) outlines as orienting guideposts for sexual identity cultures and identity, I found the strongest influencing factors in rural areas are: a) higher levels of perceived local diversity and network overlap, b) increasing institutional support, c) more visible and influential heterosexual allies, d) reduced adherence to regional norms and narratives, and e) increasing visibility of and access to an LGBT community and related media. 164

Those on the West Range reported higher levels of perceived local diversity. A few narrators from the area indicate that they felt the West Range is more “cosmopolitan” than other areas on the Range. They point to the greater diversity of people, opinions, and even hobbies. The West Range is viewed by many in the area as more tolerant of diversity of all kinds than their neighbors to the East. While data on racial makeup does not support the idea that the area is more racially or ethnically diverse than the East

Range, this perception of increased diversity and tolerance in the area had several effects.

The West Range became a small mecca for those who wanted to remain on the

Iron Range but desired to feel part of a more tolerant, open-minded community. A few of the heterosexual allies I spoke with, as well as some LGBT people, chose to relocate from the East Range to the West Range for this reason. Additionally, some residents of the West Range drew the boundaries even tighter, specifically indicating that Grand

Rapids was more tolerant and diverse than surrounding towns on the West Range. This created an environment where LGBT-friendly conversations and demonstrations of support (e.g. local events) were more possible. While the East Range has some grassroots and smaller network-based LGBT support structures, the West Range has a significantly more organized (albeit still grassroots in many respects) support system.

Increasingly formal institutional support, i.e. a GSA at the local high school and the relatively new Grand Rapids’ Human Rights Commission, promotes respect for diversity.

Table 2 below provides a brief visual of the differences between the East and West.

165

TABLE 2 Perceived Local Diversity and Support From Broader/Lgbt Community Associated with the Three Identity Orientations

Identity Politics and DisId. Orientations Identity Politics/Integrationist Orientations (East Range – Hibbing/Virginia area) (West Range – Grand Rapids area)

Understanding of desire for limited visibility Increased pressure to be out (divisive topic)

Reported feeling less welcome/safe Reported feeling more (but not entirely) welcome/safe

Emphasis on dual identity: LGBT + Ranger More emphasis on being community members, regardless of orientation/where they were from

Less institutional support Increasing institutional support

Less consolidated movement/organizations More established movement/organization

Little network overlap Increasing/more network overlap

Range narratives appear stronger Range narratives appear less strong

Less reported respect for diversity Greater reported respect for diversity Most residents have not lived elsewhere Multiple residents lived/are from elsewhere

Less visible and influential heterosexual More visible and influential heterosexual allies allies

Perceived acceptance of diversity led to increased network overlap. While many people on the East Range appeared to prefer to stay within established family and friend networks, West Rangers are more likely to move between micro-networks established based on a variety of reasons for connection. It also has a higher number of visible and influential heterosexual allies. On the West Range, multiple newspaper reporters, higher- level church officials, school administrators and teachers, and even the Fire Chief, visibly demonstrated some kind of LGBT support. While much of this support was context-

166

specific or directed toward a certain person/couple, East Rangers did not experience this nearly as frequently and it strongly influenced their perceptions of support and safety.

Necessary Subscriptions: Visibility Politics in Television, the Internet, and P.O. Boxes

Various types of media also critically impacted individual identities as well as the sexual identity cultures on the Range. Additionally, visibility politics play a very important role in many facets of LGBT lives. A significant part of this visibility includes having access to LGBT media, as well as seeing themselves as represented in that media in meaningful ways. Access to this media as well as to the broader LGBT community (in surrounding towns and urban areas) is limited but slowly increasing. The depth and type of this access affects orientations to identity. In one of Brown-Saracino’s research sites, two co-existing sexual identity cultures clustered around migration wave versus generational lines, which she believed demonstrated the “interactive effect of other locales” (P. 21). 49 While I did not see anything similar regarding migratory patterns to the area, I did note some trends that appear related to how frequently Iron Rangers interact with those from larger urban areas, as well as the levels of diversity and resources presented in those urban areas.

On the East Range, there is extremely limited access to a visible local LGBT community. There are no community-wide LGBT celebrations and a general lack of

LGBT media access via public or educational sources. While some on the East Range indicate they had occasional contact with the LGBT community in urban areas, the majority of this contact was with a small city (e.g. Duluth). While Duluth has greater and more easily accessible resources than the Iron Range does, the majority of these

49 See also Whittier (1995) and Stein (1997). 167

resources were centralized around the local higher educational institutions, as well as the now defunct Women’s Coffeehouse. Conversely, those on the West Range reported that the majority of their (also occasional) contact appeared to be with Minneapolis/St. Paul, which has a greater variety of (and more broadly dispersed) set of LGBT resources.

While Duluth has one long-standing LGBT bar and small, relatively recent Pride event,

Minneapolis/St. Paul has multiple bars and a large and events.

For those on the East Range, the limited access to LGBT media and community led to either identity politics or disidentified identity orientations. For those on the West

Range, the greater access to both of these encouraged identity politics and integrationist orientations. Table 3 outlines some of the elements I found that drove access to LGBT community and media, as well as how they are associated with the three identity orientations.

TABLE 3 Access to Broader/Local Lgbt Community and Media Associated with the Three Identity Orientations

Identity Politics and DisId. Orientations Identity Politics/Integrationist Orientations (East Range – Hibbing/Virginia area) (West Range – Grand Rapids area)

Less visible/accessible LGBT community Rising visibility of/access to LGBT community

No community-wide LGBT celebrations Transition from invitation-only to community- wide LGBT celebrations

General lack of LGBT media access Increasing (but still limited) LGBT media access

Majority contact with small city (Duluth) Majority contact with large cities (Twin Cities)

Less contact with urban areas Greater contact with urban areas

168

Gray (2009a) and others have demonstrated that for many rural LGBT people, especially teens, the Internet provides an avenue for exploring that facet of their identity.

Research also shows that both adults and teens use the Internet to form a surrogate community. Weston (1995) suggests that sometimes an imagined community, whether close or far away, is all that is needed for enough of a sense of an identity and belonging to feel “placed” within the world. My findings support this, but also provide some additional insights into regional differences in the roles that various types of media play.

For many Range teens searching for a buffer from perceived lack of community support and an outlet for exploring burgeoning same-sex feelings, media (i.e. books, the Internet, music, and movies/TV) contained needed connection and insights – to a point. While media scholars often discuss the impact of representative media for LGBT youth, I found that adults were equally impacted by and searching for this media. Notably, the increase in availability of LGBT media across the country does not necessarily translate into a corresponding and equal increase in access by all LGBT populations – or that they felt represented or empowered by available media.

I learned an important lesson about this during one of the first meetings I had with some Iron Rangers in Grand Rapids. For college-aged youth (and older adults that attend the college), the college GSA provides a means in which to forge an LGBT-friendly space in the community. Through this space, individuals who are at various stages of understanding their sexuality are being exposed to LGBT media through movie nights and other GSA members. As I visited the group for the first time, I tried to make small

169

talk. The L Word50 was very popular around that time with my own LGBT circle, so I asked them what they thought about it. I learned that about half of them had never seen or heard of most popular LGBT movies. The L Word had just started circulating around the group. The DVD set’s owner says, “At this point, [my peers] seem to be desperate for any kind of .” We also discussed Katy Perry’s song, “I Kissed a Girl,” which had been recently introduced on the airwaves. I mentioned that I did not like the song because it portrays lesbianism very negatively; focusing on straight women getting drunk and “sinning” by kissing women, while hoping their boyfriends do not get mad.

My field notes from the evening provide more detail:

The room became extremely quiet. It almost seemed as if people were holding their breath. I had the clear sense that I had offended some of the GSA members. One of the girls says the song is the only representation of same-sex interaction on the radio, so even if it is not the best message, it is still nice to have. Another says that it really speaks to her because it, in her opinion, is about a straight woman struggling with her sexuality. Other people in the group nod and someone says, “Yeah, like you” and grins, pointing to the girl who made the statement. I feel humbled by what the girls are saying about being drawn to media that discusses alternate forms of sexuality. My internal dialogue reminds me that, as an ethnographer, I need to pay attention to uncomfortable situations like these. As we sat there, their statements hanging in the air, I noted that I had potentially distanced myself from the group by unwittingly displaying metrocentric thinking and privilege. I reiterated to myself the need to approach the Iron Range and LGBT people with my own assumptions and biases in clear relief.

Although many Rangers would have taken their statements as a “given”, I found the discussion extremely enlightening. In rural areas like the Iron Range, representations of LGBT people may be difficult to come by. These women found any representation of themselves in popular media exciting. In fact, a few of them even related to the struggle

50 The L Word is a TV show set in Los Angeles, California featuring mostly lesbian story lines. 170

discussed in the song and saw it as a message about sexual exploration. Not all participants were completely “LGBT media-starved”, but the media they connected with was surprising compared to national trends. Many participants shared the various ways that newspaper opened their eyes to possibilities, as well as enabled potential connections with other LGBT people. As Shawn describes, “We had a subscription to the Duluth

[News] Tribune. I remember reading the personal ads and thinking, oh my God, there are guys looking for guys and women looking for women out there.” Theresa shares that, for the last decade or so, her main way of trying to meet potential dating partners has been through the personal ads in the paper. Even though she lives roughly an hour away, the

Duluth paper was the best option because her local newspaper does not allow same-sex personal ads. She elaborates, “I have a P.O. box besides my home address.”

Aside from the obvious challenge of not being able to post closer to home, she feels that fear of coming out to the community in such a public way (since many people read the local newspapers), plays a factor for many. The P.O. Box allows her better control over who might link the ad to her. Along with anonymity, it also allows her a method of pre-screening and increased choice over whether to respond to (or simply ignore) someone who reaches out to her.

Regional norms and ability to nonchalantly share information via the Internet influence decisions regarding how and when to come out. Brandon describes a “back seat approach” where “you don't have to actively tell someone and bring up the issue, it's just there and they can bring it up if they want or just leave it”:

[When] I came out, all I did was change my sexual preference on my MySpace and Facebook. [Someone] saw and immediately called my mom, who was like, “So, do you have something you want to tell us?” I 171

knew they would be (supportive), but it was big [to have it out in the open].

Multiple narrators relayed experiences coming out passively via technology, which is completely in line with regional conflict avoidance strategies. Some participants shared stories about coming out slowly to everyone in their network, including family members, by posting pictures of them with their girlfriend. One person also used Facebook to come out as a transgender man and explain what that meant to members of his local community. Coming out on Facebook is desirable because it is a gentler, more wide- reaching step, where people can choose if they want to talk about it or not.

Fragmented Representations

For Brandon and other participants, the Internet provided a way to fill knowledge gaps about LGBT people and resources. He elaborates, “I didn't know there was anything like The L Word or Queer as Folk.51 I am Internet-savvy, but I didn't know what to look for. I didn't know that anything was even out there.” The media he watched provided perspective on Brandon’s own small-town life, particularly the film Big Eden, where the two main characters are middle-aged gay men who are well known in (but not out to) their community. Watching the film provided an example through which Brandon was able to recognize similarities in his own life and town. Even though he describes how things are not ideal for the characters in the film (or LGBT people in his town), he feels his community might provide support in a similar situation in a manner consistent with small town norms.

51 Queer as Folk is a TV show that centers around (mostly) gay men in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 172

Michelle feels the Internet provided much of what she needed in her identity development. She elaborates, “I kind of created my own (LGBT media). One night, I tripped across ‘slash fan fiction’52 and I was like yes, this is awesome.” Despite her active online life and the LGBT-friendly drama group at school, Michelle had just learned about non-fan fiction LGBT media. Despite the geographical challenges, the

Internet provided a way to feel relatively well connected to a larger LGBT community.

Compared to Michelle, Madison – who was a few years older – had been completely unfamiliar with any LGBT books, shows, or history prior to actively looking for related information. Instead of the Internet, attending her community college provided an avenue for her to explore what being bisexual or lesbian meant. She elaborates:

I didn’t even know that Queer as Folk was about gay people. I knew Will and Grace was, but there weren’t gay girls so I wasn’t very interested. (A friend she met at the college GSA) lent me The L Word. I know it’s not real and Los Angeles lesbians are like super out and go to coffee shops every day. It was nice to watch something other than straight stuff on TV, though.

Consistent with criticisms that popular media is constructing a “unitary ‘gay community’ rather than the range of lived queer realities and representations” (Ng 2013:260)53,

Madison was not convinced the show provided anything other than entertainment because it was so distant from her everyday existence. Like other narrators, because

Madison didn’t really relate to the LGBT media she consumed, it did not support her identity development in the ways that scholars have noted media can, especially for

52 This fan-written genre, often posted online, rewrites plots to include same-sex relationships and desires for characters portrayed as straight in their TV shows, movies, and books. 53 For further insight into this critique, see Walters (2001) and Avila-Saavedra (2009). 173

LGBT youth. Additionally, as Gray (2009b) demonstrated in her examination of the identity formations of two rural gay youth, the Internet provides stereotypical and singular representations of what it means to be gay. Distinct from her research, my own demonstrates how rural participants actively sift through the narratives online and in other media – selectively accepting and rejecting based on what appears relevant to their lives.

Madison ultimately found some information and perspective in books at the college library where she worked. She laughs and says, “I was always too scared to check them out even though I could literally check myself out. I would secretly read them, like on Saturday when no one would come in.” Because most of the books the library had pertained to gay marriage, they weren’t exactly what she was looking for. “I don’t care about gay marriage… I mean, I care about it, but at the time, I didn’t. I wasn’t ready to get married. I just wanted to know how it was for people to come out,” she says.

“Not knowing a heck of a lot of gay people, it was easier to read their stories in the books,” she explains. This is another important example of how silencing norms (e.g. not talking about sexuality) limit LGBT identity construction in rural communities. Despite

Madison’s multiple LGBT friendships and involvement in her college’s GSA, she actively looked elsewhere for information and connection because she did not feel she had the proper language to discuss LGBT topics sufficiently.

Tracey (four decades Madison’s senior) found similar enlightenment through books:

I was talking to (a friend) about how maybe I am (a lesbian). She (gave) me lesbian pulp fiction novels. I was very surprised at how much I enjoyed those trashy books because, in high school, when my straight girl 174

friends would be reading those stupid romance novels, it was like my God, they have no brain whatsoever. So then I thought, oohhhhh, maybe they did have a brain.

Overall, newspapers, books, the Internet, and television/film provide important exposure to ideas, beliefs, and cultures that are less prevalent in the area (or not visible at all). For

Sasha, The L Word allowed her to envision other possibilities for her relationships and life. She was disinterested in dating any of the lesbians she knew in town, so she decided to try the Internet. For Sasha, age differences limited her emotional connections, but the

Internet helped her determine whether a long-term relationship with a woman was viable.

While many participants were concerned about anonymity, some were more concerned about physical safety. Stephanie, for example, met Sasha through the Internet, but it took a long time and a string of closeted, unfulfilling relationships to get there:

Even the thought of online dating was really scary… like someone is going to find me and I am going to be chopped up in little tiny pieces and eat me and not in that fun way. So I thought this was how it would be, the closeted relationships, but then I decided, well getting chopped up to pieces can't be much worse than [living in my ex-girlfriend’s] basement. I had to do something, even if it was scary.

Controlling Information Flow and Visibility

Most of the participants I spoke with who were not in long-term partnerships had used the Internet in attempt to network with others for community-building and dating purposes. However, when I asked about whether participants utilized popular dating and

“hook-up” mobile applications at the time (mostly with bisexual and gay men), such as

Grindr, I was told a resounding no. Many narrators indicate these applications simply introduce people they already knows, are too far to date, and/or are unwilling to share their identities, perhaps due to how small their communities are. Jacob says, “For the

175

hell of it, I wanted to see how many people are around in the Cities… Holy shit, 50 people in like a mile! In (my town), more than half the people are more than 100 miles away.” Others report that applications like Grindr are simply a way for “married men in the community to find a way to get some on the side.” Shawn, echoing other participants, also indicates that the Duluth-based Craigslist message board serves as the main method of communicating with area gay men:

Craigslist through Duluth is very popular. If you want to reach the underground rural GLBT community, post in the “casual encounters” listings, male for male and women for women. You need to include enough information that they don't need to email you because they mostly want to keep anonymous.

Like Theresa’s newspaper advertising and P.O. Box system, Craigslist reaches a large geographical area. These methods of communication highly appeal to those with identity politics and disidenitfied orientations because they provide much-desired control over sharing personal information, as well as the ability to pre-screen information.

I Think I’m on the Internet Somewhere, but I Can’t Get There

Some participants recognize Internet dating options, but express additional reservations about it. Along with experiences where people did not want to take the relationship offline, Theresa fears her limited skills will have negative consequences:

I’m so computer illiterate. My friend who lives toward the Cities said, ‘Come on, I’ll take your picture and get you on the Internet.” So I think I’m out there somewhere, but I don't know how to get there. I’m just afraid if I go on, I am going to miss something or mess up and people will know what I’m doing.

176

Loss of control over how out they are to community members is an extreme deterrent against going online – especially for those with a disidentified identity – even though it means that they might never have a relationship.

Contrary to what I expected, lack of computer literacy and understanding of ways to protect your privacy online was not limited to older generations. People that I met across the generations were either generally computer literate (and comfortable with the technology) or they were not. There did not seem to be a middle ground. Social class appears to be an important (but not determining) factor in this. A significant portion of the computer literate people were in teaching and social service professions, while the blue collar workers generally lacked considerable knowledge in this area.

Also, a notable number of the people I spoke with did not own a computer, or if they did, it did not have adequate Internet access. Some occasionally access the Internet through libraries, via dial-up, or through mobile phones. From what I could ascertain, this lack of access is due to either a shortage in broadband availability in their area or the need to focus their limited funds elsewhere. One man I met at an event lives on his farm in a one-room house. When he wants to connect with other gay men via message boards, he borrows his friend’s cell phone or goes to the library about 25 miles away. While he is certainly not the norm, his experience is also not singular on the Iron Range. These access hurdles create additional challenges for networking with and meeting local LGBT people, especially for those who are not willing to attend large group meetings or events open to the public.

Across the Range, it is notable that much of the advertising is done via word-of- mouth, newsletters, and radio/newspaper ads. Community events are advertised via 177

community calendars that are read on the radio, as well as posted on local public access

TV stations. If a company or restaurant does have a website, it is often extremely basic and provides information that does not change. Along with impacting identity formation, the lack of Internet use limited community organizing. Due to the cost of and difficulty in reaching locals, many of the groups solely used Facebook for outreach, if they had an online presence at all. Decisions and debates about proper ways to market to and reach local LGBT people came up frequently during organizational meetings, distinctly connected to the politics of visibility and tensions between the Range’s three sexual identity cultures.

Using Facebook to Put Out Fires

The Internet provided a few more positives for Rangers. For some, Facebook is a way to keep a pulse on the local community, including finding and offering support to local gay teens. In this way, Facebook provides a non-invasive and free manner of developing and supporting local LGBT community members, particularly teens that may not have access to other resources. The site also provides a way to easily (and relatively passively) alert community members to concerns. One summer, Shawn and Jacob were verbally harassed by a group of firefighters from out-of-town. Shawn describes the incident:

Grand Rapids hosted the State Firefighter's annual meeting. (One night), some firefighters decided to call Jacob and me names. A friend came over to diffuse the situation and they responded “Your girlfriend (is) sticking up for you… take your faggots out of here…”

Directly after the event, Jacob and Shawn posted detailed Facebook statuses about the event. Shawn explains that he thought he was just blowing (drunken) steam to his

178

friends, so he was surprised to hear from the local Fire Chief shortly after. He believes that some people he is friends with on Facebook (such as “city council members, senator's wives, and [other] political people in town”) had seen his post and passed along concerns”. Shawn felt extremely supported. Facebook served as a rapid-fire phone tree enabling a satisfying resolution for Shawn and Jacob. Importantly, it also provided a visible record of that resolution for the local community.

Conclusion

I expand Brown-Saracino’s identity framework and add to scholarship demonstrating that visibility politics do not operate the same way across space and time.

Additionally, values, needs, and resources regarding visibility are sensitive to regional norms and place-based distinctions. Comparing narrators on the East and West Range, I discuss the limited (but increasing) positive social scripts for LGBT Rangers to follow, as well as the three sexual identity cultures on the Range.

I demonstrate how the Range’s norms and narratives influence local visibility politics as well as identity and community development. Based on the high value placed on community reputation and familiarity, I introduce a third identity orientation – disidentified identity. My disidentified sexual identity culture concept is similar, but not perfectly analogous to, theories about integrationist identities and disidentification (Gray

2009a; Howard 1999; Munoz 1999). In many ways, the regional sexual identity cultures are organized on single axes of power/identity (Cohen 1997), which limits the ability for individual Rangers, as well as organizations, to form multidimensional coalitions that truly represent the complexity of identities across the Range or meaningfully address the

179

multifaceted challenges that LGBT Rangers encounter. For many Rangers (although certainly not all), reflexive discussions around whiteness and/or white privilege are absent in their political work, which strains coalition-building and trust between white and non-white LGBT and ally Rangers.

The limited consideration of people of color appears to be a consequence of the generalized racism and xenophobia inherent in the Range Mentality. (For many, this mentality includes the conception of “true” Rangers as white - despite the notable local

Native American population). The general population’s whiteness, as well as cultural norms that strongly prioritize sameness, significantly impact Rangers’ perspectives and what they consider “normal”, as well as how they feel about normalizing versus disrupting or “queering” these normalizing forces. As Rangers do not have immediate access to – and can easily avoid, if desired - alternative experiences, viewpoints, and needs due to regional norms and their geographic isolation, an external catalyst of some kind is often required for them to actively seek out intersectional approaches or to consider how the pervasive whiteness of their area functions in some ways as a blinder

(interpersonally and within their community organizations).54

Overall, I contribute to scholarship on identity and community formation, as well as complicate discussions about the motivations for and the possibilities of assimilation within contemporary society, as well as demonstrate how LGBT Rangers strategically and pragmatically balance community-based and LGBT identities; actively (symbolically and physically) distance themselves from other LGBT community members; and utilize

54 While not within the scope of this dissertation, critically examining how whiteness functions and is (re)produced on the Iron Range (and communities like it) would be theoretically and empirically beneficial. Additionally, I believe it would add a useful layer of clarity to my conception of disidentified sexual identity cultures. I plan to address this in my future work. 180

silences and silencing to their advantage. I outline the consequences of a disidentified identity on the everyday realities of LGBT Rangers. On the East Range, most demonstrated either identity politics or disidentified identity orientations, while on the

West Range narrators were split between identity politics and integrationist orientations.

Moreover, I conceptualize the elements necessary for sexual identity cultures in rural areas, positing that the strongest factors that influence rural LGBT people’s quality of life and integration with heterosexuals are: a) higher levels of perceived local diversity and network overlap, b) increasing institutional support, c) more visible and influential heterosexual allies, d) reduced adherence to regional norms and narratives, and e) increasing visibility of and access to an LGBT community and related media.

Lastly, I demonstrate the various ways the Internet and other media are utilized by

Rangers, some of which were significantly different than their urban counterparts.

Participants across generations express the importance of knowing someone like them and who understands being an LGBT Ranger. This combination of overlapping identities is critical because, while a few participants mention national milestones with

LGBT visibility in the media, many (regardless of their age) report that social media, television, etc., are either supplemental or tangential to their identity development.

181

5: DIFFERENTLY GENDERED (DYK)OTOMIES, REGIONAL FEMININITIES, AND VALUED MASCULINITY IN WOMEN55

I don’t identify as “butch”. But let me tell you, when I lived [on the East Coast], everyone thought I was really butch because I wore blue jeans and t-shirts. It’s a different culture there. Here [in northern Minnesota], I look like a straight woman. I think there are different understandings of what ‘butch’ is. – Susan56

Garrison Keillor reports in “A Prairie Home Companion” that in his small, fictional, Central Minnesotan hometown, “all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average”.57 While Keillor may be speaking tongue-in-cheek, his well-known statement is relating an important and multi-faceted perspective on the way that gender intersects with space. Keillor’s simple slogan demonstrates that in his “hometown” (which is said to be a composite of the cultures and happenings of multiple small towns across Minnesota), the adjective “strong” is used to describe the local women. This is remarkable because, whether intentionally or unintentionally, Keillor is deconstructing the normative relationship between masculinity and femininity and their connections to men and women.

This phrase humorously sets up a unique binary that opposes the binary

Americans (and even Minnesotans) presume is true; that men are strong and women are good looking. As this proposition suggests, in rural Minnesota, regional culture and

55 Originally drafted in 2009, I workshopped a version of this chapter in 2010 at the Queering the Countryside conference. Thank you to my conference working group and Mary Gray for your insightful feedback. 56 Only some of my narrators explicitly identify themselves as “butch” women. I chose to use the term “butch” throughout this paper to describe women who include masculinity in their gender performance, to varying degrees, because this term is historically associated with a lesbian sexuality and the stigma directed toward masculine women often draws on the language/concept of being butch versus straight and feminine. 57 “A Prairie Home Companion” is a radio program that has been airing for over 3 decades. The show is based on Minnesotan culture and can be heard on Minnesota Public Radio. 182

norms shift normative understandings of gender. In the epigraph above, Susan contributes added complexity to this by incorporating issues of sexuality into the discussion. Susan is suggesting that, not only do notions of gender differ across geographic regions, but also, and importantly, that gender is inextricably interlaced with changes in the understanding of sexuality as well.

A growing body of feminist and queer scholarship over the past few decades has indisputably demonstrated that gender is a consistent principle upon which society is organized, along with other axes of privilege such as race, class, age, sexuality, physical ability, and nationality. Many scholars have demonstrated the profound and significant impact gender has upon both individual and group interactions. These and other studies have interrogated how both a person’s sex and gender performance impact their social status, finding that how a person “does gender” (West and Zimmerman 1987) can substantially raise or lower their position within society. Scholars have argued that a critical component of a person’s social standing rests on how closely the way they “do gender” embodies and reproduces the accepted distinct but complementary relationship between masculinity and femininity, in relation to heterosexuality (Connell 1995; Butler

1990; Schippers 2007).

This chapter expands current theorizing on gender by considering the impact of unique regional cultures on constructions of gender and the norms and consequences surrounding these constructions. I engage with Brekhus’ (2003) and Tucker’s (2009) call for a serious consideration of how the spatial, historical, class-based, and temporal

183

locations of individuals impact their understandings and performances of identity.58

Through the unique contours of the cultural discourses around gender in rural Minnesota,

I demonstrate that there is a greater degree of socially-condoned flexibility in gender expression for both heterosexual and non-heterosexual women than generally recognized.

Rather than distinct and complementary, conceptions of masculinity and femininity on the Iron Range are blurred. I am making an important distinction here between the phenomenon of blurred gender norms versus simply different gender norms.

In the regionally-specific cultural discourses on the Iron Range, there is a significant overlap between the traits considered feminine and masculine. The value typically reserved for men embodying masculinity is also accessible to women on the Iron Range through this blurring, because some masculine traits are also considered normative traits for a feminine woman. Regardless of their class positions, lesbians living in the small towns of Northern Minnesota have a unique range of choices to navigate the social consequences and safety concerns that haunt those who possess (and those who are presumed to possess) non-heterosexual desires. Even so, the gender patterns and roles that are often considered typical do not disappear altogether, as patriarchal systems still significantly influence social organization.

58 Brekhus (2003) for example, builds upon theories of “doing gender” by positing that identity is also something one “does”, demonstrating the instability and fluidity of identity as a category and suggesting that prudent studies of identity will incorporate the spatial and temporal positions of social actors into their analysis. He argues that, rather than being an essential feature, identity is performative in nature and “something one works on” (P. 21, emphasis in original). He posits, contrary to much of the work focused on how the characteristics and identities of social actors transform the places in which they inhabit (e.g. the creation of queer spaces), places or “identity settings” also have a significant impact on shaping an individual’s identity. For a more thorough discussion of previous work on spatiality within sociology, see Gieryn (2000). 184

Contemporary academic and popular conceptions of rural queerness are couched in images of isolation and brutality, especially surrounding male and transgender victimization (Gray 2009a; Halberstam 2005; Howard 2006). The Iron Range lesbians I spoke with argue that there are trades offs that are made when living in urban and rural areas; the trade offs are simply different ones. 59 This empirical research on the intersections of gender, sexuality, and space makes a theoretical contribution to discussions in queer and LGBT studies concerning the relationship between rural spaces and queerness through examining the important role of regionality on gender norms and, subsequently, queer lives.

Just as the constitutive categories of gender and sexuality have been re- conceptualized as fluid, unstable, and incoherent (Butler 1990), the features of the heteronormative are not universal, but in fact, vary across space and time.60

While this binary exists everywhere, the characteristics that comprise hegemonic femininity vary across geographic locations. In some places, the lines delineating what characteristics are considered masculine and what characteristics are considered feminine are more starkly drawn, where in other places, these lines are more blurred and the masculine is associated with and valued in both men and women. Moreover, where the

59 I am following Kandiyoti (1988)’s lead here. She explores how women employ different strategies and coping mechanisms within different manifestations of patriarchy and geographic locations. She argues that different forms of patriarchy, contingent upon a person’s temporal and cultural position, present women with different “rules of the game” and require different strategies to maximize their physical and emotional security. She posits that each type of patriarchy causes women to strike “bargains” in order to exist within the strict rules surrounding gender relations, and that each patriarchal form presents varying potential for resistance (both active and passive). 60 Joan Scott (2008) similarly argues that the contemporary gender binary is not universal, but changes across time and space. Reconsidering her influential 1980’s feminist essay, “Gender as a Category of Historical Analysis,” she argues that gender can only be “asked and answered in specific contexts.” Scott views contexts as temporal, geographic, political, and ideological and posits, “when gender is an open question about how these meanings are established, what they signify, and in what context, it remains a useful category of analysis” (P. 1429). 185

lines are less clearly drawn, people (and, in this specific case, butch women) have more latitude with which to construct their (gender) identities and lives.

Drawing on and extending the “productive potential” discussed by Halberstam

(2005) and attempting to challenge the dominant “metrocentric” queer paradigm that

Halberstam (2005), Gray (2009a) and others suggest currently guides academic interest in

LGBT lives, this chapter contributes to the empirical knowledge about lesbians’ identity management strategies and gender performances within non-metropolitan spaces. I illustrate that an individual’s performance of gender and the strategic resources available to and enacted by her depends not only on her own subjective understanding of her identity, but also the spatial and temporal settings in which her identity is understood or

“read.”61

Doing Gender and Identity In a Queer Space and Time

Recent theoretical and empirical interrogations of the intersections of gender and sexuality have been operating under the weight of several problematic blind spots. First, the focus has been substantially bent toward demonstrations of masculinity within various types and communities of men. Discussions of masculinity embodied by women are uncommon and existing scholarship has consistently argued that such a pattern of gender expression leads to social stigmatization and other consequences (Halberstam

61 In order to advance theories about gender and sexuality, especially regarding understudied topics such as rural queerness, we need to ensure they clearly engage in a theoretically-informed dialogue that remains grounded in context. This will help alleviate critiques about theoretical disconnectedness, such as the one from Rosenfeld (2009) arguing that Foucauldian understandings of gender performance have over- emphasized the “constraints of regulative discourse at the expense of strategic action” (631). 186

1998; Moore 2006). Theoretical development and empirical examinations of the social organization of various configurations of femininities are also difficult to find.62

Second, contemporary theories of the heteronormative gender binary have paid limited attention to the availability or restrictedness of strategic resources to various types of people and groups within the gender order.63 Finally, the absence of gender-related analysis incorporating spatiality is stark, even after the boom in studying boundaries within the social sciences, which demonstrated that symbolic boundaries (conceptual distinctions within a culture about different groups of people, practices, objects, etc.) play an integral role in constructing social boundaries (material and non-material inequalities in access to opportunities and resources among people) (Lamont and Molnar 2002).

Rosenfeld (2009) demonstrates the value of interrogating the mechanisms by which individuals maneuver society, not simply the social and symbolic boundaries they are within and up against.

In this chapter, I demonstrate the contingent and relational nature of heteronormativity through my exploration of boundaries around sexuality in small towns and rural settings. Through the life histories of the narrators, I examine the ways in which non-metropolitan, non-heterosexual subjects are “doing gender” in a queer time and place

(Halberstam 2005) and demonstrate how the structure of heteronormativity shifts across

62 A few notable exceptions to this are Carla Freeman’s (2000) book High Tech and High Heels in the Global Economy: Women, Work, and -Collar Identities in the Caribbean and Mimi Schippers’ (2002) Rockin’ Out of the Box: Gender Maneuvering in Alternative Hard Rock. 63 An important contribution to this discussion was made by Rosenfeld (2009) in her conceptualization of non-heterosexual social actors as both constrained and agentic within a heterosexual society. She found for some gays and lesbians, living in a heteronormative society not only includes being confronted by anti- homosexual bias, but also provides resources for succeeding in a predominantly heterosexual society. This chapter aims to extend this discussion by considering how a person’s spatial and temporal location impacts her ability to be strategic. 187

space. Exploring the different symbolic and social boundaries around sexuality illuminates cultural schemas around expressions of masculinity and femininity, as well as the various strategies and resources available to individuals within that particular incarnation of heteronormativity (Warner 1991; 1999).

Constructing Masculinity and Femininity Within the Heteronormative Gender Binary

Included in normative conceptions of femininity are features such as being sexually passive, physically weak, subservient to men and concerned about the welfare of others, while normative configurations of masculinity include sexual agency, aggressiveness, physical strength, and dominance over women (Connell 1995). Scholars concerned with issues of heteronormativity complicate the discussion, suggesting that the discursively constructed gender binary separates people into either “men” or “women.”

This includes the explicit notion that there is an alignment not only between a person’s gender identity and their biological sex, but also that a biologically male body has identifiably masculine personality traits, desires, and behaviors, and a female body has identifiably feminine personality traits, desires, and behaviors. This gender binary also places the masculine (and therefore male) and the feminine (and therefore female) in a complementary and distinct (heterosexual) relationship with each other (Butler 1990).

Those who fail to establish the appropriate demonstration of adherence to this gender order suffer significant consequences; for example, there is a higher prevalence of violent crimes against effeminate men (Connell 1987).

This hierarchy between masculinity and femininity is a critical component of theories about gender, with masculinity always maintaining higher social power and

188

status than femininity (Connell 2005).64 These hegemonic configurations of gender are the normative cultural ideals created by various powerful social actors and institutions.65

These conceptions hold discursive power and are what “real” men and women should strive to embody.66

Furthermore, Connell (2005) argues that cultural configurations of masculinity are ever changing and that multiple masculinities exist at one time. These masculinities are always ascendant to femininity within the social hierarchy; however, different masculinities vary in their relation to the others. These “subordinate masculinities” are inexorably linked with displays of or associations with femininity. Western culture’s stigmatization of gay men is a palpable demonstration of how gender and sexuality intersect within cultural conceptions of gender expression (i.e. the equation of femininity with male homosexuality) and the consequences of deviating from the heteronormative gender binary. Those suffering from stigmatization around embodiment of a subordinate masculinity have historically made strategic choices (e.g. Levine 1998). While studies of both hegemonic and non-hegemonic masculinities have been increasing in empirical and theoretical expansiveness, scholarship concerned with the various potential

64 Heterosexual desire is also posited as a basis for masculinity; men have the agency to desire women, while the feminine (woman) is always the desired, an object denied similar agency. This normative logic which dictates that men are straight, masculine, and male-bodied because they are not feminine and/or non- heterosexual and/or female-bodied is considered to be hegemonic because it is the rationale by which men maintain their position at the top of the status hierarchy (Connell 1987). 65 Hegemonic discourses, notably, are always partial and do not fully translate into lived experiences. 66 Schippers uses the phrase “idealized quality content” to discuss the characteristics that comprise hegemonic configurations of masculinity and femininity, but I would suggest that using the terms cultural “schemas” or “configurations” hold more theoretical weight because of their clear connections to interdisciplinary literature on the creation and maintenance of culture and the ways individual roles are constructed within it (e.g. Sewell 1992). 189

configurations of femininity, along with the contexts and consequences of those configurations, have been discernibly neglected.67

Schippers (2007) attempts to address these concerns by proposing a reconfiguration of hegemonic masculinity and femininity that allows for those occupying the social location of “woman’” to engage in practices or embody characteristics that are defined as masculine and for “men” to embody features of femininity. As such, she posits that women must not have access to these masculine characteristics and those who attempt to embody such characteristics are considered deviant and stigmatized and receive severe social sanctions. Women who embody these characteristics are threatening to male dominance through their refusal to “complement hegemonic masculinity in a relation of subordination” and “embody the relationship between masculinity and femininity demanded by gender hegemony” (Schippers 2007:95-97).

Schippers (2007) suggests we use the concept of “pariah femininities” to discuss characteristics embodied by women that are challenging to hegemonic masculinity, such as being lesbian, sexually promiscuous, or aggressive. The embodiment of even one characteristic that is discursively delegated as masculine, she suggests, has a significantly negative impact on a woman’s social status. In fact, she argues that the offending characteristics become master statuses for the women embodying them and that “these women are considered socially undesirable and contaminating to social life more generally” (Schippers 2007:95-97).68 Schippers’ theorizing of femininity is important and provocative, and can be strengthened by exploring the possibility that some regionally-

67 Connell and Messerschmidt (2005) later expanded the concept of hegemonic femininity to “emphasized femininity” in order to clearly establish the asymmetrical positioning of masculinities and femininities within a gender order organized within the bounds of patriarchy. 68 The intensity of this stigmatization varies along class and racial lines. See Moore (2006). 190

specific configurations of femininity enable the embodiment of masculine characteristics, and in fact, include this as a central component.

While some scholars have given attention to the performance of masculinity by women and transgender people (e.g. Schilt and Westbrook 2009), their work assumes that masculinity is devalued when embodied by women and therefore sanctioned. Few social scientific studies explore the possibility and consequences of a more flexible and fluid gender order, as well as a type of femininity where masculine characteristics are valued

(and in fact, included) within its cultural schemas.

Blurring Gender: Rural Femininity on the Iron Range

Iron Range culture has changed substantially since the opening of the iron-ore mines and also along with the multitude of technological advances that have shifted social relations nationally and internationally. However, upon explaining my interests in the region, I was frequently told that the Iron Range is “about fifty years behind, culturally.” When I inquired further, I was told stories about the way “things are how they used to be in the 1950s” and that gender roles for women and men are rigidly defined in terms of relationships. Sometimes expressing frustration and sometimes resignation, those I spoke to relayed that Range culture is seeped in heteronormativity.

Narrators suggest the Range is a “time capsule” in this way.

Women and men (but especially women) are pressured to couple early and marry quickly and the cultural inscriptions around husband and wife roles are strong. I was told stories about how women are expected, with a pressure that is stronger than simply encouragement, to be the ideal wife, à la Betty Crocker, which includes activities such as waking up early (sometimes at 4 am) to prepare a home-cooked, multi-dish meal for 191

one’s husband before he goes to work. However, a different pressure also exists for women on the Iron Range, which is to be simultaneously subservient to men while also embodying traits that are typically deemed masculine. Sam, who is in her mid 20’s and works construction, explained to me,

Wives need to be able to do whatever needs to be done; muck out the stalls, mend fences, bail hay… men want them to be that because it’s a necessity, that's how they stay afloat, but they also want them to dress up and look pretty when going to dinner. I work with someone who is a typical Range woman. She’s been married two times and has five kids and when she comes to work you’d swear she was a lesbian. She comes to work in steel-toed boots and mucks hay when she is at home. This is normal attire and behavior for farm girls or ‘Range’ girls.

But I’ve always thought it was interesting that she dresses up whenever they go out into town, she puts makeup on and wears more feminine clothes. I think the men value both sides of their wives; they are just valued differently. Strong ‘Range’ women do what needs to get done for the family and for the community and dressing that way is fine when mucking out stalls but not when the men are trying to be romantic – they don’t think that their wives are sexy dressed that way.

Sam continues with another story about one of her sisters, who lives in town.

She is so prissy and wouldn’t go out of the house without makeup on, but she’ll bait her own hook. It would be fine if she didn’t want to, but would be seen as an inconvenience, as if she was totally female and totally helpless. Whether it is something recreational or when they are trying to get a job done, guys around here don’t want their girlfriends and wives to be a prissy helpless female, they want them to be a strong independent one who doesn’t need supervision.

As Sam is demonstrating, Range women69 experience a multitude of pressures around gender. She commented that women on the Iron Range are expected to be “situationally strong.” They are expected to be wives that can do whatever the family and community needs, while also remaining entrenched in heterosexist standards of wearing what their

69 This is the term consistently used by the narrators to discuss women on the Iron Range. 192

husbands believe is sexy and attending to all cooking and cleaning duties. The gender performance expected during special occasions fits closely with the typical hegemonic ideal more than the gender performance expected on other occasions, such as when strenuous physical labor is needed. However, while extremely restrictive, these roles are also more flexible in many ways for women when compared to other schemas for women on a national-scale.

These stories demonstrate the importance of distinguishing between regional and national femininities. Connell (2005) draws critical distinctions between global, regional, and local masculinities, identifying the different resources and mechanisms available for resisting the hegemonic gender order on each structural level. 70 However, she explains the regional as being in the discursive realm and encompassing entire nation-states, while she defines the local as smaller-scale interpersonal relations between individuals, families, and immediate communities. This obscures the variation of hegemonic conceptions of gender within a relatively limited geographic region. Adding a fourth layer to Connell’s (2005) model might alleviate this issue, with there being global, national, regional, and local levels of hegemonic masculinity.

This revised model provides conceptual space for regionally-specific cultural frameworks (and the local, smaller-scale interactions that take place within or against them). These regionally-specific cultural frameworks are part of the larger national-level

70 Connell (2005) says that hegemonic masculinity at the regional level is constructed at the level of culture or the nation-state and is found through an examination of various discursive realms, such as political arenas and popular media. Hegemonic masculinity varies over time and across societies and it is symbolic, represented through specific local practices of masculinity that have regional significance. Regional hegemonic masculinity, according to Connell, creates a society-wide conception of masculinity – a cultural framework that is materialized, altered, and challenged through the everyday realities, practices, and interactions on local levels. 193

cultural frameworks in which they exist, but they may or may not be completely consistent with them.71 Within this model, regional masculinities and femininities are not automatically assumed to be subordinate or “pariah” in the ways discussed by Connell

(2005) and Schippers (2007) because global, national, regional, and local masculinities and femininities are not automatically understood to be in consistent, ascendant, and stigmatizing relationships with one another. My research demonstrates that hegemonic conceptions of femininity vary across time and space, but, moreover, within the same larger culture. In this reformation of Connell’s model, regional femininities are incorporated but also differ from the national-level cultural schema, which play out at local and interpersonal levels.

While Range women are feeling pressures consistent with other women nationally, such as to follow beauty standards, they are also more restricted than women nationally, as suggested by the statements that the Iron Range is “behind” culturally, regarding gender relations. In other ways, though, under the Range woman schema, women on the

Iron Range are less restricted regarding gender roles in some aspects, such as the ability to get dirty and demonstrate physical strength and independence, while retaining their value as wives and women.

This is different than the schemas of valued independence, strength, and athleticism allowed/encouraged for some women in urban areas (varying across different intersections of race and class). In these urban schemas, women’s independence, strength, and athleticism are only valued when they remain subordinate to male

71 For example, the national-level cultural schemas regarding masculinity could encompass physical strength and emotional distance, while in a specific region, the cultural schemas of masculinity could include being emotionally demonstrative and sensitive. 194

independence, strength, and athleticism, and, moreover, disconnected with a non- heterosexual sexuality. Athletic women are alright if they cannot beat the men in a game and if their gender performance does not cross the line of “butch.” Because of this, women in sports, especially women who are attracted to other women, often dress and behave in self-consciously feminine ways (Messner 2002). Conversely, the stories in this chapter suggest that different gender configurations are at play, illuminating the variation between regional-specific and national femininities on the Iron Range, demonstrating where there is overlap and where they diverge.

What makes the regional culture of the Iron Range so different from the national culture, or even the culture of the Twin Cities, only 4 hours south? The answer may partially lie in the economic and geographic history of the Iron Range. Within the larger historical context of the extractive economy, the “narrative construction” (Embirmayer and Mische 1998) of schemas of femininity by residents on the Iron Range includes many characteristics that Schippers (2007) would label as belonging to hegemonic masculinity.

These narrative constructions, Embirmayer and Mische (1998) argue, “serve as temporal framing resources” that assist in configuring what constitutes community membership.

Kazyak (2012) also discusses how rural spaces enable different gender expressions of femininity and female masculinity. Similar to my findings, she argues that that conceptions of “what it means to be ‘country’” and rural norms create increased acceptance for gays and lesbians (P. 831). Additionally, she posits, “Part of what constitutes rural femininity is heterosexuality (P. 835). However, she argues “masculine gender presentations are acceptable for all rural women” (P. 827) and that rural women

“reject traditional femininity” (P. 831). My findings challenge the idea that “traditional” 195

femininity is ubiquitous. Instead, I argue that what is considered traditional is place- based. Rangers did not reject traditional femininity; instead they are enacting and strategically utilizing their own version of it.

Kazyak suggests that rural (particularly “redneck”) norms allow butch-identified woman to enact stereotypical butch lesbian behavior and still be accepted and that female masculinity must be connected with rurality to be accepted. For example, wearing nice clothes, such as a sweater and a tie, would be perceived as “urban”, therefore unacceptable. My findings diverge from hers in this area, as I found that strong regional norms of heteronormativity were much more important than relationships to conceptions of proper rurality.

Moreover, she argues, “[B]utch gender presentations are not enough [to] make lesbian identity visible in rural areas. Rather, being seen around town with a same-sex partner is a way lesbian sexuality identity is visible given the close-knit nature of rural life” (P. 841). While her findings suggest that visibility in rural contexts “is relational

(via connection with a same-sex partner) rather than individual (via butch gender presentations)” (P. 841), my research adds important nuance to this argument, as well as challenges it in some important ways (e.g. through the “glass closet” previously discussed, where lesbian visibility does not occur simply due to being seen publically with a female partner).

If She Walks like a Dyke and Talks like a Dyke… She Probably Has a Husband and 2 Kids

When trying to drive home the different ways gender is “read” on the Iron Range, one of my narrators devised a game which consisted of taking me around town, to places

196

like Walmart and the local diner and having me subtly point out the women I thought were lesbians. Consistently proving my “gaydar” faulty on the Iron Range, this narrator promptly (with a smug face) provided the names and professions of the women, as well as those of their husbands and the number, ages, and names of their children.

What this narrator (and subsequently, the other narrators who joined in the fun), were telling me is that Range women are conceptually differently; they are seen as physically strong and mechanically capable, and have ways of behaving and dressing that are not in line with femininity in metropolitan areas. These different schemas of femininity reflect the geographical and economic characteristics of the location of women on the Iron Range, many of whom work in positions that have been typically understood as masculine. Range women use large machines, such as trucks, for example, out of necessity. Knowing how to navigate the outdoors, hunt and fish, and use machines to clear snow and fall trees, for instance, have proven to be important skills for both men and women to have.

Susan and Danielle tell me about a woman they used to know in a neighboring town. The woman owned a daycare or beauty parlor during the week (they couldn’t remember which, but it was an occupation typically associated with femininity) and unloaded large piles of wood on the weekends. Danielle says, “She’s a small woman, looked like she could be a cheerleader or something! That's where things get confused around here, because women can do so much of everything... in the Cities you don't have that.”

Susan explains that some general assumptions about women’s capabilities are different in the rural area where they live. Even though sexism undeniably exists, Range 197

women are associated with being more physically capable than women are frequently given credit for elsewhere. The schemas of femininity are more encompassing and elastic on the Iron Range, and perhaps in other non-metropolitan areas, than in many metropolitan ones. Range conceptions of femininity include both what is traditionally considered within schemas of femininity as well as components that stretch more toward what is typically understood as constituting masculinity.

Martha and Charlotte have a somewhat similar account of the complexities of rural femininity on the Iron Range. Charlotte says, “You know, it’s hard to tell (who is a lesbian and who is not) sometimes. The women up here really screw up your radar.”

Martha agrees, “Especially in Ely.” (Ely is a town approximately five hours north of the

Twin Cities that is known in Minnesota for its remoteness and particularly harsh living conditions, especially during the winter.) Charlotte says, “They dress the way lesbians dress, whatever that is. In the country, you’ll find that rural women run around in jeans and flannel shirts.” Martha chimes in, “And Sorels.” Charlotte nods, “Yup, and Sorels.”

(Sorels is a company that produces high quality rugged winter clothing and boots, and

Charlotte is discussing the boots.) “And they are often very masculine in the things that they do.” Martha contributes, “[They] don’t bother with makeup.” “Yup, don’t bother with makeup and they have short hair,” Charlotte adds.

Julie, who was one of the first women to work in the iron ore mines and recently retired from non-profit work, echoes this. She says,

Well, you know it’s really interesting because there's always the stereotypical portrayal of lesbians… short hair, kind of mannish in appearance and you know, if you go up to Ely, you would think all the women are lesbians because they are all outdoors women and outdoors women have boots on, and they're going to have comfortable, many 198

pocketed pants because they are going out into the wilderness, and they're going to have on maybe flannel shirts, and they're going to have short hair, but they could have longer hair…

She pauses then continues,

But they still are going to have their rugged look and they could be lesbians, but more likely they are just outdoors women going through Ely to the Boundary Waters. And you know, it's particularly interesting on the Iron Range, because many of the straight women have the stereotypical look of what people think that lesbians look like…. Dress, up here, does not in any way define whether a woman's a lesbian.

These women are describing an interesting phenomenon, namely, that the assumptions people make and the cultural schemas constructed about lesbian culture and appearance, particularly butch lesbians, such as having short hair, wearing and doing typically masculine-associated things and not wearing makeup, are embodied by both heterosexual and lesbian women on the Iron Range. Many of the narrators in my study posit (using different words) that, on the Iron Range, hegemonic femininity looks more like lesbian fashion, and increasingly so the more rural the location. As Julie describes, the outdoors culture of canoeing, hiking, fishing, and hunting, which is intensified in the wilderness of the Boundary Waters, is considered normal and acceptable for women to like and participate in. This culture contributes to a different hegemonic conception of femininity on the Iron Range than in urban areas.

Over coffee one day, Sam explains how this schema of femininity on the Iron

Range allows for and enables women to embody characteristics traditionally associated with the masculine. “They are viewed as tomboys, ’s girls,” she notes, “They like hunting, four-wheeling, etc. It is not threatening masculinity.” This conception of femininity that Sam described (and which was echoed by other narrators) is applied and

199

accessible to women of all ages on the Iron Range. This challenges recent scholarship, which posits that women embodying masculine characteristics are considered a threat to masculinity (and therefore to men, as well).

Halberstam (1998a) and other scholars suggest that the cultural acceptance surrounding masculine performances and behaviors in women ends at adolescence because “it threatens to interfere with the onset of adolescent femininity” and, as such,

“all attachments to preadolescent freedoms and masculine activities must be dropped” (P.

268). This is certainly the situation for many adolescent girls, but on the Iron Range, there is more flexibility to embody masculinity without sanction because it is a component of the regional discourses of femininity. In this configuration of hegemonic femininity, such characteristics are not seen as threatening to hegemonic masculinity and therefore are not sanctioned. This configuration allows more space to enact gender and more resources on which women can draw.

A similar but not necessarily analogous display of masculine characteristics can be found in “dyke” or butch lesbian culture, which provides the frame around which butch lesbian actions and attire is understood (Halberstam 1998; Walker 2001). Schemas regarding what a butch lesbian should be and are in urban areas mirror Iron Range regional femininity in multiple significant ways. This schema of butch lesbians includes being physically powerful, mechanically oriented, and capable of problem solving.

The (Mis)Reading of “Butch” Within Iron Range Culture

Cultural schemas and discourses are translated by actors into practice, as demonstrated by the “doing” of gender, heterosexuality, and homosexuality (West and

200

Zimmerman 1987; Rosenfeld 2009). Practices are “routines” that social actors “inscribe” through “the ways they use their bodies” and “in their habits, in their taken-for-granted sense of space [and] dress” (Swidler 2001). As such, butch lesbians use their bodies and enact behaviors that correspond to butch schema(s), which incorporate aspects of hegemonic masculinity. The significance of this embodiment is broader than the gender performances and experiences of specific individuals, however. The collective attempt of individuals to embody a specific schema forms meaningful patterns that impact larger social interactions.

Practices, such as dressing in butch attire and performing masculine jobs, enact simultaneous schemas of butch lesbianism and Iron Range femininity. The dominant

“reading” of the practice’s associated schema, in this case, is dependent upon the actors’ spatio-cultural context. The same practices will be understood differently in areas other than the Iron Range. These schemas then, depending on the regionally specific symbolic and social boundaries in which they are being “read”, will have specific effects. Butch lesbian schemas are transposable from metropolitan to other locations; however, the way in which these schemas are understood varies temporally and spatially.

Sam describes a situation in which a young woman she knew in high school performed masculinity and escaped questioning of her sexual and gender identity (and potential sanction) by her peers through a misreading of her performance due to her simultaneous embodiment of butch lesbian and “Range woman.” She relays, “I was talking to a friend the other day and there was a girl in high school who I knew was a lesbian and is now a man. She buzzed her head; she dressed like me – jeans, button-up men’s shirts. My friend had no clue that he was transgender or even gay. I asked her, 201

‘Didn’t you see it in high school?’ My friend said, ‘I just thought she was different, I didn’t know she was gay.’”72

Sam reflects on this and says, “I think people blow off people like him as being different in a normal spectrum of what’s acceptable for females and males, but once they are labeled as gay or transgender, they are off the spectrum and that’s when it becomes a problem.” In this instance, the person that Sam knew in high school is embodying complementary schemas and ultimately, the “Range woman” schema proves more salient and the person is misread as simply embodying Iron Range femininity. Sam’s peer was seen as different but not in the negative way that is generally associated with the performance of a butch lesbian schema by hegemonic heteronormative culture, due to the availability and endurance of an alternative conception of femininity. This clearly demonstrates one way that gender (and sexuality) are blurred through multiple overlapping regionally-specific cultural schemas.

Contemporary practices commonly associated with the normative conception of femininity (e.g. wearing high heels, dresses, having careers that are clean and do not require physical labor) anchor and reproduce constitutive rules (Swidler 2001) of what a woman is, what she is capable of, what she can wear and say, and how she can act.

Heteronormativity is inherent in these constitutive rules; the logic is that women

“naturally” act and look feminine and desire to sleep with men. This hegemonic logic, then, following these constitutive rules, equates women who are “butch” or masculine in their appearance, style of dress, career/employment, or mannerisms with lesbian

72 I chose to retain the original usage of gender pronouns here even though it may be slightly confusing to read because it demonstrates the complexity of discussing gender transitions over time. 202

sexuality. The experiences of Sam’s peer and Sam’s friend’s understanding of their peer blurs this heteronormative binary and complicates the assumption of the direct connection between the “reading” of a performance of masculine characteristics in women to a non-heterosexual orientation. These vignettes also powerfully demonstrate the importance of considering the spatial context of practices and performances of gender and sexuality, as well as the larger schemas and discourses that transform and are transformed by them. Sam’s example demonstrates the way that symbolic boundaries can enable or restrict individuals socially.

Strategic Visibility and Boundaries Around “”

The availability of multiple schemas of femininity provides unique resources for women embodying masculine characteristics and self-identifying as butch lesbians (and potentially other identities) to avoid potential social stigma and sanctions, as demonstrated by Sam’s high school peer. Charlotte reflects on this, saying,

“That might be one of the reasons it is so easy to live out here, because so many of the females that live in the rural areas, not in town, but the rural areas, look like we look, whatever that is.”

I respond, “So, is it kind of like the lesbian look is naturalized?” Martha nods and says,

“Absolutely.” Charlotte agrees, “Yeah, it is kind of the rural look.” Rose says something strikingly similar on a different occasion. Gesturing to her Vikings Football Jacket and jeans, she says that she feels most comfortable dressing “like this” and that it is accepted on the Iron Range in a way that was not possible when she lived in the Twin Cities and in

Tucson, Arizona. She explains, “I fit in here. 90% of the women dress like this here, not just the dykes.”

203

Rose has always felt more connected to the Iron Range than other places, but moved to the Cities because of better job opportunities and to Tucson because she married a man before she came to terms with her sexuality. Rose says a main reason she moved back to the Iron Range was because she felt like she was judged in urban areas in ways she is not when she is on the Range. For example, when living in the Twin Cities, someone set the garbage can behind her house on fire. She said that the garbage can was right next to her truck, which had a “gay” sticker on it, and while she was not sure that the sticker provoked the vandalism, she felt targeted in a way she never did on the Iron

Range. At dinner almost a year later, Rose reiterates that she feels more comfortable on the Iron Range as a butch lesbian, and explains, “I just look like a Range woman.” Sam had trouble finding the words she wanted to explain this concept to me, saying, “There’s a different gender (dyk)otomy here.” She pauses and then laughs at her unintentional but extremely insightful pun.

Madison, a woman in her early 20’s, told me about her decision to wear more masculine attire because she did not feel comfortable dressing in tight, feminine clothing.

In response to my asking if she was worried that people would look at her strangely, she says,

To an extent, but I know that women up here dress like this all the time and so I know that the thought [about her lesbianism] might cross their mind but that it's not going to stick with them because there are so many women up here who are straight and have kids and are married that dress, I guess, gay?

Because of the hegemonic conception of femininity, Madison is not overly concerned about dressing in attire that would identify her as a lesbian in a metropolitan area. I ask her about the difference in the way that she would view a woman who looked

204

masculine on both the Iron Range and in the Twin Cities. She responds that on the Iron

Range, “if (a woman) had short spiky hair, work boots, and wore flannel and baggy pants, I would still think she was a straight girl” and in the Twin Cities, “I would probably think she's a lesbian.”

This ability to blend into Iron Range culture, without automatically oneself as a lesbian, is impossible in metropolitan areas where there is only one schema for the kind of femininity that these women embody. Sam and her high school peer, Charlotte,

Martha, Rose, and Madison demonstrate that the (mis)reading of butch lesbians in Iron

Range culture allows for specific resources and strategies made available through a unique alternative conception of hegemonic femininity, one that is regionally-specific to

Minnesota’s Iron Range.

In order to consider a cultural schema’s impact and the strategic maneuvering it enables, however, considering both the symbolic and social boundaries around that schema is critical.

While having a conversation about trying to determine the bounds of the Range woman schema, Susan looks somewhat overwhelmed by the idea and says, “It’s going to be very hard to find them; they are so engrained in our culture they are invisible.” Susan’s suggestion that the schema is so enmeshed in the general culture of the Iron Range that it becomes nearly invisible demonstrates the schema’s regionally-specific hegemony.

I ask Sam how she knew when she or other LGBT people she knew are “pushing the line” when it comes to feeling safely hidden within their culture. What would a woman have to say or do in order for someone to consider them non-heterosexual? I found Sam’s answers remarkable and somewhat surprising at the time because they were 205

less explicitly about cultural rules governing sexuality as they were about the strictly maintained bounds around gender relations on the Iron Range. Sam explains,

Guys on the Iron Range can recognize gay men a lot quicker than gay women. If a guy is really flamboyantly gay they can recognize him extremely fast. The difference between being gay and straight for men on the Range is much larger than for women. There’s such a big difference between how a straight man on the Range acts and how [she gives an example of a stereotypically gay man that she knows] acts that they can pick them out more easily. How a [lesbian] woman acts is just slightly different than a straight woman.

Sam is drawing attention to the differences in the flexibility of schemas around gender expression for men and women. Many people that I have spoken to have echoed that gay men seem to have it worse, much worse, than lesbians while living “Up North”. The inflexibility of the schema for men certainly contributes to these differences. This suggests that the regionally-specific hegemonic masculinity overlaps more closely with national ideas of masculinity, as compared to the differences discussed here between the regional and national conceptions of femininity for women.

Elaborating on what would cause a woman to be read as a lesbian on the Iron

Range, Sam describes a few “red flags that might make men wonder” including,

Having a lack of response to a man's presence or refusing to bow to a man's presence; if she questioned his authority in something he would take note of that... take it as being a bitch and a very un-straight thing for a woman to do. A woman who isn’t listening may be interpreted as stupid, but if the woman questioned or refused his logic, it would be considered bitchy or lesbian. Having ability is one thing but questioning the guys is another thing.

The Iron Range’s rigid gender order, is strongly demonstrated here. All of the “red flags” that Sam mentioned have to do with the maintenance of patriarchal, heteronormative gender relations. The worst red flags, according to Sam, occur when a woman resists

206

subordination through either speaking her mind, questioning the logic of men around her, or showing an active disinterest in the men around her. It is important to note that all of these red flags are about how people read a person’s gender and sexuality. They are not indicative of a person’s actual gender and sexual identities. It is in these perceived orientations that we can best understand the schemas and boundaries around gender and sexuality.

Sam mentions other things that can act as warning signals that a woman may be lesbian:

Other red flags would be if the women were in their 30s and not married, unless they were really unattractive or had a weird personality. People get married here; it’s really unusual if you don’t. It’s like a quote from that movie Mystery, Alaska, where the guy says something like, ‘I fool around and play hockey because those are the best things to do in cold weather.’ That’s particularly true here.

This quote demonstrates the significance of space and “identity settings” (Brekhus 2003) on culture. Sam is not only continuing her discussion of the strong heteronormative pressures that are placed on Iron Range women, she is also arguing that the harsh and isolating environment created by the long, difficult winters characteristic of the Iron

Range impact the ways that people interact with each other. These women have described how conceptions of gender on the Iron Range are blurred. They also have described the different options this blurring provides in an area conceptualized by many

(including, to varying degrees, the lesbians I have spoken with) as intimidating, behind the times, and hostile to notions of difference, especially queer differences.

207

Conclusion

This chapter furthers understandings of rural queerness in two important ways.

First, I provide new empirical knowledge about the functions of gender and sexuality in rural areas and, second, by extending Connell’s (2005) model of global, regional, and local masculinities to include a fourth level – national – I create conceptual space for variations in conceptions of gender within a relatively limited (or culturally exceptional) geographic region or nation-state. I demonstrated the importance of regionally-specific culture frameworks, both in practice and within the discursive terrain, when studying groups of people and types of places (and spaces).

Extending contemporary theories of gender, I demonstrate that in some places, such as on the Iron Range, conceptions of gender are blurred where the masculine is associated with and valued in both men and women. This contrasts with theories that assume that masculinity and those who are male-bodied are always distinct to and complementary with femininity and those who are female-bodied. I have also shown that in these places where the lines are less clearly drawn, people (and, in this specific case, butch lesbians) have more latitude because of the (mis)reading of schemas through which to construct their (gender) identities and live their lives.

208

6: RAGING, AMBIVALENT, AND BENEVOLENT ALLIES

It takes a really strong person up here to be an open ally because they deal with both being an ally and part of the community. They get additional stigma against them because it's like, if you are really straight, why do you care? – Brandon

“Some allies are more dangerous than enemies.” – George R.R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons

Over the past decade, there has been a burgeoning visible heterosexual ally (often referred to simply as “allies” in popular and academic discourse) social movement nationwide (Myers 2008). However, little attention has been paid to the delicate dynamics of this shift from an “us versus them” to “us and them” ideological strategy that follows post-gay logic and is “motivated less by drawing boundaries against the dominant group and more by building bridges toward it (and thus blurring the boundaries)”

(Ghaziani 2011:117). As much of the research on LGBT lives focuses on LGBT- identified people, my fieldwork makes unique contributions to the small but growing body of research on the complex representations, roles, and phases of ally identity development. Work on allies has centered around two major concerns: 1) heterosexual identity development and 2) the reasons someone becomes an ally and the role(s) they play in LGBT lives and activism.

This chapter expands current conceptions of ally identities and roles within LGBT movements. I explore the complexity of ally activism within geographically isolated settings. and examine how allies both reject and uphold anti-LGBT regional norms. As

Brandon’s quote above succinctly puts it, allies face pressure from multiple sources. On the Iron Range, no two heterosexual allies were alike in their reasons for supporting the

LGBT movement or their process of becoming allies. Some allies appeared to truly 209

understand the needs of the LGBT movement, locally as well as nationally, while others appeared to be generally supportive of treating people equally, on principle, but otherwise disconnected from LGBT issues. Moreover, like the LGBT Iron Rangers I spoke with, ally comfort level with visibility and activism varied significantly.

Promise and Perils of Principle-Based Allies

Instead of intrinsically tied to knowledge of and specific support for LGBT people and concerns, some researchers (e.g. Klar and Kasser 2009; Russell 2011) suggest that many allies within the past few decades have been motivated to take part in LGBT activism based on generalized support for social justice principles and/or moral and religious convictions. Rather than specifically supporting LGBT equality, these allies engaged in pro-LGBT activism because it was in line with their general sense of social, moral, and/or religious responsibility.

In her extensive study of ally motives, Russell (2011) argues that there are 12 distinct motives for pro-LGBT ally activism. Breaking these into two categories, she posits that allies are motivated by what she terms “fundamental principles” as well as personal roles, relationships and experiences. Fundamental principles include a commitment to general ideals of justice, civil rights, and patriotism; religious beliefs and moral principles that encourage pro-LGBT behavior and beliefs; and a concept of

“spending privilege” (recognizing that allies are in unique position to equalize power inequalities due to their own positions of power and privilege). Pro-LGBT beliefs are also motivated by professional, personal, and family relationships; a desire to “share the riches of marriage” (i.e. wanting to share positive aspects of marriage with others); desire

210

for closure based on negative past experiences; transformation of guilt through action (a type of gaining closure based on past action or omission which may or may not be specifically related to LGBT rights); and generalized anger toward inequality.

Many of the allies I met during my research clearly relayed one or more of these motives when discussing their reasons for becoming LGBT allies. Many, such as Lisa, expressed a generalized desire for equality that was not restricted to LGBT people.

When discussing her initial interactions with LGBT-related concerns, she explains, for example, that she “didn't appreciate how ‘fag’ and ‘nigger’ were thrown around because they seemed like nasty things to say, but I didn't understand what fag meant… I just didn't want people to be treated poorly.”

Getting Things Straight: Tipping Points and Becoming Allies

The majority of heterosexual allies I spoke with discussed how they were mostly unaware of LGBT concerns for much of their lives. They pointed back to a specific memory or set of memories when asked how they came to be an ally of the LGBT community. For many of them, there was a moment of awakening, or a tipping point where they said, “enough is enough” and were compelled to take action. Lisa, for example, wanted to learn more about LGBT people after high school. She says that she used to say things like “that’s gay” and a few people mentioned that she shouldn’t say it, so she “wanted to know, why was it so bad to call people that? It was thrown around so much in town.” Through her research, she says she “learned it [being LGBT] is not a mental disorder, it is something you are born with so I didn’t like how religion tries to manipulate people into thinking they are psychotic.” Stein (2001) found, as did I, that

211

essentialist discourses increased ally comfort with LGBT people – allies connected with the idea that both gender and sexuality (heterosexual and LGB) are inborn and essential.

“The essentialist model was appealing because it drew upon commonsense notions of sexuality as innate, rooted in biology rather than choices and understandings of the world.

It was attractive, too, because it allayed people’s anxieties about collapsing sexual boundaries” (Stein 2001:159). Sometimes, they argued that these traits were God-given and, therefore, not for humans to judge or question.

Lisa attended a local performance of “Project 515”, a play aimed at increasing awareness of the 515 rights that LGBT Minnesotans were denied by not being able to legally marry. She says it “really touched (me), like how after being been together for 50 years and going into a nursing home, that someone’s family could deny them access.”

She actively demonstrates support for the LGBT community as much as she can, like marching for marriage equality. When we last spoke, Lisa had also joined the Alliance to find additional ways to be supportive.

Many allies reported the impetus for their ally identities centered on experiences with other cultures, often due to moving away from the Iron Range after high school or having significant interactions with people from outside of the area. Sarah provided an example of this different path to ally identity construction. Moving to the Twin Cities for college “opened up her mind”, as Sarah experienced a “huge, huge, culture shock” with racial, ethnic, and and allowed her to gain a different perspective on what is “right versus wrong”.

For Sarah, like most allies, this personal transformation did not occur overnight.

Even though she was increasingly knowledgeable and accepting of varying types of 212

diversity, she shares she sometimes struggled as an ally. When she learned that someone she used to be friends with in high school came out, she reflected on why this made her uncomfortable.

Upon returning to the Range a few years later, she “couldn’t believe the [anti-

LGBT] remarks” from friends and family. As a single mother, she often hears other parents say, “I don't have a problem with gay people, but I don't want my kids to learn about that.” Shaking her head, she said that when she first moved back, she just kept thinking, “I cannot be back here, in this hick, horrible mentality… just hateful area.”

“That Minnesota Nice bullshit is really that people will be nice to you if you are just like them,” she says. She grimaces as she continues, “Which is worse: saying ‘those damn homos’ or being silent about it, quietly judging?” Importantly, the physical and cultural distance provided by her relocation enabled Sarah to be more sensitive to and aware of anti-LGBT discourses and regional norms once she returned.

Another tipping point for some area heterosexuals was increasingly overt anti-

LGBT hostility. Almost two decades ago, markedly antagonistic opinions were printed as letters to the editor, which caused a group of concerned friends to get together to discuss what might be done about it. This led to more general conversations about LGBT people in the region and their needs, eventually becoming the Alliance. This group was originally comprised of mostly heterosexual allies. On a more general and collective level, allies have been instrumental in LGBT organizing on the Range. Charlotte and

Martha describe the organization’s conception:

Charlotte: There were a number of hate letters printed in the paper asking for our deaths. A few members in the community were really put out by

213

that and afraid… so the group got together to do something [which] was the seed of the Alliance.

Martha: [It was all in response to] OutFront Minnesota's Educator's training.

Charlotte: They train educators and anyone interested… giving them information, explaining acronyms, and telling them how to react to certain things.

Martha: Yes, somebody had put the flyers in the teacher's mailboxes and a certain science teacher got a hold of it and…

Charlotte: He took them to his church because a number of the letters were from people [from his] church… they were very, very violent.

As tensions in the area were rising on LGBT issues based on these conversations, so was visible support. These quotes and examples describe how integral heterosexual allies were in assisting LGBT Iron Rangers, particularly on the West Range. Much like the newspapers provided a buffer and catalyst for community conversations, support from respected community allies provided a critical stimulus for the LGBT community’s transition from mostly hidden, extremely segmented, and skittish to increasingly visible, organized, and active in the fight for equality.

Refusing to Judge

Religious affiliation has been associated with significant and long-standing opposition to LGBT people and rights (Barton 2008; Herek 1987; Stein 2001; Russell

2011). However, ally rejection of anti-LGBT discourses was another important and common theme that arose during my interviews. In fact, as with every lesbian, bisexual, and gay person I spoke with, religion was a critical element that every ally grappled with in some way.

214

Paul and his wife Melissa, a white woman in her 40s and native Iron Ranger, exemplified this. The first time I met Paul, over a year before our interview, he had introduced himself as a “raging ally” and had given me a huge grin and a hug.

Remembering that moment, I asked him about how he came to use and identify with the term. He responds, “I was walking down the hall at [the local college he was attending] and I saw some guys posturing, ready to beat a young gay man up.” He shifts in his seat and says, “You could see that he was intimidated, so I used my booming voice and said

‘Gentleman, move on.’ I have that kind of voice.”

Afterward, he recalls that the “[young man] thanked me for doing that and asked why I stepped in. I just said that I’m an ally and he said ‘Raging ally, it looks like….’”

Paul chuckles and then gets serious again. He says, “But there are still things I’m working on or ashamed about. A guy gave me a hug and kissed me on the cheek after phone banking [as part of local LGBT activism] as a ‘thank you’ and I was a little uncomfortable.” Paul’s reflection on his comfort levels is notable because he, like many allies on the Iron Range, had varying comfort levels with LGB sexuality depending on the context. While many provided invaluable political support, especially within local church communities, physically engaging closely with LGBT community members was its own unique challenge for some due to lingering homophobia.

Paul distinctly remembers what spurred his and Melissa’s transformation into allies. Immediately indicating guilt may be one motivating factor for them, he begins his story with, “I’m not proud of it.” He takes a deep breath and continues,

One day [a young lady in my youth group] was upset and I asked why. She said she didn't want to tell me because I would never talk to her again. She was lesbian. I was destroyed that my words, my actions, had caused 215

[her] to think she was less of my friend. I [ended up] as the best man in her commitment ceremony.

Melissa says, “That was the moment when I realized, a sin is a sin. That's just your sin and it's also a sin to judge. It says very plainly in the Bible - do not judge.” Melissa remembers about her Iron Range upbringing, “My dad used to call people fags all the time. When Paul asked for his approval to marry me, he questioned his heritage and Paul said he is 1/16 Native American. My dad refused to give his blessing because he said one drop was too much.” She sighs and continues, “So that is how I was raised. My mom was very open. She worked as a nurse and the male nurses were often gay back then. She liked them.”

Her voice rises slightly as she says definitively, “So I decided not to judge and I do not even debate whether it is a sin. It is a non-issue.” Paul says, “I know too many stories of people who are Christians who have nothing to do with [LGBT people] anymore because of who the person is, even though they are family, best friends…” He trails off for a moment and then continues, “I still wake up cringing because of our friend saying ‘I know you would hate me because of what you said before.’ It makes me ashamed.”

Paul and Melissa’s reasons for becoming allies were multifaceted. After they moved back to the area (where Melissa is from), they became increasingly involved in the Grand Rapids LGBT and ally community because of multiple anti-LGBT experiences they had. Paul co-owned a business in town and while discussing politics and one day, he made his business partner very angry when he supported marriage equality. Paul decided to leave his business and go into the human services field so he didn't continue to

216

“hurt people because of who they are.” Strongly believing in equality and respect for diversity, Paul’s experiences improved his parenting as well as spurred involvement in local activism, especially supporting women’s rights.

Like Lisa, Paul, and Melissa, John also experienced a religious transformation over time, as his experiences with and perspectives on LGBT people grew. He shares,

In my former religion, being gay wasn’t good. You were not coming out. That said, there was a certain amount of diversity and people in the church who felt varying degrees of discomfort [with same-sex sexuality]. Those people who said, “Sure, it is sinful, but we shouldn't do anything … extra.”…I fell into that .

After moving to Minneapolis for college, he met people who (he) knew or suspected were gay, but neither he nor his church focused on that much. Despite this, for

John, leaving his church as well as religion altogether was critical in becoming an ally.

He explains, “All of a sudden, I didn’t need to throw in any caveats, like ‘Sure, they're sinful, but…’” He continues, “Sin is a crime against God, so if you don’t believe in God, you don't believe in sin. Removing the sin, made them just people doing people things.

Removing the sin removed the judgment.”

Leaving the church was a difficult and challenging transition. John had wanted to leave for some time and felt like the secret was a burden that was suffocating him. He elaborates:

In my church, faith was number one… family was number two, but not a close number two. Friends, job; they were not even on the radar. When I decided to leave our church, it was probably not going to be acceptable to my wife.

It was very difficult to even admit to myself, let alone my wife. I ended up talking to someone before her, to get it off my chest. I chose [Shawn] to talk to because I knew he was gay [and] understood what it was like to have a secret. 217

He says, “After I told him, he laughed and said he was convinced I was about to tell him I was gay. There were a lot of similarities, just instead of gay, it was atheist.” For some, initials friendship with LGBT people are built on shared understandings of navigating oppression.

John gradually became more active in his community, which was a distinct change from his life previously, which had been almost entirely directed by his church.

After going on a “short binge of civic engagement”, he determined it wasn't [his] strong suit. He remembers, “I still wanted to be involved with the movement that was happening. I started writing opinion topics for the newspaper I worked for… that is more where I saw my role.” In this way, it took John a bit to determine his niche as an ally for the LGBT community. However, once he did, he had an incredible impact. His articles in the local newspaper were widely read and discussed by people who otherwise may not have even considered the progressive opinions he shared.

But We Bled For You!

Other allies were equally intentional in their actions to transform their religious communities’ perspectives on LGBT issues. Often, this effort by allies was in tandem with (or in response to) LGBT people’s activism. Martha, for example, explains how she, Charlotte, and numerous allies were instrumental in changing the culture of the

Lutheran church they used to attend. Martha and Charlotte “worked extremely hard to bring the congregation around to understanding who (we) were and what kind of people

(we) were.” Martha says the congregation “got used to us” after a concerted effort on their part. Charlotte recalls,

218

I grew up in that church, she was married in that church… [When] we sat down in the pew and held hands, they did not know what to do with us. You could see it in their eyes, oh my, what are we going to do with these two?

We persevered; we held educational sessions. We had some allies and more and more church people became our allies… to the point where when Martha was asked to be re-upped as a deacon (she became a deacon while she was married to a man). We were called in to the [church] office and told, “We have a problem. We are going to lose more people if we don’t do it than if we do.”

Their church ultimately decided to “re-up” Martha as a deacon. Martha says this was a

“huge risk” that they took because doing so went against “the federal, national church and they ran the risk of losing their property.” Charlotte agrees and says, “They took an even bigger risk when they later ordained me as an elder…” Martha nods and says, “Now they were choosing to ordain an open lesbian. That was huge. The church took some pretty risky steps, but so did we.”

As part of their efforts, they also brought the Twin Cities Gay Men's Chorus there, which caused a chasm in the church. One of the many who left the church due to feeling offended by the recent pro-LGBT stance was an extremely anti-gay school board member actively trying to fire Charlotte at the time. Charlotte scoffs and remembers,

“She came up to me after the whole thing [was over and the church had determined it would continue to support LGBT people and rights] and said, ‘I have nothing against you; I wanted to let you know.’” The same person who had previously taken significant steps to make her life miserable was now indicating she had no “personal” concerns.

Remarkably, in the handful of years that this cultural change occurred within their church

(and, following suit, their local community more broadly), being so virulently anti-LGBT had become increasingly more taboo. This caused her colleague to swallow much of her 21 9

contempt, which she had not felt compelled to do in the past.

Charlotte and Martha eventually left the church, but it was “more because of the politics [by people who ran the church] and the organized religion crap that was going on” versus the parishioners. Even so, their leaving was perceived as a personal blow to some who had been their allies. Charlotte explains, “One of the members called me and said ‘I can't understand why you left. We did so much for you. We bled for you.’” She shakes her head and recalls replying, “You didn't bleed for me. You bled for diversity, equality, and fairness, but not for me. And if you think you bled for me, that was a big mistake. Don’t try to guilt me into this.” These allies felt their investment was notable and risky as it pitted them against valued fellow church and community members. The subsequent appearance that Charlotte was rejecting their efforts was confounding to some members because they expected a long-term return on their investment. Through this expectation, these allies were both supporting Charlotte and Martha as out lesbians who wanted to be active in their church, as well as attempting to restrict their choices.

For the Bible Tells Me So

Other area churches were undergoing similar cultural shifts, also spurred in many ways by allies. Susan shares how the Alliance and the local college’s GSA decided to screen For the Bible Tells Me So. The documentary critically examines religious discourses surrounding homosexuality through alternative readings of the Bible, asking viewers to support their LGBT friends, family, and neighbors. An older ally from Susan and Danielle’s Catholic church wrote a note in the church’s newsletter regarding the film that subtly told people – between the lines – that church members may be LGBT and,

220

therefore, the film would be both interesting and beneficial. The ally attached her name to it and said to direct any questions regarding the film to her. Having information come from a well-known makes the message stronger and can be perceived as more legitimate. “When it comes from (gays and lesbians),” Susan says, “It can be

[taken] as requesting special attention or whining. When it comes from an ally, they don’t have any specific interest and really pushes what is right is right and what is fair is fair.”

Other allies in their church also took a stand, albeit passively, regarding the importance of having a discussion about homosexuality and religion in their community.

When their regional Bishop heard about the note in the bulletin, he requested that it was pulled before it went to print. He forbade any of the churches in the area to run any information about the film. While their Priest could have pulled the bulletin, he chose not to call the Minneapolis Press in time to have it stopped. Danielle recalls the actions of these allies made a huge difference. She says, “We had a great showing for the film.

More people came to see it because of the controversy than they ever would have without it!” Through the support of local allies, and ironically, the backlash against that support, an important pro-LGBT dialogue was created in Grand Rapids.

For the Bible Tells Me So proved to be a powerful tool in recruiting allies in the area. The documentary was screened numerous times in multiple settings while I was conducting my fieldwork. I attended all but one screening, and each one included many tears and (often unexpected) heartfelt expressions from attendees. During one of the screenings, an elderly man stood up at the end and announced, for the first time in public, that his son was gay. At another event, a middle-aged woman expressed remorse that she 221

had been so actively disapproving of her gay family member. Additionally, multiple non-heterosexual participants stated they learned a lot through these events as well. For some, this was the first time they had been exposed to any of the theories and research about the origins of LGBT sexuality or pro-LGBT biblical arguments. The film helped address their fears about the possibility of religious damnation.

Allies reported grappling with and resisting religious intolerance on more personal levels, as well. Lisa, for example, shares that her husband, who was raised in a

“super Christian house” and although he “loves [their lesbian friends], even until this year, he still didn't think that what they were doing was right.” Lisa and her husband went through the Bible together while debating their positions on this. Recalling the debates, she mentions that she

marked over 200 spots where God talks about loving one another and treating each other with kindness and the two spots we have in the Bible that discuss homosexuality. One in Leviticus that we aren't supposed to live by, since it is the Old Testament and one in a letter to Paul… a letter, that's all. The letter isn't saying these are the words of God.

She laughs as she says, “I think it was this that allowed him to start thinking for himself, not as he was taught and not how I was trying to push down his throat”. Her husband found the scientific evidence positing that sexuality is “gay brains and birth order and all that” particularly compelling. As Lisa explains, this combination of religious and secular literature “allowed him to be comfortable with it because to him, it was still wrong.”

Some allies feel like religion should be used as a foundation and tool for - related social change. For example, Paul and Mellissa have a nephew who is bisexual and unsupported within his own nuclear family. They mention that they intentionally try to make up for this lack of support and demonstrate that being religious does not

222

automatically mean anti-gay. In fact, Melissa states emphatically, “I think that Christians should be leading the charge.” Paul adds, “‘Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me’ is the biggest fallacy”. “We need to get that out there - start the campaign. It might be too late for others, but let the next generation get that in their heads,” he says definitively. “I think if someone comes out to you and you react with hateful words, it's as bad as a baseball bat to the kidney in my book,” he concludes.

Religious groups have significant power to shift anti-lgbt narratives and this would be very powerful if led by allies.

Accidental Support, Ambivalence, and Inaction

Religious discourses provided a central focus point for many allies, directing many of the conversations and efforts in some way. In comparison, other principle-based allies who did not explicitly express that religion was a (or the) main motive for their pro-

LGBT activism, exhibited significantly varied types of activism as well as differing levels of knowledge related to LGBT concerns. Notably, this lack of knowledge and centralized effort occasionally led to undesired outcomes. Some self-proclaimed allies spoke about the importance of LGBT equality but exhibited extremely low levels of general knowledge about LGBT people and concerns. Theoretically and verbally supportive, they were ambivalent when it came to taking action toward LGBT equality.

In 2010, I was explaining my project to a heterosexual professor at a local college.

She was excited to hear about it and explained that she had “always been an ally of the gay community.” As we enjoyed lunch at a picnic table, she told me that she used to teach at a local middle school years ago. She shared that students would always come

223

talk to her. As a number of them came out to her and asked her opinions on their coming out process, she felt like she must be “doing something right” in presenting a welcoming atmosphere for students. She said that she had noticed a few people who she thought were LGBT on campus and wanted to ensure they felt welcome there.

I assessed the women’s approximate age; she appeared to be in her mid-50s. I asked her if she or others had hung “safe space” stickers of any kind at the college campus or the middle school where she previously worked. When she responded with a blank stare, I explained that the stickers were often free and provided a very casual, innocuous way to communicate her ally status to LGBT students. As I described what the stickers usually looked like to her, her face dawned with realization. Looking sheepish, she said, “Is that what those stickers are for?” Whoever had her old classroom in the middle school prior to her had placed a safe space sticker above the door. When she acquired the classroom, she had left the then faded sticker there. Potentially, it was to this that her student visitors were responding.

This principle-based ally provided some support to LGBT students in the area and even patted herself on the back a bit for it. However, this support was almost completely accidental, as her knowledge about LGBT concerns, social movements, and area resources was almost completely lacking. Due to her ambivalence in this area, her ability to be a truly effective ally was limited even though she desired to be a strong one. I saw multiple other examples of allies who truly intended to “do the right thing” and were motivated to improve conditions for LGBT people both locally and nationally, but were limited in their effectiveness due to lack of knowledge, inability or lack of desire to transfer verbal support into pro-LGBT action, and/or perceived or actual support from 224

others locally. Even though many appeared well intentioned, they were limited in their ability to make change due to the lack of challenges to their ideas.

Martha provided an example of how some allies appeared supportive until asked to take action by and for LGBT people. For the most part, others who also worked at her high school were generally supportive. When discussing her own support from her colleagues, she shared a story about how she and others in the community had learned about some extremely negative treatment of gay teens in the neighboring town’s high school.

The Superintendent of the high school at the time… we talked to him about doing something because we knew there was a problem. One counselor over there told us there was a great deal of difficulties for gay people there. We gave him a bunch of resources. We checked back with him [after a while] and he said “we don't have any gay students here”. He pretty much shut up the counselor.

Martha and other community members originally felt like this superintendent was an ally, as they had been supportive of pro-LGBT community organizing in the past and had asked for resources to assist his school in these difficult discussions. She felt that pressures from above played a factor. Either way, the outcome was clear – there continued to be a lack of pro-LGBT resources in the school and other allies, such as the counselor, were discouraged from speaking up again. This created a lack of visible role models and support for LGBT teenagers. It also discursively denied their existence, which limited possibilities for future support.

A third example of accidental support came by way of an interesting venue – a forum of candidates for Sheriff hosted by the Alliance. This election was important and was the talk of many towns on the West Range. A few other local groups held forums

225

where interested members could ask the candidates questions. The Alliance determined this would be a fantastic way to demonstrate some political power as well as acquire at least the façade of support from these candidates. While one candidate was known to be a (quiet) ally, the position of the others was unknown. While all three candidates agreed to participate, only two served on the panel because one dropped out of the race just prior. Over 60 people attended and it was recorded for broadcasting on the local public access network. To assist the candidates, the Alliance provided them with an “LGBT primer” ahead of time, including an explanation of the acronyms that might be used and some questions that might be asked by the crowd. Despite these cliff notes, neither candidate seemed particularly knowledgeable on the subject during the event. Both, however, expressed generalized support for diversity and tolerance of everyone. Notably, the event provided a highly visible (albeit basic) demonstration of support from two well- known community members who would have otherwise never spoken about the subject.

Because pro-LGBT allies on the Iron Range were relatively difficult to locate, principle-based allies who were not organized and galvanized by religious community efforts were on their own in many ways. They often attempted to assist LGBT Iron

Rangers, frequently without sufficient knowledge or successful templates to mirror.

Furthermore, some allies faced significant pressure from employers and other community members to cease pro-LGBT activism.

Benevolent Homophobia and Eroticizing Sexy Gay Neighbors

One additional tension surrounding allies arose during my time on the Range.

During local events supporting LGBT rights, as well as in personal conversations, some

226

allies demonstrated actions in line with “benevolent homophobia”. Similar to “benevolent sexism” (Glick and Fiske 1996) and “enlightened sexism” (Douglas 2010), they appeared to believe they, as allies, were best situated to protect their LGBT neighbors (insinuating that they were unable to protect themselves). As in benevolent sexism, some allies demonstrated a “subjectively positive orientation of protection, idealization, and affection” toward their LGBT neighbors (Glick et al. 2000:763). For example, some allies asserted they knew an LGB person’s sexuality before or better than the person did.

While multiple narrators mentioned how frustrating they found this, none of the allies indicated this was on their radar. Lisa, for example, recalls that as she was learning more about LGBT people, “I really thought a bunch of my friends were gay. I even asked a bunch of them in high school.” She laughs, “They are out now, but at the time they said

‘God no.’” This idea that allies better understand their LGBT counterparts’ sexuality unintentionally asserted a power imbalance with allies as the privileged holder of this important information, while the LGBT person was seen as having to catch up.

Additionally, sometimes allies appeared to eroticize their LGBT counterparts. I especially noted this with straight women speaking about gay men they knew. For example, as she spoke on a pedestal during a Minnesotans United rally held in a multi- purpose church cafeteria in Grand Rapids, a woman excitedly identified herself as a straight ally. Included in her passionate explanation of why she was supporting rights, she made jokes about how gay men are “sexy” and asked “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they could make babies?” Since they cannot, she argues, it was important for us to support marriage and adoption equality. Based on the laughs and other supportive expressions, many of the event-goers shared these sentiments. While these allies were 227

supportive of marriage equality, considering their gay neighbors only in terms of sex, children, and marriage is dangerously limiting for achieving broader movement goals.

Taxes, Mac and Cheese, and Normalizing Discourses

Normalizing discourses were another recurring theme in my fieldwork and were asserted by many narrators, both LGBT and straight. Illustrating this, Charlotte and

Martha describe how they put together and led optional diversity trainings a few years in a row for their professional colleagues who were struggling with their relationship and other diversity-related concerns. Two of those years included intensive trainings on multiple subjects. Martha says, “they were eight full days during the school year and we had about 25 staff members come each year … it was a year-long commitment.”

Charlotte and Martha used these trainings to increase LGBT visibility, including coming out to staff that didn't know they were lesbians. Martha found them valuable and says,

“We weren't always preaching to the choir.” She continues:

There were a few that really came around because we were so open and because… for a couple of them it was the first time they have ever spoken face to face with someone who said they were gay. And it was like, hello…. we own a house, we pay taxes, we cook macaroni and cheese. How about you?

She laughs and said that they “put a face to the issue.” Charlotte agrees and says, “We showed them we are just folks. Their perception is that it is all in the bedroom and they just can't get their minds away from that”. This concept of demonstrating that LGBT community members are just like everyone else was beneficial in obtaining community support, especially from Rangers who approach cultural differences with considerable caution. Similar normalizing strategies have been noted in other contexts, as well. In

1993, The New York Times wrote an article about these “palatable, distinction de- 228

emphasizing” (Ghaziani 2011:102) impression management strategies. Fields (2001) found that parents involved in PFLAG drew on concepts of sameness in order to maintain the reputation that their family was “normal”, as well as to reduce stigma.73

However, these normalizing discourses also limit the ways that LGBT Rangers speak, behave, dress, and come out. Similar to organization-level debates regarding the politics of visibility and assimilation tactics, some allies express concern when LGBT

Rangers diverge from their beliefs about acceptable ways of being on the Iron Range.

Lisa echoes some LGBT counterparts on the Range as she argues that the LGBT community needs to become more visible and active within other local community groups. This would enable LGBT community members to build trust and more open rapport with their neighbors, she feels. She elaborates:

I was shocked when we had the Minnesotans United rally in Grand Rapids that 1/3 or more of the people were over 60 and the rest were under 25… I think as a community, we need more events that are in the downtown, not off in some park, because to me, that isn't showing people how normal you all are. I think you need to normalize it, so that people say, "Oh, I didn’t realize how down to earth they are.” I think it would really make a difference in the community.

Lisa is making a few important observations. The Range ally support network appears to be bifurcated between younger adults and significantly older adults. With a few exceptions, there was a notable absence of adults in their 30s-50s taking part in the rallies, phone banks etc. As this group is particularly situated to make change through school meetings, parental guidance, and community events, obtaining their support could significantly benefit the community. Some residents of rural areas are concerned with the

73 Fields, drawing on Goffman (1963), defines this as “courtesy stigma” and “sticky stigma.” Also, see Gray (2009a) for a related discussion about what she calls “residual stigma”. 229

high levels of heterosexism and homophobia found in their communities, linking these attitudes with a tendency of younger, well educated people to move to more metropolitan areas (Tiemann 2006). It is possible that many of those who are more tolerant (or become more tolerant as time passes) leave the Iron Range to pursue higher educational opportunities to never return. Those who stay may be more likely to be entrenched in and uncritical of the messages provided by their churches and families. Those who are older may have additional experiences and more confidence in their community status, which enables them to think more critically about the inequality experienced by their

LGBT neighbors.

Lisa states, “I don't want it to sound like I am bashing either side, but I think it would normalize it for everyone if we did a fundraiser benefit, for example, so that people see they have the same goals – to help people out.” “[LGBT people] could show that (they) have the same caring heart and want to make a difference in the community,” she posits. Many felt this was a strategic move within Iron Range communities because being understood as familiar and accepted as part of the community is so critical.

Additionally, numerous community members drew parallels to efforts to combat racism.

Lisa waves her hands around the common room of the college we are in and says, “Now that we have more colored74 students coming in, you are hearing ‘nigger’ a lot less, because people are realizing how similar they are to us.” You can tell how passionate she is about this subject by her tone and body language. Her posture is now very confident; she is sitting up straighter than she was before. “I also think we need a group to come in

74 Lisa’s use of this term, which is outdated and generally considered offensive, is indicative of the lack of knowledge about cultural diversity that many allies had on the Iron Range. 230

and teach the Alliance how to get out there in the community and normalize things,” Lisa declares, “so that people who are not exposed to gay people know how to handle it when they meet someone who is. We need to make it more normal.”

While the idea of normalizing LGBT community members made sense within

Iron Range culture to many of the LGBT people I spoke with, others felt that the suggestion that they were not normal to begin with was well intended but wrong. As

Ghaziani (2011) asks, “[W]hy is the opposite of ‘blending in’ having a ‘scarlet letter’” (P.

766)? In essence, this discourse insinuated LGBT Rangers need to put forth extra effort in order to “prove their worth”, as one participant put it. The participants who expressed this concern felt especially uncomfortable when the sentiment came from allies because, while they greatly appreciated their support, they did not feel like they should have the right to speak for or about them.

Ally Expectations of Representation, Visibility and Assimilation

The concerns discussed above were not singularly focused. Many heterosexual allies I met during my research had strongly felt personal beliefs and would take action if they witnessed anti-LGBT discrimination or violence, but would not necessarily become involved in general pro-LGBT organizing. These allies did not vocally assert parameters for their involvement in pro-LGBT efforts or demand much from their LGBT neighbors.

Some, like Sarah, enacted small but meaningful activism on a regular basis through her interpersonal interactions. While Sarah now accepts that she must “deal with a little bit of ignorance, let's face it, living here”, she says that she uses LGBT concerns as a

“litmus” test after meeting new people. Whether someone is an ally is also a vital factor

231

when determining who is an eligible dating partner. She elaborates, “One of the first things I asked people when I was dating was ‘Are you a homophobe? Are you?’ It was part of my set of questions: ‘Do you want to get married; do you want to have kids; do you smoke weed...?’ It shocked people, my different expectations…” She also takes intentional steps to ensure her child is growing up with an open and welcoming perspective as much as possible.

Other allies took a different approach. Interestingly, these allies were much more active in the LGBT community and pro-LGBT social movements locally. In a few ways, they asserted clear expectations regarding ally presentation in local pro-LGBT organizing, as well as regarding LGBT visibility and assimilation. For example, one heterosexual member of the board of the Alliance, felt so marginalized on the board that she eventually just stopped attending. She shared, when explicitly asked, that she no longer felt welcome on the board as a heterosexual ally but did not provide any additional information. She also expressed that she felt the organization’s advertising and events made heterosexual allies feel unwelcome. The LGBT board members were really surprised by this and took note that they may not be effectively reaching the ally population anymore. They strategically added, “everyone is welcome” to all of their advertising and made sure they explicitly asked any ally who attended board meetings and events for their thoughts and feelings about what was being discussed.

Another long-standing pro-LGBT heterosexual ally in the community, active in founding the Alliance, felt like allies were underrepresented in the organizations’ outreach efforts. Despite the Alliance having put on numerous events (marketed via the internet, local radio and newspaper, as well as flyers around the community), he reached 232

out to the Alliance via their P.O. Box asking them “Where are my gay friends? I haven’t seen them around.” His statement was befuddling because the Alliance had been active

– in fact, significantly more active than the organization had been in the past few years – yet he was unaware of their efforts or events. After a board member reached out to him in response, he explained that he had not been personally contacted, so he thought the

Alliance had essentially dissolved or was on hiatus. While probably unintentional, his statement was taken poorly by some board members, thick with undertones of entitlement and ignorance. Other allies also indicated expectations to be personally contacted before every event, even though they were not actively involved in the organization.

It appeared that some of the allies on the Iron Range saw their involvement and representation in local LGBT activism in “either/or” terms. Instead of understanding the increasing visibility of and assertions by their LGBT community members as a positive change, some allies perceived this as an indication that they were no longer needed or valued. One consequence of this appeared to be a shift in this ally group’s focus and community involvement. While they did not stop supporting LGBT efforts personally, many who fell into this group appeared to transition to Grand Rapids’ Human Rights

Commission (HRC). The HRC is a committee of people who handle a variety of town matters related to diversity of many kinds. The committee consisted entirely of heterosexual retirees and teachers until recently when one gay man joined. Multiple heterosexual founding members of the Alliance now serve on the HRC.

I was only able to secure an interview with one HRC member, but it was notable how relatively invisible the commission was on the local level. Indicative of how little overlap occurred between the two organizations with similar goals within the same small 233

town, the majority of people I interviewed were unfamiliar with the commission’s existence unless they were directly involved with a member. Shawn, the gay man who joined the HRC, reflects that, while he found the organization valuable, he thought a lot about the group’s efficacy. He asks, “Are you reaching the people you need to reach or are you patting the city on the back and saying, ‘We did this?’” Shawn’s statement is interesting because his feelings of being an outsider in the group are relayed via his word choice – he appears to be directing his question to his heterosexual counterparts on the board. Importantly, the HRC focuses on furthering general equality and respect for diversity compared to the Alliance, which solely focuses on pro-LGBT efforts. For some heterosexuals, it may be easier to continue to support their LGBT community members within this more generalized setting, as well as in a setting where they do not have to grapple with perceived loss of power and representation. Being part of the HRC also enables symbolic distancing because it is not defined as an LGBT organization, and they are not relegated to the end of the acronym such as in Itasca GLBTA Alliance. This symbolic distancing was also apparent during Alliance meetings where allies would mention their heterosexual identity during almost every meeting without prompting.

I’ll Go Shout “I’m Gay” Right Now!

Concerns about representation and visibility also came up in terms of expected visibility of LGBT community and board members. Within the Alliance, I witnessed several high-stress debates regarding acceptable levels of expected member visibility.

One meeting was, by far, the tensest meeting I had been involved in on the Iron Range.

As we sat in a circle in a cramped living room, a few board members (both heterosexual

234

and non-) expressed how they felt it was critical to have high levels of community visibility for anyone who was pro-LGBT, regardless of their sexuality. Impassioned arguments both for and against this position lasted almost an hour and included raised voices and aggressive gesturing. The high level of visible frustration and the tension in the room was palpable, which was highly unusual for the area because it went against regional norms surrounding social interactions and conflict management.

Demonstrating the ongoing relevance of this concern, many board members had mixed thoughts on the contentious board meeting both directly following the meeting as well as after time had passed. Over a year later, one board member shares while she understood (and agreed with) some of the points Shawn and John (who were the most vocal about the topic) were raising, she was bothered by the way the concerns were expressed. She felt like the organization, she had worked hard for, was negating the risk she and others felt. To make his point during the meeting, John had run to the door and flung it open, stating “I’ll shout ‘I’m Gay’ right now!”

She expresses concern that Iron Rangers, both LGBT and ally people, can sometimes pretend there is nothing to be concerned about in order to feel more comfortable. While the Range was definitely becoming more tolerant of LGBT issues and people, she wanted to make sure that people – and the local organizations - recognized potential threats to safety, etc. While she knows this was not John’s intention, she was especially concerned with allies asserting this while not truly understanding the everyday lived experiences of LGBT Rangers.

Months later, John spoke earnestly about that day, despite discomfort that still lingered for everyone involved. He explains, “That was always something I had a 235

problem with [the board member] (and you as well)”.75 He continued, “For me, personally, that had less to do with the unnamed individuals who may feel uncomfortable getting involved, but for me, anyone involved in leading the organization, you should be not just out, but crazy out…” He continues,

A [board member] said she didn't feel comfortable, which makes sense, but that puts you in no position to be a leader in your organization. If safety is your concern, then you should not be involved. You are showing others that it is okay to lie to yourself and lie to others. That's not what organizations like the Alliance are meant to be about, just the opposite. I was not comfortable with that.

It shouldn't be something that you would tell others if they asked you, but something that you are actively demonstrating, that being gay isn't something to be ashamed of… if you want to proud of it, be proud of it… just cool with it, cool, but don't be ashamed with it… You don't even have to say that you are gay, just stand up when people are saying things against gay people.

Interestingly, John associates his colleagues’ reluctance to be fully out in the community (though she was out to many friends and family members) with being dishonest to herself and others. Additionally, like many other allies, he considers coming out in a very binary way – you are either in or out of the closet. Instead, his fellow board member was trying to explain the complexity and multiple layers of being out versus not out in multiple contexts, and that there are potential consequences associated with coming out in certain contexts over others. This is consistent with Conley et al. (2001)’s research on LGBT “interactions between homosexuals and heterosexuals” (P. 24) where only 7% indicated they had experienced non-prejudicial interactions with allies. They

75 During organizational meetings, I made an effort not to directly advocate for any specific position. I did provide opinions and ask questions when it felt appropriate. In this case, I recognized how uncomfortable I made a few of the board members when I refused to take an absolute stance on the subject of visibility (regardless of my own complicated feelings on the subject). For some of the board members involved, this tense discussion and my lack of agreement caused a chasm in trust that was never repaired. For the board members who later agreed to individual interviews, I made a point to discuss this with them. 236

argue that even well-intentioned allies make nuanced errors in approaching various subjects with their LGBT people, especially regarding relying on stereotypes, ignoring the issues that LGBT people feel are important, and not recognizing and vocalizing their own discomfort (P. 34). In the end, these small but important negative interactions, especially seemingly invalidating LGBT concerns, crack foundations of trust that were so painstakingly built.

John also shares that “a lot of people think (he is) gay” and that people have even reacted with surprise to learn about his female dates at parties. “I have no doubt that this is in part because of some of the things I had written in my opinion pieces,” he says. He shares that his date “wasn't really thrilled that people thought she was dating a gay guy, but I thought it was funny. [I believe that] is required to be involved in an organization like the Alliance; we [must] stand together against discrimination”. Continuing, he says,

“I never make it a point to correct someone when they think I am gay. I won't lie, but if someone doesn't ask me directly, I don't think it is important to correct them. I think it is important not to. It’s not an insult.”

John’s story provides another demonstration of how allies often consider sexuality and visibility in either/or terms. Because they know he is a vocal supporter of LGBT rights, community members assumed he was gay, even when he was at parties with female dates. Additionally, while John’s personal philosophy probably encouraged others to think critically about their assumptions after speaking with him, it also demonstrates his privileged perspective as an ally who could chose when and where to access the privileges associated with being heterosexual. This demonstrates how striving for tolerance and assimilation can sometimes leave important social conventions, power 237

inequities, and boundaries unchallenged. As DeTurk (2011) notes, tensions are created by the “contradictory nature of deploying social power against the system that confers it” and “conventional definitions of ‘allies’ that rely on static notions of power are… too simplistic” (P. 1). Overall, this debate demonstrates the ongoing tensions around politics of visibility on the Range for both LGBT people and heterosexual allies. Participants shared many different strategies for increasing LGBT equality locally. It is clear that

Rangers feel strongly and deeply about issues related to visibility, safety, and the role of allies in the movement, as well as the need to address these concerns in the future.

Conclusion

Iron Range allies support their LGBT neighbors in many ways, but their beliefs and actions also create unintended adverse consequences. Sometimes even allies who were supportive simultaneously restricted choices (or attempted to) for their LGBT community members. Additionally, there was not a clear path to becoming an ally – or motives for doing so. For some allies, they have been “out” as allies for decades and spoke about their support in terms of moral imperatives. For others, they are still developing their ally identity and were inspired to take action specifically due to threats of religious oppression. For others still, the local newspaper both inadvertently and intentionally served as a main catalyst for LGBT community formation and ally activism in the area. Importantly, in accordance with regional norms, Iron Range ally identity development often includes sorting out personal beliefs about religious doctrine, strategically navigating concerns from family and community members, and determining the best way for them to make an impact.

238

As my research demonstrates, allies have varying expectations about ally roles in

LGBT movements as well as their visibility and representation within those movements.

This ultimately impacts movement efficacy. While research on identity-based activism continues to prove fruitful, the recent emphasis on opinion-based activism by social movement and collective action scholars (e.g. McGarty et al. 2009) re-centers our attention and leads us down interesting theoretical and practical paths. Exploring questions related to the formation of alliances across and within groups of people sharing specific beliefs and causes, regardless of sexuality (as well as the challenges, costs, and benefits related to these alliances) seems particularly important for both LGBT and other social movements.

While strategic alliances are certainly not a new phenomenon, these questions are highly relevant as another wave of activists explores ways to effectively join forces and share resources in order to accomplish collective goals, propelled by updated strategies, tactics and philosophies (e.g. the Occupy movement, the Black Lives Matter movement, and the immigration equality movement).76 Allies have a complex relationship with various social movements, as well as a multitude of often evolving reasons for supporting them.

Lastly, some scholars posit that shifting away from identity-based activism will lead to better results due to providing a welcoming atmosphere for allies by understanding and acknowledging the diversity of ally motives. This will enable activists to capitalize on important perspectives from those of varying social locations to “find

76 See Cobb (2016) for an interesting discussion about how these movements are “not your grandfather’s civil-rights movement(s)”. 239

optimal matches between allies’ specific motives (initially and over time) and available activist roles” (Russell 2011:389), as well as to circumvent movements which include problematic emotion of pity for disadvantaged groups (McGarty et al. 2009). 77

Ultimately, rather than eschewing identity-based movements, this line of inquiry has the potential to uncover important insights about the nature and limits of both identity-based and opinion-based action.

77 Scholars have considered potential pitfalls related to this decentralized movement framework, including the reinforcement of power inequities. See Hardiman and Jackson (1997) and Wright and Lubensky (2008). 240

7: CREATING CHANGE - STRATEGIC VISIBILITY AND ALLY CONNECTIONS

Even over the last few years, [Iron Range culture] has changed a lot… like bizarrely a lot. Most of that happened over the last year with the marriage amendment, it was forced upon the public consciousness; we didn't need to – pardon the phrase – pussy foot around the topic. It was something specific that was happening … and that we were voting on. On the whole, there is still a lot of divide on [LGBT issues], but not the way that there was 10-20 years ago. – John

We don’t come out of the closet just for ourselves, or at least I didn’t. There is much more to coming out than just saying “I’m gay and the end”. - Jessica

While social conflict is generally deemed undesirable, the Iron Range has a deep- rooted and active history in politics. Julie and I first met at her home on the East Range.

She regaled me with stories of local activism – from radical place-making in the 80s through lesbian-driven music festivals and “barn parties” to boisterous Equal Rights

Amendment rallies in the 70s. She proudly shows me a picture of her smiling next to

Gloria Steinem during one of the rallies, as she told me about the previously active Range chapter of the National Organization for Women. Along with the tenacity and spirit

Rangers are known for, another notable pattern throughout her stories was how social change efforts were collaborative efforts between neighbors. This trend has now expanded to local LGBT activism. While it has not been as visible or as accelerated as in metropolitan areas, there has been a measurable and continuous movement on the Iron

Range focused on fostering LGBT rights and community development.

In this chapter, I explore the nuanced realities of this activism, as well as examine complex consequences of regional norms and sexual identity cultures, available (and

241

unavailable) resources, and geographic considerations. Considering the two main local

LGBT and ally organizations, I particularly focus on how visibility politics impact organizational efficacy and collective identity construction. While sharing overlapping movement goals and strategies, Iron Range LGBT activism is distinct from similar activism in other areas, both rural and urban. Various linguistic shifts that have been important components of the LGBT movement in the U.S. in the past few decades (e.g. moving away from the ubiquitous use of “gay” to describe identities and people), as well as the development of a well-organized community support network, are still taking shape on the Iron Range. Additionally, contentious debates occurred, centering around whether individuals should have the right to control their own levels of visibility or if the organization had the right to determine that for them.

Shifting the Narrative about LGBT Rangers

One of the first things that I noted when I began my research was how critical it was for Iron Range LGBT people to share their stories as well as the importance of creating visibility around LGBT issues. Shortly after I started advertising about my research project, I received a voicemail from Jessica expressing interest. When I called her back, I was struck by how motivated she seemed to share her story, how it was clear that she felt completely alone and, in fact, invisible in her community. Through tears, she explained that she hoped her participation in my project would help her and others like her feel less alone on the Iron Range.

At the time my research began, very few representations of LGBT lives on the

Iron Range existed. For those outside of the state, and even within, the Iron Range is

242

somewhat invisible or at least ignored. Those in urban areas often harbor strong stereotypes surrounding the working class nature of Iron Rangers, assuming that

“rugged” also means “redneck.” Geographical remoteness also plays a part in the urban imaginary of the Iron Range and what it means to be a sexual minority in rural areas. In the introduction to the documentary Treading Waters, whose central focus is on LGBT people living on the Iron Range, the two directors narrating the film describe the Iron

Range as “scary” for both them to visit and the people living there. This sets up a distinct urban (safe)/rural (unsafe) dichotomy for the rest of the film, even though the women

(who are from Duluth, which is less than 2 hours from the Range) claim they are aiming to break down this dichotomy.

When people living in urban areas do think about the Iron Range in a positive way, it is often in terms of their own recreation. Stephanie argues:

They just think that their cabin is here and everybody just has a cabin here, that there aren't people that live here or communities that actually do produce anything. They don't even know about the mines. If you ask most people [from the rest of the state] why it is called the ‘Iron Range’, they have no idea.

In 2010, a gay man who grew up near the Iron Range (about an hour north of Grand

Rapids) and moved to Minneapolis brought the play, “”, to the area.

Even though it had been over ten years since Matthew Shepard’s murder, this was the first time the play had been shown in a small Minnesotan town like Big Fork. Many Iron

Rangers mentioned traveling to this production and being very proud that it was in their area.

The play also included a post-production Q&A component in an attempt to increase productive dialogue in the area about issues local LGBT people faced and how

243

the community could better address them. The production, including audience reactions, was recorded for use in a documentary about bringing the play to rural towns. Preceding the play, local towns displayed signs adapting a line from the play, which states affirmatively, “Hate is not a Laramie value.” The signs in Bigfork, Effie, and other towns, inserted their own names in place of “Laramie.”

A third documentary project came to the Iron Range during my time there and a few of the people I had met also jumped at the opportunity to share their stories. The

NYC-based filmmaker was traveling the country, aiming to provide a unique representation of LGBT people in both rural and urban areas in each state.78 While these attempts to increase representations of LGBT Rangers were positive, both LGBT organizations on the Range also had to work hard to shift the narratives about LGBT

Rangers. The Iron Range GLBTA started attending Duluth Pride, while the Alliance built collaborations with other local groups and sought to have their events and perspectives represented by local and state media.

Shameless Agitators Versus Ordinary People

Along with the larger-scale and event-specific avenues for increasing visibility, local community members have been slowly increasing visibility and making change around LGBT lives in the area for years. Charlotte and Martha “became shameless agitators and advocates for LGBT rights” shortly after they became a couple. Charlotte describes their efforts:

We tried to get the Boy Scouts thrown out of the school district. The

78 Despite these documentaries, which follow an important increase in interest by popular media to portray LGBT lives in rural areas, there remain notably few other representations of Iron Range LGBT people on or off the Range. 244

school district has rules and regs that say that discrimination is not allowed based on sexual orientation… that was added because of us, and the Boy Scouts discriminate on sexual orientation regarding who can join their ranks. So, we tried and failed, but we did get the sexual orientation added into the rules and regs.

We also tried very hard (and failed) to get domestic partnership added into the insurance. We couldn't get the votes.

They also spearheaded an initiative to bring the Twin Cities Gay Men’s Chorus to the area in 2004. A few local stores refused to allow posting of any event that has the word “gay” or “lesbian” or “transgender” in the title, so, they were unable to publicize the choir as such in many places around town. In order to retain the ability to publicize, the Alliance removed the word “gay” from the flyers. After attending, some of the townspeople complained in the local newspaper, stating that they wish they had known it was a gay choir, they had thought they were simply going to see a choir from the Twin

Cities. Others were thrilled that they had the opportunity to attend such an event in the little town; some trekked over 100 miles to attend. Along a similar vein, participants told me about how, years later in 2008, anti-LGBT community members protested the local radio station in Grand Rapids for playing the song, “I Kissed a Girl” by Katy Perry.

Community members said that playing the song was inappropriate before 10 p.m.

The Iron Range has also been a contentious and perhaps even strategic space for important discussions surrounding Minnesotan LGBT rights. Tracey sighs as she discusses her involvement with local and statewide Minnesotan politics, including LGBT organizing. Because of her political activity and connections, she had been referred to the governor’s task force. She reflects that she “was kind of the only lesbian that they knew up north in the hinterlands.” Tracey’s Iron Range roots assisted her in successfully

245

lobbying legislatures to support the amendment. She recalls,

All of the legislatures up here went and voted for inclusion of sexual orientation in the human rights amendment and [an Iron Range politician] was one of the original signers of the legislation. I think that was partially because I knew them. Those childhood friendships really helped.

Tracey feels pressure to represent the LGBT community in the northland, partly because of her strong social network, but also due to the lack of effort on the part of Twin Cities- based organizations to strengthen their outreach and networking on the Iron Range. She explains:

Sometimes I feel that I am the GLBT movement! There are a lot of lesbians and gay people in this area, but when it comes to the Cities’ GLBT organizations, it seems like I am the one that gets contacted. And I like that to a certain extent but sometimes I feel like they should be [reaching out to others].

While many participants in my study were political to some degree, this lack of interest and connection to statewide organizations and movements came up occasionally during my interviews. Some participants were completely disengaged with local, state, and national politics. Theresa, for example, shares she is “just an average person” and that she isn’t “into politics or religion that much.” For some Rangers, “average” and normal isn’t political. Kristie shares a different reason that she does not feel inclined to get involved with organizations such as OutFront Minnesota. She explains that their outreach strategies felt too aggressive for her. She says, “I am a supporter, but I’m not going to push my views on somebody else”.

LGBT Organizing on the Range

Across the Iron Range, highly motivated community members versus organizations have largely driven the LGBT movement. This means that social support

246

and community organizing has largely taken a grassroots, tentative, and sporadic approach. Because of this, those working to improve the lives of LGBT Iron Rangers did not always know each other or collaborate. “Pockets” of organizing, support, and

LGBT -related events can be found across the Iron Range. These segments of Iron

Range organizers were cautious and even perhaps slightly mistrustful of each other and often drew their boundaries around conceptions of the “East Range”, “West Range”, and

“Past the Range” (e.g. Bemidji area). I was frequently asked about what other areas/local organizations were doing, as other LGBT people and/or allies had heard of some event/like-minded people through the grapevine, social media, etc. but did not want to reach out to them without more information about the people and the groups involved.

Across the Iron Range, these pockets of change-makers included people of every generation, varied social classes, and education levels. Some groups were content to simply form a small, supportive network (mostly consisting of social events, like potlucks and bonfires) for a limited group of people identified as gay and/or lesbian79 in the area.

Others were much more interested in creating an institutionalized support structure and assisting people on the Iron Range that may be completely lacking any support.

The Iron Range GLBTA

Jessica founded the Iron Range GLBTA in 2009, when she was in her early 20s.

As she grappled with her girlfriend’s suicide the year prior, she felt lost, confused, frustrated, and as if no one on the Iron Range understood what she was going through.

79 I did not see any or hear of any specifically bisexual or queer gatherings, although they may have existed. 247

She knew that she was not the only LGBT person on the Iron Range, however, and decided to start the Iron Range GLBTA instead of wallowing in her pain. She explains,

I feel like I have a sense of responsibility, not just for myself and my friends, but for the people that I don’t even know yet who remain stuck in a silent sadness that I have felt and for the stories of those whose lives have been ended either through hate crime, murder, or suicide.

Though she had almost no financial resources and did not own a printer or computer at the time, the group’s founder had some area connections and was politically savvy, which proved critical for the fledgling organization.

Youth, especially on the East side, seem to have fewer opportunities for community building with other LGBT youth. As Jessica mentioned, having a virtual or imagined community (Anderson 1983) around you is not the same as an accessible, physical community. While the Alliance did exist at this time, it is important to note that the organization was comprised of mostly middle-aged adults and Jessica, like many on the Range, was unaware of it.

Since the organization’s founding, the Iron Range GLBTA has been through a few iterations and has dealt with significant challenges. Despite this, the organization has been very successful in increasing visibility of LGBT issues and people on the East Side of the Iron Range. Along with an active Facebook page, Jessica created a tri-fold brochure and some flyers, which were placed strategically in the community. As resources were limited, the group frequently carpooled to meetings and negotiated the ability to host meetings in two community colleges, one in Hibbing and one in Virginia.

The organization had no formal structure, and most of the organization’s daily operations and long-term planning fell on Jessica’s shoulders.

248

The Iron Range GLBTA strove to provide both social and support functions for their members. They were completely grassroots and, in a way, learning as they went.

Strongly focused on identity politics, they encouraged wearing rainbow jewelry as a visible signifier of group identity. They also used the rainbow prominently in their advertising. As time went on, they established considerable connections with Duluth- based organizations that provided some resources, as well as created a tradition of attending Duluth’s Pride festival. Setting up a booth at the festival itself was a source of incredible Pride for the group, as they were the first organization to recognize and represent the many LGBT people on the Iron Range at Pride. Prior to their presence, the

Duluth Pride festival consisted almost solely of the metro-based organizations from

Duluth and the Twin Cities80.

I helped “staff” the booth two summers in a row. Many people who stopped by mentioned they were very happy to see their presence and were not previously aware of the group’s existence. It was clear through the comments that most visiting the booth recognized the distinct need the Iron Range GLBTA was trying to fill. A few people who had been raised on the Range stopped by and shared stories of growing up without a group like theirs, many of which echoed the life stories relayed to me during this project.

Others visited with raised eyebrows and confused expressions. One gentleman who appeared to be in his mid-50s said upon seeing the organization’s name on the table

“Iron Range, huh? I thought everyone from the Iron Range who was gay moved to

Duluth or the Cities.” One of my fellow booth staffers responded flippantly, “We are here, we are queer, surprise!” The idea that the Iron Range was completely

80 RAAN was a notable exception, although they did not explicitly cater to/represent Iron Rangers. 249

uninhabitable to LGBT people was so strong that the visitor to the booth couldn’t initially grasp the Iron Range GLBTA’s existence. These assumptions were so prevalent that both heterosexual and LGBT people believed them.

The Itasca GLBTA Alliance

The Alliance has a longer organizational history than its neighbor, the Iron Range

GLBTA. Since its inception by concerned local community members over a decade and a half ago, the group has been very active. The group focused on raising awareness and providing resources through political action, such as boycotts, as well as educational tools, such as seminars and ally trainings like Charlotte and Martha describe above. The

Alliance also sponsored transgender awareness by purchasing relevant books for community members to borrow, as well as bringing a nationally renowned transgender speaker to the area. Cultural celebrations were also a focus of the Alliance, which attempted to raise awareness of LGBT people through art and music. The organization fundraised through concerts from award-winning folk-singer, Ann Reed and sponsored performances from the Twin Cities Gay Men’s Chorus.

During the period of my research, the Alliance went through a significant resurgence and, in a few important ways, reformation. The founding members of the group had begun to phase out a few years prior to my arrival. While the group had significantly more resources than the Iron Range GLBTA, including an official bank account with readily available funds, you could feel the human capital strain in meetings.

The passion remained, but the group members were simply tired from years of organizing.

250

Around this time, a few younger people from the area became aware of and interested in the Alliance. Shawn was a critical part of the resurgence and describes how he became involved:

I saw the movie Milk and a few other things that made me realize, you know what, if you do want change to happen, look around you, people are exhausted. They want to be revived, why not stand up.

While he was initially hesitant to join a group that was “fizzling out”, Shawn also learned that a few other younger people in the area had expressed interest in being involved. Some of these people had tried to be involved in the past as a teenager, but were met with exclusionary resistance. Shawn recalls one of his friends sharing that he was told something akin to, “Little kid, go away and let the adults do the business stuff here.” A few narrators mentioned these generational conflicts and they appear to have deterred involvement from some of the people who needed the organization’s services most.

Shawn desired for the Alliance to be more organized, structured, and

“professional.” I heard concerns about this expressed by roughly half of the Alliance board members at one point. These concerns focused on two things in particular: the lack of general organizational structure and the lack of “professional public presence”, as one board member put it. Some board members (and, in all honesty, myself included) were amazed that leaders in the Alliance felt it appropriate to attend community events donned in sweat pants or dirty, ripped jeans. The structure-focused segment of the

Alliance Board also wanted very strict attendance and voting rules, to following

Roberta’s Rules of Order in meetings, and to improve the organization’s online media presence. These board members were very interested in expanding and solidifying their 251

positive community impact. As part of this, they specifically strategized about increasing ally involvement and representation on the board. The other segment of the board expressed concern about over-regimentation and that they “just wanted to have fun and do some good in the community.” Consequently, the board meetings were often a struggle between those who wanted to fully plan and assign tasks and those who wanted to socialize, enjoy each other’s company, and (loosely) plan some fun community events.

The latter didn’t care about making or reaching any broader organizational or activist goals.

This internal struggle was more than it initially appeared. This ideological chasm was a microcosm of larger tensions on the Iron Range among LGBT people.

“Professional”, I later determined, was code for “not a typical Ranger.” Additionally, group members had differing ideas about what it meant to be an activist for LGBT rights

(although none of them would have used that specific term). Some felt that they were displaying high levels of activism simply by showing up to meetings because they were, in essence, queering the space, while other group members wanted to be expanding community alliances and be involved in organized politics.81

The desire for a more efficient and goal-oriented Alliance helped recruit allies to their cause because they felt increasingly welcome at events and on the board of directors.82 However, it also served to alienate some of the Rangers who felt they were expected to become something they were not, and care about subjects they did not, in order to be involved. This tension between those wanting a social club and those looking

81 Sullivan (2005) argues that in a post-gay era that even gay political organizations function more as a social group. 82This is after the Alliance became more sensitive to ally needs and concerns as an organization. 252

for a more politically active group working to make cultural change in the community drew a wedge that was unable to be resolved. Toward the end of my fieldwork, almost all of the board had resigned due to these conflicts.

Similar Goals, Different Sexual Identity Cultures

Similar tensions were also occurring at a broader level between the two LGBT organizations. Along with clashes over what kind of Iron Ranger should be involved in the groups, some of the differences stemmed from conflicting sexual identity cultures and identity orientations. These elements led to a near instant lack of trust between leaders of the two groups. Over time, the Iron Range GLBTA and the Alliance worked together on a few events and occasionally shared resources. However, the groups stayed relatively distinct and true to their initial focus areas. The Iron Range GLBTA became more politically active during the Marriage Amendment, but overall, remained focused on providing a safe and supportive space for Iron Rangers to simply be themselves, whatever that meant to them.

In general, the Iron Range GLBTA is comprised of mostly poor and working class people, while the Itasca GLBTA has a broader and generally wealthier (while still lower to middle class) network. Notably, the Alliance has a significant heterosexual ally base, while the Iron Range GLBTA has very few (if any) allies attend their meetings. The majority of allies who attended the meetings I was involved in were parents displaying support for their LGBT children. Table 4 visually outlines the differences between organizing on the East and West Range and how they connect with the two identity

253

orientations. (Those with a disidentified identity were not invested in formal local organizing efforts, so they were not included.)

TABLE 4 Select Differences in Local Lgbt Organizations and Associations with Identity Politics and Integrationist Orientations

Identity Politics Orientations Identity Politics/Integrationist Orientations (East Range – Hibbing/Virginia area) (West Range – Grand Rapids area)

Politics = grassroots Politics = expanding org. influence/ally coalitions

Run by small group of friends Run by Board of Directors

Limited financial and social capital Limited (but greater) financial and social capital Had voluntary membership dues Rainbow and other historically LGBT Transition from historically LGBT visibility to visibility important less “stereotypical”/assimilated visibility

Past-Focused and Identity-oriented Forward-Focused and Ally-oriented Interest in learning LGBT history Focus on teaching others/diverse culture Focus on building safe spaces Interest in growing area LGBT resources Focus on helping LGBT community Attempts to collaborate with other orgs. members and their families Focus on recruiting heterosexual allies

The Iron Range GLBTA’s organizational goals closely map onto identity politics. The

Alliance displayed a mix of identity politics and integrationist orientations, emphasizing the latter.

To Out or Not to Out: The Politics of Visibility

While the Iron Range GLBTA appeared to be interested in increasing visibility around LGBT issues and concerns in any manner possible, the politics of visibility was a significant part of active debates about the Alliance’s role in the community over the three years that I was involved. When boiled down, a part of the debate concerned 254

whether the Alliance should be focused around providing safe social gatherings for community members who were already connected to each other in some way or another, or if they should be actively providing outreach to yet-unknown community members

(both gay and straight) who might be interested in or needing resources. While some participants, such as Courtney did previously, described how integral the Alliance was in understanding their non-heterosexual identities and finding a sense of community, multiple participants shared a different perspective on the organization. Quite a few mentioned that the earlier days of the Alliance felt very “exclusive” because of the perceived difficulty in learning about and connecting to the network.

As the organization transitioned from identity politics to integrationist politics, its strategies related to inviting and communicating with members changed significantly.

Shawn elaborates on this by explaining that “the [annual Pride] picnic was held at

Charlotte and Martha’s home… for safety reasons, but if you were not personally invited and ‘in’, you didn't know about it.” He continues, “It was all word of mouth… the databases were all in people's heads… there were so few actual records of people… which even this past year, it was quite evident that some people didn't even want a record that they had attended.”

In order for the community to grow, many felt they must update their marketing strategies. At this point, Sarah argues, “The community cannot expect word of mouth to be effective. Yes, people grew up here but we don’t just know things.” As part of the increased outreach to community members, the Alliance worked on building a website,

Facebook page, and advertised events widely throughout the community. Additionally, the organization put on numerous events that were geared toward educating the general 255

community about LGBT issues versus simply socializing with friends (and friends of friends).

Related discussions also occurred during official meetings. The organization struggled with this for some time and on the agenda for one meeting was whether board members should be required to be out or step down from the board. This was one of the most contentious meetings that I had witnessed the Alliance have and, based on later accounts, was the catalyst for multiple board members deciding to leave the organization.

During the meeting, a few board members expressed concern about completely coming out in all contexts. The proposed requirement for board members to come out stemmed from concern raised by a few board members about “tagging” community members in

Alliance Facebook pictures and posts, as well as listing them in the local newspaper as having attended Alliance events.

The board members argued that they were very happy to be involved with and serving the Alliance, but were concerned that coming out might jeopardize their current jobs and relationships within the community. They were also concerned about the

Alliance essentially “outing” community members who may or may not want to be publically connected with the organization. Other board members felt that, in order for the community to move forward as well as for the organization to be more effective in promoting their progressive and inclusive message, they needed to discourage continuing the previous iteration of the group’s policies of relative secrecy and silence in the name of safety. Reflecting on this particular board meeting over a year later, Shawn says,

That is one of the things that bugs me about the queer community in general, but particularly rural queer communities… it's this fear of a stigma. Do stigmas exist? Yes. But I think we have a lot more control 256

over it than we would like to give credit to. A lot of it has to do with how much control you want to allow someone or a group of people to have.

I spoke with a few people about this meeting and the general debate after some time had passed. Based on their body language and the tone of discussions, it was clear that the concern, frustration, and perceived disconnect still remained – and smarted – for all parties. Because privacy and maintaining personal boundaries are so engrained through regional norms, the request to be out when they were not ready was perceived as intentional disrespect.

Names, Logos, and Intended Members

LGBT lives – and the mainstream portrayal of LGBT people - have changed radically over the last few decades. As the “world seemed finally to turn and take notice of the gay people in its midst” (D’Emilio 2002), the meanings of sexuality changed, as well as the challenges and types of discrimination LGBT people face (Seidman 2002).

“Assimilation and diversity have been perennial tensions in gay life” (Ghaziani

2011:104) and normalizing discourses have played a large part in efforts toward assimilation as discussed in other chapters.

Historically (e.g. homophile organizations of the 1950s) and in contemporary times, activists make strategic decisions regarding the “celebration” or “suppression” of their differences when communicating with mainstream audiences (Bernstein 1997),

“deciding whether to play up or down the differences on which their disadvantages rest”

(Polletta and Jasper 2001:295). An organization’s branding and marketing strategies are integral to these strategies, as they symbolically document their commitment to either assimilating into the majority culture or preserving the uniqueness of queer culture.

257

Additionally, organization names function as important expressions of changing collective identities rich with competing meanings which serve to emphasize both who is represented by the group internally as well as impact how they are perceived in the mainstream (Gamson 1995; Ghaziani 2011). When the Gay and Lesbian Advocates and

Defenders (GLAD) changed their name earlier this year, adding ”GLBTQ” in place of

“gay and lesbian”, the current Executive Director explained the change in a post on their website entitled, “The Generations of a Name.” The post describes how contentious the inclusion of “gay” and “lesbian” were during the organization’s formation, as well as how the word “queer” continues to have varied positive and negative connotations across generations. The post concludes with a quote by the organization’s founder, “In 1978,

GLBTQ was as unimaginable as same-sex marriage. What was once radical can today be legitimately seen as exclusionary” (Wu 2016).

In line with the transition from “gay rights” to “human rights” and demonstrating commitment to normalization and assimilation, LGBT organizations are increasingly highlighting the role of straight allies in LGBT rights movements. Ghaziani (2011) insightfully demonstrates how Princeton University addressed how to best accommodate straight allies. He documents how debates started in the 90s regarding the appropriate role straight allies play in the university’s Pride organization. While some allies felt the organization wasn’t for them, others felt it was critical to create “symbolic bridges that connect gay and straight students (Ghaziani 2011:114). This resulted in a mandated

“ally chair” on the Pride board, changing the name to a more generic “Pride Alliance”, and distribution of an “Ally” logo across campus.

Similarly, LGBT organizations across the world are strategically working to 258

strengthen the collective efforts and visibility of allies, arguing they are paramount to the future of LGBT equality. Major organizations across the globe have recently created

“Straight Ally Awards” as well as “Celebrity Straight Ally Awards”. Organizations like the were formed in the last decade to encourage people to “stand up straight for LGBT rights” and “give allies a safe place to organize action for LGBT family rights” (Atticus Circle).83 PFLAG, founded in 1973, launched a new project called “Straight for Equality” in 2007 seeking to reach heterosexuals less interested in

PFLAG’s original mission than in general advocacy in the employment, healthcare, and faith communities. Notably, some straight activists are even rejecting the title of “ally” depending on their context, such as Zach Wahls, who became famous through a viral video of his incredibly moving testimony to the Iowa House Judiciary Committee against a proposed constitutional amendment in Iowa that would undo a prior decision to have marriage equality in the state.

Years later, Wahls states:

To be clear, I don’t consider myself an ally. I might be [a] straight, man, but in my mind, I am a member of the LGBT community. I know the last thing that anyone wants is to add another letter to the acronym, but we need to make sure as a movement we’re making a place for what we call ‘queer-spawn’ to function and to be a part of the community. Because even though I’m not gay, I do know what it is like to be hated for who I am. And I do know what it is like to be in the closet, and like every member of the LGBT community, I did not have a choice in this. I was born into this movement (Reese 2012).

Zach’s statement raises important critical questions about the extent to which a straight person can claim understanding of and connection to the historical and contemporary

83 This wording is interesting because it insinuates that allies often do not feel “safe” publically expressing support. 259

struggles of LGBT people. It also provocatively questions the roles of straight family members in contemporary LGBT movements who might feel (or be perceived as) marginalized and on the fringes of straight society, therefore potentially having different access to heterosexual privilege. I will defer to other scholars to address these questions, but emphasize the critically changing role that straight allies currently play in LGBT movements, both in terms of advocacy and assertions of belonging.

I was privy to multiple discussions about the Alliance’s attempt at re-branding itself and these conversations brimmed with visibility politics and particularly focused on allies. As with the other conversations about visibility politics noted previously, these discussions were extremely tense. As Ghaziani (2011) notes, infighting frequently occurs when activists attempt to choose or alter their organization’s name, arguing this makes

“concrete otherwise abstract battles of identity [and] [t]racking changes in organizational names therefore presents an opportunity to map corresponding changes in collective identity” (Ghaziani 2011:106). The context- and location-specific dynamics within the

Alliance are an extension of his research, as well a means to further understand the burgeoning role of allies in the LGBT movement.

Trees, Triangles, and a Mix of Both

The original Alliance logo created in the early 2000s depicted three pine trees in a row with the organization’s name printed underneath. In 2009, in attempt to be more

“professional”, the board wanted to create a stronger logo and better website for the organization, including a standard way to contact board members. The re-designed logo was more abstract, consisted of an italicized “i” in a grouping of green and blue shapes,

260

and dropped “GLBTA” from the name listed (see Figure 3). The logo was undeniably assimilationist, as it provided no indication at all that it represented an LGBT organization. In 2011, after a few new board members had joined, the organization decided to recreate the logo again, this time in a way that better represented their uniqueness. Most board members wanted to clearly indicate they were an LGBT organization.

Multiple meetings were spent on the newest logo creation and it was clear that not everyone was on the same page – a source of frustration for many. Board members debated whether they should have a rainbow flag with their full name printed on it or something much more subtle. Shawn, who has a fully integrationist sexual identity orientation, recalls:

When we discussed the Alliance’s logo, one of my big things was … I don't want a flamboyant, “Hi, look at us, we are gay” logo... because the name, just by the definition of the Alliance, that’s what it was about. It’s not a group of homos…

Some members on the board felt like they would be one of the only LGBT groups without a rainbow in their logo if they did not include one in the re-design. They expressed concern about visibly diminishing their Pride and becoming harder to locate for potential members who would (probably) be looking for the rainbow. Compared to the members who wanted a logo firmly rooted in identity politics, the integrationists on the board rebutted this by arguing national LGBT organizations such as the HRC, as well as Minnesotan-based organizations, such as OutFront, do not use the rainbow to depict themselves. Ultimately, they decided on a mix of both. As I was computer savvy, I assisted them in creating the design. The board members wanted three things – some

261

rainbow (but not too much!), a triangle (pink preferred – but not too visible!), the full name to be listed, and a tree as a throwback to the original logo (“to connect our future with our past”). After multiple revisions, the board decided on Figure 4 below. The logo development process and tensions over exactly what should be included – and not included – provided a unique opportunity to see the different desires and concerns that board members with orientations to integrationist and identity politics had. It also symbolically demonstrated the necessary bridging between the two on the Range.

Fig 3. Second Alliance Logo (2009) Fig 4. Third Alliance Logo (2011)84

We Share Something Unique That Unites Us, But We Aren’t Different From You

For Shawn and others on the board, the importance of the discussion was not about the logo itself. Following broader national trends, these concerns surrounded organizational inclusiveness and its ability to effectively reach and represent pro-gay, heterosexual allies. Like HRC and OutFront Minnesota, the integrationist board members felt the organization had to find a way to assimilate into the community versus stand apart from it. Echoing normalizing discourses, these board members felt they were setting the organization up to fail by ensuring alienation within the community due to

84 I did not have access to the first logo at the time of writing, but it was shown to me previously. 262

perceived difference. Instead, as Shawn explains, they should market themselves as

“people who happen to have something unique in common that unites us (without) saying we are different from the general population”. He elaborates:

I sometimes think that the rainbow has done the latter at times. It’s not that I don't take Pride in the rainbow, but, especially in rural situations… people think rainbow, gay, flaming, drag … and they don't even know what drag is… but then they think about anal sex and then bestiality. It’s the slippery slope of insanity… so if you don't give them ammunition, you already start to smother that stigma…

Addressing this perceived stigma circling around rural areas was critical for the organization’s development and success in the community in many of the board members’ minds. Aside from the logo, another strategic attempt at accomplishing this surrounded the organization’s name. Instead of re-naming the organization, which would have separated it from important community history, the board started focusing on shortening the name to the “Alliance.”

Michelle explains the importance of what she considers more inclusive naming:

As soon you say “Gay Straight Alliance”, people say “gay what?” and they don't hear straight or alliance. At (her college in the Twin Cities), they have an LGBT group name which is less stigmatizing. I think people get the name “Alliance”. It’s not just about gay people or lesbian people or whatever. It’s about all people.

Shawn also drew on assimilationist beliefs when supporting the name change attempt:

That was another reason why I suggested that we focus on the “Alliance” part of the organization’s name. It is called the “Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender and Allies Alliance”. That doesn't make it a queer group. That doesn't mean there isn't Pride in what we stand for. It just means it doesn't scream [he raises his voice a few octaves and waves his hands around in caricature], “Hiiiiiiiiiii… We areeeeeeeeeee fabbbbullloussss….”

Is there anything wrong with the rainbow flag? No. But is it appropriate in all places? No.

263

The concern over including the acronym “GLBT” (or spelling out the words completely) in the organization’s name appeared simultaneously rooted in a fear that allies would not get involved and a desire to be “just like everyone else.” Downplaying their difference would enable the organization to potentially be more involved in and supported by the community. This is consistent with research that notes organizations are simultaneously trying to balance practical concerns, such as having memorable branding, with attempts to appear more “legitimate” and “acceptable” to heterosexual, mainstream audiences

(Engel 2007; Ghaziani 2011).

Providing a counterpoint, others felt like focusing on what allies would or would not do was outside of the group’s mission to support LGBT people in the area in a multitude of ways. While they recognized allies played incredibly important roles in both the community and the organization, they wondered if removing the “GLBT” from the organization was also a marker of shame. Mirroring academic critiques about assimilation, board discussions surrounded a challenging question – at what point does an

LGBT organization become so focused on recruiting and retaining allies by strategically asserting cultural sameness that it ceases to be recognizable and meet its goals? In a sense, the same efforts to demonstrate how normal everyone in the organization was compared to their neighbors were creating a silencing environment where being too proud, too flamboyant, too queer, was flagged as a problem. By trying to fight stigma, they were unintentionally reinforcing it in some ways. Indeed, as Ghaziani (2006) suggests that paying attention to the “subtle contradictions in what [people] say” indicates

“it may be the case… life today simply cloaks itself in the language of assimilation and

264

cultural sameness… suggest(ing) that the post-gay era is not cleansed of the stigma against homosexuality” (P. 766). Moreover, my data follows Ghaziani (2011)’s argument that assimilation only valorizes types of diversity that follow the relatively narrow mainstream (heterosexual) definitions of normal.

Conclusion

Tensions around visibility and the best strategy for reaching the broader community to impact greater change, while still providing a supportive place for LGBT identity construction, appeared throughout my research. In this chapter, I expand on current scholarship by demonstrating the complex realities of rural LGBT activism. On the Iron Range, this included important efforts to replace negative (or missing) narratives about LGBT Rangers with positive ones. Additionally, I examine regional LGBT organizing, suggesting that the different sexual identity cultures and available resources on the East and West Range created differing organizational strategies and needs

(especially regarding visibility politics), despite similar goals.

Overall, organizations with members invested in identity politics (e.g. on the East

Range) were more interested in building social networks and establishing a visible and supportive group identity. On the West Range, a mix of identity politics and integrationist beliefs led to strategies involving increased recruitment of local heterosexual allies. As part of this shifting culture, the West Range also experienced significant tensions around visibility politics, which appeared in distinct and nuanced ways in organizational discussions, naming, and marketing. Not surprisingly, these

265

tensions and strategies came into full relief during Minnesota’s most recent marriage equality movement (discussed in the next chapter).

266

8: THIS IS DIFFERENT - THE MARRIAGE EQUALITY MOVEMENT

I think it is easier to discuss things when you aren't face to face with someone, especially when you are upset. I’ve had people ask me questions and debate online in a way they would never do around the kitchen table. - Sasha

If you have lived in the Twin Cities and you always have, you think there are like four cabins north of the area and you don't really think about the rest. - Stephanie

I did not originally set out to study the marriage movement. Just as I thought my fieldwork was complete, the beginnings of the most recent iteration of the marriage movement on the Range began.85 I took this as a sign to continue and I am glad I did.

The significantly increased local activity regarding the proposed constitutional amendment in 2012 (defining marriage as only between one man and one woman) allowed me a very unique and nuanced perspective through which to consider everything else I had been studying. In this chapter, I briefly examine each of these subjects - regional norms, local sexual identity cultures, visibility politics, media utilization in identity and community engagement, LGBT activism and the roles allies play locally – through the lens of the movement.

While some felt that the focus was misplaced due to other more pressing concerns in the area, many Iron Rangers – both heterosexual and non-heterosexual – were energized by the discussions surrounding same-sex marriage. Additionally, for many heterosexual allies, the 2012 proposed constitutional same-sex ban (and the subsequent marriage equality amendment in 2013) provided a focused opportunity to interact with their LGBT neighbors in different ways than they had before. For some, this interaction

85 Minnesota has a long and notable history regarding the same-sex marriage movement, as detailed in my introductory chapter. 267

provided unexpected positive consequences; the marriage amendment helped allies better understand some of the challenges that LGBT people experience. Overall, critical bridges were built between and among LGBT and ally Rangers across the region. I demonstrate how some heterosexuals who were not allies were also “activated” by the amendment and played an important role in its defeat. Lastly, the amendment-driven activism revealed nuanced tensions between Rangers and non-Rangers. Specifically, statewide organizers largely ignored the Iron Range. Additionally, I found evidence of both space and organizational co-opting by urban organizations.

Different Perspectives on the Marriage Movement

Some LGBT people on the Iron Range believe that they should be working on obtaining basic rights, such as safety, partnership benefits, etc. before they work on something like a statewide marriage amendment. Multiple narrators indicate disinterest in marriage equality because they already feel supported and legitimized in their community. Others, like Julie, do not feel personally invested because marriage is not a possibility in their current relationships. When I asked Julie if she and her long-term partner had ever had a commitment ceremony, she answered they had not and that it wasn’t on the table. Julie does not feel the need to get married in order to feel like a couple or to present as one in society. Julie already feels supported by her community.

People treat them like a couple in both her neighborhood and office (including holiday parties where invitations are generally reserved for workers and spouses).

Madison, approximately 50 years younger than Julie, also disagrees that the marriage amendment is what lawmakers and local activists should be fighting for. “Up

268

here,” she says, “the marriage movement isn’t necessarily what we need”. She continues,

“I mean, I guess if you want to get married… but it would be nice if everyone could accept gays and lesbians first.” Tracey, on the other hand, feels strongly that these ideas are “really behind the times.” She says,

I remember when [Senator] Paul Wellstone voted in favor of the Defense of Marriage Act on the federal level and I was with the Stonewall Democrats… A lot of them were saying that marriage isn’t our issue and we have to support Wellstone. I was like bull-fucking shit!

Almost all of the time, there is a resolution for the party saying that they support GLBT rights or whatever and they always supported it… Well, it was voted down at that convention right after Wellstone made his pro- DOMA vote. I remember someone got up to speak and even tied [their decision] to [Wellstone’s] vote.

Julie, Madison, and Tracey provide three important and distinct perspectives that demonstrate the importance of feeling your general identity-based needs are met in motivating investment in broader movement goals (like marriage) compared to localized goals (like addressing bullying in a neighborhood school or finding a community of like others). Even those who are generally politically minded – like Julie – can reject some attempts toward LGBT rights because they already feel supported and established within their own insular communities. Conversely, those like Madison who do not feel like their general needs are being met see these attempts at wide-scoped rights as limited in reach and even presumptuous.

Tracey, who is well established in her community, believes that both of these outlooks lead down dangerous paths and can quickly reduce important political support.

She says,

[Saying] that it’s better to get something than nothing… that’s bullshit! Why not all at the same time? Why [in any specific] order? Marriage is

269

our issue, ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ is our issue. Until we have full and equal rights, that’s our issue!

Tracey shared with Shelia [Paul’s wife], whom she knew through a personal contact, that,

“When Paul voted for DOMA, it felt a little less safe because he was someone up here that people look up to. His vote allowed the hatred, which is there anyway, to come out.”

Her example shows how quickly long-standing political patterns can change when highly visible allies modify their levels of support. Compared to our nation’s current patchwork system of rights that vary significantly by state, this underscores the importance of securing comprehensive legal protections that are not subject to political whim and are difficult to reverse or override.

Gaining Momentum Via “Conversation Campaigns”

In mere months, Minnesota went from having narrowly defeated an anti-gay constitutional amendment to passing a marriage equality bill. Minnesota was the 12th state to introduce an amendment like this one and, notably, the first to defeat it. While much of this credit is owed to the progressive people of Minnesota, this unprecedented transition was also an extremely strategic effort that carefully built on the successes – and failures – of previous attempts at marriage equality. Considering the critical points of failure during similar campaigns, members from a local consulting firm created “a blueprint for a new kind of issue campaign” (Grassroots Solutions 2013:2).

Research conducted about the defeat of the 2008 campaign indicated that rights- based messaging about same-sex marriage (e.g. that it is a “human right”) was not effective in reaching most undecided or conflicted voters. “This was a major disruption to the LGBT movement, which had historically relied on a rights-focused platform in 270

advancing policy change” (Grassroots Solutions 2013:3) and was notably counter to what some of the increasing research on allies was finding regarding how principle-based motives often fueled their support.

Post-Prop 8 studies demonstrated that voters “resonated far more strongly with values-based messaging about why marriage mattered – love, commitment, and personal freedom” and “highlighted the power of the Golden Rule... and emphasiz(ing) the idea that ‘love is love’ for everyone, regardless of sexual orientation” (Grassroots Solutions

2013:3). Researchers also documented the political expediency of something organizations like PFLAG and the Gay Lesbian Straight Education Network (GLSEN) had been promoting for decades – people were most swayed by highly personal discussions with friends, families, and colleagues. In essence, “the research (was) not just about what to say, but, just as importantly, how to deliver the message” (Grassroots

Solutions 2013:3). The concept of “conversation campaigns” developed from these findings, which focused on letting those around you know how important the cause was to you and asking for their vote personally.

Additionally, the campaign focused on staff and volunteers sharing highly developed and personalized stories to clearly demonstrate this importance to their community members – as well as generally mirror basic narrative templates known to work in prior campaigns. As this issue was notably “emotionally divisive and politically polarizing” (Grassroots Solutions 2013:3), this approach proved critical up the Range.

While the campaign did not specifically consider regional norms, the conversation campaigns were highly effective in areas driven by personal connections to community

271

members. Locals are more likely to care about what another local says and care about, especially if they make the effort to speak passionately about it.

The proposed ban and amendment heightened tensions around LGBT issues and brought many of these issues to the forefront of discussions on the Iron Range. Looking back, Minnesotans were amazed at how quickly everything progressed. Many Iron

Rangers shared that they felt that the atypical timeline helped people talk about the issues in a more real way. It also brought these issues into their lives in a way that could not be ignored. For almost two years, they were inundated with newspaper articles, regular and abrasive TV advertisements, phone calls from neighbors, signs all over town, and more.

Lisa says her husband would never have previously told an LGBT person that he thought they were living in a way God did not intend for them to (to their face), but that he didn't think any less of them. The discussions around the amendment have shifted his views. Now, she says, “He even voted no [on the marriage amendment]. I was so proud of him… But I would have divorced him if he didn't,” she states. She explains, “I can't live with someone who has hatred in their heart. To me, [voting yes] is hatred”.

These conversations about the proposed amendment also led other couples to have discussions they never would have otherwise. Courtney shares that she and her husband recognized that “he doesn't have any gay male friends and we didn't spend any time with any gay female friends either.” She thought attending the annual Itasca

GLBTA Alliance picnic would be a good way to resolve this and expand his friendship network. He agreed to attend, which is how they became actively involved in the marriage amendment. She recounts, “They asked if we would make calls. We said sure and ended up talking to a lot of people. We moved some voters!” “What was it like to 272

call?” I asked her. She answers:

It was hard. “Why is this important?” was one of the things people asked.

(My husband) was better at moving voters than I was because he would talk about his (gay) uncle. It was really hard for me because I feel like you just should, everyone just should. “What if you fall in love with someone of the same sex?” I would ask. They would say, “Well, I wouldn't. “

My husband hasn't ever been in love with anyone of the same gender and he was just better at talking to people about it. People really listened to him and he got a ton of people to vote. That was huge!

Her husband used the script provided by Minnesotans United, but her husband’s ability to speak as a heterosexual married ally with personal connections to someone who was gay was powerfully non-threatening and moving for those he called.

Courtney recalls that many of her family and friends didn’t realize gay people couldn't be legally married in Minnesota when they started making the calls. Her husband found the experience of being an ally making calls extremely challenging and enlightening because he realized how much the general population did not know about

LGBT rights, as well as interacted with many more gay people than he had previously.

Courtney says it has also strengthened their family because “now he understands how important this is and I feel like he would be comfortable now if (our children) were gay, where beforehand he might not have been.”

The amendment’s confusing wording was something the callers had to address.

She said, “Once people started to realize that [voting no on] this amendment was just keeping the status quo, it gave momentum for the rest of the movement.” Keeping the status quo is important for many Minnesotans, following regional norms. That said, gain momentum, the movement did indeed. For Rangers, Sam argues that the timeline and 273

increased visibility on the issue forced people to start talking. She reflects, “It was a powder keg that no one expected… such a swing from one side to the other in less than a year. No one from either side was prepared for that”.

“Activated” but Not Allies

The amendment struck a nerve with many Rangers that general LGBT rights would not have. Sam explains, “You can’t lump the activism around general LGBT rights on the Range together with the activists involved in the marriage movement. Many people were ‘activated’ by the proposed constitutional amendment”. She continues,

“Minnesotans are very ‘live and let live’, so it struck a chord that we might block people

(in the future) from getting married. These were people who weren’t necessarily pro-gay marriage, but just anti- additional attacks on personal liberty”. Courtney provides an example of this. She says,

I have a friend who is [conservative and religious] and her husband is an Assembly of God Minister. They didn’t know how they would vote so I sent an email [about] why I was voting no. They ended up not preaching about it. I was really happy that they were on the non-bandwagon bandwagon. They voted no. They didn't want any more laws or edits to the constitution because where would it stop? They also truly feel gay people will go to hell…

While some of the same principle-based motivations that galvanized LGBT allies also motivated some anti-gay and neutral people to vote no, the “non-bandwagon bandwagon” voters were strongly motivated by a desire to limit changes to the constitution.

Paul and Melissa provide another example of this from their phone banking:

We asked, “How do you feel about two gay people getting married?” They would answer, “Well, my priest said, my minister said…” but that's not what I asked. Then, when you asked, “How do you feel about this being a change to our constitution?” they would say “Wait, what? No, no, we

274

shouldn't change our constitution. I guess they should be able to get married.”

People reacted to the change in the constitution because people were afraid it was a slippery slope that might impact their lives if we start changing the constitution. Many voted no because of this fear that constitutional amendments now could lead to a loss of rights that they did care about later on. Essentially, the “non-bandwagon bandwagon” voters became allies through abstention. Regardless of their motivations and feelings about LGBT people, those who did not vote yes played a role in moving Minnesota toward marriage equality.86

Surprisingly, before the calls, many did not understand what the vote even was.

John shakes his head and says, “It was so common among all ages it was almost predictable. It was interesting because it was a constitutional amendment they were going to vote on, so it should have been obvious, but people were really in the dark”. He continues,

The opposition did a great job in their advertising. I got very sick of the ads from both sides, but some of them just made me sick. If you take a step back and looked at them, it felt like they were discussing two completely different issues.

[The pro-amendment advertising] made it sound so reasonable – who would say no to freedom of religion? I think that a lot of people didn't know what the actual issues were. It was interesting to view, but horrible to experience.

Stein (2001)’s research provides important related insights about anti-gay ballot measure support by working class, economically depressed rural voters. She suggests that, instead of (or more than) hatred, they were motivated by their own feelings of economic

86 As is the case with all proposed constitutional amendments, voters who did not vote either “yes” or “no” were counted as a “no” vote. However, the amendment failed even without considering those votes. 275

vulnerability, lack of access to social welfare programs, and reliance on spouses in order to make ends meeting. Because of their feelings of loss and disadvantage, they are particularly moved by arguments that LGBT people are seeking or about to obtain

“.”

The “Vote Yes” ads strove to strike a similar chord, with a twist. The ads focused on how the amendment would protect heterosexuals from the impacts of marriage equality on their lives. One ad argues that voters in other states were fed “broken promises about gay marriage” and that straight voters faced dire consequences in other states, including having their small businesses and charities closed; family members fired; parents losing rights over children’s education; and church leaders/“believers” harassed while contesting threats to “religious liberty”.

Additionally, most likely in response to significant increases in public support for marriage equality in both the state and nationwide, the “Vote Yes” commercials attempted to turn the discussion into something other than marriage equality. In one ad, for example, a blond woman appearing to be in her 40s sits on her coach and drinks coffee while calmly suggesting that “everyone has the right to love who they choose” but

Minnesotans need to protect the right of voters to “have the final say” (versus legislative or judicial action). Another “Vote Yes” ad starts out with an elderly woman stating, “In my life, I have learned to be open and kind to all people.” A mid-30s black woman follows who says, “Everybody knows somebody who is gay.” Then a white woman of similar age appears, suggesting, “Gay or straight, we are all entitled to love and respect.”

A younger Hispanic woman provides the clincher, “But we can support gays and lesbians without changing marriage”. 2 76

Another ad plays to regional values. It doesn’t even mention marriage; instead a disembodied voice suggests that voting yes upholds the state’s long history of religious freedom87. Interestingly, ads from both sides drew on the research about increasing meaningful interpersonal connections and the important of trust. In attempt to create this connection through the screen, both deployed a conversational style, had average-looking people, and used backdrops of homes, coffee shops, etc. to make it feel like the person on the screen was simply sharing their thoughts with you versus reading directly from a script.

Sermons in Church and on Facebook

Lisa describes how, for the marriage amendment, Facebook joined the local newspapers in providing an outlet for sharing opinions and having difficult conversations within the bounds of regional culture. Regarding conversations around the impending amendment, she says:

A lot of people wrote some nasty stuff on [a community religious leader’s]. Facebook page was a place where a lot of shit went down…

I have friends in other states with similar ballots and there was an occasional "remember to support equality" post, but absolutely nothing like what we saw out here. It might be because Minnesotans are raised to be so passive aggressive.

Her own online interactions were similar:

People got downright nasty and we had a few worked-up “Bible verse fights”. I ended up copying and pasting Bible verses to place into conversations so that it was easier … It doesn't work to throw the Bible at me. I grew up with it.

87 See Jakobsen and Pellegrini (2003) for an important discussion about the limits of religious tolerance. 277

Lisa remembers that one of the local religious leaders was verbally attacked on Facebook.

She says it was “extremely intense” and that “people left his church and told him he was going to hell for disgracing God. He got 200 or so comments on his page.”

As I was Facebook friends with many of the people from the community by the time that the marriage amendment loomed on the horizon, I read the impassioned verbal battles first hand. For many people, the things that were being said and the ways they were being expressed were not their regular modes of communicating their thoughts.

While local meetings were tame and orderly, the Internet was buzzing with virulent support for both sides of the debate.

Courtney and I discussed how there were a lot of churches around the area that had either “Vote Yes” or “Vote No” signs. She said, “My parent's small Catholic church had a ‘Vote Yes’ sign in front of it.” She continues, “I would have to pass by it on my way to work every day and I would want to drive my car through it. Once again I felt such anger, I was very passionate about the signs.” Courtney describes, “My parents told me that their priest told their parish that he cannot tell them how to vote for the president but he can definitely tell them how to vote for this.” She scrunches her face as she continues, “Then the priest told them all to ‘Vote Yes’”.

Courtney’s parents’ church, like many churches in the area (supporting either side) lost practitioners during this period. Lisa describes the impact the amendment had on her local Catholic church. “I was brought up very Catholic,” she says, “and my grandmother reads the catechism, not the Bible, she's that Catholic.” She looks very serious as she says that she was very scared to share her role as a main ally organizer for the local Minnesotans United group. She explains that she “just assumed that they would 278

be against it because the Catholic Church was.” She smiles and says, “I was wrong.”

Her grandmother had heard about her organizing through someone else in the church and told her she was proud of her.

Lisa recounts how the amendment “ripped the church in half here…. a couple of hundred people left.” She remembers how, one Sunday, “the priest was giving a sermon and saying [not to vote “no”] on the amendment. People didn't agree with it so they started asking questions and he wouldn't discuss it, he just said they were wrong.” It made people so upset that “the bishop had to get involved,” she says. Lisa was “in shock” because she didn't realize how many in her Church were “so open minded because (she) was brought up with many of them that were closed minded …” She says proudly that she “didn't realize they could change like (they) did”.

In the film For The Bible Tells Me So, Reverend Richard Holloway argues that biblical literalists are people who “know” the truth so absolutely that they actively resist engaging in religious conversations. In fact, he argues, biblical literalists may not able to critically engage in this way – they are only able to make pronouncements. For many

Rangers, a critical part of their “conversation campaigns” locally was finding ways to reach locals despite anti-gay religious pressure. Those from both sides took this as an opportunity to symbolically and vocally take a stand on each side of the aisle. For others, this was the first time they had experienced active deliberations on the subject, which helped them clarify their personal views as well as better understand the others’ perspectives. Additionally, some even put aside literal Biblical interpretations and left long-term faith communities to support their LGBT community members.

279

Signs of the Times

The ‘Vote No” and “Vote Yes” signs, as well as the corresponding amendment, provided very visible – and unprecedented – means to demonstrate “which side” community members were on. Participants reported that, at times, this led to small neighborhood feuds. For many in the area, this was a personal, not a political issue – which made the rules of engagement a little different. Sasha, for example, recalls that her grandmother would argue with her neighbors who had “Vote Yes” signs. She would also “call me and tell me when her “Vote No” signs were stolen and she would go glare at them” because she knew who took them.

Sasha says that many signs were stolen in their area, as well as some vandalism on the signs. “Someone spray-painted ‘bigots’ on the ‘Vote Yes’ signs, which I didn't agree with.” Even though she would prefer everyone have “Vote No” signs, Sasha felt that each side should be able to express themselves, as long as they did not hurt anyone else’s signs. She continues, “A lot of those signs were in businesses, so I just don't stop there anymore. Gay dollars go as far as straight dollars, sometimes even farther depending on how fabulous your store is!”

Many participants noted how encouraged they felt when they saw “Vote No” signs and bumper stickers around town. Vicki remembers seeing supportive signs two doors down from her old house. Considering she felt her old neighborhood was very unwelcoming toward LGBT people, she was surprised. She says, “There was not one, but two signs. I remember thinking, ‘Really? In my old neighborhood? Yay!’” Like expressions of support via newspapers and Facebook, these signs provided a social space for “quiet believers” (Stein 2001:37) who “feel queerness has a right to flourish locally

280

but lack the comfort or ability to collectively voice their objections to its suppression in an undernourished public sphere” (Gray 2009a:117).

Sasha felt those she interacted with were “almost overwhelmingly supportive”.

She says,

A few people weren’t. One guy at a bar said, “This is great, I am totally supportive of this”… Then he starts into the “two women are hot” thing. And then he says, “But people shouldn’t see that in second grade.” So I said, logically (which was my first mistake), “We already exist and aren't hanging out with second graders, so if we can be legally married, what difference would that make?” I often said, “We are already together, so how will it negatively affect you if we are married?” Most people said, “Oh, I never thought of it that way.”

While Stephanie was not interested in phone bank calling she did ask critical questions in order to get people thinking in person. She recalls, “I talked to people I knew. They would ask me because I’m out at work and I have a “Vote No” bumper sticker and I would ask, “Do you want me to be miserable?” She declares, “I was very vocal with the people I know.”

Aside from the signs, phone calls, sermons both on Facebook and in church, and a few small informative sessions/rallies to organize supporters on each side, both sides marched in two large and well-attended community parades. For the Iron Range, having any display of pro-LGBT support was highly unusual, much less a large-scale community-wide demonstration. In Hibbing, the marchers for both sides were part of a

Fourth of July jubilee. Sasha recalls that their group had over 60 people wearing “Vote

No” shirts and rainbows. She says the response from the community was “predominately positive.” However, when we passed the nursing home, we got a bunch of freak comments,” she remembers. She elaborates,

281

[A local politician’s] group was actively fighting us. We were chanting, "What do we want? Freedom! When do we want it? Now!" and his group was shouting, "We already have freedom" back at us. That was a little tense.

The other one was in Mt. Iron - a much smaller town (about 2k people). We had about 8 people marching so they were just like, “Oh, what's that? Oh, okay…”

Courtney remembers one of the parades in Bovey, a town on the West Range roughly an hour (50 miles) from the other parade sites, “At the Farmer’s Day Parade in Bovey, the

“Vote Yes” people were very serious. There were so many of them…. they marched and didn’t say a word.” Lisa, who became involved in the parades as an organizer, feels that

“people who are persecuted shouldn't only have to stand up for themselves, they should have others standing up for them as well.” She said that it is “harder to stand alone to fight than if you have thousands backing you.” Allies have an important, indeed critical, role in the fight for marriage equality and LGBT concerns.

She felt that it was important for Iron Rangers to see their neighbors supporting the LGBT community. She says, “That’s part of the reason I did the march, so that people who were going to vote no knew that they were not voting alone and that their vote really did count… it's not like they are one out of 5 and we were going to be defeated.” When she marched in the Farmer’s Day parade (the same one that Courtney was in as an observer), she was “preparing to have things thrown at me like they did at vote no marchers in the Virginia/Hibbing parade.” Her daughter wanted to march with her because she “really loves (Lisa’s lesbian friend) and has a strong sense of right and wrong.” Her concerns about possible safety risks made Lisa nervous, though. Lisa said,

282

“I was doing it to show people that this was the right thing do, but I was afraid someone would do something so I would not let her go.”

They had a strong showing of about 45 people marchers and their group was one of the bigger ones that Minnesotans United had up on the Range. Lisa recalls she was pleasantly surprised by how many people thanked them when they went by. Even so,

“we did have a bunch of people yell derogatory terms and had one gentleman follow us after marching with the vote no group and doubling back to us. He followed and told us that God hated fags the whole way.” She grimaces as she remembers and continues,

“Finally, when we got a little closer to the Sheriff, I said ‘You either take him out or I will’ and the Sheriff told him to stop because he was welcome to his opinion, but at this point he was breaking the peace and harassing us.”

At the end of the march, she counted 200 pledge forms from her neighbors promising to vote no. Regardless of how the vote turned out, the significantly increased visibility of the ally community via presence at the rallies and parades, conversations at coffee shops, lawn signs, and newspaper articles had already started to shift Range culture for the better. It is harder to uphold that the Range includes unwavering homophobia when so many people were actively supporting their LGBT neighbors. This breakdown of overarching assumptions about the Range and the essential beliefs of

Rangers as a collective enabled more specific conversations about where homophobia retains a stronghold and initial strategizing about how to address this.

Voting Day and Beyond

Their collective efforts appeared to pay off. Stephanie says with glee, “I had

283

people send pictures of their ballots to me!” Stephanie continues,

The best story I have is about my sister. She has moved a few times and her ID does not match her address and she hasn't gotten enough mail there yet. So, she stands in line for 2 hours waiting to vote before they tell her she cannot and she has to go to her old county, which is over an hour away. She doesn't have a car and she has a two year old. She didn’t give up. One of her friends drove her and she was able to vote.

Sasha shared a similar story about her grandmother, who despite age-related limitations, requested to be taken to vote because she wanted to support her granddaughter via her ballot.

After the vote, which ended up a “no” in the state overall (keeping the “status quo” and rejecting a constitutional ban against same-sex marriage)88, many participants were ready for things to return to normal in their communities. While very happy about the outcome, they were emotionally depleted. Courtney, for example, said that after the vote, “[her parent’s church] left the [Vote Yes] sign out about 2 weeks. I just thought they should take it down. Everyone should just take the signs down. We won, but let's just move on.”

There were longer lasting repercussions, however. While some trust and relationships had been built in the community around the amendment, others had become strained. For some LGBT community members, this increased feelings of distrust, confusion, and sometimes fear regarding those who touted “Vote Yes” propaganda.

However, many LGBT Iron Rangers expressed hope that discussions about LGBT rights and support for LGBT Iron Rangers would not end. As I drove through Iron Range

88 Itasca County (comprising of the West Range) voted 55.7% “yes” and St. Louis county (comprises of the East Range and the large urban area of Duluth) voted 54.8% “no”, compared to Minnesota as a whole, which voted 52.6% “no” (Office of the Minnesota Secretary of State 2012). 284

towns for the last time – roughly three months after the failed constitutional ban – I was struck by how many people and businesses still had signs up supporting both sides of the debate. More than mere paper markers, the signs were extremely symbolic “signs of the times”, demonstrating the significant impact the debate had on Range communities.

City Folks Don’t Understand Who We Are Or What We Need

For the most part, the people I spoke with were interested in reaching out to and collaborating with LGBT community organizers in Duluth and the Twin Cities. While these collaborations did exist and people mentioned they appreciated them, Iron Rangers, across the board, felt neglected by the statewide organizations because of their limited involvement in the area. Some participants expressed that, even worse, they felt actively misrepresented and even mistreated. Because of this, almost all participants (both LGBT and ally) mentioned feeling disconnected in many ways from the statewide movements.

The overall disconnect between the metropolitan organizations and Iron Range communities significantly and negatively impacted organizing around marriage equality.

Lisa, who spends a significant amount of time in the Twin Cities’ LGBT community, says that they “absolutely do not” understand the culture and resources needed on the Iron Range. She elaborates,

They think they are talking to people who see people holding hands, kissing, etc. You do not see that here. Even though there are so many more gay couples up here than you would ever know, you don't really see it. We also do not have many flamboyant boys here, and the ones that are [flamboyant] are certainly not making out with other boys on the dance floor.

Even when organizations did come to the area, many Rangers did not attend their personations due to perceptions that urban organizers do not understand what it is like 285

living on the Range, especially how social dynamics are different than in the Cities.

Essentially, they did not trust that these urban-based organizations would take the time to learn the area’s social nuances enough to effectively provide services or help them develop successful activism. Lisa says,

I think that the organizations coming from the Cities assume that it is the same as it is down there when they come here, but it isn't. They don't really click with people up here. I am not sure what they can do to click better, but I think they need to think more about how people are raised in the areas they travel to and not assume. We are a very different area.

Many participants echoed Lisa’s concerns about this disconnect.

Shawn provides a slightly different perspective. He says that for “quite some time, (he) felt that OutFront is extremely metropolitan focused, especially a lot of work that is supposed to be political advocacy.” He continues, “I mean, really, what kind of metropolitan politicians have issues with LGBT equality. Even the republicans in the metro area are pro-equality.” Even though they are a statewide organization, OutFront provided most support to Rangers virtually. Sasha shares that she “think(s) from a grassroots organization standpoint, they just didn't get their message out up here very much … that sort of city-centric thing happens and the rest of the state is just an afterthought.” Stephanie agrees, “Yeah, the rest of the state is just trees, lakes, and farms to them while Minneapolis is Minnesota.” Sasha says, “and the initial push [regarding the amendment] started here about a few months before the vote and in Minneapolis, it started over a year prior.”

Newspapers covering the campaign indicate that a rally was held in Minneapolis in October 2011 and Duluth in December 2011. The first public-facing event on the Iron

Range was a Hibbing parade in July 2012. Notably, the “kick off” to recruit volunteers

286

for concentrated phone banking and other duties on the Iron Range was held on the East

Range in Hibbing in July 2012 and on the West Range in Grand Rapids in August 2012 – only a few months prior to the vote. Sasha says, “If you have a national campaign of any kind, the first place they go is the Twin Cities. They get all built up but it’s their culture and they are thinking, we will do rallies around here and put up some flyers [up north], etc.” She continues, clearly annoyed,

And then they think, oh yeah, there are about a million other people in the rest of the state. Maybe we will send a carrier pigeon up and they will get the message. Everything is really cites-heavy and everyone else is an afterthought. I’ve seen that with other groups and rallies, also. There will be huge rallies happening [in urban areas] and there might be a [mailing list] you can get on up here.

Stephanie cuts in, “Maybe that's why it feels like the 1970s up here.” Sasha says, “Yeah, movements don't seem to spread up here. Instead of a 3-hour drive, it's like there is a moat and you have to fight the dragons to get there. You’d better get a shot gun and a four wheeler…”

In many ways, the people from the Cities viewed activism as an urban event.

They designed the campaign as if those who eventuality would be involved (e.g. staff, volunteers, and ultimately voters) required and desired similar tactics and goals. While they needed a significant amount of Rangers to “Vote No” in order to defeat the amendment, they inaccurately assumed Rangers and those from the Cities viewed everything from the same (urban) lens and did not spend much time developing the campaign up north. Rangers strongly resented this oversight.

Strangers Should Not Be Calling the Shots

Due to their urban counterparts’ assumptions about, disinterest in, and/or

287

ignorance regarding Iron Range culture, the possibilities of the social movement were not realized. Additionally, in general, due to the centralized urban-focused resource cluster,

Rangers did not receive the support and resources they needed. Moreover, Rangers’ assumptions about their colleagues from metropolitan areas created layers of misunderstanding, wariness, and distrust that was difficult to maneuver. Gray (2009a) posits, “Strangers, those not clearly marked by familiar family name or presence in the political economies of small towns, are easily dismissed as interlopers meddling in local affairs” (P. 37). The confluence of these assumptions and expectations clearly impacted the movement to have the Range vote against the amendment.

There were two organizers who came to the Iron Range to spearhead the initiative. “The one guy was from New York; originally from here, but I think he forgot was it was like to live here,” Sasha says, “The girl was from Duluth. [Neither] live here so they didn't really understand how things are.” Stephanie shakes her head and says,

“and the girl wasn't gay…” Sasha agrees and says, “I liked them fine enough but they just don't understand where we are coming from. Plus, when it was all over, they got to leave and the rest of us had to stay.”

I met the organizers a few times. They felt cold and distant to me, more detached than I was expecting considering the circumstances. It seemed notable that the first conversations I had with them separately included the gay man discussing how he missed his apartment (even though he said he was happy to be on the Iron Range helping with this) and the woman told me how long and tiring the drives from Duluth to the Iron Range communities were.

Sasha, like many Rangers, had concerns about where the organizers fit in local 288

social structures. She explains, “There were problems on the Iron Range because the

[Minnesotans United] staff brought in were not Rangers.” This is important because “we are a cliquish culture and so there was a clash… and [the urban organizers] were upset that there wasn't more interaction with the Iron Rangers.” She says, “I tried to explain that people here are sometimes scared to be out so not everyone is going to be there, but a lot of people made phone calls and things, they just weren't out and proud, waving rainbow flags.”

Throughout the organizing on the Iron Range, tensions rose between the organizers and the LGBT community. Sasha explains the organizers felt “very frustrated with the lack of outpouring from the gay community. They felt locals didn't care… this was a straight up conversation all over Minnesotans United’s Iron Range Facebook page.” She says the conversation was started by the organizers and went “back and forth… [with so many] people involved.” She continues,

I was trying to make this point that a lot of our jobs could be in danger and stuff. I was all loud about it, but there were people who just couldn’t be. People working in mines can't have people thinking they are gay and that’s just how it is here. That just didn't click for them.

I think that maybe if Iron Rangers had been the people who were hired to do those positions, that would have gone more smoothly. Because when you move here, we don't like you just because and that's just how it is.

What she was saying interestingly mirrored the debate that the Alliance had been having about visibility politics in the area. However, it is possible Minnesotans United believed they were hiring “locals”, as they hired someone who grew up on the Iron Range and someone currently living in Duluth. This underscores that the complex definition of

289

“stranger” applies to both Non-Native Rangers, but also to those who moved out of state, specifically to metropolitan areas.

Instead of listening to what the local volunteers wanted, some of whom were experienced activists, the two main organizers hired to cover the area bluntly relayed information from their Cities-based headquarters and ignored most suggestions. Before getting to know anyone, they provided top-down directives and created a culture indicating they called the shots and everyone else was disposable. Skeggs (1999),

Browne (2006a), and Casey (2004) demonstrate how heterosexual women shift power dynamics when they co-opt and “de-dyke” lesbian/gay spaces. Similar co-opting occurred during this effort, especially at marriage rallies/meetings.

I asked Sasha and Stephanie if they knew why an Iron Ranger wasn’t hired.

Sasha responds, “I don't think anyone knew about it. The position was advertised mainly on Craigslist.” When I asked them what could have gone better, they reiterated that from

“the get go, your hired staff should be local”. Sasha explains, “That’s a given for any grassroots campaign so you can say ‘Hi, nice to see you again, how's the family? I would like to talk to you about…” “More local, more personal,” she declares. Because the two organizers hired were not from the area and did not allow much input from locals, their recruiting and communication strategies came across as another iteration of the power imbalance between the Cities and the Range. This is an important point of contention because it is where the campaign started to unravel slightly up north. While

Rangers saw this as a grassroots effort, those in the Cities (including the strategists behind the campaign) conceptualized their work as a professional, organized political operation. Ironically, despite the campaign’s foundation being almost literally “more 290

local, more personal,” some Rangers felt like the opposite was accomplished.

The Range was a very low priority for Minnesotans United. It was extremely difficult for Iron Rangers to get access to “Vote No” signs. Numerous people reported having to purchase them in either Duluth or the Twin Cities, which significantly delayed their ability to display support. Also, many feel they should have utilized their Facebook website more. Sasha recalls,

Their office was always closed. I drove by it every day, so I stopped by when it opened. The girl yelled at me because I had done a few phone drives from my home, going through a list of names that had been provided… but she did not believe it was possible because I had not signed up through her.

I signed up from the Cities and we went back and forth. I finally said, “I don't owe you any explanations, I am volunteering.” It was very tense and we have experienced organizers here who could have been more utilized than they were.

Other participants shared similar concerns. Stephanie said that many had contacted them right after hearing about their organization, offering support. Stephanie was disappointed in the response, saying “They really just wanted me to sign a form and do a call bank.”

Another participant feels “they were territorial about their positions”. Lisa adds,

“OutFront asked me to email my experience for their newsletter. They were supposed to give me a copy but never did,” she says. “So, I found it and I was like…. Umm…. this is not what I said,” she continues. Her eyes flash as she recalls,

They wrote that I said that we had all of these people who attacked us and how we need to band together, but that is not what I said. I said that we had a few people who heckled us, but that there was a lot of cheering. I was really amazed at how many people pledged…. So she completely twisted my quote, which is what I was so mad about, and she never emailed me back when I said this isn't what I said.

These examples demonstrate how pervasive and problematic metro-centric thinking is, in

291

addition to how poor the communication and organizing was on the Iron Range. Despite all of this, Sasha points to a silver lining. She says,

But for the people who live here, [the movement] brought us together. There were many people I didn't know were gay until they were standing there in their Minnesotans United “Vote No” shirts [with their partners] and it was like, “Ohh, well, look at you! Nice to see you!” So that was cool…

Overall, the marriage movement increased LGBT and ally visibility in a myriad of ways.

Showing and Telling

Lisa shares that she believes that allies must continue to become more visible in their community. She explains that “families are the most important unit of allies; they need to understand that someone coming out has not destroyed our family units – that is something the church uses against us.” She continues, “Our community very much learns from seeing and doing; we're a big gossip community. So when people can show that someone can come out and have their family support and love them, that is huge.”

“I do see the community growing here, especially the ally community,” she says.

Facebook was an important tool for the Minnesotans United campaign and was one of the main ways that allies who were not already involved in local pro-LGBT organizing learned about the local movement. In fact, many of the allies who expressed support for the “Vote No” campaign had not been previously involved in any related organizing in the past. For some, the possibility of a restrictive constitutional amendment inspired their involvement. For others, the transition from the generally expected homophobia in the area to clear expressions of homophobia by politicians and our legal system caused alarm. As John nicely puts it, this change was “not strictly because of the marriage

292

amendment, but it was a huge helper”. He continues, “it was also a huge embarrassment to the state, the fact that we were asked to vote on the rights of others, shameful, but the consequences, perhaps unintended, were positive.”

The ally population locally appears to be following national trends of increasing

LGBT acceptance, especially regarding marriage equality. Lisa reflects and says, “I really think if we had done this 5-10 years ago, we would have lost that vote because so many people still felt that it was wrong, we had to hide these people. Things still need to change, but it has changed a lot.” I ask Lisa what she thought was causing the change.

She responds, “I'm not sure what is causing it besides when you have people who are involved and out in the community.” She explains that this changes the way the community thinks, as a whole. She continues,

Plus when you have people like myself and my grandparents who are so involved in the community taking a stand against something, other people sit back and say, “Well huh, if they think it is okay, maybe I should think a little deeper.”

And my grandma, I mean she got into some heavy discussions at the church. This is a lady who has always been seen as a good Catholic, so if this good Catholic is saying this is wrong, people say ‘”Do we need to reconsider our thinking as well?” I think it is planting the seeds of doubt…

The local Catholic “Vote No” movement impressed John because “they were fighting against something that was a primary component of their lives.” As Stein

(2001) argues, “Anytime you voice your opinion, you become an activist. Taking a stand on a divisive issue can therefore can be a scary prospect, threatening the pervasive belief in small-town solidarity” (P. 192-193). Notably, these activists were upheaving both their small-town solidarity and connections to their religious communities. He

293

continues, “It was heartwarming to see diehard Catholics saying, ‘We aren't going to buy into this.’” Local union leaders also helped defeat the amendment. Many union leaders were against the amendment, regardless of how they felt about gays and lesbians because they were against discrimination in general.

The significant cultural change occurred during my fieldwork was measurable.

One highly visible difference was how frequently community members responded to lgbt-related newspaper articles in the past versus at the end of my fieldwork. As I previously demonstrated, local newspapers served as an important way for community members to express their opinions, both for and against lgbt rights. Compared to before, there was notably less utilization of newspapers in this way during the ballot campaigns, as well as when the marriage amendment failed. Regarding this cultural shift, John says,

As far as letters to the editors were concerned, there was very little public

bemoaning that the moral structure of our society was going to hell… and

that was from an election failure as opposed to a single article in the paper.

If people are getting sick of writing about it, I think this means that people

are accepting it. If people are getting tired of fighting and that is the way

to progressive change, so be it… if they are exhausted, great!

Overall, the marriage movement challenged traditional social rules around discussing sexuality, as well as stretched the boundaries of Rangers’ comfort zones and built critical bridges within various social circles. This required significant mental and emotional labor, which will hopefully continue to pay dividends for the local LGBT people and communities.

294

Conclusion

Iron Range culture has been changing regarding LGBT issues, sometimes slowly and sometimes at a rapid pace. Range LGBT communities are becoming more visible and allies are becoming more vocal. Concepts of legitimacy and illegitimacy within the

“Vote No” movement on the Iron Range were intimately connected who was considered a “real” Iron Ranger. As demonstrated, movement organizers should incorporate the importance of familiarity within local cultures as part of their broader movement strategies.

Gray (2009a) argues that transferring “family structure… onto community-based and non-governmental organizations can help ameliorate tensions between national and nonprofit-driven LGBT political agendas and local models of community organizing” (P.

59). Some local Iron Rangers were extremely impacted by seeing others they held in high esteem and already felt affiliated with support voting the amendment down. Allies can add legitimacy to local LGBT movements, as well as recruit additional supporters.

These allies are critical because of their long-standing integrity and positive history within their rural communities who are used to following their leaders and caring what each other thinks. Because of this, in some instances, allies are able to impact the community in ways that an LGBT person is unable to.

Many allies felt they were challenged by the people they met during the marriage equality movement and have sought out different ways to assist their LGBT counterparts in creating safer spaces and obtaining equal rights on other fronts. Another group would not self-identify as LGBT allies; instead they were concerned about broader constitutional change and were willing to support marriage equality efforts if it meant the 295

constitution remained intact. Either way, the Iron Range ally community played important roles in moving LGBT concerns to the foreground of their community discussions.

296

9: LOOKING FORWARD: THE RANGE IS CHANGING

A few months after finishing my fieldwork, I was listening to singer-songwriter and Minnesota native Ann Reed. A song caught my attention because the verses felt particularly apropos as a conclusion to my time on the Range. The lyrics go:

Two steps forward, one step back That’s progress for you That’s the way to stay on track Two steps forward, one to the side Maybe in circles Never a straight line

While Ann is discussing the “road of the heart,” her words are also transferrable to discussions of identity development and cultural shifts. On the Range, LGBT people and their allies did not follow one specific path or pre-scripted narratives about coming out and navigating the world. Regional norms and long-established social boundaries created varied and nuanced ways of understanding and interacting with others around sexuality.

Additionally, social change occurred via small pockets of engaged social actors creating ripples that started small and became increasingly impactful as they spread and took hold across multiple communities.

Project Review and Summary of Findings

My research was guided by two main paradoxes. Additionally, I set out to deconstruct binaries and challenge assumptions about gender and sexuality; placeless and/or metro-centered LGBTQ movements; and rural queerness and queer people. The first paradox guiding my research was: How do lesbians construct identities and communities on the Iron Range, given that they are understood in popular culture and academic scholarship as being a) “out of place” as people living in rural areas with 297

queer desires/behaviors, and b) unsafe, isolated, and suffering from incomplete senses of self, due to lack of access to clearly marked LGBT-friendly places and people? The second paradox was: How does the Iron Range, a place with a notably heterosexist and homophobic culture, provide opportunities for visible and valued non-normative performances of gender and sexuality (e.g. female masculinity)?

As my research was driven by both micro-level and macro-level questions, I approached these paradoxes via a multi-method approach that enabled me to address the range of my questions and make critical connections among them: ethnographic fieldwork, participant observation, and semi-structured life history interviews. These methodological approaches each offered something significant to my analyses that the others did not. Additionally, when considered together, they allowed me to paint a more complete picture of the what, how, and why of my dissertation questions. I examined both the “everyday lived experiences” of my narrators on Minnesota’s Iron Range, as well as discursive and institutional level factors that contribute to representations and regulations of rural-ness and rural queerness.

Central to this dissertation is a broader argument that regional norms and narratives (both positive and restrictive) impact LGBT Rangers’ understandings of self, as well as collective LGBT identities and communities in specific ways that, in turn, construct regionally-specific sociocultural modes of strategically navigating their lives, relational power dynamics, and affiliations with others. As part of this broader discussion about the impact of place-based norms and narratives, I examined LGBT identity and community development, representation, and regulation; the meanings of and desires for LGBT visibility, and how the possibilities to achieve it and the strategies

298

employed to do so vary across time and place; female masculinity; and alternatives to the powerful metronormative sub-myths about rural queerness and the monolithic, single track of the closet model.

Drawing on interdisciplinary literature on place-based norms and narratives, in

Chapter 3 I discussed three regional norms (i.e. conflict avoidance; deference to guidance of community – particularly religious – leaders; and highly valued community and family ties), as well as pervasive and competing narratives about LGBT Rangers (i.e. that they are out/welcome and underground/unsafe). Furthermore, I analyzed how narratives related to home, community, and the familiar provided protective factors and influenced

LGBT Rangers’ ability to intentionally and successfully navigate homophobic and heterosexist expectations. Specifically, my findings demonstrated that, in contrast to some research as well as popular assumptions, the small-interconnected communities provided protective buffers against anti-LGBT rhetoric and actions when they were seen as “true Rangers.” As part of my consideration of this particular sociocultural climate, I introduced the concept of the glass closet as one of several ways that Rangers strategically navigate local culture. Additionally, I examine the ways that these norms and narratives impact push and pull factors for LGBT Rangers. Specifically, I demonstrated that many Rangers do not feel compelled to leave the area due to strong family and community ties. Lastly, I argued that newspapers are strategically utilized as a main avenue of communication related to sensitive topics (e.g. sexuality) due to the buffer and sense of anonymity they provided.

Chapter 4 expanded Brown-Saracino’s (2015) concept of sexual identity cultures, place-specific narratives, and city elements related to social networks, overall quality of

299

life, and orientations to identity. Through cross-site comparison, I considered how sexual identity cultures are constructed and accomplished in places without any of the elements

Brown-Saracino identifies as integral in producing LGBT identities, networks, and communities. Comparing my narrators living on the East Range with those living on the

West Range, I illustrated how the regional norms on the Iron Range and various

(sometimes competing) narratives had meaningful consequences for visibility politics as well as identity and community development. Contrary to Brown-Saracino’s arguments,

I found that some LGBT Rangers are transitioning toward an integrationist orientation, while others are not. I contribute to scholarship seeking to unpack the closet paradigm through introduction of a third identity orientation – disidentified identity. Lastly, I redefined the orienting guideposts for sexual identity cultures. Through examination of the three sexual identity cultures on the Iron Range, I ultimately argued that regional visibility politics, norms, and narratives significantly impacted the possibilities and desire for different identity politics orientations.

Chapter 5 argued that masculinity and femininity are blurred on the Iron Range compared to distinct gender norms. I demonstrated that there is significant overlap of valued traits considered both masculine and feminine, arguing there is a greater degree of socially-condoned flexibility in gender expression across sexualities for women. I discussed the concept of being situationally strong, demonstrating how non-heterosexual women were able to strategically avoid social stigma and discrimination by being misrecognized as heterosexual, rural, “rugged” women. I concluded that, despite a pervasive patriarchal system and roles, this allowed lesbian Iron Rangers to have a unique range of strategic ways to navigate anti-LGBT stigma and safety concerns. I expanded 300

Connell (2005)’s model of global, regional, and local masculinities to include a fourth level – national. Lastly, I argued that the characteristics that comprise hegemonic femininity vary, demonstrating that an individual’s performance of gender and the strategic resources available to (and enacted by) her depends not only on her own subjective understanding of her identity, but also the spatial and temporal settings in which her identity is understood or read.

Chapter 6 analyzed the complex representations, roles, and phases of ally identity development on the Iron Range. I expanded contemporary conceptions of ally identity and roles through exploration of the complexity of ally identities and activism within geographically isolated settings. I examined how allies both reject and uphold anti-

LGBT regional norms and found that Iron Range allies supported their LGBT neighbors in numerous ways; however, their beliefs, words, and behaviors also unintentionally and negatively impacted them. I argued that some allies who were supportive occasionally simultaneously restricted choices (or attempted to) for their LGBT community members.

Additionally, I demonstrated how the local newspaper served as a main catalyst for ally activism and LGBT alliance building within Range communities. Further, I contended that allies had varied expectations about their roles, visibility, and influence within local

LGBT movements.

In Chapter 7, I explored the nuanced realities of the Iron Range’s deep-rooted history of political activism and argued that regional norms and sexual identity cultures have complex consequences. I analyzed how these norms and micro-cultures, as well as geographic considerations, impacted resource availability. I demonstrated how visibility politics specifically affected organizational efficacy and collective identity construction 301

and posited that local activism is distinct from similar activism in other areas, both rural and urban. While both LGBT organizations on the Range shared movement goals, I illustrated how the East and West Range created different organizational strategies around visibility politics (including naming and marketing) based on varied sexual identity cultures. Furthermore, this chapter argued that visibility politics was at the center of Range activism through examination of the contentious debates that took place across the Range, particularly related to whether organizations or individuals have the right to control levels of visibility.

My concluding empirical chapter, Chapter 8, analyzed Range activism related to the 2012 proposed constitutional amendment attempting to limit marriage rights by specifically excluding same-sex couples. I argued this proposed amendment provided allies unique opportunities to better understand some of the challenges faced by LGBT people as well as to build strategic alliances within their communities. Additionally, I found that some heterosexuals who were not allies were also “activated” by the proposed amendment (because they wanted the constitution to remain unedited) and held an important role in its defeat. I analyzed nuanced tensions driven by the amendment- related activism between Rangers and urban-based social actors. I postulated that allies are able to uniquely and critically further LGBT-related movement goals due to their social locations, perspectives, and community influence. Finally, I contended that Range culture is changing regarding LGBT concerns, sometimes slowly and sometimes less so, due to increasing LGBT and ally visibility.

Collectively, these chapters address the two paradoxes outlined above. This dissertation presents a multi-dimensional portrayal of the positive and challenging 302

elements of rural LGBT lives. I have demonstrated that LGBT identity construction and community development occurs despite lack of access to clearly marked LGBT-friendly places and people. Additionally, regarding my second paradox, I have examined how

Iron Range cultural norms and narratives provide opportunities for visible and valued non-normative performances of gender and sexuality, including female masculinity.

In the following sections, I argue that I successfully challenged metronormative assumptions through my findings. Additionally, I discuss my work’s broader sociological and interdisciplinary implications, as well as its limitations. Lastly, I suggest avenues for future research based on my findings.

Broader Sociological and Interdisciplinary Implications

Interdisciplinary social scientific, queer, and feminist scholarship has increased our understanding of the fluidity and multiplicity of identities, sexualities, and performances and the ways in which these are embodied, imagined, real, and immaterial all at the same time. Moreover, this body of work has demonstrated that virtual, material, and imagined communities and subcommunities play important roles in identity formation and management, personal well-being, as well as efforts for social change. While the social sciences have played a notable role in documenting gay and lesbian history, lives, and communities, it is imperative that we continue to theorize the reasons for and consequences of constructing (and placing limits upon) certain identities and communities through social, spatial, and symbolic boundaries.

While scholarship on urban queerness and LGBTQ lives has increased our understanding of sexuality and gender within spaces and places, their focus on the

303

urban came with a high cost – a brushing aside, overwriting, and sometimes silencing, of non-metropolitan sexualities. Halberstam’s (2005:35) echo of the decade-old concern that “Most queer work on community, sexual identity, and gender roles has been based on and in urban populations, and exhibits an active disinterest in the productive potential of nonmetropolitan sexualities, genders, and identities” is still a valid concern today. I believe that the unequal focus on the experiences and identities of gay men

(regardless of place) is cause for concern as it limits our knowledge of lesbian communities, identities, and gender expressions. While this body of work is slowly increasing, U.S.-based sociological, feminist, and are currently operating with some serious theoretical and empirical blind spots due to the lack of studies into the vast expanse of rural America.

My empirical chapters attempt to address some of these blind spots. In these chapters, I made interventions in and contributions to interdisciplinary and sociological literatures. Within sociology, my work has important implications for research and theories related to gender and sexuality, identity formation and community building, and place. Additionally, my work contributes to interdisciplinary literatures on LGBT and queer studies. I briefly discuss these contributions below.

Gender and Sexuality

Contemporary discussions of both dominant and non-dominant femininities and masculinities are often limited by a static understanding of the relationship between heteronormativity, sexuality, and gender. I contributed to these discussions in Chapter 5 by illustrating how different cultural discourses around gender create the possibility of

304

valued masculinity in both heterosexual and non- heterosexual women and strategic maneuvering within the hegemonic gender order. Further, I demonstrated the importance of considering regionality (instead of a ubiquitous rurality).

Additionally, I contributed to theorizing about female masculinity – a topic that has yet to be fully explored. My discussion of valued female masculinity, gender performance, and the recognition, (mis)readings,, representations and regulations of these performances broadly contributes to studies of gender and queerness by challenging scholarship arguing socially condoned female masculinity is non-existent/extremely limited. By considering the possibility of blurred versus distinct gender norms, I offered a unique theoretical lens through which to view these processes with a focus on regional cultural impacts.

I further contribute to concepts of regionally-specific gender performance, recognition, and meaning ascription through my concept of the glass closet. Discussed in

Chapter 3, I furthered Barton (2012)’s argument that in rural areas, everyone – regardless of how one presents themselves – are interacted with in a way that presumes their heterosexuality out of regional norms related to politeness. Through my discussion of the glass closet, I provided rich empirical examples demonstrating specific mechanisms of how this occurs. Additionally, I specifically contributed to understandings of symbolic boundary-making as well as the ways that rural queers strategically and sagaciously move through their specific sociocultural environment via my examination of how the combination of regional norms (i.e. strong personal boundaries, heteronormative assumptions, and the desire for conflict avoidance) provided LGBT Rangers flexibility in living their lives. 305

Challenging scholarship related to the closet model and adding to literature arguing that visibility politics are highly nuanced, I highlighted important distinctions between public demonstrations of homosexuality, being out, and being recognized as

LGB. Expanding on Kazyak’s (2011) concepts of “live and let live attitudes” and

“artificial anonymity”, where community members know about, “explicitly recognize”

(P. 575) and chose to ignore homosexuality, my findings indicate that non- heterosexuality is often not recognized (or misrecognized) due to place-specific factors.

Identity and Community Formation

My research also contributes to studies of social difference, particularly related to identity and community formation. Throughout my dissertation, I demonstrated various processes of symbolic and material boundary-making, particularly through normative versus non-normative discourses around familiarity and belonging. My research underscores the importance of place-based social interactions and power relations on both identity construction and the possibilities for interaction between community members.

In Chapter 6 and 7, I expanded literature related to interactions between lgbt and ally communities, demonstrating the complex and sometimes contentious nature of these relationships.

I provided another strong contribution to theorizing on identity and community formation in Chapter 6 via my introduction of the concept of a disidentified sexual identity culture. This concept complicates discussions about motivations for and possibilities of assimilation within contemporary society, as well as expands on theories about integrationist identities and disidentification (Gray 2009a; Howard 1999; Munoz

306

1999). Extremely relevant to broader theorizing about individual agency within social forces and the impact of place on identities, I demonstrated how rural LGBT people strategically and pragmatically balance their community-based and LGBT identities; actively (symbolically and physically) distance themselves from other LGBT community members; and utilize silences and silencing to their advantage during their identity formation.

Overall, this model extends the typical continuum model of sexual identity formation and enables exploration of a different process of identity formation. My research challenges scholars to look for identities that follow a different logic and value structure due to regional norms and pressures. Joining scholars challenging ubiquitous conversations about post-gay identities, my findings also accentuate the value in considering variance within LGBT sexual identity cultures across the nation. Moreover, my dissertation contests and expands our standard narrative of the monolithic, single track closet model by demonstrating why and how the elements of the closet – as well as whether someone perceives themself as constrained within the closet - vary due to place- specific factors, including values, norms, and narratives.

Furthermore, my work is highly relevant to increasing discussions about the multiplicity of ally identities, as well as regarding collective activism between allies and

LGBT people. My research specifically provides important analysis of the ways allies become part of strategic plans by LGBT organizations, as well as the impacts of tensions between allies and LGBT people over time on local community development. My findings are beneficial for future theorizing about identity and visibility politics, as well as provide practical insights for current LGBT organizations trying to navigate the 307

conflicts around visibility politics and perceptions of power disparities, particularly in terms of both unspoken and verbalized ally expectations of their roles within these organizations.

The insights I provided regarding the marriage movement in Chapter 8 further our understanding of the possibilities for and challenges surrounding rural organizing around

LGBT rights. Urban-based organizations interested in effectively organizing in and/or providing services to rural areas will benefit from my analysis regarding urban-rural resource strain, perceived place-based conflicts over power imbalances, and rural LGBT feelings of disconnection with state-based and national LGBT initiatives.

Addressing unequal distribution of LGBT resources across states is critical for these organizations. At the end of 2012, Sasha drove this home by stating “The last time

OutFront updated the Iron Range resources was 2008. I just checked yesterday.” Many

Rangers noted regularly registering disappointment at OutFront’s apparent blindspot for rural areas. Notably, at the time of this writing (2016), OutFront’s “Resources” page on their website, last updated in 2014, does not list a single Iron Range contact or organization reference. Their “Resources — LGBTQ and Allied Organizations” lists are broken down into categories. While the Twin Cities area provides significant and varied resources, including points of contact for the leather community, performance spaces and choirs, bisexual and male nudists, “LGBTQ rodeo fans and participants”, outdoor enthusiasts, and various religious LGBT communities, there is a stark and immediately noticeable void of resources for the rest of the state.

A quick tally of the statewide resources provided demonstrates that 94% are from the Twin Cities area (107 total); 2% are from Northern Minnesota (2 total – 1 in Duluth 308

and 1 in Bemidji – each at least an hour from the Iron Range); and 4% are from Southern

Minnesota (5 total). There were also a few resources listed for Milwaukee and Lacrosse

Wisconsin, as well as for the Fargo, North Dakota/Moorhead, Minnesota college area.

Multiple national resources were provided, as well. The Minnesota-based breakdown is provided in Appendix C.89 As many participants discussed – and this demonstrates – there is a clear need to increase the visibility of local resources and work to reduce metro- centric networks and resource channels. Even more so, reducing perceptions of urban- bias is critical.

While Minneapolis and St. Paul are overflowing with helpful resources for those looking for both emergency assistance and fun activities to do on the weekend, LGBT

Iron Rangers often feel like they are completely on their own. In general, LGBT organizations need to further examine the impacts of their city-centric organizing. In

Minnesota in particular, the connections and collaborations between Iron Rangers and the statewide organizations need to be better established – and, as my research demonstrated, approached from a place of mutual respect in order to avoid damaging narratives of tokenism and encroaching.

89 I obtained this information via OutFront Minnesota’s website on April 01, 2016. The website states it was last updated “September 2014.” To make sure I was not missing something, I also ran the keywords “Itasca” and “Iron Range”, as well as the names of the two main organizations on the Iron Range. While they provided some results, many were unrelated. When I ran the keywords “Northern Minnesota” in OutFront’s site search bar, the response was poignantly, “Sorry - there were no results matching your search term.”

309

Place

Gray (2009a) argues that “queer-identity work done in places thin on privacy, reliant on familiarity, and shy on public venues for sustained claims to queer difference produce differently – not less – mediated or declarative queer pronunciations than urban

LGBT communities….” and “recognition of those pronunciations depends deeply on one’s surroundings” (P. 31). The “rural turn” in queer studies heralded by Gray and others, as well as increasing sociological considerations of spatiality, have great potential in challenging and expanding our understandings of contemporary society. Both specific chapters and my project, taken as a whole, contribute to this venture. My research contributes to existing scholarship on the importance of place through my examination of how the meanings of and desires for LGBT visibility, as well as the possibilities to achieve it and the strategies employed to do so, vary across time and place. My research also broadly contributes to theorizing about “liminal spaces” or “spaces of betweenness”

(Browne 2006b; Knopp 2004) where gender and sexuality become confused, illegitimate, misrecognized, or even unrecognizable. My work also adds to place-based examinations of how discourses about gender and sexuality and what is deemed “normal” shifts with

(and even within) groups of people.

I expanded on current scholarship related to sexual culture (Hennen 2008) and sexual identity cultures (Brown-Saracino 2015) by asking: How do orientations to LGBT identity function when a community is already established and rarely has any new residents? Also importantly, how do orientations to identity change in rural areas, which often do not provide any opportunities to interact with LGBT people in the manner they would inside an enclave (e.g. hyper-focused on LGBT identities) or in areas with strong 310

assimilation patterns? Importantly, my dissertation contributes to discussions about the complex processes of queer social change and contributes to burgeoning conversations related to the multifaceted and nuanced modes of rural queerness. Through noting the connections and divergences between urban and rural queer communities in Minnesota and nationally, I assist in the deconstruction of the powerful metronormative sub-myths about rural queerness.

Deconstructing Metronormative Assumptions About Rural Places and Rural Queerness

I broadly contributed to critical “post rural” studies and to the “rural turn” in queer studies by providing a general outline of the four main assumptions present in much contemporary sociological and interdisciplinary literature (as outlined in Chapter

1). The four assumptions I attempted to unpack were: 1) rural places are undesirable/undesired and people only live in rural areas when they cannot leave; 2) rural places currently only have significant push factors, and as such, people do not often move to rural areas; 3) rural areas have not been an important site of social change since the industrial revolution; and 4) rural areas are racially, culturally, and ideologically homogenous and prohibit/inhibit diversity while metropolitan areas are diverse in both types of people and ideas.

I also argued that there are multiple sub-myths about rural queerness and queer people within this last assumption. These sub-myths are prevalent in some capacity in much of the literature on gender and sexuality, either through inattention to issues of queer rurality or blanket statements about rural queer lives. These sub-myths are 1) rural LGBTQ people do not exist; 2) Rural LGBTQ people are not visible in or

311

supported by their community; 3) Rural LGBTQ people want to (and do, if they have the means) move to urban areas in order to find people like them, inducing self-worth, community, and acceptance; 4) Rural LGBTQ populations do not have any structure or network (i.e. community organizations); and 5) Rural LGBTQ people have the same desires, interests, and needs as their urban counterparts.

My dissertation successfully challenges both these assumptions and sub-myths to varying degrees. Specifically, I demonstrated that some rural places, like the Range, have strong factors that influence people to stay, as well as return to them if they leave.

In many ways, my research contradicts ideas about homogeneity of ideology, needs, network complexity, and levels of support, both within rural communities in general as well as between rural LGBT people.

I also clearly documented significant social change both prior to and during my fieldwork. This was a subject both my narrators and I were strongly interested in.

Brandon, for example, reflects on how Iron Range culture has shifted over his relatively short lifetime (of 18 years),

Since I came out, I've been learning gay history through the (Iron Range GLBTA) group and my own resources. It is amazing how far we have come. Like, the Stonewall Riots, everyone was outraged and now people are like… yeah, it happened.

Now, some of the stigma is gone. If they opened a in my small town, people may not like it, but it would not be anything like a Stonewall.

Sarah, who works with adolescents as part of her profession, says that she has seen an increase in acceptance of LGBT peers in high schools. This increase has been slow but she has noted a difference even over the past few years. “I think it is becoming taboo to be hateful”, she states with a smile. “The difference between [when she was growing up 312

less fifteen years ago] and now is unreal,” she continues. Through these chapters, I have provided important insights into this notable cultural shift. My empirical and theoretical contributions, including identifying and challenging metrocentric assumptions and sub- myths about rural LGBT people, are applicable to scholars interested in social change and difference, as well as narratives related to them.

Limitations of This Study and Avenues for Future Research

As with much research, this study is limited in terms of temporality as well as by geographic location. While many of my findings are relevant outside of the Iron Range, future studies could examine whether my findings are applicable to others regions and types of locales. If they are not, this could lead to productive challenges to and extensions of my work. Specifically, future studies could further interrogate the importance of local norms and narratives in social change, ally development, and the types of relationships occurring between LGBT people and their heterosexual neighbors.

My study indicated that there are clear generational differences in those involved in furthering LGBT equality regionally. Also, my data indicated it is possible that increased distance – even just 20 miles – from a person’s home community is critical because it removes them from the community mentality just enough to shift their perspective.

Additional research into these subjects, as well as people who inadvertently assist social movements due to other goals and interests (e.g. the “non-allies” who voted “No” due to fear of altering the state’s constitution) could provide beneficial insights.

I agree with Smith (2007), who suggests,

Theorizations of rural social change could also be deepened by more fully gleaning the sociospatial significance of place-specific transitions, and

313

unfolding social relations between different sub-populations. This would also necessitate a more significant charting of the uniformity and/or atypicality of place-specific outcomes, and the identification of the contingencies of processes of change; ‘without sacrificing the insights available from cultural approaches’ (Cloke, 2006, p. 26). (T)he aim is to shed more light on the differentials and spatial complexities of the new geographies of the rural, and to explore the links between locally distinctive and more general social change (P. 277).

As part of this, researchers could continue to examine how rural LGBT people actively reshape their surroundings, social interactions, and the narratives about them.

Inquiries into how rural areas are considering marketing themselves to urban areas in response to past co-opting and idealization of rural spaces could also be interesting. On the Range, some narrators argued locals should be actively drawing people to the area from the Twin Cities in order to shift their perspective and “open their eyes about the Iron Range.” Shawn, for example, says, “We have the birthplace of Judy

Garland… we could have a niche market of GLBT tourists”. “They love to spend money on going to beautiful, little niche places… we could be the Providence of the Midwest!” he exclaims. The importance of emphasizing Iron Range culture and reframing it as welcoming to others was something this current project could not address, but could lead to fascinating analysis. Shawn believed the area “could get statewide media attention, especially if (they) tied in the angle of Judy Garland's hometown…. that could be a national story even.” Some narrators felt that, even if there were an initial backlash of any kind, the money that the increased tourism would bring in would assuage even the majority of the anticipated religious opponents. Interestingly, other participants from the area also mentioned the idea of using Judy Garland as a marketing tool. Sam jokingly called it her “pay the gay to stay” idea.

314

Similarly, some narrators specifically discussed the idea of “paying it forward” and moving to urban areas with the intention of moving back after acquiring skills and resources that could assist their LGBT community members. For example, Michelle planned to obtain a law degree in order to increase legal services for LGBT people in the county. She says that rural areas need this “because a lot of people around here don't realize that there are specific laws that relate to GLBT people or who to ask about it.” “If they have to drive from the Canadian border and don't want to drive 8 hours in one day

[to the Cities and back], they will probably just go with a local lawyer who doesn't know anything about related laws,” she explains. These brief quotes hint at thought-provoking connections between rural queer agency, intentional narrative shifting, and economic and other resource concerns.

Additionally, building on the work of scholars before me, as well as my own, future forays into rural queerness may include inquiries into how conceptions of femininity vary across geographic regions and whether there are certain hierarchies among them. Future scholars consider this inquiry both broadly (e.g. between the U.S.

South and the North), or more focused on comparing certain locales or types of places

(e.g. between San Francisco and Paris; between inner city and outer-ring suburb). Most importantly, within this regionally-specific framework, we can consider what the similarities and differences among these configurations tell us about aspects of social life as well as what/whom is defined in terms of deviance versus normalcy.

Another study limitation is that I informally interacted with only a few transgender individuals on the Range and was not able to arrange a formal life interview with them. Based on what I observed as well as what my narrators said, transgender 315

individuals appear to be significantly disconnected from the broader LGB Range networks. While many participants “knew of” at least one transgender individual, they did not appear to have much interaction with them. One notable difference is the small subcommittee formed in the Virginia/Hibbing area, where a transgender person in his 20s was an informal leader. While I spent a significant amount of time with this individual during my fieldwork and he agreed to a formal life history interview, I was not able to interview him due to scheduling conflicts. In general, he appeared very supported within his smaller network, but frequently mentioned lack of broader social support. While I did not experience or witness any trans-phobic interactions, he was unable to receive adequate medical care anywhere near his residence. He often drove to Duluth, an hour away, for doctor’s visits, including hormone and other therapy. As transgender individuals in rural areas are often particularly isolated in terms of finding similar others, as well as critical health resources, future research on this appears warranted.

Additionally, transgender people challenge the heteronormative gender order differently than their LGB counterparts, so research into rural transgender lives has potential to stretch and challenge contemporary theory in interesting ways.

A third limitation of this study relates to its scope. Specifically, because I was attempting an ambitious project as it was, I removed most of my data and analysis related to race and class and chose to focus on gender, sexuality, and social movements in this text. Some of these data indicated that rural LGBT communities are ripe for further analysis on these subjects. I suggest future regionally-specific explorations of the intersections between place, sexuality, gender, and class, particularly focused on rural queerness. Particularly relevant to my own interests, scholars should continue to 316

consider how spatiality impacts gender and sexual roles, performances, and identities.

Scholarship of female masculinity could include further considerations of how femininity is placed within hierarchies based on a person’s race, class, and sexual orientation. It is important for this body of work to consider the dimensions of female masculinity both within and outside of lesbian identities and communities. How, when, and why do the content and impacts of cultural stigmas around female masculinity lessen or amplify in certain types of people or situations? It is notable that there is a specific term for males who embody masculinity (effeminacy) but not females embodying masculinity – this gap in narratives should be explored.

I hope that my work will join others in asking important and provocative questions about various gendered, spatialized, and racialized hierarchies that exist around control over and access to various forms of capital, representation and visibility, resources, and aesthetics. Questions like: What ways do urban LGBT movements and people represent, colonize, and transform rural LGBT people, movements, and communities? Switching it around, in what ways are rural stylistics, movements, and people doing the same to urban spaces and people? What benefits are there associated with each? If we extend Connell’s concept of the “patriarchal dividend,” is there something that we might consider a “metropolitan dividend” or a “rural dividend”? In addition, would it be useful to theorize about the “labor of place” for different types of people and identities? What can we learn by further examining the social construction of the urban/rural divide and considering how there are aspects of society that vary regionally in both existence, form, and regulation?

317

Considering the gendered, racial, and sociospatial components of everyday lives will also push studies of the normative and non-normative forward. What types of people are allowed to be represented, to be visible, to be heard; what types of people and bodies are made to shut up, to hide? Who is forcibly pushed out of either public or private life and what does this tell us about what lives, identity performances, bodies, behaviors, and narratives are considered normal and acceptable? What silences,

(mis)representations, and boundaries will we begin to hear and see and feel if we consider the elements of inquiry that I have discussed in this project? What can we learn about the ways people are utilizing space and technology in attempt to transgress norms and institutions?

Future researchers compelled to explore these research subjects may also be interested in furthering discussions related to the impacts of the (slowly) growing contemporary mainstream cultural representations of rural people, both within and across different sexualities. Brandon and I discussed the importance of these changing singular media representations of rural areas, as well as the Iron Range specifically. “With the media, all that you ever see is stereotypes [of rural LGBT lives],” he says, “there is no portrayal of actual [LGBT] life at all, unless you are on a specialized channel.” “The networks may think they are helping us but it hurts us by portraying only one type of gay person. They don't care where they live or anything other than the fact that they are gay and on TV,” he declares. Future research into power dynamics regarding who initiates and controls representations of rural queers, as well as the impacts of these representations could lead to interesting theoretical insights.

318

Ultimately, this dissertation aims to serve as both an empirical and theoretical example of the fruitfulness of examining rural LGBT lives. My research joins others in calling for future place-based explorations into various aspects of society. Through the path-paving work on rural queer lives by scholars previously discussed, social theorists have been challenged to remove their metrocentric spectacles to see the different kinds of lives, situations, and people residing in rural areas. Scholars are also encouraged to push past simply noting the existences of these differences; we are called to examine how these differences challenge, extend, and refute existing theories on gender, sexuality, and social life in general.

Sociologists, in particular, can benefit from utilizing the strengths of multiple methodological approaches to both ask and answer interdisciplinary questions. If as feminist geographer Massey (1994) posits, “the social is inexorably also spatial” (265), then it makes a lot of sense for sociologists to continue the quest into understanding the roles of places in social life and how the embodied-spatial-symbolic-social dynamics of these boundaries (psychological and brick and mortar, imaginary and physical) can create

“power geometries” (Massey 1993). There is, after all, a “space for place in sociology”

(Gieryn 2000).

As we continue to build upon and refine our theories of queerness in both rural and urban contexts, we are certain to meet people and form theories that will turn us (and our research agendas) around. This holds both promise for future queer and LGBTQ scholarship on gender and sexuality, as well as long-awaited recognition for the many people who are from and/or live in rural areas, that have wondered why they were unable to see themselves and their lives mirrored in contemporary discussions of queerness. 319

REFERENCES

Abbott, Andrew. 1997. “Of Time and Space: The Contemporary Relevance of the Chicago School.” Social Forces 75(4):1149–82.

Abraham, Julie. 2009. Metropolitan Lovers: The Homosexuality of Cities. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Adam, Barry. 1985. "Structural Foundations of the Gay World." Comparative Studies in Society and History 27:658-671. --- 1987. The Rise of a Gay and Lesbian Movement. Boston: Twayne Publishers.

Adler, Sy and Joanna Brenner. 1992. Gender and space: lesbians and gay men in the city." International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 16(1):24-34.

Adkins, Lisa. 2000. "Mobile Desire: aesthetics, sexuality, and the "lesbian" at work." Sexualities 3(2):201-218.

Aguirre-Livingston, P. 2011. “Dawn of a new gay”. The Grid.

Albo, Mike. 2011. “Gayest Cities in America.” The Advocate. Retrieved May 2, 2013 from http://www.advocate.com/travel/2011/01/12/gayest-cities-america-february- 2011?page=full.

Altman, Dennis. 1982. The Homosexualization of America. Boston: Beacon.

Anahita, Sine. 2009. “Nestled into Niches: Prefigurative Communities on Lesbian Land.” 56(6):719-737.

Anderson, Benedict. 1983. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism.

Armstrong, Elizabeth. 2002. Forging Gay Identities: Organizing Sexuality in San Francisco,1950–1994. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Armstrong, Elizabeth and Suzanna Crage. 2006. “Movements and Memory: The Making of the Stonewall Myth". American Sociological Review 71(5):724-751.

Aslanian, Sasha. 2012. “The deep roots of the marriage debate.” Minnesota Public Radio: MPR News. Retrieved May 2, 2013 from http://minnesota.publicradio.org/collections/special/2012/campaign/amendments/ marriage/timeline/home/

320

Avila-Saavedra, Guillermo. 2009. “Nothing Queer About Queer Television: Televized Construction of Gay Masculinities.” Media Culture & Society 31(1): 5–21.

Bailey, Robert. 1999. Gay Politics, Urban Politics: Identity and Economics in an Urban Setting. New York: Columbia University Press.

Barnhurst, Kevin. 2007. Media/Queered: Visibility and Its Discontents. Peter Lang Publishing.

Barton, Bernadette. 2012. Pray the Gay Away: The Extraordinary Lives of Bible Belt Gays. New York: New York University Press.

Bell, David. 1994. “All hyped up and no place to go” Gender Place and Culture. 1:31-48. --- 2000. “Farm Boys and Wild Men: Rurality, Masculinity, and Homosexuality.” Rural Sociology 65(4):547-561.

Bell, David and Valentine Gill (eds.). 1995. Mapping Desire: Geographies of Sexuality. London:Routledge.

Bell, Michael. 1994. Childerley: Nature and Morality in a Country Village. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Binnie, Jon. 2004. The Globalization of Sexuality. London: Sage.

Binnie, Jon, Ruth Holliday, Robyn Longhurst, and Robin Peace. 2001. Pleasure Zones: Bodies, Cities, Spaces. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press.

Benson, P. 2004. “Emerging themes in research on adolescent spiritual and religious development.” Applied Developmental Science 8:47-50.

Berger, Peter and Thomas Luckmann. 1966. The Social Construction of Reality: A Treatise in the Sociology of Knowledge. Garden City, NY: Doubleday.

Bergman, . 2006. Butch is A Noun. Suspect Thoughts Press.

Berlant, Lauren and Michael Warner. 1998. “Sex in public” Critical Inquiry. 24:547-566.

Bernstein, Mary. 1997. “Celebration and Suppression: The Strategic Uses of Identity by the Gay and Lesbian Movement.” American Journal of Sociology 103(3):531–65 ---2005. “Identity Politics” Annual Review of Sociology 31:47-74.

Bernstein, Mary and Renate Reimann (eds). 2001. Queer Families, Queer Politics. Columbia University Press.

321

Blee, Kathleen. “Evidence, Empathy, and Ethics: Lessons from Oral Histories of the Klan.” The Journal of American History 80(2):596-606.

Bourdieu, Pierre. 1979. “Symbolic Power, Critique of Anthropology” 4:77-85. ---1986. “The Forms of Capital.” in Richardson (Ed) Handbook of Theory and Research for the Sociology of Education. New York, Greenwood Press: 241-258. ---1987. “What Makes a Social Class? On the Theoretical and Practical Existence of Groups.” Berkeley Journal of Sociology 1-17. ---1989. “Social Space and Symbolic Power.” Sociological Theory 7:14-25.

Boyd, Nan A. 2003. Wide-Open Town: A History of Queer San Francisco to 1965. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

Breen, Matthew. 2012. “Gayest Cities in America.” The Advocate. Retrieved May 2, 2013 from http://news.advocate.com/post/15571734525/gayest-cities-in-america- 2012.

Brekhus, Wayne. 2003. Peacocks, Chameleons, and Centaurs: Gay Suburbia and the Grammar of Social Identity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Bronson, K (undated). “A Quest for Full Equality.” Retrieved May 05, 2013 from http://www.quatrefoillibrary.org/materials/QuestforFull_Equality.pdf.

Brown, Michael. 2000. Closet Space: Geographies of Metaphor from the Body to the Globe. Taylor and Francis.

Brown-Saracino, Japonica. 2011. “From the Lesbian Ghetto to Ambient Community: The Perceived Costs and Benefits of Integration for Social Ties.” Social Problems 58(3):361-388. --- 2014. “From Methodological Stumbles to Substantive Insights: Gaining Ethnographic Access in Queer Communities.” Qualitative Sociology 37(1):43–68. ---2015. “How Places Shape Identity: The Origins of Distinctive LBQ Identities in Four Small U.S. Cities.” American Journal of Sociology 121(1):1-63.

Browne, Kath. 2006a.”A Right Geezer-Bird (Man-Woman): The Sites and Sights of Female Embodiment.” ACME: An International E-Journal for Critical Geographies. 5(2):121-143. --- 2006b. "Challenging queer geographies.” Antipode 38(5): 885-893. --- 2007. "Lesbian Geographies.” Social And Cultural Geographies 8(1):1-7.

Brubaker, Rogers and Frederick Cooper. 2000. “Beyond Identity.” Theory and Society 29:1–47.

Burawoy, Michael. 1998. The Extended Case Method. Sociological Theory 16(1):4-33.

322

Butler, Judith. 1990. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. Boston: Routledge. --- 1993. Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex”. New York: Rutledge. --- 2001. “Doing Justice to Someone: Sex Reassignment and Allegories of Transsexuality.” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies 7(4):621-636.

Carr, Patrick, and Maria Kefalas. 2010. Hollowing Out the Middle: The Rural Brain Drain and What It Means for America. Boston: Beacon Press.

Carrillo, Hector. 2002. The Night Is Young: Sexuality in Mexico in the Time of AIDS. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Carrington, Christopher. 1999. No Place Like Home: Relationships and Family Life among Lesbians and Gay Men. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Carrington, Victoria. 2002. New Times, New Families. New York: Springer.

Casey, Mark. 2004. “De-dyking Queer Space(s): Heterosexual Female Visibility in Gay and Lesbian Spaces.” Sexualities 7(4):446-461.

Castells, Manuel. 1983. The City and the Grassroots: A Cross-cultural Theory of Urban Social Movements. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Chaudhuri, I. 2008. “Healthcare Access for Trans People in Minnesota: Legal History and Policy Proposal.” Retrieved June 07, 2013 from http://www.lsej.org/documents/412891Healthcare%20Access%20for%20Trans% 20People%20in%20Minnesota%20Legal%20History%20and%20Policy%20Prop osal.pdf

Chauncey, George. 1994. Gay New York: Gender, Urban Culture, and the Making of the Gay Male World, 1890-1940. New York, NY: Basic Books.

Chasin, Alexandra. 2000. Selling Out: The Lesbian and Gay Movement Goes to Market. Palgrave.

Chojnacki, Joseph and Susan Gelberg. 1995. “The facilitation of a gay/lesbian/bisexual support-therapy group by heterosexual counselors.” Journal of Counseling and Development 73:352–354.

Chuck, Elizabeth. 2010. “Gay couple reportedly ties the knot on commercial flight.” Retrieved on January 21, 2011 from http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/40255046/ns/us_news-life/.

Ciasullo, Ann M. 2001. “Making Her (In)Visible: Cultural Representations of Lesbianism and the Lesbian Body in the 1990s.” Feminist Studies 27(3):577-608. 323

Clark, Danae. 1991. “Commodity Lesbianism.” Camera Obscura 25-26:180-201.

Cloke, Paul. 2006. “Conceptualising rurality.” In Paul Cloke, Terry Marsden, and Patrick Mooney (eds.). Handbook of Rural Studies. Sage, London: 18–28.

Cloke, Paul and Paul Milbourne, and Rebekah Widdowfield. 2002. Rural Homelessness:Issues, Experiences and Policy Responses. Policy Press, Bristol.

CNN Wire Staff. 2010. “Gay men fight on after court deems Skype marriage invalid.” Retrieved on January 21 2011 from http://articles.cnn.com/2010-12- 04/us/dc.gay.marriage_1_gay-marriage-marriage-statutes- skype?_s=PM:US.

Cobb, Jelani. 2016. “Where Is Black Lives Matter Headed?” The New Yorker.

Cohen, Cathy. 1997. “Punks, bulldaggers, and welfare queens.” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies 3:437-65.

Conley, Terri et al. 2001. “Mistakes That Heterosexual People Make When Trying To Appear Non-Prejudiced: The View From LGB People.” Journal of Homosexuality 42(2):21-43.

Connell, Catherine. 2012. “Dangerous Disclosures.” Sexuality Research and Social Policy 9(2):168–77. --- 2014. School’s Out: Gay and Lesbian Teachers in the Classroom. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.

Connell, R.W. 1987. Gender And Power: Society, The Person And Sexual Politics. Cambridge. -- 1992. “A Very Straight Gay: Masculinity, Homosexual Experience, and the Dynamics of Gender.” American Sociological Review 57:735-751. -- 1995. Masculinities. Berkeley: University of California Press. -- 2005. “Change Among the Gatekeepers: Men, Masculinities, and Gender Equality in the Global Arena.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 30:1801- 1825.

Collard, James. 1998. “Leaving the Gay Ghetto.” Newsweek.

Comerford, Susan A, et al. 2004. “Crone Songs: Voices of Lesbian Elders on Aging in a Rural Environment.” Affia 19:418-436.

Connell, R.W. and James Messerschmidt. 2005. “Hegemonic Masculinity: Rethinking the Concept.” Gender and Society 19:829-859.

324

Cooke, Thomas and Melanie Rapino. 2007. “The Migration of Partnered Gays and Lesbians between 1995 and 2000.” Professional Geographer 59(3):285–97.

Cortese, Daniel K. 2006. Are We Thinking Straight?: The Politics of Straightness in a Lesbian and Gay Social Movement Organization. New York: Routledge.

Couser, Thomas. 2004. Vulnerable Subjects: Ethics and Life Writing. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

Cromartie, John and Shawn Bucholtz. 2008. “Defining the ‘Rural’ in Rural America”. Economic Research Service - United States Department of Agriculture.

Crenshaw, Kimberly. 1993. “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and of Color.” in Martha Fineman and Roxanne Mykitiuk (eds.) The Public Nature of Private Violence: 93-118.

D’Augelli, Anthony, Cathy Collins, and Mary Hart. 1987. “Social Support Patterns of Lesbian Women in a Rural Helping Network.” Journal of Rural Community Psychology 8:12-22.

D'Emilio, John. 1983. "Capitalism and Gay Identity." in Ann Snitow, Christine Stansell, and Sharan Thompson (eds). Powers of Desire: The Politics of Sexuality. New Feminist Library Series. New York: Monthly Review Press. --- 2002. The World Turned: Essays on Gay History, Politics, and Culture. Duke University Press.

D'Emilio, John and Estelle Freedman. 1988. Intimate Matters: A History of Sexuality in America. New York: Harper & Row.

DeTurk, Sarah. 2011. “Allies in Action: The Communicative Experiences of People Who Challenge Social Injustice on Behalf of Others.” Communication Quarterly 59(5):569-590.

Dhamoon, Rita. 2001. “Considerations on Mainstreaming Intersectionality.” Political Research Quarterly 64(1):230-243.

Douglas, Susan. 2010. Enlightened Sexism: The Seductive Message that Feminism's Work Is Done. Times Books.

Duberman, Martin. 1994. Stonewall. Plume/Penguin.

Dunne, Gillian. 1997. Lesbian Lifestyles: Women’s Work and the Politics of Sexuality. Macmillion.

325

Emirbayer, Mustafa and Anne Mische. 1998. “What is Agency?” American Journal of Sociology 103(4):962-1023.

Engel, Stephen. 2007. “Organizational Identity as a Constraint on Strategic Action: A Comparative Analysis of Gay and Lesbian Interest Groups.” Studies in American Political Development 21:66–91.

Epstein, Steve. 1987. "Gay Politics, Ethnic Identity: The Limits of Social Constructionism." Socialist Review 93/94:9-54. --- 1994. “A Queer Encounter: Sociology and the Study of Sexuality.” Sociological Theory 12(2):188-202. --- 1996. “A Queer Encounter: Sociology And The Study Of Sexuality.” In Seidman (ed.) Queer Theory/Sociology. Malden, MA: Blackwell: 145–67.

Escoffier, Jeffrey. 1985. “The Politics of Gay Identity.” Socialist Review 82-83:119-153.

Esterberg, Kristin. 1996. “’A Certain Swagger When I Walk’: Performing Lesbian Identity.” in Seidman (ed.) Queer Theory Sociology. Blackwell Publishers Ltd: Oxford. --- 1997. Lesbian and Bisexual Identities. Temple University Press.

Faderman, Lillian. 1981. Surpassing the Love of Men. New York: Morrow. --- 1991. Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers: A History of Lesbian Life in Twentieth Century America. New York: Penguin.

Feinberg, Leslie. 1993. Blues: A Novel. New York: Firebrand.

Ferguson, Roderick A. 2005. “Our Normative Strivings: African American Studies and the Histories of Sexuality.” Social Text 85-100.

Fetner, Tina. 2008. How the Religious Right Shaped Lesbian and Gay Activism. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Fields, Jessica. 2001. “Normal Queers: Straight Parents Respond to Their Children’s ‘Coming Out’.” Symbolic Interaction 24(2):165-187.

Fingerhut, Adam. 2011. “Straight allies: What predicts heterosexuals’ alliance with the LGBT community?” Journal of Applied Social Psychology 41(9):2230–2248.

Foucault, Michel. 1990 [1978]. The history of sexuality - Volume 1: An Introduction. New York: Vintage.

Fraser, Susan. 1995. “From redistribution to recognition? Dilemmas of justice in a ‘post- socialist’ age.” Review 212:68-94.

326

Freeman, Carla. 2000. High Tech and High Heels in the Global Economy: Women, Work, and Pink-Collar Identities in the Caribbean. Duke University Press.

Gagnon, John H., & William Simon. [1973]2005. Sexual Conduct: The Social Sources of Human Sexuality. Chicago, IL: Aldine Publishing Company.

Garfinkel, Harold. 1967. Studies in Ethnomethodology. Prentice Hall.

Gamson, Joshua. 1995. “Must Identity Movements Self-Destruct? A Queer Dilemma.” Social Problems 42(3):390-407.

Gamson, Joshua & Dawne Moon. 2004. “The Sociology of Sexualities: Queer & Beyond.” Annual Review of Sociology 30: 47-64.

Gans, Herbert. 1968. The Levittowners: Ways of Life and Politics in a New Suburban Community. Vintage Books.

Garber, Linda. 2001. Identity Poetics: Race, Class, and the Lesbian-Feminist Roots of Queer Theory. Columbia University Press.

Gates, Gary and Jason Ost. 2004. Gay and Lesbian Atlas. Washington, D.C.: Urban Institute Press.

Ghaziani, Amin. 2011. “Post-Gay Collective Identity Construction.” Social Problems 58(1): 99-125. --- 2014. There Goes The Gayborhood? Princeton University Press. --- 2015. “‘GAY ENCLAVES FACE PROSPECT OF BEING PASSÉ’: How Assimilation Affects the Spatial Expressions of Sexuality in the United States.” International Journal Of Urban And Regional Research 756-769.

Gibson, Michele and Meme Deborah. 2002. Femme/Butch: New Considerations of the Way We Want to Go. Harrington Park Press.

Gieryn, Thomas. 2000. “A Place for Space in Sociology.” Annual Review of Sociology 26:463-496.

Gilman, Sander. 1992. “Black bodies, white bodies: Towards an iconography of female sexuality in late nineteenth century art, medicine, and literature.” in James Donald and Ali Rattansi (eds.) “Race”, culture and difference. London: Sage: 171-198.

Ginsberg, Leon 1993. (Ed.) Social Work In Rural Communities. 2nd Edition. Alexandria, Virginia: Council on Social Work Education.

327

Glick, Peter and Susan Fiske. 1996. “The Ambivalent Sexism Inventory: Differentiating Hostile and Benevolent Sexism.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 70(3):491-512.

Glick, Peter et al. 2000. “Beyond prejudice as simple antipathy: hostile and benevolent sexism across cultures.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 79(5):763-75.

Goffman, Erving. 1959. The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. Doubleday. --- 1963. Stigma: Notes on the Management of a Spoiled Identity. Simon and Schuster.

Goodson, Ivor and Pat Sikes. 2001. Life History Research In Educational Settings: Learning From Lives.: Open University.

Gordon, Liahna. 2006. “Bringing the U-Haul: Embracing and Resisting Sexual Stereotypes in a Lesbian Community.” Sexualities 9:171-192.

Grassroots Solutions. 2013. “’Conversation Campaign’ Creates Path To Victory.” Retrieved on March 20, 2016 from http://www.grassrootssolutions.com/wp- content/uploads/2013/05/Conversation_Campaign_Sreates_Path_To_Victory_M N_Marriage.pdf.

Gray, Mary. 2009a. Out in the Country: Youth, Media and Queer Visibility in Rural America. New York: New York University Press. --- 2009b. “Negotiating Identities/Queering Desires: Coming Out Online and the Remediation of the Coming-Out Story.” Journal of Computer-Mediated Communication 14(4):1162–1189.

Green, Adam. 2002. “Gay but not queer: Toward a post-queer study of sexuality.” Theory and Society 31:521-545. --- 2008. “Erotic Habitus: Toward a Sociology of Desire.” Theory and Society 37:597- 626.

Gross, Larry. 1993. Contested Closets: The Politics and Ethics of Outing. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Guenther, Katja. 2010. Making Their Place: Feminism after in East Germany. Stanford, California: Press.

Halberstam, Judith. 1998a. Female Masculinity. Duke University Press. --- 1998b. “Between Butches” in Sally Munt (ed.) Dagger: On Butch Women. London: Cassell. --- 2005. In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives. New York University Press. 328

Halfacree, Keith. 2006. “From dropping out to leading on? British countercultural back-to-the-land in a changing rurality.” Progress in Human Geography 30:309– 366. --- 2007. “Trial by space for a ‘radical rural’: introducing alternative localities, representations and lives. Journal of Rural Studies 23:125-141. --- 2009. “Urban-rural continuum.” in International Encyclopedia of Human Geography 9:119-24.

Halperin, Rhoda. 1990. The livelihood of kin: Making ends meet “the Kentucky way.” Austin: University of Texas Press.

Hardiman, Rita and Bailey Jackson. 1997. “Conceptual foundations for social justice courses.” In Adams, Bell, Griffin (Eds.) Teaching for diversity and social justice: A sourcebook. New York: Routledge: 16-29.

Hart, Lynda. 1994. Fatal Women: Lesbian Sexuality and the mark of aggression. London: Routledge.

Hawkes, Gail. 1996. A Sociology of Sex and Sexuality. Buckingham: Open University Press.

Haynes, Bruce. 2001. Red Lines, Black Spaces: The Politics of Race and Space in a Black Middle-Class Suburb. New Haven, Connecticut.: Yale University Press.

Hennen, Peter. 2008. Faeries, Bears, and Leathermen: Men in Community Queering the Masculine. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Hennessey, Rosemary. 1995. “Queer Visibility in Commodity Culture” in Nicholson, Linda and Steven Seidman (eds.) Social Postmodernism: Beyond Identity Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Herring, Scott. 2010. Another Country: Queer Anti-Urbanism. Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press.

Herek, Gregory. 1987. Religion and prejudice: A comparison of racial and sexual attitudes. Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin 13:56-65.

Hey, Valerie. 2003. "Joining the Club? Academic and working-class femininities." Gender and Education 5(3):319-335.

Hinze, Annika M. 2013. Turkish : Integration Policy and Urban Space. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

329

Howard, John. 1997. Carryin' On in the Gay and Lesbian South. New York: New York University Press. -- 1999. Men Like That: A Southern Queer History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. --- 2006. “Of Closets and Other Rural Voids.” GLQ: A Journal of Gay and Lesbian Studies 13(1).

Hull, Kathleen. 2006. Same-Sex Marriage: The Cultural Politics of Love & Law. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Hummon, David. 1990. Commonplaces: Community Ideology and Identity in American Culture. NY: State University of New York Press.

Ingraham, Chrys. 2005. “Introduction: Thinking straight.” In C. Ingraham (Ed.), Thinking straight: The power, the promise, and the paradox of heterosexuality. New York, NY: Routledge: 1–14.

Jakobsen, Janet and Ann Pellegrini. 2003. Love the Sin: Sexual Regulation and the Limits of Religious Tolerance. Beacon Press.

Johnson, Patrick. 2008. Sweet Tea: Black Gay Men of the South: An Oral History. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press.

Johnson, Colin. 2006. “Rural Space: Queer America's Final Frontier.” The Chronicle of Higher Education.

Kandioyti, Deniz. 1988. “Bargaining with Patriarchy.” Gender and Society 2(3):274- 290.

Kantsa, Venetia. 2002. “‘Certain Places Have Different Energy’: Spatial Transformations in Eresos, Lesvos.” GLQ: Gay and Lesbian Quarterl. 81(1):35–55”

Kasinitz, Philip, Mary Waters, John Mollenkopf, and Jennifer Holdaway. 2009. Inheriting the City: The Children of Immigrants Come of Age. New York: Russell Sage.

Kasinitz, Philip, Mary Waters, John Mollenkopf, Katz, Jonathan. 1990. "The Invention of Heterosexuality." Socialist Review 90(1):7-34.

Kazyak, Emily. 2011. “Disrupting Cultural Selves: Constructing Gay and Lesbian Identities in Rural Locales.”Qualitative Sociology 34(4):561–81. --- 2012. “Midwest or Lesbian? Gender, Rurality, and Sexuality.” Gender and Society 26(6)825–48.

330

Kennedy, Elizabeth and . 1993. Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold: The History of a Lesbian Community. Penguin.

Kimmel, Michael and Michael Messner. (eds). 1989. Men’s Lives. New York: Macmillion.

King, J.L. 2005. On the Down Low: A Journey Into the Lives of Straight Black Men Who Sleep with Men. Harmony.

King, Samantha. 2008. “What’s Queer about (Queer) Sport Sociology Now? A Review Essay.” Sociology of Sport Journal 25:419-442.

Kinsey, Alfred. 1948[1953]. Sexual Behavior in the Human Male. Philadelphia: Saunders.

Klar, M., & and T. Kasser. 2009. “Some benefits of being an activist: Measuring activism in its role in psychological well-being.” Political Psychology 20:755–777.

Kleinman, Sherryl. 1993. Emotions and Fieldwork. Newbury Park, California: Sage.

Knopp, Larry. 2004. “Ontologies of Place, Placelessness, and Movement: Queer Quests for Identity and Their Impact on Contemporary Geographic Thought.” Gender, Place and Culture 11:121-134. --- 2007. “On the Relationship Between Queer and Feminist Geographies.” Professional Geographer 59:47-55.

Knopp, Lawrence and Michael Brown. 2003. “Queer Diffusions.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 21:409-424.

Kurdek, Lawrence. 2004. "Are Gay and Lesbian Cohabiting Couples Really Different from Heterosexual Married Couples?” Journal of Marriage and Family 66(4):880-900.

Kusman, Lori. 2007. “Rural America at a Glance, 2007 Edition”. Economic Research Service - United States Department of Agriculture. Economic Information Bulletin.

Krieger, Susan. 1983. The Mirror Dance: Identity in a Women's Community. Temple University Press.

Lacy, Karyn. 2007. Blue-Chip Black: Race, Class, and Status in the New Black Middle Class. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.

331

Laumann, Edward, John Gagnon, Robert Michael, and Stuart Michaels. 2000. The Social Organization of Sexuality: Sexual Practices in the United States. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Laumann, Edward Stephen Ellingson, Jenna Mahay, Yoosik Youm, Anthony Paik. 2004. The Sexual Organization of the City. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Lamont, Michele and Virag Molnar. 2002. “The Study of Boundaries in the Social Sciences.” Annual Review of Sociology 28:167-195.

Leedy, Gail and Cathy Connolly. 2007. “Out in the Cowboy State: A Look at Lesbian and Gay Lives in Wyoming.” Journal of Gay and Lesbian Social Services 19(1):17-34.

Levine, Martin. 1979. “The Gay Ghetto.” Journal of Homosexuality. 79(4): 363- 378. --- 1998. Gay Macho: The Life and Death of the Homosexual Clone. New York: New York University Press.

Lewin, Ellen. 1993. Lesbian Mothers: Accounts of Gender in American Culture. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

Lehr, Valerie. 1999. Queer Family Values: Debunking the Myth of the Nuclear Family. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

Little, Jo. 2002. Gender and Rural Geography. Prentice Hall: Harlow.

Loftus, Jeni. 2001. “America's Liberalization in Attitudes Toward Homosexuality, 1973 to 1998.” American Sociological Review 66(5):762-782.

Lofland, John and Lyn Lofland. 1971. Analyzing Social Settings; A Guide To Qualitative Observation And Analysis. Belmont, California: Wadsworth.

Massey, Doreen. 1993. “Power-geometry and a progressive sense of place”, in John Bird, Barry Curtis, Tim Putnam, and Lisa Tickner (eds.) Mapping the Futures: Local Cultures, Global Change. London: Routledge: 59–69. --- 1994. Space, Place, and Gender. Blackwell.

Marsden, Terry. 2006. “Pathways in the sociology of rural knowledge.” In Paul Cloke, Terry Marsden, and Patrick Mooney (eds.). Handbook of Rural Studies. Sage: London.

Martin, Biddy. 1997. Femininity Played Straight: The Significance of Being Lesbian. Routledge.

332

Maynes, M.J., Jennifer Pierce, and Barbara Laslett. 2009. Telling Stories: The Use of Personal Narratives in Social Science and in History. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

McCall, Leslie. 2005. “The Complexity of Intersectionality.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 30(3):1771-1800.

McCarthy, L. 2000. “Poppies in a Wheat Field.” Journal of Homosexuality 39:75-94

McIntosh, Mary. 1968. "The Homosexual Role." Social Problems 16(2):182-192.

McGarty, Craig, Anna-Maria Bliuc, Emma Thomas, and Renata Bongiorno. 2009. “Collective action as the material expression of opinion-based group membership.” Journal of Social Issues 65(4):839-857.

McGranahan, David. 1999. “Natural Amenities Drive Rural Population Change.” Working Paper no. AER-781. Economic Research Service, U.S. Department of Agriculture.

McQueeney, Krista. 2009. “’We are All God’s Children, Ya’ll’: Race, Gender, and Sexuality in Gay-Affirming Congregations.” Social Problems 56(1)151-173.

Messner, Michael. 2002. Taking the Field: Men, Women, and Sports . Minneapolis: University of Minnesota.

Meyers, Daniel. 2008. “Ally identity: the politically gay.” In Reger, Jo, Daniel Myers, and Rachel Einwohner (Eds.) Identity Work In Social Movements. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press: 167–187.

Milbourne, Paul. 1997. Revealing Rural ‘Others’: Representation, Power and Identity in the British Countryside. Pinter, London.

Mohr, Jonathon. 2002. “Heterosexual Identity And The Heterosexual Therapist: An Identity Perspective On Sexual Orientation Dynamics In Psychotherapy.” Counseling Psychologist, 30: 532–566.

Moon, Dawne. 2012. “Who Am I and Who Are We? Conflicting Narratives of Collective Selfhood in Stigmatized Groups.” American Journal of Sociology 117(5):1336– 79.

Moore, Mignon. 2006. “Lipstick or Timberlands? Meanings of Gender Presentation in Black Lesbian Communities.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 32(1):113-139. --- 2011. Invisible Families: Gay Identities, Relationships and Motherhood among Black Women. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. 333

Moraga, Cherry and Anzuldua, Gloria. 1981. This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color. Watertown MA: Persephone Press.

Morgensen, Scott. 2008. “Arrival at Home: Radical Faerie Configurations of Sexuality and Place.” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies 15(1):68-96.

Munoz, Jose. 1999. Disidentifications: Queers Of Color And The Performance Of Politics. University of Minnesota Press.

Munt, Sally. 1998. “Introduction” in Sally Munt, Cherry Smyth (eds.) Butch/Femme: Inside Lesbian Gender. Cassell: London.

Murdoch, Jonathan, 2006. “Networking rurality: emergent complexities in the countryside.” In Paul Cloke, Terry Marsden, and Patrick Mooney (eds.). Handbook of Rural Studies. Sage: London: 171–184.

Murdoch, Jonathan and Andy Pratt. 1993. “Rural studies: Modernism, postmodernism and the ‘post-rural’.” Journal of Rural Studies 9(4):411-427. --- 1997. “From the power of topography to topography. A discourse on strange ruralities. In Cloke, Paul and Jo Little. (eds.), Contested Countryside Cultures: Otherness, Marginalisation and Rurality. Routledge, London: 272–285.

Murphy, Kevin, Jennifer Pierce, and Larry Knopp. 2010. Queer Twin Cities. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Nardi, Peter and Schneider, Beth. 1998. “Introduction”. In Social Perspectives in Lesbian and Gay Studies. London: Routledge.

Nestle, Joan. 1987. A restricted country. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

Newton, Esther. 1972. Mother Camp: Female Impersonators in America. Englewood Cliffs NJ: Prentice Hall.

Ng, Eve. 2013. “A 'post-gay' era? Media gaystreaming, , and the politics of LGBT integration.” Communication, Culture, & Critique 6(2):258-283.

Nicholson, Linda and Steven Seidman. 1996. Social Postmodernism: Beyond Identity Politics. Cambridge University Press.

Panelli, R., 2006. Rural Society. In Paul Cloke, Terry Marsden, and Patrick Mooney (eds.). Handbook of Rural Studies. Sage: London: 63–90.

Paulsen, Krista. 2004. “Making Character Concrete: Empirical Strategies for Studying Place Distinction.” City and Community 3(3):243–62. 334

Pascoe, CJ. 2007. Dude, You’re a Fag: Masculinity and Sexuality in High School. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Peoples, Steve. 2013. “Catholic Church's influence wanes in gay marriage fight.” Associated Press.

Perec, Georges. 1997 [1974]. Species of Space and Other Pieces. London: Penguin Harmondsworth.

Phelan, Shane. 1989. Identity Politics: Lesbian Feminism and the Limits of Community. Philadelphia:Temple University Press. --- 1994. Getting Specific: Postmodern Lesbian Politics. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Phillips, Richard, Diane Watt, and David Shuttleton. 2000. De-Centering Sexualities: Politics and Representations Beyond the Metropolis. London: Routledge.

Phillips, Martin. 2004. “Other geographies of gentrification.” Progress in Human Geography 28:5-30.

Plummer, Ken. 1981. Making of the Modern Homosexual. London: Hutchenson. --- 2005. “Sexual Conduct: Thirty Years On.” Introduction to 2nd edition of Gagnon, John and William Simon. 1973[2005]. Sexual Conduct: The Social Sources of Human Sexuality. Chicago, IL: Aldine Publishing Company.

Polletta, Francesca and James Jasper. 2001. “Collective Identity and Social Movements.” Annual Review of Sociology 27: 283-305.

Ponse, Barbara. 1978. Identities in the Lesbian World: The Social Construction of Self. Westport CT: Greenwood.

Poovey, Mary. 1984. The Proper Lady And The Woman Writer: Ideology As Style In The Works Of Mary Wollstonecraft, Mary Shelley, And Jane Austen. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Portelli, Alessandro. 1991. The Death of Luigi Trastulli and Other Stories: Form and Meaning in Oral History. SUNY Press.

U.S. Census Bureau. 2010. Washington, D.C.: Bureau of Labor Statistics.

Reger, Jo. 2012. Everywhere and Nowhere: Contemporary Feminism in the United States. New York: Oxford University Press.

Reese, Phil. 2012. “That kid from YouTube.” . 335

Rich, Adrienne. 1980. “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 5:631-60.

Richardson, Diane. 2000. “Claiming Citizenship? Sexuality, Citizenship and Lesbian/.” Sexualities 3(2):255–272.

Ross, Marlon. 2005. “Beyond the Closet as Raceless Paradigm.” In Black Queer Studies: A Critical Anthology. Patrick Johnson and Mae Henderson (eds). Duke University Press: 161-189.

Rubin, Gayle. 1984. "Thinking Sex: Notes for a Radical Theory of the Politics of Sexuality." In Linda Nicholson (ed.) The Second Wave: A Reader in Feminist Theory.

Robinson, Zandria. 2014. This Ain’t Chicago: Race, Class, and Regional Identity in the Post-Soul South. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press.

Rosenfeld, Dana. 2009. “Heteronormativity and homonormativity as practical and moral resources: The case of lesbian and gay elders.” Gender & Society 23:617-638.

Rothblum, Esther and Penny Sablove (eds.) 2005. Lesbian Communities: Festivals, RVs, and the Internet. Binghamton, NY: Harrington Park Press.

Rothenburg, Tamar. 1995. “’And she told two friends’: lesbians creating urban social space.” in David Bell and Gill Valentine (eds.) Mapping Desire: Geographies of Sexuality. Routledge.

Russell, Glenda. 2011. “Motives of Heterosexual Allies in Collective Action for Equality.” The Journal of Social Issues 67(2):376-393.

Russell, Glenda and Janis Bohan. 2006. “The case of internalized homophobia: Theory and/as practice.” Theory and Psychology16:343-366.

Russo, Vitto. 1987. The Celluloid Closet: Homosexuality in the Movies (Revised). New York: Harper and Row.

Salzinger, Leslie. 2003. Genders In Production: Making Workers In Mexico's Global Factories. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Sapir, Edward. 1929. “The Status of Linguistics as a Science.” Language 5(4):207-214.

Savin-Williams, Ritch. 2006. The New Gay Teenager. Harvard University Press.

336

Schippers, Mimi. 2002. Rockin' Out of the Box: Gender Maneuvering in Alternative Hard Rock. Rutgers University Press. --- 2007. “Recovering the feminine other: masculinity, femininity, and gender hegemony.” Theor Soc 36:85-102.

Schilt, Kristen and Laurel Westbrook. 2009. “Doing Gender, Doing Heteronormativity: 'Gender Normals', Transgender People, and the Social Maintenance of Heterosexuality.” Gender and Society 23(4):440-464.

Scott, Joan W. 2008. “Unanswered Questions.” The American Historical Review 113:1422-1430.

Seidman, Steven. 1994. “Queering Sociology, Sociologizing Queer Theory: An Introduction.” Sociological Theory 12(2):166-177. --- 1996. “Introduction.” In Queer Theory/Sociology. Cambridge: Blackwell: 1–29. --- 2002. Beyond the Closet: The Transformation of Gay and Lesbian Life. New York: Routledge,

Sedgwick, Eve. 1990. Epistemology of the Closet. Los Angeles: University of California Press.

Sewell, William F. 1992. “A Theory of Structure: Duality, Agency, and Transformation”. The American Journal of Sociology 98(1):1-29.

Sharkey, Patrick. 2013. Stuck in Place: Urban Neighborhoods and the End of Progress toward Racial Equality. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Sherman, Jennifer. 2009. Those Who Work, Those Who Don't: Poverty, Morality, And Family In Rural America. University of Minnesota Press.

Shokeid, Moshe. 1995. A Gay Synagogue in New York. New York: Columbia University Press.

Shucksmith, Mark. 2004. “Young People and Social Exclusion in Rural Areas.” Sociologica Ruralis 44(1):43-59.

Sivakumar, Chitra. 2000. “Inner-City Socioscape.” Economic and Political Weekly 25(38):16–22.

Skeggs, Beverley. 1997. Formations of Class and Gender. London: Sage. --- 1999. “Matter Out of Place: visibility and sexualities in leisure spaces.” Leisure Studies 18(3):213-232. --- 2001. “The toilet paper: Femininity, class and mis-recognition.” Women's Studies International Forum 24(3-4):295-307.

337

Smith, Anna Marie. 1997. “The Good Homosexual and the Dangerous Queer: Resisting the ‘New Homophobia.’” in Lynne Segal (ed.) New Sexual Agendas. Macmillion.

Smith, Barbara. 1983. Home Girls: A Black Feminist Anthology. New York: Kitchen Table/Women of Color Press.

Smith, Elizabeth. 1989. "Butches, Femmes, and Feminists: The Politics of Lesbian Sexuality.” NWSA Journal 1(3):398-421.

Smith, Darren. 2007. “The changing faces of rural populations: ‘(re) Fixing the gaze’ or ‘eyes wide shut’?” Journal of Rural Studies. 23(3):275–282.

Stacey, Judith. 1998. Brave New Families (2nd Edition). University of California Press. --- 2004. “Cruising to Familyland: Gay Hypergamy and Rainbow Kinship.” Current Sociology 52(2):181-197. --- 2005. “The Families of Man: Gay Male Intimacy and Kinship in a Global Metropolis.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 30(3):1911-1935.

Stein, Arlene. 1989. “Three of Sexuality: Drives, Identities, and Practices.” Sociological Theory 7:1-13. ---1993. Sisters, Sexperts, Queers: Beyond the Lesbian Nation. New York: Plume. --- 1997. Sex & Sensibility: Stories of a Lesbian Generation. Berkeley: University of California Press. --- 2001. The Stranger Next Door: The Story of a Small Community's Battle over Sex, Faith, and Civil Rights. Beacon Press. --- 2006. Shameless: Sexual Dissidence in American Culture. New York University Press.

Stein, Arlene and Plummer Ken. 1994. “I Can’t Even Think Straight: ‘Queer’ Theory and the Missing in Sociology.” Sociological Theory 12(2)178- 187.

Stotzer, Rebecca. 2009. “Straight allies: Supportive attitudes toward lesbians, gay men, and bisexuals in a college sample.” Sex Roles 60:67–80.

Strano, Andria. 2010. "Differently Gendered (Dyk)otomies, Regional Femininities, and Valued Masculinity in Women." Paper presented at Queering the Countryside Conference: Indiana University - Bloomington.

Sullivan, Andrew. 2005. “The end of gay culture: assimilation and its meanings.” The New Republic 24:16–19.

Swidler, Ann. 2001. "What Anchors Cultural Practices." in Theodore Schatzki, Karin Knorr Cetina and Eike von Savigny (eds.) The Practice Turn in Contemporary Theory. London: Routledge: 74-92. 338

Taylor, Charles. 1994. “The Politics of Recognition” in Goldberg (ed,) Multiculturalism: a Critical Reader. Oxford: Blackwell: 75-106.

Taylor, Yvette. 2006. Working-Class Lesbian Life: Classed Outsiders. Palgrave: Macmillan. --- 2007. “’If Your Face Doesn't Fit…': The Misrecognition of Working-Class Lesbians in Scene Space.” Leisure Studies 26(2):161-178. ---2009. “Complexities and Complications: Intersections of Class and Sexuality.” Journal of Lesbian Studies 13:189-203.

Taylor, Verta & Susan Whittier. 1992. "Collective Identity in Social Movement Communities; Lesbian Feminist Mobilization" in Frontiers in Social Movement Theory. (eds) Aldon Morris and Carol McClurg Mueller. New Haven CT: Yale University Press.

The Anime Almanac. Retrieved on December 19, 2010 from http://animealmanac.com/2008/12/11/rica-tte-kanji-and-lesbianism-in- manga/.

Tiemann, Kathleen. 2006. “Why is Their Picture on the Wedding Page? A Rural Community Responds to a Wedding Announcement.” Journal of Homosexuality 51(4):119-135.

Tucker, Andrew. 2009. Queer Visibilities: Space, Identity and Interaction in Cape Town. Wiley-Blackwell.

Valentine, David. 2007. Imagining Transgender: An Ethnography of a Category. Duke University Press.

Valentine, Gill. 1993a. “(Hetero)sexing space: lesbian perceptions and experience of everyday spaces.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 11:395-413. --- 1993b. “Negotiating and managing multiple sexual identities: lesbian time-space strategies.” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 18:237-48. --- (ed.) 2000. From Nowhere to Everywhere: Lesbian Geographies. Harrington Park Press.

Valverde, Mariana. 2006. “A New Entity in the History of Sexuality: The Respectable Same-Sex Couple.” Feminist Studies 32(1):155-162.

Vela-McConnell, James. 1999. Who is my neighbor? Social affinity in a modern world. Albany: State University of New York Press.

Veldof, Jerilyn and Corey Bonnema. 2014. “Minnesota Nice? It's like ice.” Star Tribune.

339

Vernaglia, Elizabeth. 2000. “Parents as straight allies: A qualitative study of the experiences of heterosexual parents in the gay rights movement.” (Doctoral dissertation, Boston College, 1999). Dissertation Abstracts International: Section B: The Sciences & Engineering.

Walker, Lisa. 2001. Looking Like What You Are: Sexual Style, Race, and Lesbian Identity. New York: New York University Press.

Walters, Suzanna. 2001. All the Rage: The Story of Gay Visibility in America. University of Chicago Press.

Ward, Jane. 2008. Respectably Queer: Diversity Culture in LGBT Activist Organizations. Nashville TN: Vanderbilt University.

Warner, Michael. 1991. “Introduction: Fear of a Queer Planet.” Social Text 29-3:17. ---1999. The Trouble with Normal: Sex, Politics, and the Ethics of Queer Life. Cambridge, MA: Harvard U Press.

Weeks, Jeffrey. 1985. Sexuality and Its Discontents: Meanings, Myths and Modern Sexualities. London: Routledge.

West, Candace and Don Zimmerman. 1987. "Doing Gender." Gender & Society 1(2): 125-151.

Weston, Kath. 1994. Families We Choose: Lesbians, Gays, Kinship. New York: Columbia University Press. --- 1995. “Get Thee to a Big City: Sexual Imaginary and the Great Gay Migration.” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies 2:253-277. --- 1996. Render Me, Gender Me: Lesbians Talk Sex, Class, Color, Nation, Studmuffins. New York: Columbia University Press. --- 1998. Long Slow Burn: Sexuality and Social Science. Boston:Routledge. --- 2009. "The Lady Vanishes: On Never Knowing, Quite, Who is a Lesbian." Journal of Lesbian Studies 13:136-148.

Wharf, Benjamin and John Carroll. 1956. Language, Thought And Reality. The MIT Press.

Whitlock, Reta. 2009. “’Them Ol'Nasty Lesbians’ - Queer Memory, Place, and Rural Formations of Lesbian.” Journal of Lesbian Studies 13:98-106.

Whittier, Nancy. 1995. Feminist Generations: The Persistence of the Radical Women’s Movement. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

Whitehead, J, Jon Shaver, and Rob Stephenson. 2016. “Outness, Stigma, and Primary Health Care Utilization among Rural LGBT Populations.” PLoS ONE 11(1). 340

Wolf, Deborah Goleman. 1980[1979]. The Lesbian Community: with an Afterword. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Woodell, Brandi, Emily Kazyak, and D’Lane Compton. 2015. Reconciling LGB and Christian Identities in the Rural South. Social Sciences 4:859–878.

Woods, Michael. 2005. Rural Geography. Sage, London.

Worthington, Roger, Frank Dillon ,and Ann Becker-Schutte. 2005. “Development, reliability, and validity of the Lesbian, Gay, and Bisexual Knowledge and Attitudes Scale for Heterosexuals (LGBKASH).” Journal of Counseling Psychology 52:104–118.

Wright, S.C., & Lubensky, M. 2008. “The struggle for : Collective action vs. prejudice reduction”. In Demoulin, Leyens, and Dovidio (Eds.) Intergroup misunderstandings: Impact of divergent social realities. New York: Psychology Press: 291–310.

Wu, Janson. 2016. “The Generations of a Name.” GLAD media blog. Retrieved on March 20, 2016 from http://www.glad.org/current/post/the-generations-of-a- name.

Young, Ian. 1995. The Stonewall experiment: A gay psychohistory. Cassell.

341

APPENDIX A: SEMI-STRUCTURED INTERVIEW GUIDE

Lesbian/Bisexual/Queer-Identified Female and Male Participants

1. Understanding and expressing their sexuality

a. Experiences growing up on the Iron Range and early relationships b. How they describe their coming out (or figuring out) process c. Discussions with (and reactions of) family and community members - If any negative reactions, what, why, and how did they react to it? d. Acquiring information about LGBTQ identities and lives - Sources of information ii. Level of/type of conversations

2. Developing an LGBTQ identity and/or community network

a. Experiences finding romantic and sexual partners, dating b. Experiences finding platonic LGBTQ friends and community c. Thoughts about whether there is an LGBTQ community on the Iron Range and what that means d. Experiences with public/private community gatherings e. Experiences using the internet as a networking tool f. Thoughts about visibility (Do they want it? Is it good/bad/neutral?) g. Thoughts about current LGBTQ issues locally and nationally - Level of interest in being involved in these conversations/being active in social change movements (and reasons why/why not) h. Experiences traveling to/from, living in, and connecting with more urban areas - Thoughts about urban LGBTQ lives/communities/opportunity/losses

3. Thoughts about living on the Iron Range/Iron Range identity and community

a. How they would describe being an “Iron Ranger” and what that means to them/if they connect themselves to their description b. How they would describe general “pulse”/belief systems on the Iron Range relating to LGBTQ issues c. Beliefs/desires about the future of Iron Range life, in general, and LGBTQ life, more specifically

342

Ally participants:

1. Understanding non-heterosexual sexuality

a. Experiences growing up on the Iron Range and early relationships b. How/why they begun to consider LGBTQ lives/identities c. Discussions with (and reactions of) family and community members - If any negative reactions, what, why, and how did they react to it? d. Acquiring information about LGBTQ identities and lives - Sources of information - Level of/type of conversations

2. Developing an ally identity and/or community network

a. Reasons for becoming an ally b. Ways they feel they are an ally c. Experiences with LGBTQ community d. Experiences finding, networking within ally community e. Thoughts about whether there is an LGBTQ community on the Iron Range and what that means f. Experiences with public/private community gatherings g. Experiences using the internet as a networking tool h. Thoughts about visibility (Do they want it? Is it good/bad/neutral?) - Thoughts about current LGBTQ issues locally and nationally - Level of interest in being involved in these conversations/being active in social change movements (and reasons why/why not) j. Experiences traveling to/from, living in, and connecting with more urban areas - Thoughts about urban LGBTQ lives/communities/opportunity/losses

3. Thoughts about living on the Iron Range/Iron Range identity and community

a. How they would describe being an “Iron Ranger” and what that means to them/if they connect themselves to their description b. How they would describe general “pulse”/belief systems on the Iron Range relating to LGBTQ issues c. Beliefs/desires about the future of Iron Range life, in general, and LGBTQ life, more specifically

343

APPENDIX B: CONSENT FORM

CONSENT FORM

Northern Minnesota LGBTQA Life History Project

Hello! My name is Andria Strano and I am a Ph.D. student in the Sociology Department at the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities. Here is some information about participating in my study of Northern Minnesotan LGBTQA lives and histories:

Why Study Northern Minnesota/Iron Range LGBTQA Life?

Throughout my readings and discussions with others on GLBTA lives, I have noticed a huge silence in representations and discussions of GLBT people living in rural areas. Until very recently, most of the information presented about GLBT America is concerned with what GLBT people on the East and West coasts (and a few other major urban areas) are, and have been, thinking and doing. Researchers, magazine, and fiction writers alike have been ignoring the lives of rural GLBT individuals. To correct this, I hope to collect and publish (in book form and possibly in article form, as well) a discussion about rural LGBTQA lives.

Your Participation

The criteria for your participation in this study are that you are an LGBTQA-identified person, 18 years of age or older, and you live or have lived in Northern Minnesota.

Your participation would include involvement in audio-recorded interviews, which can be done separately and/or with your partner and/or in a group of your friends. Interviews will consist of questions about your experiences (from childhood to the present time), as well as your about other topics, such as rural and urban LGBTQA life and local and national GLBT movements. Participation would also include showing me around your home, work, town, and other places that you spend time, if you are comfortable in doing so. Participants in the study will have ongoing and multiple interactions with me, in order to ensure that I understand the context of LGBTQA lives in Northern Minnesota. By participating, you will be helping to create a much needed discussion of rural LGBTQA experiences.

Confidentiality

Multiple levels of confidentially will be offered to every participant, from confidentiality to no confidentiality. If you choose to have your participation remain confidential, your records in this study will be kept private. Research records and interview recordings will be stored securely and only I will have access to the records and recordings, which will be destroyed after the study is completed. I will change your 344

name and do my best to make sure no one will be able to recognize you from what you say. Please note that while I will do my best to maintain the level of confidentiality that you request, I cannot guarantee complete confidentiality.

You may choose one of three levels of confidentiality. Due to the sensitive and particular subject matter, you have the option of confidentiality. The first option is that you can choose a pseudonym for both your first and last names, so that your real name does not appear in the study. The second option is that you can choose a pseudonym for your first name and use your real last name. Due to the personal and particular experiences you will be sharing, you might want to have your first or last names associated with your story. The third option is that you can use your real name, first and last.

Please choose one of the three options, and if you desire to use a pseudonym, write that name in here.

Option 1:

___ I would like to choose a pseudonym for both my first and last names. The pseudonym that I would like to have for my first name is: ______and my last name is: ______

Option 2:

___ I would like to have my first name only used in study records and publication and the pseudonym that I would like to have for my last name is: ______

Option 3:

___ I would like to have both my first name and last name used in study records and publication.

Risks and Benefits

There are minimal risks and no direct benefits for participating in this study. The minimal risks may include stigmatization, emotional distress, and disclosure. If at any time you ever find a subject or question to sensitive to discuss or answer, you are free to skip the question or decline to answer.

Participation in this study is voluntary. Your decision whether or not to participate will not affect your current or future relations with the University of Minnesota. If you decide to participate, you are free to not answer any question or withdraw at any time without affecting those relationships.

345

If you choose to participate, and the study results in a published book, I will provide you with a complimentary copy of the book in appreciation for your time.

Contact Information

The researcher conducting this study is: Andria Strano. You may ask any questions you have now. If you have questions later, you are encouraged to contact me at any time regarding the study on my cell phone at (612)-805-7160 or email me at [email protected]. You can also contact my advisor, Kathleen Hull, at [email protected].

If you have any questions or concerns regarding this study and would like to talk to someone other than the myself, you are encouraged to contact the Research Subjects’ Advocate Line, D528 Mayo, 420 Delaware St. Southeast, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55455; (612) 625-1650.

You will be given a copy of this information to keep for your records.

Statement of Consent:

If you would like to participate in this study, please read the following to yourself and the researcher:

“I have read the above information. I have asked questions and have received answers. I am verbally consenting to participate in the study. I understand no written consent will be given, except in the case of requesting anything other than full confidentiality, which I have marked and signed on this form.”

346

APPENDIX C: BREAKDOWN OF STATEWIDE RESOURCE LIST BY AREA

Number of Resources Listed per Area Resource List Sub-Topic Twin Cities Northern MN Southern MN

Healthcare/Testing 2 0 0

Support Groups/Counseling 30 0 3

Social Groups 21 0 0

Religious Organizations 4 0 0

Shelters/Assistance 4 0 0

Businesses/LGBTQ Community 0 0 3 Centers

Crisis Intervention/Hotlines 5 0 0

Trans Resources 8 0 0

Political/Legal 4 0 0

Miscellaneous 12 0 1

Safe Schools/Youth Resources 14 2 1

Total 107 2 5

347