Queer Theory and Compulsory Heterosexuality in Nella Larsen's

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“Just Friends”: Queer Theory and Compulsory Heterosexuality in Nella Larsen’s Passing,

Daniel Woodrell’s Winter’s Bone, and S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders

A Thesis

Presented

to the Faculty of

California State University, Chico

In Partial Fulfillment

of the Requirements for the Degree

Master of Arts

English

Charlotte Letellier

Spring 2019

“Just Friends”: Queer Theory and Compulsory Heterosexuality in Nella Larsen’s Passing,

Daniel Woodrell’s Winter’s Bone, and S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders

A Thesis

Charlotte Letellier

Spring 2019

APPROVED BY THE INTERIM DEAN OF GRADUATE STUDIES:

Sharon Barrios, Ph.D.

APPROVED BY THE GRADUATE ADVISORY COMMITTEE:

Matthew D. Brown, Ph.D., Chair

Tracy Butts, Ph.D.

Acknowledgments

I would like to express my sincerest gratitude to Dr. Matt Brown for all of his support, feedback, and advice. I simply can’t but how thankful I am into words, not only for his invaluable help as Committee Chair for this thesis, but also for his continuous guidance throughout my entire time in the English department at Chico State. I would like to thank Dr. Tracy Butts for serving on my thesis committee, despite her busy schedule. Her comments and advice have been incredibly helpful, and I am thankful for her support.

I would also like to thank Dr. Erin Kelly, without whom I may never have applied to the master’s program to begin with. I feel fortunate to have had so many supportive and inspiring professors throughout my time here.

I would also like to express my thanks to my friends, family, and classmates. I am grateful to have so many wonderful, caring people in my life. Lastly, though they can’t read and therefor won’t appreciate this, I’d like to thank my cats for sitting with me as I wrote.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

PAGE

Acknowledgments...... iii

Abstract ...... v

CHAPTER

I. Introduction ...... 1

II. Sexual Passing: Irene, Clare, & Brian ...... 7

III. Generations of Women and Female Connection: Compulsory Heterosexuality in Winter’s Bone ...... 23

IV. A Queer Reading of The Outsiders: Gallant Southern Gentlemen & Abandoned Churches ...... 37

V. Works Cited ...... 53

ABSTRACT

“Just Friends”: Queer Theory and Compulsory Heterosexuality in Nella Larsen’s Passing,

Daniel Woodrell’s Winter’s Bone, and S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders

Charlotte Letellier 2019

Master of Arts in English

California State University, Chico

Spring 2019

Representations of queer relationships in literature are often put in the subtext of works, rather than explicitly addressed. Using Passing by Nella Larsen, Winter’s Bone by

Daniel Woodrell, and The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, I am examining queer subtext in non-explicitly queer American works. I am focusing on the strong and complex bonds the protagonists have with their same-sex friends. Using the essays of other scholars reading these texts and Adrienne Rich’s theory of compulsory heterosexuality, I am analyzing the romantic subtext in same-sex friendships in literature, especially as compared to the heterosexual relationships. In Passing, my focus is on the protagonist, Irene, and the comparison between her relationship with her husband and her friend. In Winter’s Bone, I discuss the network of female relationships in their culture, as well as the protagonist and her close childhood friend and the way that the heterosexual marriages function apart from the female relationships. In The Outsiders, it is the friendship between the protagonist, Ponyboy, and Johnny Cade, as well as the symbolic nature of setting. v

CHAPTER I

Introduction

Framework:

The literary canon as a whole has often been criticized for the tendency to focus on texts by and about straight white men in particular. Texts of marginalized groups are often dismissed or erased. In the world of queer theory, one of the methods of dealing with the erasure is by finding the queer themes and undertones in texts within the American canon. Queer readings of

American texts are not particularly uncommon. The Great Gatsby, for example, is frequently studied with a queer lens. A fair amount has been written about the gender dynamics and the queer themes in The Great Gatsby. It serves as a useful frame for looking at how these same themes manifest in other pieces. In The Great Gatsby, the same-sex friendships are deeper and more meaningful than the heterosexual romantic relationships. Additionally, the same-sex friendships wind up sounding more romantic than the actual romantic relationships. A Separate

Peace by John Knowles is another example of an American novel sometimes read as queer, with the plot centered around the protagonist’s fixation on his friend. Author David Levithan wrote in his afterword, “Looking Back, From a Greater Distance,” about the unintended queer elements:

“[W]hen it comes to what the story means to me, so much of what Knowles writes gets to the heart of what it would have been like to be gay at that time—and what it can still be like to be gay now.” (207) Queer readings of texts can showcase how the canon reflects the queer experience, regardless of if the texts themselves are meant to be queer.

I’ve chosen to examine three American texts in order to approach this: Passing by Nella

Larsen, Winter’s Bone by Daniel Woodrell, and The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton. I’m moving from

Passing to Winter’s Bone to The Outsiders, in order to move through the connecting themes.

Passing and Winter’s Bone both have a focus on female relationships and the way that heterosexual relationships function for women. Passing focuses on an adult woman in a loveless heterosexual marriage that allows her to maintain status and safety in her culture, and Winter’s

Bone follows a teenage girl navigating the network of women in her culture, while observing the way that heterosexual relationships are both necessary to connect the male and female worlds and hindering to many of the women’s lives. Moving from Winter’s Bone to The Outsiders, the connecting themes are coming of age, queer teenage friendship, and poverty. Both Ree and

Ponyboy are teenagers living in poverty with a lack of parental guidance. Much of their respective experience is informed by the close bonds they have in their same-sex friendships.

All three texts are connected both by their queer subtext, but also by themes of intersecting areas of marginalization. These themes include gender, class, race, and region. The queer subtext is heavily impacted by these other themes. The three respective protagonists within these works navigate the textual conflicts of marginalization, while also navigating the subtext of queer marginalization.

Passing:

Nella Larsen’s novel, Passing, is as much about sexual passing as it is about racial passing. The themes of queer sexuality and sexual passing are largely subtextual, indicating a kind of passing even to the readers of the novel. In her allusions and references, Larsen includes queer figures. Using Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers: A History of Lesbian Life in Twentieth-

Century America by Lillian Faderman, I’m grounding the text in the historical climate for queer people. In particular, the chapter in the book titled “Lesbian Chic: Experimentation and

Repression in the 1920s” gives context for the world of the novel. The historical backdrop for the

novel allows for a kind of subtextual conversation, based on what contemporary readers and the characters in the novel might’ve been aware of.

In this section, I am arguing that Passing is a queer text, shown through the relationship between Irene and Clare Kendry, Irene’s meaningful omissions throughout the text, and the role that Brian plays in the novel, as a character and in connection with Clare. In discussing Irene as an unreliable narrator, I’d like to argue that much of the evidence of her queer nature lies in the omissions she chooses to make and the ways in which she avoids stating certain things. I will examine how her passing as queer relies on her secrecy to the audience and her mentions of unnamable things.

Finally, I’d like to address how Brian functions in the text, and how his connection with

Clare Kendry works. Putting in conversation David L. Blackmore’s article “`That Unreasonable

Restless Feeling': The Homosexual Subtexts of Nella Larsen's Passing,” I am arguing that

Brian’s restlessness is due to his own sexual passing, and the strain of his relationship with Irene is related to her desire to stay hidden at odds with his lack of satisfaction in their relationship. In terms of his relationship with Clare, I am arguing that Irene’s concern is that they will recognize each other as queer and be drawn to one another, and in turn, Irene will be in danger of being discovered. I’d like to argue that Irene’s mention of an affair is related to her lack of reliability as a narrator and the lengths to which she’s going to pass as straight, even to the audience.

In this, I am also looking at how previous scholars have read and addressed the queer undertones of Passing.

Winter’s Bone:

There has not been much scholarly attention on Winter’s Bone, and the existing theory written about it primarily focuses on issues of genre. Joseph J. Wydeven wrote an article titled

“Daniel Woodrell’s New American Adam: Myth and Country Noir in Winter’s Bone,” in which he discusses elements of genre. He briefly touches on themes of sexuality in the novel, though he does not focus on it. In my reading of Winter’s Bone, I am treating it as a queer text, through looking at the existing female relationships within the novel. Adrienne Rich’s essay,

“Compulsory Heterosexuality and the Lesbian Existence,” is an older queer theory text, first published in 1980. While some aspects of the essay are not as useful as others, given how far gender studies have come, the concept of compulsory heterosexuality and the significance of female relationships are still relevant. The concept of the lesbian continuum as Rich discusses in her essay is largely useful for second wave feminism. In identifying female relationships through the lens of the lesbian label, the idea was to garner acceptance for the term. I’m choosing to use

Rich’s essay and the terms lesbian continuum and compulsory heterosexuality primarily because we simply don’t have updated terms for these concepts. The phenomenon of compulsory heterosexuality exists and is visible in queer women’s lives, so the term remains useful in the conversation of queer theory.

In Winter’s Bone, Ree’s interactions with women are what drives the plot. The same-sex connections between the women in the story end up having a much more significant impact on all of the female characters. Their male counterparts tend to be absent, abusive, or unhelpful. In particular, Ree’s close friend, Gail, could be interpreted as a prime example of how compulsory heterosexuality manifests. She marries due to obligation because she got pregnant, and her marriage is loveless. We are told in the flashbacks about how Ree and Gail’s friendship evolved, starting with magnetism and involving experimentation and intimacy. Their experimentation involves kissing with one of them playing the role of “the man,” due to the expectation that this kind of intimacy must only exist between a man and a woman. Their relationship is arguably the

most significant one in the novel, with both of them relying on one another to survive the difficulties that the men in their lives cause, Ree with her father and Gail with her husband.

The Outsiders:

The Outsiders, though often read and studied in English classes, is not quite given the scholarly attention one might expect from a book so culturally significant. The scholars that have written about it have discussed why it is in the canon, how it works in a pedagogical framework, or the role of the teenage audience. There is a focus on the author and cultural response to The

Outsiders, in the scholarly work. In his book Presenting S.E. Hinton, Jay Daly talks about S.E.

Hinton as a person, as well as her cultural significance. Similarly, The Outsiders has a chapter in

Thomas R. Wissen’s Classic Cult Fiction: A Companion to Popular Cult Literature, placing it in a list of texts with a cult following. While I find the question of how The Outsiders became a significant text compelling in a sense, I don’t find it to be the most important point of discussion for the novel.

The Outsiders is an important text in its own right, not just by virtue of being a staple of middle school and high school curriculums. In The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton, the story is primarily about the dynamics between the teenage boy characters. The narrator, Ponyboy, and his best friend, Johnny, are portrayed as the more sensitive boys, different from the rest of the group. They are very close, and they have an emotional and physical kind of intimacy throughout the novel. In addition to that, Ponyboy specifically expresses difficulty with girls, a sort of uncertainty in his attraction to them.

Through a queer lens, the relationship between Ponyboy and Johnny has added weight.

Thematically, much of The Outsiders has queer undertones. The found family aspect of the story, along with the missing or otherwise unhelpful parental figures, reflects the queer teen experience

of having an uncertain family life. Looking at the stories in Bernadette Barton’s Pray the Gay

Away: The Extraordinary Lives of Bible Belt Gays, the significance of the familial relationships in The Outsiders takes on a new angle. Additionally, the space of the abandoned church in the narrative has a new kind of symbolic importance. The Outsiders, regardless of S.E. Hinton’s intent, showcases several different aspects of the queer adolescent experience. The story of The

Outsiders survives with queer youth coming of age. The relationship between the boys, the absence of loving parental figures, the symbolism of the abandoned church—all these aspects of the novel relate to the experiences and fears of queer teenagers.

CHAPTER II

Sexual Passing: Irene, Clare, & Brian

Passing by Nella Larsen is a book of transgression and secrecy. It revolves around the intense friendship between two women and is overtly about the dangers and benefits of racial passing. The novel is narrated by Irene Redfield, a black woman in the 1920s. Irene is married with two children, living a comfortable life where she is concerned with maintaining image and propriety. Her life gets altered by her reconnection with Clare Kendry, a childhood friend. Clare is racially passing, married to a racist white man. Beneath the text, there are noticeable queer undertones, offering interpretations about sexual passing. We see the clues through meaningful decisions that Nella Larsen makes. The novel begins with an epigraph, an excerpt of a poem by

Countée Cullen. Cullen was a closeted gay poet, known in the queer community at the time.

(Powers) In the third and final section of the novel, two names are dropped, for seemingly no reason. While at a party, the main character, Irene, offers us excerpts of conversations she is having with other guests, though she only includes her side of the conversation: “Josephine

Baker? … No. I’ve never seen her… Well, she might have been in Shuffle Along when I saw it, but if she was, I don’t remember her…Oh, but you’re wrong! … I do think Ethel Waters is awfully good…” (91). Both Josephine Baker and Ethel Waters were bisexual jazz musicians, and their sexualities were fairly well known. Because these conversations are not complete, we are left with these allusions, without the context of the interaction at the party. The focus is kept on the namedrops. These choices of cultural references offer a way into a queer reading of the text.

Making references and allusions within works of fiction can help the audience situate the text within a certain frame or historical position. The references that Larsen chooses to make indicate the validity of the queer undertones, and gives us the lens of analysis we can use to

examine the themes. The historical context and physical setting of this novel adds to the queer reading. Additionally, it gives us details about the concerns of the characters. In the second section of the book, Irene and Clare discuss a dance that they’re going to in Harlem, and Irene mentions fictional white author Hugh Wentworth is coming to the dance. When Clare questions why “a man like that” would be attending, Irene explains that “[t]his…was the year 1927 in the city of New York, and hundreds of white people of Hugh Wentworth’s type came to affairs in

Harlem, more all the time.” (Larsen 69) Through the fictional Wentworth, Larsen is showing the way white people of the time crossed racial boundaries in Harlem in order to observe black culture. The reference here to white people’s interest in black culture in Harlem also translates to the themes of sexuality. In Odd Girls and Twilight Lovers: A History of Lesbian Life in

Twentieth-Century America, author Lillian Faderman has a chapter regarding queer culture in

Harlem in the twenties. The queer community of this time in Harlem was largely open, and it was a unique time and place for queer women. Irene’s reference to white people’s involvement with black culture in that time is similar to the straight white “tourism” within black queer clubs.

The openness of Harlem for the queer community, as Faderman states, gave “the illusion of welcome” (Faderman 69). The white tourists, as a white-passing Clare could represent, might believe that the queer world in Harlem was a safer and more accepting place than it truly was.

They may not see the underlying danger that the queer community face, or the loss of respect they risk when being open about their sexuality. People like Irene, people more directly involved in that community, would be more aware of the illusion, and would know that “while lesbians in

Harlem of the 1920s went unmolested, they were seldom approved of” (Faderman 69). Irene’s awareness of the nuances of the fragile acceptance of the queer community, paired with Clare’s

more obvious danger in racial passing, give the contextual backdrop for the narrative and the thematic dichotomy between the text and the subtext.

If we’re reading Passing as a queer novel, the queer themes go beyond Irene and Clare’s interactions, though those are significant. As a queer novel, as other theorists have posited, the title takes on a new meaning. The book is about racial passing within the text, and about sexual passing within the largely unspoken subtext. This draws new attention to Irene and Clare’s relationship and Irene’s meaningful omissions and her fear, indicating the way these aspects of the novel can be read as queer. However, I’d like to focus on Irene’s husband, Brian, as a character, his restlessness, and his interactions with Clare, and the way they indicate another side to the queer reading.

In order to get to Brian, we have to establish that Irene is an unreliable narrator whose primary concern is remaining “safe.” The safety she is concerned with, above all else, is safety in her social position. Physical safety is always a concern in the queer world, but Irene’s fear is mostly related to losing respect and not being seen as proper. In hiding her sexual feelings from the other characters and the society she exists in, she is also concealing it from the audience. She often omits her feelings when related to Clare, and refuses to be specific when discussing Brian’s restlessness. An example of this comes when she is face to face with Clare, and “[l]ooking at the woman before her, Irene Redfield had a sudden inexplicable onrush of affectionate feeling” (65).

Irene describes her affection as “inexplicable,” marking it as different from simple friendship.

Her interest in Clare is visual, as it is in looking at her that she seems most aware of it. All this indicated that she does not simply have affection for Clare, but she also has attraction towards her. While Irene is leading us to believe that she does not understand her emotions in this moment, I find it more persuasive that Irene is aware of the nature for her feelings, rather than

finding them “inexplicable,” but her nature as an unreliable narrator shows most clearly in her queer identity. Parts of this can be interpreted as Irene being so closeted that she is unaware of her own feelings, but I posit that she knows her own feelings and is omitting them to maintain discretion to the highest level she can.

This leads to Irene’s investment in her own safety, and her investment in her tact and discretion. One of her highest motivations in the novel is maintaining her safety. This concern is why Clare can scare her, and why she feels compelled to control Brian. When Irene receives a letter from Clare, she gets very angry, throwing it across the room. When she explains what upset her about the letter, she specifically reacts to an implication that she might not understand the need for secrecy in such a situation:

“It wasn’t so much Clare’s carefulness and her desire for secrecy in their relations—Irene

understood the need for that—as that Clare should have doubted her discretion, implied

that she might not be cautious in the wording of her reply and the choice of posting-box.

Having always had that complete confidence in her own good judgment and tact, Irene

couldn’t bear to have anyone seem to question them. Certainly not Clare Kendry.” (62)

Irene’s own experience with passing for straight would explain her taking offense to the idea that she would not implicitly know to be careful regarding their relationship. Irene is fully aware of the dangers of passing, and she is fully aware of the need for secrecy. The anger in her reaction to Clare’s letter indicates two things: that her feelings about Clare, negative or positive, are deep and passionate, and she is invested in other queer people recognizing the lengths she goes to maintain discretion.

She specifies that “certainly Clare Kendry” shouldn’t be questioning her tact or her secrecy. Clare, passing as white to her husband, has less of a stake in passing sexually. The

danger for her is far more connected to race than it is to sexuality, and the danger is more physical than social. Clare is much less invested in safety than Irene is, as she demonstrates explicitly when she says in an argument with Irene, “Well, then, what does it matter? One risk more or less, if we’re not safe anyway, if even you’re not, it can’t make all the difference in the world. It can’t to me. Besides, I’m used to risks. And this isn’t such a big one as you’re trying to make it.” (67) With Clare’s already precarious situation with her husband, another level of passing in terms of identity is not a large concern for her. Clare’s issue regarding risk is far more related to physical safety. If her identity was revealed to her husband, the physical harm that could come to her is more pressing than any social position she might lose due to her sexual identity. Given Faderman’s report of Harlem in the twenties, Clare’s recklessness directly threatens Irene. Irene’s concern of safety makes more sense when you consider that she is also passing, for straight rather than white. Her fear of being discovered is what causes her discomfort for Clare’s lack of concern. In his article, “‘That Unreasonable Restless Feeling’: The

Homosexual Subtexts of Nella Larsen’s Passing,” David L. Blackmore describes the way the conversation of race within the novel serves partially to cover the sexual themes, and how Irene utilizes that cover: “Her attraction to Clare is wildly unsafe. By couching the discussion in terms of race, however, Irene can address the issue of her own unnameable desire without exposing herself.” (Blackmore 476) Irene covers her fear of being discovered as lesbian—or potentially, as bisexual—by using racial passing to express her fear, but that doesn’t make sense on its own.

Irene’s fear only makes sense when we examine her secrets, rather than looking at it as simply that Clare’s racial passing puts her in a more complicated position.

Establishing Irene’s fear and unreliability allows us to look at Brian’s role in the narrative more critically. Irene is concerned with her husband’s restlessness, with his discomfort in their

lives. Their marriage is not so much unhappy as it simply lacks passion. Given Irene’s interest in

Clare, this is unsurprising on her part. Irene’s desire to keep it hidden can be shown throughout the novel in deliberate omissions she makes. However, this indication of Irene’s queerness does offer the question of where that leaves Brian. Brian also seems to desire something more that

Irene won’t name. Given what omissions Irene chooses to make in her narration, the question leads back to the queer themes. In her article titled “Race-Ing Representation: Voice, History, and Sexuality,” Corinne E. Blackmer suggests: “Larsen's novel not only explores a legally fraudulent inter racial union in the marriage between Clare Kendry and John Bellew, but also subtly delineates the intraracial sexual attraction of Irene Redfield for Clare, while the former projects her taboo desires for Clare onto her husband Brian. Ironically, Brian Redfield, who the text implies might be homosexual, evinces no sexual interest in women, but Irene nonetheless begins to suspect that Brian and Clare are conducting an illicit, clandestine affair.” (Blackmer

52) While I can see where this point is coming from, I would argue that it is not that Irene is projecting her own sexual desires for Clare onto Brian. Rather, I would argue that Irene is well aware of her own sexual desire and is concealing it from the audience rather than from herself.

As for her implication that Brian and Clare are having an affair, I would argue that she is using that as an excuse to cover her real fear about them, the fear that causes her to ultimately (or allegedly) push Clare from that window in the end of the novel. Irene is very committed to her own safety, and as such, she wants to keep her sexuality well hidden. On the other hand, Clare is in more danger of her race being discovered than her sexuality, and being closeted is causing

Brian’s restlessness. The ultimate danger for Irene is when Clare and Brian end up recognizing one another as queer. It is their behaviors that are causing her to fear being discovered, and the two of them discovering each other through queer recognition would be dangerous for her.

In the first physical description of Brian, Irene’s thoughts seem to both say something about him and about her: She says he’s very good-looking, but “[n]ot, of course, pretty or effeminate” (53). This casual reference to femininity indicates that this is what Irene’s first instinct of what attractive is. She thinks he is good-looking in spite of his lack of femininity, which implies that typical beauty, to Irene, is related to femininity. Alone, this comment seems innocuous, but when paired with Irene’s intense interest in Clare, it indicates queerness. As for

Brian, as she continues to describe him, she says, “the slight irregularity of his nose saved him from the prettiness, and the rather marked heaviness of his chin saved him from effeminacy”

(53). This description is notable, primarily due to the use of the word “save.” Certain aspects of his features “save” him from gender non-conformity. Through the lens of queer theory, this is a very important detail. Brian’s features “saving” him from appearing feminine is significant. This would allow him to pass as a straight man—that is to say, a sexual and gender conforming man.

It would be especially notable that it saves him from being gender-nonconforming to Irene if they are using one another as beards. In that case, Brian’s passing is vital to Irene’s passing. His ability to pass matters to Irene, and his features that save him from a gender-nonconforming appearance save Irene as well. In reference to Brian’s description, Blackmore posits: “Her fear that he might be perceived as at all feminine betrays her subconscious concern that he is perhaps not the conventional "man" he is supposed to be.” (Blackmore 477) While I can see this possibility, I would argue that her narration is related neither to her subconscious nor her fear in this moment. Irene takes comfort in the fact that Brian passes, because she is aware of the truth and because their relationship only works if they are both sexually passing. Because her relationship is devoid of romance or sex, I would argue that it is unlikely that Brian and Irene are not aware of their shared queer identities.

The relationship between Irene and Brian is notably distant yet amicable, more like a contractual agreement than a romantic relationship. Blackmore describes the nature of their relationship: “Providing domestic power and economic security, her marriage to Brian is a social convenience, not an institutionalized love affair.” (Blackmore 475) Their marriage is a mutually beneficial arrangement, wherein they both get to enjoy the security and propriety of a typical heterosexual marriage. I’m arguing that a part of this social convenience, for both of them, is passing as straight for the sake of safety. At the end of the first section of the novel, Irene puts

Clare out of her mind in order to think about Brian: “She hoped that he had been comfortable and not too lonely without her and the boys. Not so lonely that that old, queer, unhappy restlessness had begun again within him, that craving for some place strange and different, which at the beginning of her marriage she had had to make such strenuous efforts to repress, and which yet faintly alarmed her, though it now sprang up at gradually lessening intervals.” (47) Irene mentions her “strenuous efforts to repress” Brian’s desires, and in turn, possibly her own. It is worth noting that she says this occurred at the beginning of their marriage, which would tend to be the honeymoon phase in most marriages. Her marriage, however, is not most marriages. This would make sense if she and Brian married less for love and more for safety, or a desire to pass as straight. The use of the word “repress” could refer to sexual repression, which connects to when Brian was calling sex a joke later in the novel. If Irene’s interest in Clare is indicative of her own queerness, Brian’s unhappy restlessness could be indicative of his own, in his own possible issues with passing and with the closeted nature of their relationship. It “faintly alarmed her” because his queer restlessness might endanger him as well as her, if he were queer and upfront about his sexuality. Their arrangement only works if they both desire the safety of being closeted over the freedom of being out.

As mentioned earlier, the conversation the book has about racial passing serves also to offer a way to subtly talk about sexual passing. Irene and Brian do have a telling discussion about the effects that racial passing has on people: “‘But wouldn’t you think that having got the thing, of things, they were after, and at such risk, they’d be satisfied? Or afraid?’ / ‘Yes,’ Brian agreed. ‘you certainly would think so. But, the fact remains, they aren’t. Not satisfied, I mean. I think they’re scared enough most of the time, when they give way to the urge and slip back. Not scared enough to stop them, though. Why, the good God only knows.’” (55) This conversation reads to me, at least partially, as a coded discussion about their mutual sexual passing. Irene suggests that people who pass racially should be both satisfied and afraid, which is the effect that sexual passing as on her. She is satisfied with the benefits and safety it provides to her, but she lives in fear of the likes of Clare or Brian revealing themselves, and ultimately her, as queer.

Brian, in contrast, is saying that those who pass are not satisfied, ultimately admitting that he is not satisfied with passing either. He expresses that he doesn’t understand why they want to pass, despite the increased fear and the lack of satisfaction. Ultimately, Brian is revealing that his restlessness is related to his lack of desire to sexually pass, preferring to live freely in his own identity, regardless of the risks.

The side of Brian that remains unsatisfied with passing and harbors a desire for freedom is what threatens Irene’s safety in their marriage. Irene thinks about her own frustration with

Brian’s lack of happiness in their marriage, and his lack of happiness with sexually passing in general:

“Irene, watching him, was thinking: ‘It isn’t fair, it isn’t fair.’ After all these years to still

blame her like this. Hadn’t his success proved that she’d been right in insisting that he

stick to his profession right there in New York? Couldn’t he see, even now, that it had

been best? Not for her, oh no, not for her—she had never really considered herself—but

for him and the boys. Was she never to be free of it, that fear which crouched, always,

deep down within her, stealing away the sense of security, the feeling of permanence,

from the life which she had so admirably arranged for them all, and desires so ardently to

have remain as it was? That strange, and to her fantastic, notion of Brian’s of going off to

Brazil, which, though unmentioned, yet lived within him; how it frightened her, and—

yes, angered her!” (57)

This quote suggests a lot about both Irene and Brian. She believes that the life she has

“admirably arranged” is the obvious better choice, suggesting that their security is ultimately worth Brian giving up his “strange, and to her fantastic, notion” of this concept of freedom. Irene admits to having arranged this life, as though it is a calculated situation in order to protect them both. She claims that she had “never really considered” how their life had been best for her, only what was best for Brian and their children. However, the strength of her anger and fear in this moment suggests otherwise. She feels strongly about this because of how deeply the consequences of Brian’s revealing his desires would affect her. Blackmore suggests: “Irene's obsessive fear that Brian will in fact escape to Brazil functions as both an analogue and a cover for her anxieties about his sexual orientation.” (Blackmore 477) It seems to me as though the mention of Brian’s desire for “Brazil” serves as a stand-in, so that Irene can continue hiding their queerness from the audience. Her stating this desire as “unmentioned” relates back to the way she leaves her attraction to Clare unmentioned. Her omissions are largely related to the queer identity she wishes to conceal. She manages to avoid coming right out and stating her true feelings and concerns. The way her fear and avoidance clashes with Brian’s more direct dissatisfaction becomes more clear through their interactions.

The tense discussion that Brian and Irene have about their son learning about sex further suggests that they are both conscious of one another’s sexual identity, and are just not stating it outright. They wind up having this exchange: “‘Queer ideas?’ he repeated. ‘D’you mean ideas about sex, Irene?’ / ‘Ye-es. Not quite nice ones. Dreadful jokes, and things like that.’ / ‘Oh, I see,’ He threw at her. For a while there was silence between them. After a moment he demanded bluntly: ‘Well, what of it? If sex isn’t a joke, what is it? And what is a joke?’” (59) Brian’s first reaction to the phrase “queer ideas” is to connect them to sex, suggesting that he and Irene have an understanding related to the word. The word “queer” appears multiple times in the novel, often in relation to Brian or Irene’s omissions. This moment in particular is somewhat tense, with this conversation coming close to turning into an argument. Brian’s retort is described with “he threw at her” and he refers to sex as a joke, making it seem as though the word “queer” itself may be a tense subject for the two of them, as well as the topic of sex. This tension makes sense when reading their marriage as a cover and both of them as closeted, with Irene is more set on remaining that way than Brian is, seeing as Brian has these external desires that upset Irene and scare her.

As previously stated, this is not the only moment that the word queer comes up. As

Blackmore explains, “Again and again, she uses the word queer in reference to her husband, and particularly his desire to escape to South America.” (Blackmore 477) Irene describes Brian’s desire as “that old, queer, unhappy restlessness,” which leaves open what exactly is lacking in their life for Brian. It is worth looking at the history of the word “queer.” The Oxford English

Dictionary offers this colloquial definition of “queer”: “of a person: homosexual (frequently derogatory and offensive). In later use: denoting or relating to a sexual or gender identity that does not correspond to established ideas of sexuality and gender, especially heterosexual norms.”

Additionally, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the earliest use of the word queer in connection with the LGBT community was in 1914 in the Los Angeles Times. (Oxford English

Dictionary) It is within the realm of possibility that Larsen would have been aware of the potential connotation of the word “queer” at the time. If Irene is closeted, as indicated by her interest in and her resistance towards Clare, it would be easy to suggest that she herself would be aware of the connotation of queer.

Irene’s fear about Clare mirrors her fear about Brian and his restless desire for “Brazil.”

Ultimately, this makes sense, in that Brian’s craving for something different parallels Clare

Kendry’s openness about her lack of interest in being safe. Brian and Clare both long for a sort of freedom that Irene views as dangerous. Irene’s relationships with Brian and with Clare can be seen as parallels, with her frustration at their mutual restlessness. Irene wants both Brian and

Clare to prioritize safety the way that she does, and she makes significant efforts to make them think the way she does. In the last section of the novel, Brian and Clare seem to be closer, and it is indicated that this development distresses Irene. This could be due to Brian and Clare having an affair, but because “Brian doesn’t care for ladies” (42) it seems as though this may be due to a sense of solidarity and recognition that Brian and Clare develop, as closeted queer people.

Because of their similar recklessness, Irene might find their comradery dangerous, as they may want to be recognized as queer people. Clare’s influence on Brian, in her lack of interest in safety, would also put Irene’s passing as straight in jeopardy.

Blackmer describes the way that Irene connects Clare and Brian in her mind: “Indeed, once Clare threatens to return to Harlem and thus to transform from an "exotic" dream into a

"familiar" reality, Irene seems impelled to associate Clare's bid for freedom and self-creation to her husband Brian's long deferred dream of escaping to Brazil. At last, in a kind of interpretive

desperation, Irene conflates Clare and Brian in her imagination as potential "runaways" and imagines that she is really involved in a rather mundane plot of marital infidelity.” (Blackmer 63)

I do agree that Irene is making connections between Clare and Brian’s mutual desire for freedom, though I do not think that it is some attempt at interpretation in order to remain in denial. Her internal monologue when she first recognizes something between Clare and Brian suggests something different than an imagination to me: “Her voice, she realized, had gone queer. But she had an instinctive feeling that it hadn’t been the whole cause of his attitude. And that little straightening motion of the shoulders. Hadn’t it been like that of a man drawing himself up to receive a blow? Her fright was like a scarlet spear of terror leaping at her heart. /

Clare Kendry! So that was it! Impossible. It couldn’t be.” (89) She doesn’t mention the “affair” until later. Her first reaction is not to accuse them of having an affair, even mentally. She develops that excuse, that narrative, later. Here, she is omitting the reason for her alarm. All that she reveals here is that whatever she suspects has something to do with Clare. Because of the trend of Irene’s omissions being related to queerness, I believe this indicates her realization that

Brian may know the truth about Clare’s queerness. There is no reason for Irene to avoid mentioning the affair explanation in this moment.

In Danielle McIntire’s article, “TOWARD A NARRATOLOGY OF PASSING:

Epistemology, Race, and Misrecognition in Nella Larsen's ‘Passing,’” she suggests: “Indeed, by the last section of the book, Brian and Clare have become almost psychically indistinguishable from one another: they each exert the same genre of paranoia, uncertainty, and anxiety in Irene and help provoke her psychic splitting and fragmentation.” (McIntire 788) I am certainly persuaded by the argument that Brain and Clare fulfill similar roles in Irene’s mind by the end of the novel. The shallow explanation we get from Irene’s limited narration is that she suspects an

affair, though that explanation seems like a stand in for the real explanation. Both Brian and

Clare have some unnamable role in Irene’s world. She cannot admit certain truths about Brian’s desires or about her feelings towards Clare. Because of this connection, Irene’s fears about both of them cross over and become more overlapped. Especially considering the friendship that

Brian and Clare develop, Irene feeling that her safety is threatened by them makes sense. Of the three of them, she is by far the most concerned with safety and propriety.

Irene’s unreliability allows us to read into her narration as being more than what she presents. She presents an inexplicable affection for Clare, which masks the attraction. She presents a conversation on the effects of racial passing, which serves also to describe the effect of her marriage as a tool for her and Brian to pass as straight. Irene is describing the way Brian’s desires had been a conflict in their marriage: “He had never spoken of his desire since that long- ago time of storm and strain, of hateful and nearly disastrous quarrelling, when she had so firmly opposed him, so sensibly pointed out its utter impossibility and its probable consequences to her and the boys, and had even hinted at a dissolution of their marriage in the event of his persistence in his idea.” (57) In her nonspecific account, Irene presents herself as the sensible one in the argument, with Brian’s ideas and desires being fantastic and dangerous. She, on the other hand, is concerned with the most protected route. Her vague explanation of Brian’s desires and her general discomfort with Brian and Clare’s interactions serve to show how Clare and Brian each hold a potential for Irene to lose her security. McIntire explains: “It is no wonder that Irene superimposes Clare (with eyes that are "dark and deep and unfathomable" 172) with Brian's desires to move to Brazil since both are extrinsic threats to the stability of Irene’s domestic life.”

(McIntire 787) In my argument, Irene’s fears regarding Clare and Brian fall under the guise of their affair. She fears that their mutual disregard for safety will lead to them recognizing

queerness in one another, and ultimately revealing all three of them as queer. Irene’s goal is to maintain her safety and security as she passes for straight, and the largest threat to that is Clare’s recklessness and Brian’s restlessness.

All of this tension culminates in the end of the novel. Lying awake in bed, Irene finds herself thinking of the way Clare has interfered with her life: “Above everything else she had wanted, had striven, to keep undisturbed the pleasant routine of her life. And now Clare Kendry had come into it, and with her the menace of impermanence.” (101) The similarities between the dissatisfaction that both Brian and Clare experience has changed Irene’s quiet world. She has no desire for passion or freedom, not like Brian and Clare. Clare’s “menace of impermanence” threatens to embolden Brian in his desire for freedom, and ultimately make Irene’s life more of a spectacle. In Irene’s later inner thoughts, she comes very close to revealing herself. We get an amount of honesty from Irene that we don’t get before and won’t get after. She considers:

“Security. Was it just a word? If not, then was it only by the sacrifice of other things, happiness, love, or some wild ecstasy that she had never known, that it could be obtained? And did too much striving, too much faith in safety and permanence, unfit one for these other things?” (107)

Irene’s reference to “some wild ecstasy” that she had never known—and will never know—is her admission of what remaining closeted forever entails. In choosing security over truth, she gives up the possibilities of true happiness and passion. As she continues, she connects the admissions to her relationship with Brian: “Strange, that she couldn’t now be sure that she had ever truly known love. Not even for Brian. He was her husband and the father of her sons. But was he anything more? Had she ever wanted or tried for more? In that hour, she thought not.”

(107) Her admission that she never truly loved Brian is significant. More so, her admission that she had never wanted him to be anything more anyway. Her marriage was never about love, and

Brian’s role in her life was to fill in the category of husband that was needed for her to live a nondescript life. However, it is the sentence following these admissions that plays out the rest of the novel: “Nevertheless, she meant to keep him.” (107) Irene has made her choice: she is willing to give up any possibility of true love or ecstasy in order to maintain her security. Brian’s presence in her life is crucial to maintaining the façade of her identity.

Earlier, when Irene asks Clare what she would do if her husband found her out, and Clare replies that she would move to Harlem, and “[t]hen I’d be able to do as I please, when I please”

(106). The possibility of freedom threatens Irene. She wants security, to remain comfortably in the closet, with no surprises in her life. The idea of Clare’s freedom, in a more open community like Harlem, would bring the possibility of being outed to close for Irene’s comfort. In the moment after Clare’s husband storms in and reveals that he knows the truth about her race, Irene thinks to herself that she can’t have Clare’s husband leave her—“she couldn’t have her free”

(111). After this revelation, Irene pushes Clare out the window, to her death. With the narrative she constructed about the affair, Irene’s implication would be that Clare’s freedom threatens her because Brian could leave Irene for her. However, Irene does not bring up the affair excuse here.

It remains unmentioned, because it was never truly the concern. Brian and Clare’s respective roles, and their relationships to Irene, exhibit the fragility of passing. Clare’s race is ultimately revealed, but Irene stops the narrative short of revealing the subtextual sexual passing.

CHAPTER III

Generations of Women and Female Connection:

Compulsory Heterosexuality in Winter’s Bone

Female Network and the Lesbian Continuum:

Winter’s Bone, at its core, is a book that centers around the interpersonal relationships between women. The network of female relationships is ultimately what helps Ree navigate saving her house and her family. The women she interacts with have a complex set of rules and expectations, and they have developed an entire society separate from the men. In Joseph J.

Wydeven’s article, “Daniel Woodrell’s New American Adam: Myth and Country Noir in

Winter’s Bone,” he describes what the gendered codes of this culture may be: “The male code, if written down, might read like this: mind your own business, keep a tight lip, don’t let women know too much, seek revenge when custom is broken or betrayed. The female version might stress the following rules: don’t antagonize men any more than necessary, keep a tight lip and acquiesce when necessary, don’t let men know too much about your own sexual desires or behaviors, leave revenge against men up to men to negotiate.” (Wydeven 49) I find his assertion of one of the male rules being “don’t let the women know too much” compelling. I do agree that this rule, in some form, might be an aspect of the male code within the culture, but I would argue that the female counterpart for it would be “don’t let the men know how much we already know.” While the men might try to sort out their fights without involving the women, they fail to see that the women are already aware, and in turn have their own extensive world and culture that the men are not a part of. The network of women in the culture is what Ree ultimately navigates, and it is the women that both fight her and help her. The importance of women in the world of the novel is what makes this text a fundamentally queer one.

Relatively early in the novel, Ree considers the men and women of her community: “The men came to mind as mostly idle between nights of running wild or time in the pen, cooking moon and gathering around the spout, with ears chewed, fingers chopped, arms shot away, and no apologies grunted ever. The women came to mind bigger, closer, with their lonely eyes and homely yellow teeth, mouths clamped against smiles, working in the hot fields from can to can’t, hands tattered rough as dry cobs, lips cracked all winter, a white dress for marrying, a black dress for burying, and Ree nodded yup. Yup.” (28) She pictures the women “bigger,” more prominent in her world. The men of the community are heavily involved in the violence and the business of revenge, and they’re in and out of “the pen.” In other words, the men of Ree’s world are not around consistently enough to hold control and power. It is the women, “bigger, closer,” who are consistently present, with a focus on managing the world that the men periodically disrupt by moving in and out of focus. The women are controlled, as shown from Ree’s description of their

“mouths clamped against smiles,” and they are in the business of managing the culture. It is the female network and the female relationships that are reliable and productive, as compared to the more chaotic culture of the men.

In Adrienne Rich’s article “Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence,” she explains her use of the term lesbian continuum as a method of discussing female relationships: “I have chosen to use the terms lesbian existence and lesbian continuum because the word lesbianism has a clinical and limiting ring. Lesbian existence suggests both the fact of the historical presence of lesbians and our continuing creation of the meaning of that existence. I mean the term lesbian continuum to include a range—through each woman’s life and throughout history—of woman-identified experience, not simply the fact that a woman has had or consciously desires genital sexual experience with another woman.” (Rich 51) While I find that

the lesbian continuum is a somewhat outdated term, Rich’s explanation for what it means can be applied to the function of the female relationships in the novel. The network of female interaction is what ultimately drives the plot. The lesbian continuum, defined as the woman- identified experience, can describe this aspect of the novel.

The queerness within the text is shown through the female interactions, and the counterpart of this is the way the women who are not as connected ultimately have significantly less power and autonomy, as they must rely on the men around them. Rich discusses the way that female support networks function: “However woman-to-woman relationships, female support networks, a female and feminist value system are relied on and cherished, indoctrination in male credibility and status can still create synapses in thought, denials of feeling, wishful thinking, a profound sexual and intellectual confusion. I quote here from a letter I received the day I was writing this passage: ‘I have had very bad relationships with men—I am now in the midst of a very painful separation. I am trying to find my strength through women—without my friends, I could not survive.’ How many times a day do women speak words like these or think them or write them, and how often does the synapse reassert itself?” (Rich 48) This idea is applicable to

Winter’s Bone, in the comparison between the lives of the women in the novel. Rich is referring to a common sentiment between women: that ultimately, women need other women in order to survive their relationships with men.

Merab/Sonya & Connie/Victoria:

Heterosexuality in the novel is often what worsens the lives of the women. The romantic and sexual relationships between the men and women, when they are based on feelings, is detrimental to the woman. In contrast, the relationships that function more as partnerships than romantic interactions seem more like a symbiotic relationship for both the men and women. So

long as the women are not emotionally invested in their male counterparts, they are generally able to function in the culture. Thump Milton’s wife, Merab, and Blond Milton’s wife, Sonya, are both examples of women whose marriages haven’t hindered their ability to hold power.

When Thump Milton first appears, he is described as “a fabled man.” (133) He is an intimidating presence, and he is clearly meant to be a character with significant power in their community. However, though he is “fabled,” his reputation doesn’t seem to actually hold that much sway as far as furthering the story. It is his wife, Merab, who affects Ree’s journey. Merab meets Ree outside her house when Ree is looking for Thump and sends Ree away. Then, it is

Merab who punishes Ree for not leaving well enough alone. She and her sisters beat Ree, and when Ree comes to, she describes: “The women stood over her, spires of menace wearing lipstick and scarves.” (131) The description of the women shows their power and influence, as well as highlights their femininity. The significance of drawing attention to their “lipstick and scarves” is that the description indicated that it is not their connection to the male world that gives them their power. Their power comes from their role as women in the community, and their association with other women. Merab’s power comes more from the support of her sisters than from her connection with Thump. Her connection with Thump, ultimately, is just the gateway between the male and female worlds. After Ree explains her situation, there has to be a meeting where they confer about what to do with her: “Her words were met with silence, an electric moment of utter silence, then Thump Milton stood and left the barn. Mrs. Thump and two of the men went with him.” (134) Thump and Merab’s relationship here serves as the partnership between the two sides of the community, and Merab’s participation in the meeting indicates how significant the partnership is.

On the other side, the separation between the worlds is also clear. When Teardrop asks what happened to Ree, Merab says: “No man here touched that crazy girl! … I drubbed her good myself.” (136) The implications here are that the distinction between the consequences of male violence and female violence is significant. Female violence can be healed or fixed; Merab ultimately makes amends for the wrong done in this situation. The separation between how the men handle problems and how the women handle problems shows how and why the women are the ones who maintain stability in the community, and Merab is at the center of that.

After Ree is beaten by these women, the other women are the ones to visit and help her: “The women of Rathlin Valley began crossing the creek to view her even as she lay in the tub.”

(Woodrell 144) Similarly to Merab, Sonya occupies a role opposite to her in this narrative. She leads the women to view and support Ree, and she helps in spreading the information about what

Merab and her sisters did. When Ree is first recovering, Sonya brings in other women: “Sonya led Betsy and Caradoc Dolly’s widow, Permelia…” (144) The conversation and reaction resulting from the women seeing Ree is what forces Merab into fixing what she did. When the women are looking at Ree, the narration explains: “Their lips were tight and they shook their heads. Permelia, ancient but mobile, witness to a hundred wounds, said, ‘There’s never no call to do a girl like that.’ / Sonya said, “Merab’s got a short fuse.’” (144) The women are deciding where the blame lies and whether the beating was justified. With Sonya’s current involvement in the female network and Permelia’s clear history within it, the consensus that Ree didn’t deserve the beating is powerful. Later, Ree notes “a flurry of women” watching and talking to one another: “Sonya, Betsy, and Permelia standing with two Tankersly wives from Haslam Springs and two women Ree didn’t exactly recognize.” (154) It’s this network in the lesbian continuum within the novel that forces Merab into solving Ree’s problem. Ree’s navigation of the world and

the female support she receives furthers the plot to this point. Merab shows up with her own female support and tells her: “Come along, child—we’re goin’ to fix your problem for you.”

(179) She explains: “We need to put a stop to all this upset talk about us we’ve been havin’ to hear.” (180) And when Ree says she hasn’t said anything, Merab continues: “We know.

Everybody else has.” (180)

Sonya also helps in the healing, when she gives Gail “[p]ain pills from Betsy’s hysterectomy” for Ree. In particular, what I find significant in this moment is that the pain pills are very connected to the women in nature. They pass hands from four separate women: Betsy to

Sonya to Gail to Ree. Additionally, they were originally for a specifically female medical issue.

The fact that the pain pills were for a hysterectomy highlights even further the importance that the women have to one another. The loyalty and connection between the women is how women are able to function and heal, and those women who are not a part of the network are significantly worse off for it. Sonya’s association with Ree’s mom highlights this: “Blond Milton stood fairly high amongst the Dollys and Ree knew he’d shared some hours on the sly with Mom years back, hurtful hours that Sonya had yet to forgive.” (17) As in this example, when the women prioritize men over other women, it hurts them in the long run. While Sonya survived

Blond Milton’s infidelity, Ree’s mother’s crime sets her even further apart from the women of the community.

In particular, both Ree’s mother and Victoria exist apart from the female network, relying instead on male companionship. It does not function well for either one of them.

Ree’s mother seeks connection with men, which ultimately leaves her without connection from anyone but her children. She is described as having been beautiful before, even in her current state, “you could see she’d once been as comely as any girl that ever danced barefoot across this

tangled country of Ozark hills and hollers.” (6) Her vibrance has left her, and as her beauty faded, even the fleeting connections she had with men aren’t any source of comfort for her.

When we learn about when Connie began to lose her mind, this starts to make even more sense:

“Mom’s mind didn’t break loose and scatter to the high weeds until Ree was twelve and around then is when she learned about Dad’s girlfriend.” (30) Jessup’s association with other women is directly connected to Connie’s loss of stability and sanity. She is deeply affected by male betrayal, in a way that Sonya, for instance, is not.

Additionally, Connie cannot last on her own when Jessup is unavailable: “When Dad was in the pen Mom’d dolled up a lot, every weekend night, dressed herself sparkly hot and let herself be taken places.” (41) Her lack of agency in letting herself “be taken places” and her need to maintain her appearance and male attention shows how reliant she is on men. She doesn’t have the same kind of agency as the women within the female network, and it wears on her.

When she returns from these nights, her excitement does not last: “She’d be back for breakfast looking worn, jaded and uneasy. Shaking the ache of loneliness is what she slipped away into those smoky nights hoping to do, but she never could shake it from her trail. It was always back in her eyes by breakfast.” (41) The emotional need that Connie is attempting to fill cannot be filled by the men she seeks out. Her desire for connection and for support is driving her into these situations, and they are wearing her down until she becomes the shell of a woman that Ree knows her as. This passage makes clear the emotional consequences of Connie’s involvement with men: “Words were the hungered-for need, and the necessary words would be spoken low, sometimes sounding so truly true she could believe them with all her heart until the naked gasp happened and the man started looking for his boots on the floor. That moment always drained her of belief in the words and the man, or any words and any man.” (42) Because she is seeking

“necessary words” from sexual encounters with men, she is ultimately left worse off than before.

The positive impact that these heterosexual encounters have are very temporary and fleeting. In the end, Connie’s reliance on men hurts her more than anything else does. Her lack of connection with women prevents her from surviving her relationships with men.

In Wydeven’s paper, he talks about Ree’s relationships in Winter’s Bone: “Moreover, two transgressive relationships dominate the novel: Ree’s sexual/emotional attraction to

Teardrop, her father’s brother, for whom these feelings appear to be mutual, and her sexual interlude with Gail.” (Wydeven 50) I am not sure where Wydeven sees this, but I don’t agree with this interpretation of Ree and Teardrop’s dynamic. I would argue that her discomfort with

Teardrop and her fear of him is not indicative of any kind of sexual feelings on her part, but rather, it may be more indicative of her wariness of men in general, seen through the difference between how she interacts with men versus how she interacts with women. I am not sure where he is getting this impression, because it seems to me that Ree has a much more obvious interest in Teardrop’s wife, Victoria. When Victoria is introduced, the narration describes: “Victoria smelled wonderful up close, like she always did, some scent she had that when smelled went into the blood like dope and left you near woozy. She looked good and smelled good and Ree favored her over any other Dolly woman but Mom.” (22) Ree’s immediate physical reaction to Victoria shows her attraction, indicating the way that Ree feels about women. Her interest in Victoria’s smell and appearance is distinctly romantic and sexual in nature.

In contrast, Ree does not understand what heterosexual women see in Teardrop: “That certain women who did not seem desperate or crazy could be so deeply attracted to Uncle

Teardrop confused and frightened Ree. He was a nightmare to look at but he’s torn through a fistful of appealing wives.” (21) The violent language involved in this description is indicative of

the way that emotional heterosexuality is destructive for women. Teardrop has “torn” through a

“fistful” of women; he is a profoundly negative force for the women he has romantic interactions with. While Victoria generally appears to be a strong and composed woman, particularly compared to Ree’s mother’s mental state, Victoria’s relationship with Teardrop seems to be her weakest point. Teardrop is repeatedly threatening and dismissive of Victoria, and near the end of

Ree’s interaction with them, she overhears the general outline of what a fight looks like for them:

“A talk with two voices started low and calm but soon one voice raised alone and spoke several tart muffled sentences. Ree could not follow any words through the wall. There was a lull of silence more uncomfortable than the tart sentences had been. Victoria came back, head lowered, blowing her nose into a pale blue tissue.” (27) Very rarely in the novel is Victoria shown with other women. Her most significant relationship is with Teardrop. Here, we can see the way he

“tears” through women. Victoria is attempting to help Ree, and the result is an argument with

Teardrop. Teardrop does not appear to value Victoria’s autonomy or opinion, and when she returns with her head lowered like this, the weakness that her relationship with Teardrop causes becomes clearer. Victoria is not in as negative a place as Connie, but her reliance on male connection does still indicate that she cannot thrive in the community.

Ree & Gail:

Ultimately, Ree and Gail indicate two different fates for queer girls within this world.

Ree parallels the powerful women in the novel, like Merab and Sonya, who end up with a strong network of women around them. The further along the lesbian continuum the female characters are, the more successful they end up. Gail, on the other hand, somewhat parallels what ends up happening to Ree’s mother and Victoria, where the connections with women end up weakening in favor of the male relationships.

Beyond Ree’s interest in Victoria, the more telling relationship she has is her friendship with Gail. Ree’s lack of interest in men, combined with the way she interacts with the female characters and her apparent feelings for Gail, show a clear example of a young lesbian girl experience’s Rich’s theories of the lesbian continuum, as well as the consequences of compulsory heterosexuality. When the narration describes how Ree and Gail became close, they use the phrase “took a shine to each other.” (Woodrell 31) This phrase alone hardly seems platonic, indicating an immediate connection to queer feelings and the lesbian continuum. There is also the repeated pet name used—Ree and Gail call each other “Sweet Pea” over the course of the novel. During their first interaction in the novel, they are very affectionate: “She threw her arms around Gail with the baby between and kissed Gail’s cheek, her nose, her other cheek. She said, ‘Aw, Sweet Pea, shit.’ / ‘Don’t start. Don’t start.’ / Ree brushed her fingers into Gail’s hair, pulled the long strands apart and picked between them, picked gently and many times. / ‘Sweet

Pea, you got sticky-burrs.’ / ‘Still?’ / ‘I sure keep findin’ ’em.’” (34) Later, they have a similar interaction: “Gail’s head sagged and Ree leaned to pick at her hair, inched between the long ruddled locks, brushed strands back with her fingertips, lowered her face and inhaled the smell. /

Gail said in a low voice, ‘What’re you doin’?’ / ‘Pluckin’ sticky-burrs, darlin’. You got a mess of sticky-burrs.’ / ‘No, I don’t.’ She pushed Ree’s hands away but did not raise her eyes.” (36) The very casual intimacy between them is indicative of their close relationship, and the physical nature of their interactions shows how the queer reading comes into play. In this sections, it is also important what it not said, what the narrator chooses to leave out of the description. The narration omits whether or not Gail actually has anything in her hair. The implication is that Ree is making excuses to casually touch Gail. Particularly Gail’s comment, “No, I don’t,” implies this.

Later in the novel, Ree reflects on her relationship with Gail, right before they share a bed for the night: “In Ree’s heart there was room for more. Any evening spent with Gail was like one of the yearning stories from her sleep was happening awake. Sharing the small simple parts of life with someone who stood tall in her feelings.” (100) The depth of Ree’s feelings for Gail are shown here, with the use of the word “yearning” in particular. Ree’s desire for Gail is more than platonic, more than physical. It is Gail’s pregnancy and marriage that disrupted their relationship.

Gail’s less than loving relationship with her husband is a result of the assumption that most women are heterosexual, as Rich explains: “The assumption that ‘most women are innately heterosexual’ stands as a theoretical and political stumbling block for feminism … [T]o acknowledge that for women heterosexuality may not be a ‘preference’ at all but something that has had to be imposed, managed, organized, propagandized, and maintained by force is an immense step to take if you consider yourself freely and ‘innately’ heterosexual.” (50) Gail’s freedom of choice in her relationship with Floyd is called into question with this. It was already a marriage required by pregnancy, and Rich’s theory also sheds doubt on Gail’s initial physical relationship with Floyd.

I’d like to discuss the scene that describes the experimentation between Ree and Gail when they were teenagers. The entirety of the scene is very indicative of how their relationship exhibits signs of compulsory heterosexuality: “The first time Ree kissed a man it was not a man, but Gail acting as a man, and as the kissing progressed and Gail acting as a man pushed her backwards onto a blanket of pine needles in shade and slipped her tongue deep into Ree’s mouth,

Ree found herself sucking on the wiggling tongue of a man in her mind, sucking that plunging tongue of the man in her mind until she tasted morning coffee and cigars and spit leaked from between her lips and down her chip.” (87) Rather than saying the first time Ree kissed anyone, it

says the first time Ree kissed a man. This moment seems to imply that the two of them were visualizing this experimentation as “practice,” because of course, the only option for women is to kiss men. Even though it is Ree and Gail, they are justifying this experience by acting as though one of them must fulfill the role of the man in the situation.

Rich states: “Sex is thus equated with attention from the male, who is charismatic though brutal, infantile, or unreliable. Yet it is the women who make life endurable for each other, give physical affection without causing pain, share, advise, and stick by each other.” (Rich 62) Ree’s experience with Gail is loving and passionate, with both of them enjoying their time: “She opened her eyes then and smiled, and Gail yet acting the man roughing up her breasts with grabs and pinches, kissed her neck, murmuring, and Ree said, ‘Just like that! I want it to be just like that!’ There came three seasons of giggling and practice, puckering readily anytime they were alone, each being the man and the woman, each on top and bottom and pushing for it with grunts or receiving it with sighs.” (Woodrell 87) While they are “acting” as though they are in a heterosexual interaction, the actual heterosexual interactions that Ree experiences are completely different. The first time, it lacks the passion and pleasure that Ree experienced with Gail: “The first time Ree kissed a boy who was not a girl his lips were soft and timid on hers, dry and unmoving, until finally she had to say it and did, ‘Tongue, honey, tongue,’ and the boy she called honey turned away saying, ‘Yuck!’” (87) The next occasion we know of is when Little Arthur sexually assaults Ree when they are high together, when she is not lucid enough to consent: “If not for her ripped panties she might not have been sure it happened at all.” (55) The experiences

Ree has with men are at best, boring, and at worst, violent. Her best experience with sex and intimacy is with a girl, and yet they are not given the space to acknowledge that it was a true sexual experience and not simply “practice.”

Closer to the end of the novel, after Gail takes Ree swimming after she’s been beat up, they have a subtle but meaningful dialogue: “Once dressed, Ree raised her broomstick but hardly needed to lean on it. She pegged to the truck, sat on the bench seat and swallowed a yellow pill and a blue pill. Gail drove in silence to the crest of the hill and over, out of the valley, back to the flat road through government trees. Buzzards had massed to peck something fluffy crushed on the road ahead but took off in gawky flapping alarm as the truck neared. / Ree said, ‘You didn’t like it? You gonna tell me you didn’t like it?’ / ‘I liked it. I liked it, but not enough.’” (160)

Ultimately, Gail’s fate is indicative of the consequences of compulsory heterosexuality.

When she is introduced, it’s explained: “Gail Lockrum, Ree’s best friend, had been required by pregnancy to marry Floyd Langan and now lived in the tan single-wide next to his parents.”

(Woodrell 31) In Rich’s explanation of compulsory heterosexuality, she explains: “Women have married because it was necessary, in order to survive economically, in order to have children who would not suffer economic deprivation or social ostracism, in order to remain respectable, in order to do what was expected of women, because coming out of ‘abnormal’ childhoods they wanted to feel ‘normal’ and because heterosexual romance has been represented as the great female adventure, duty, and fulfillment.” (Rich 59) Women, ultimately, have societal and familial pressure to fulfill the expectations of heteronormativity. Gail falls into this societal trap.

Because she gets pregnant, she has to get married, despite the fact that she does not appear to have any romantic or physical attraction to her husband.

Adrienne Rich explains how the lie of compulsory heterosexuality can affect closeted lesbians: “The lie keeps numberless women psychologically trapped, trying to fit mind, spirit, and sexuality into a prescribed script because they cannot look beyond the parameters of the acceptable. It pulls on the energy of such women even as it drains the energy of ‘closeted’

lesbians—the energy exhausted in the double life. The lesbian trapped in the ‘closet,’ the woman imprisoned in prescriptive ideas of the ‘normal’ share the pain of blocked options, broken connections, lost access to self-definition feely and powerfully assumed.” (64) Gail’s inability to escape the parameters of acceptable lead to her being trapped in an empty marriage—she fits into the role of the closeted lesbian who is ultimately confined by the assumption of heterosexuality.

When Ree comes to see Gail, they have this interaction: “Gail laid Ned on the bed, then sat beside him and said, ‘Been a while, Sweet Pea.’ She fell stretched backwards beside the baby with her arms flopped wide and her feet on the floor. ‘It’s like I make you too sad for you to come see me.’ / ‘That’s only part of why.’” (34) It is not just Ree’s feelings for Gail that makes seeing her sad. Gail’s fate in life is indicative of a culture and society that require women to be wives and mothers, specifically to men. Gail is, currently, in a family situation where she is the only woman. Her husband is unfaithful, and while she loves her son, the boys in this culture have a hard time escaping from the cycle of selling drugs. Ultimately, her story parallels Ree’s mother’s story, even insofar as both Gail and Connie seem to only have Ree as far as female connections go. Rich explains the way that the lack of choice in heterosexuality culminates, even within the range of experiences women have in marriage: “Within the institution exist, of course, qualitative differences of experience; but the absence of choice remains the great unacknowledged reality, and in the absence of choice, women will remain dependent upon the chance or luck of particular relations and will have no collective power to determine the meaning and place of sexuality in their lives.” (Rich 67)

CHAPTER IV

A Queer Reading of The Outsiders:

Gallant Southern Gentlemen & Abandoned Churches

The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton is a classic American young adult novel, following the coming of age of Ponyboy Curtis. The story, at its heart, is about finding a sense of belonging and family in adolescence. The primary storyline is about the class issues that Ponyboy faces, as a teenager in poverty. The conflict lies between his gang, the greasers, and the wealthy kids, the

Socs. However, the undercurrent themes go beyond issues of class, into identity, gender, and sexuality. In his book Classic Cult Fiction: A Companion to Popular Cult Literature, Thomas R.

Whissen writes about how teenagers approach The Outsiders as a reflection of their fears:

“Perhaps it is a vestigial apprehension, but teenagers seem to feel that they are living on the brink of disaster, that the world is fraught with dangers to their well-being, that tragedy looms at every turn…Something inside them tells them to be prepared for the worst.” (Whissen 187) Teenagers, as a whole, may feel as though the book depicts their reality, where there is constant fear that things will get worse. One demographic that is largely not discussed is the community of queer teenagers that this novel has resonated with. In approaching the novel through a queer lens,

Ponyboy’s character, relationship with Johnny, and the space of the church are all given different meaning.

Ponyboy & his interest (or lack thereof) in girls:

Ponyboy, as a protagonist, is a not traditionally masculine. He is emotional, he is affectionate, and he is uninterested in girls. Despite being a part of a gang of delinquents,

Ponyboy does not fit the masculine ideal. When the book starts, Ponyboy is leaving a movie he’d seen alone, explaining: “When I see a movie with someone it’s kind of uncomfortable, like

having someone read your book over your shoulder. I’m different that way.” (2) While this is a small quirk of Ponyboy’s, he is set up as being an atypical teenage boy. He enjoys reading, he goes to movies alone, and he cries.

The complexities of whether Ponyboy has an interest in girls is introduced early on.

Ponyboy, in a conversation with his brother, Sodapop, says: “‘You in love with Sandy? What’s it like?’” (18) Ponyboy, naturally, compares his own appearance and experience with that of his older brothers. He is specifically interested here in the romantic inner life of Sodapop. Ponyboy idolizes his brother, emulating him sometimes. Watching Sodapop interact with girls has had an impact on Ponyboy, and now, Ponyboy is wondering what the experience of being in love with a girl is. Worth mentioning, on this same page, Ponyboy narrates: “I lie to myself all the time. But

I never believe me.” (18) This comes up when Ponyboy is trying to tell himself that he doesn’t care what Darry thinks of him, but the sentiment does work in multiple ways. The connection I draw here, looking through a queer lens, is that Ponyboy’s dishonesty with himself is closely related to his experiences with girls, especially as compared to his brothers.

Just a few pages after Ponyboy admits to his dishonestly, he first meets the Soc girl,

Cherry Valance, saying: “I was half-scared of her. I’m half-scared of all nice girls.” Not long after, he says: “Gosh, she was pretty.” (22) While this initial reaction to Cherry does seem to imply that Ponyboy is taking an interest, it directly contrasts with a moment later that same chapter. While explaining the memory of when Johnny got beat up, Ponyboy reveals his lack of interest in girls: “I don’t like to go on weekends because then there is usually a bunch of girls down there flirting with Soda—all kinds of girls, Socs too. I don’t care too much for girls yet.

Soda says I’ll grow out of it. He did.” (31) The timing of this moment rejects the notion that

Ponyboy’s interest in Cherry proves his heterosexuality. Had this moment occurred prior to

meeting Cherry, we might be able to draw the interpretation that his feelings may have changed.

However, though he observes that Cherry is pretty, he still says he doesn’t care for girls yet. It is also notable that Soda says he’ll grow out of this lack of interest, but Ponyboy does not express whether he believes that as well. Ponyboy does take a sort of interest in Cherry Valance, but it is hard not to see it as performative. Ponyboy has already indicated his general lack of interest in girls at this point, and while he seems to understand that Cherry is attractive, it seems more significant to Ponyboy that she is wealthy. The part of his interest in her that seems genuine seems to be the part that is interested in her financial class as compared to his. Ponyboy explains at one point that “…girls are one subject even Darry thinks I use my head about.” (35)

Similarly, the subject of Ponyboy’s vanity has little to do with whether girls find him appealing. His pride in his looks is much more about his own self-image and identity. He’s very reluctant to cut and dye his hair when he and Johnny are on the run, and when he ultimately does, he’s very upset about it: “It just didn’t look like me. It made me look younger, and scarder, too. Boy howdy, I though, this really makes me look tuff. I look like a blasted pansy. I was miserable.” (72) He specifically says he looks like a “pansy.” The word choice is important; he is getting at the exact reason that the change in appearance upsets him. This sentiment reflects the queer teenage fear of being “recognized.” The simplicity of how he states the way he feels here mirrors how direct the connection is. When Johnny attempts to lighten the mood, it falls short:

“‘Oh, shoot,’ Johnny said with fake cheerfulness, ‘it’s just hair.’” (73) It is the fake cheerfulness in particular that acknowledges that it isn’t merely about hair—it is about maintaining a certain kind of image. Johnny’s attempt to comfort Ponyboy is inadequate because Ponyboy’s distress is about what the hair represents—community, fitting in, being seen as masculine.

Michelle Ann Abate, in her essay titled “‘Soda attracted girls like honey draws flies’: The

Outsiders, the Boy Band Formula, and Adolescent Sexuality,” attributes Ponyboy’s role as a not traditionally masculine protagonist to the idea that the boys in the novel are meant appeal to teenage girls. However, this viewpoint doesn’t acknowledge the fact that teenagers crave representations of non-traditional gender expression. The number of teenage boys that perfectly fit the masculine model is slim to none. In reading Ponyboy as a queer character, there is added significance to the way he deviates from gendered expectations.

Very briefly, Abate touches on the queer themes within the novel, though only in relation to the nontraditional masculinity of boybands, saying that one reason boy bands are appealing and unthreatening to girls is “the exceedingly effeminate masculinity that they embody.” (Abate

55) She mentions the homoerotic overtones, but only in reference to the way that might appeal to teenage girls. She makes no mention of the way queer teenagers might view the male intimacy.

Queer teen audience:

In much of the critique and theory surrounding the novel The Outsiders, the discussion winds up being centered on why this novel in particular has withstood the test of time and remains a favorite for teenager and a staple in the education system. Scholars argue that its survival may be due to its being written by a teenager for teenagers, or how the concerns faced by the protagonist are universe to adolescence. Other scholars argue less charitable reasons, like the sanitization of class issues within the narrative, or teenage girls developing crushes on the characters. In Eric Tribunella’s article “Institutionalizing The Outsiders: YA Literature, Social

Class, and the American Faith in Education,” he suggests that The Outsiders solidified its place in the American canon because “although it tantalizes audiences with the relatively rare acknowledgement of social class as a problem, the novel offers a safe and undisruptive palliative

for class inequality and the endemic malaise of modernity.” (Tribunella 88) Jay Daly, in his book examining the works of S.E. Hinton argues that the core of the book is its “uncompromising idealism,” and that “The Outsiders is a book for dreamers, not realists. And youth is the time of dreamers.” (Daly 18) In his argument, the way the novel survives is by appealing to the optimism in teenagers.

Michelle Ann Abate makes a compelling, if a little simplistic and dismissive, argument for why The Outsiders has remained popular with teenage girls. Her analysis of how the characters fit the boy band model is interesting, though I feel it fails to address much of why The

Outsiders survives as a novel we read and study. Abate admits that young readers, then and now, may be seen as “being drawn to The Outsiders’ gritty portrayal of working-class life,” but then she undermines the near-acknowledgement of the intelligence of teenagers by stating that they

“might also be attracted by its hunky portrayal of the handsome pale protagonists.” As she summarizes, “Hinton’s novel certainly caters to adolescents’ desires for more candid information about the world, but it doesn’t hurt that it also caters to their budding sexuality.” (Abate 45) She discusses how the male main characters fit certain archetypes commonly associated with boy bands, such as the bad boy, or the smart one. I find myself tentatively agreeing with her on this front—these archetypes are common, and it is unsurprising to see them incorporated into a young adult novel written by a teenager.

What I object to, ultimately, is Abate’s assessment that The Outsiders appeals to the shallow and vapid desires associated with teenage girls. Her argument strips The Outsiders of all its deeper merits, and it relies on the assumption that teenagers—and teenage girls in particular— are not capable of having more complex emotions and thoughts. In short, Abate is being uncharitable to S.E. Hinton as a writer, as well as towards all readers who have read and loved

the novel, male and female alike. She explains how boy bands, through their looks and their lyrics, allow for safe experimentation with romance: “Heterosexual adolescent girls—not to mention homosexual adolescent boys—can indulge in romantic infatuation without assuming any of the physical or emotional risks.” (Abate 47) In this same vein, she examines the descriptions of the characters and suggests that “Ponyboy doesn’t want his readers merely to get a mental image of what the greasers look like; he wants the audience to see them as dreamboats.”

(Abate 50) The idea is that the purpose of these characters is to be romantically appealing. She quotes another scholar who interprets the level of description as being due to the idea that Hinton

“obviously had an adolescent crush on most of the boys she created.” (Abate 51) Abate doesn’t acknowledge the condescension in this comment, but then again, she doesn’t seem aware of the condescension in her own argument. Hinton’s argument is that writers do not acknowledge the depth that teenagers possess, or similarly underestimate their ability to understand. She says:

“Writers needn’t be afraid that they will shock their teenage audience…Earn respect by giving it.” (Daly 17)

In the latter part of her argument, Abate posits that one of the more convincing links between the boys in the novel and the boy band model is their nonthreatening nature. “Perhaps most powerfully,” she explains, “the boys tease, goof around, and engage in shenanigans.”

(Abate 57) She mentions that “[m]uch has been written about The Outsiders in relation to postwar concerns about the growing rate of juvenile delinquency in general and teenage gangs in particular” (57) and she references how teenage gangs were “a subject of national concern and even anxiety” (Abate 58).

Abate talks about how Hinton “smooths the rough edges of these young men,” ultimately making the group of friends in the novel seem far less threatening than the national anxiety may

have suggested. She argues that this “undercuts the book’s claims to unflinching social verisimilitude.” (Abate 58) It seems far more likely, to me, that Hinton was attempting to humanize the lower-class teenagers that the national concern surrounded. Perhaps the social verisimilitude in the novel is not simply drawing attention to the more serious concerns of adolescents, but also portraying teenagers in gangs as human beings, as kids that did have their softer, kinder sides. Hinton herself says that her motivation for writing the novel was witnessing the class issues with her peers: “The whole status thing drove me nuts…It drove me nuts that people would get ulcers over who they should say hi to in the hall.” (Daly 4) The class issue is central to the novel, with the humanization of both sides of the divide as a major thematic point.

When Cherry is trying to help, Ponyboy lashes out at her: “Do you think your spying for us makes up for the fact that you’re sitting there in a Corvette while my brother drops out of school to get a job? Don’t you ever feel sorry for us. Don’t you ever try to give us handouts and then feel high and mighty about it.” (129) Connecting this to the humanization of the greasers as being teenagers, Ponyboy is clearing up two misconceptions about teenagers in poverty: that they are neither scary nor pathetic. It isn’t an accident that the greasers are the protagonists. We are meant to see the greasers as normal kids like the Socs, neither to be feared nor pitied. The crux of one the themes comes later in the book, prior to the rumble between the Socs and the greasers—

Ponyboy muses: “Socs were just guys after all. Things were rough all over, but it was better that way. That way you could tell the other guy was human too.” (118)

The intimacy Ponyboy and Johnny share and the symbolism of how they take refuge in an abandoned church are aspects of the novel that resonate with queer youth. According to S.E.

Hinton and to Michelle Ann Abate, The Outsiders continues to survive with young heterosexual girls because the story is for heterosexual teens. But as in David Levithan’s take on A Separate

Peace, what the book means to mean and what the book means to queer readers differs. Whissen goes on to say: “This is why the more secure the home, the more they don’t trust it. It’s all well and good while it lasts. But how long will that be? How long before a parent dies or disappears?

How long before you get thrown out? How long before you have to take to the streets to avoid the abuse at home?” (Whissen 187) The way that The Outsiders caters to this tendency in teenagers may speak to one of the reasons it remains popular among queer teens: these fears are very real and very immediate concerns for queer teenagers. Eric Tribunella explains: “[Hinton] effectively charged writers of young adult fiction with not honestly depicting the difficult lives of teenagers, whose problems are often much more troubling and painful than adults often like to think or admit.” (Tribunella 90)

The way The Outsiders validates the fears of teenagers may resonate with queer teens who remain uncertain about their family and their future, but it also offers queer teenagers a sense that they are not doomed. In Jay Daly’s book, he writes: “Richard Peck was one of the early commentators to recognize that The Outsiders was “a story about belonging.” And belonging will remain a concern of all the books (unresolved, really, until Tex), because Hinton characters are all, in one sense or another, orphans.” (Daly 33) Daly explains how the fact of all the kids being functionally orphans contributes to the theme of belonging in the novel, explaining that the gang “provide[s] them with the safe, warm acceptance of a family.” (Daly 34)

This depiction of community and belonging could easily appeal to queer teenagers—it offers them a way to see themselves in a type on family that may seem more achievable to them, as they may identify with the orphan archetype as well.

Ponyboy & Johnny’s friendship:

Ponyboy describes his friendship with Johnny as being special—Johnny is important to him in a way that his other friends are not. They have a unique relationship. They don’t talk quite as much in front of others; their relationship is toned down when they’re not alone. However, once it’s just the two of them, the physical and emotional intimacy becomes much more clear.

Two-Bit jokes to Ponyboy about how quiet he and Johnny are: “‘You must make such interestin’ conversation,’ he’d say, cocking one eyebrow, ‘you keepin’ your mouth shut and Johnny not sayin’ anything.’” Ponyboy tells us that his friendship with Johnny is deeper than that: “But

Johnny and I understood each other without saying anything.” (39)

They have a kind of casual intimacy between them. The sequence of events that leads to the two of them fleeing to the church begins with them falling asleep side by side: “Johnny and I stretched out on our backs and looked at the stars…I saw Johnny’s cigarette glowing in the dark and wondered vaguely what it was like inside a burning ember…” (47) Their physical intimacy is natural enough that, on their journey, Ponyboy uses Johnny’s legs as a pillow. Ponyboy also describes waking up in the church on the first morning: “I pushed off Johnny’s jeans jacket, which had somehow got thrown across me.” (69) He says that it had “somehow” gotten thrown across him, though it seems obvious that Johnny was the one who put it there. The gesture is kind and tender, and Ponyboy’s unwillingness to acknowledge it may indicate an undercurrent in their intimacy that he is hiding. The gentleness between the boys is both a gesture of queer affection and a humanizing signal for the greasers.

During the period of time where Johnny and Ponyboy are fleeing and hiding, they share several moments that read as something separate from friendship. They’re in this time and space where they’re able to be more revealing, lacking communication with the rest of their group of friends. There are two exchanges in particular that indicate this dynamic well. Before they reach

the church, they have this interaction: “He was studying me. ‘You know, you look an awful lot like Sodapop, the way you’ve got your hair and everything. I mean, except your eyes are green.’

/ ‘They ain’t green, they’re gray,’ I said, reddening. ‘And I look about as much like Soda as you do.’ I got to my feet. ‘He’s good-looking.’ / ‘Shoot,’ Johnny said with a grin, ‘you are, too.’”

(64) Ponyboy immediately walks away after Johnny says this, finding himself unable to reply.

A scene that parallels this one is when Johnny returns to the church from the store. As Ponyboy looks through what Johnny bought, he finds a book, leading to this exchange: “‘A paperback copy of Gone with the Wind! How’d you know I always wanted one?’ / Johnny reddened. ‘I remembered you sayin’ something about it once. And me and you went to see that movie,

’member? I thought you could maybe read it out loud and help kill time or something.’” (71)

These two instances of Ponyboy and Johnny respectively “reddening” indicates the possible romantic nature of their interactions. Blushing, especially in fiction, is a cue for flirtation and offers a romantic interpretation of the interaction. Ponyboy blushes when Johnny says he’s good- looking; Johnny blushes when he admits to remembering details about Ponyboy and getting him a gift. These moments, in context, read as romantic in nature.

The symbol of the book is significant in their relationship. Johnny remembers that

Ponyboy wanted it, reddens when giving it to Ponyboy, and they bond over their shared appreciation for reading. Gone with the Wind comes up several times in the novel, representative of the unique connection between Johnny and Ponyboy. When Johnny is injured in the hospital,

Ponyboy comments: “I figured Southern gentlemen had nothing on Johnny Cade.” (120) The

Southern gentlemen are, to Ponyboy, a masculine ideal: gallant, charming, attractive. When

Johnny and Ponyboy are reading the book, they discuss the Southern gentlemen and how they both admire them. They both find the Southern gentlemen appealing. Ponyboy not only

comparing Johnny to the image of the Southern gentlemen but saying that they “had nothing on

Johnny Cade” is a strong signal of the level of admiration Ponyboy feels for Johnny. Shortly after Ponyboy has this thought, Johnny says: “‘The book’—he looked at me—‘can you get another one?’” (120) Johnny wanting another copy of the book, in a way, relates the desire to return to the easy intimacy they shared in the church. The book being destroyed in the fire effectively ended this aspect of their connection, and Johnny’s request reads as a yearning for the time they shared.

The book is then a symbol for Ponyboy’s grief. The first copy was destroyed in the church, and the second copy is a reminder of Johnny’s death. Their admiration of the Southern gentlemen is sparked by the moment Ponyboy reads “the part about them riding into sure death because they were gallant.” (75) He mentions this moment specifically, shortly after Johnny’s death. Ponyboy finds out that Johnny left the book for him, and Ponyboy’s reaction is one of hesitance and grief: “I looked at the paperback lying on the table. I didn’t want to finish it. I’d never get past the part where the Southern gentlemen go riding into sure death because they are gallant. Southern gentlemen with big black eyes in blue jeans and T-shirts.” (158) These details are clearly a description of Johnny: big black eyes, blue jeans, and T-shirts. Ponyboy has already connected Johnny to the Southern gentlemen earlier, and here, Johnny and the book are so intrinsically linked to Ponyboy that he can no longer read the book.

Ponyboy’s unwillingness to finish the book mirrors his unwillingness to accept Johnny’s death. He goes through a period of intense denial, lying to himself and to the audience: “He isn’t dead, I said to myself. He isn’t dead. And this time my dreaming worked. I convinced myself he wasn’t dead.” (150) The period of denial is long-lasting, as he’s still in denial when the trial about the death of the Soc happens. Ponyboy’s grief for Johnny is intense enough that he feels he

has to hide from it. Though Ponyboy tells us that his dreaming worked, he admits later that he was lying. Near the end of the novel, Ponyboy revisits the book: “Finally I picked up Gone with the Wind and looked at it for a long time. I knew Johnny was dead. I had known it all the time, even while I was sick and pretended he wasn’t…I had just thought that maybe if I played like

Johnny wasn’t dead it wouldn’t hurt so much.” (177) Ponyboy’s admission that he was lying to himself connects back to when he says early on that he lies to himself all the time, though he never believes it. That moment was connected to the queer undertones in the novel, as it relates to his relationship with girls. This moment, as he is looking at the book, draws the connection between his lying and his relationship with Johnny. The book symbolically covers several steps in the relationship between Ponyboy and Johnny. First, when Johnny gives it to Ponyboy and they read it together, the book is representative of their intimacy. The book also becomes representative of Ponyboy’s admiration for Johnny, particularly in relation to the masculine ideal of the southern gentlemen. Then the book is symbolic of Ponyboy’s grief, with Ponyboy unable to think of finishing it and unable to move past Windrixville in his mind. Finally, here, Ponyboy picks up the book again as he is reaching acceptance. He is willing to admit now that Johnny is dead. The book also contains Johnny’s letter, explaining his last words to Ponyboy, circling their relationship back to the intimacy they had back at the church, however short-lived it was.

The space of the abandoned church:

The church is a disconnected space in the story—Ponyboy and Johnny are there alone, and the time they spend there is markedly different. There’s a peace and a solitude that they get in the church that doesn’t exist in the more complicated world of the greasers and the Socs.

Ponyboy describes the visual experience of being at the church: “The hill the church was on dropped off suddenly about twenty feet from the back door, and you could see for miles and

miles. It was like sitting on top of the world.” (69) From their refuge on top of the world,

Ponyboy and Johnny are able to see the full scope of their situation from a place of safety. The safety is in their isolation and companionship, though it can only be temporary.

Ponyboy indicates the importance of the church, both before and after he and Johnny have to run away and hide out in it. The initial reaction he has is remembering the times he and

Johnny went to church, lingering in the back and remaining quiet: “When Johnny and I went, we sat in the back, trying to get something out of the sermon and avoiding people, because we weren’t dressed so sharp most of the time. Nobody seemed to mind, and Johnny and I really liked to go.” (66) He them talks about how they tried going with a few of the others once, but they were restless and rowdy and ultimately drew too much attention: “Everyone in the place turned around to look at us, and Johnny and I nearly crawled under the pews. And then Two-Bit waved at them. I hadn’t been to church since.” (66)

The progression of Johnny and Ponyboy finding comfort in the church until they no longer feel welcome, and then ending up finding safety in a church that has been abandoned, can be read as a metaphor for the experience that many queer people end up having with religion.

The organized church, where Johnny and Ponyboy wind up feeling unwelcome in, does not accept them, so they end up in an empty religious space where they are free to find their own type of solace. In the safety of the church, Ponyboy and Johnny are able to share in a deeper kind of intimacy. Ponyboy explains that it wasn’t safe for them to go to the front of the church, because they might be seen. However, in the view from the back of the church, they could see for miles: “We couldn’t watch the sunset, since the back faced east, but I loved to look at the colors of the fields and the soft shadings of the horizon.” (76) As Ponyboy and Johnny watch the view of the colors of the sunset together, Ponyboy quotes a poem to Johnny: “‘Too bad it

couldn’t stay like that all the time.’ / ‘Nothing gold can stay.’ I was remembering a poem I’d read once.” (77) The gold of their solace, of their intimacy, of their friendship, are all temporary.

The church is a space that exists outside the threat of others, including the Socs, law enforcement, and judgment.

After this moment, the poem becomes a signal for the way Johnny and Ponyboy don’t conform to the expectation of masculinity for the rest of their gang. They begin to talk about their difference hesitantly: “‘You know,’ Johnny said slowly, ‘I never noticed colors and clouds and stuff until you kept reminding me about them. It seems like they were never there before.’”

(78) Johnny saying this “slowly” emphasizes the significance of this moment. They are having an important exchange here. Johnny’s admission is that Ponyboy showed him beauty in the world. Ponyboy’s response to Johnny’s admission is one of his own—“I mean, I couldn’t tell

Two-Bit or Steve or even Darry about the sunrise and clouds and stuff. I couldn’t even remember that poem around them. I mean, they just don’t dig. Just you and Sodapop. And maybe Cherry

Valance.” (78) Ponyboy is setting up three people as those he has this connection with: Sodapop,

Johnny, and Cherry. I find the inclusion of Cherry interesting in that it seems like an afterthought, and he precedes it with “maybe.” The choice to include Cherry in the list seems more like a cover, like Ponyboy offering a potential connection to a girl in order to undercut the connection he’s admitting to with Johnny. The exchange following this serves to further indicate this: “Johnny shrugged. ‘Yeah,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I guess we’re different.’ / ‘Shoot,’ I said, blowing a perfect smoke ring, ‘maybe they are.’” (78) The use of the collective “they” implies a deeper connection between Johnny and Ponyboy. They are setting themselves apart from the rest of the world, in a way. There is a queer undertone in the sentiment Ponyboy expresses, that they aren’t the ones who are different.

The illusion of safety ultimately falls apart for Ponyboy and Johnny. When they first arrive at the church, though Ponyboy expresses an interest in the comfort of sacred spaces, he says that this particular space has a slight negative atmosphere to it: “But this church gave me a kind of creepy feeling. What do you call it? Premonition? I flopped down on the floor—and immediately decided not to do any more flopping. That floor was stone, and hard.” (67) The abandoned church, while it functions as a temporary sanctuary, is unwelcoming. Ponyboy calls the feeling “premonition,” implying that he’s sensing that something will go wrong there. The safety they feel there is temporary and precarious. The hard, stone floor shows Ponyboy that he’s limited in the amount of solace he can find here. By the time Dally returns and they leave the church, any feeling of true sanctuary Ponyboy may have felt has faded: “I was glad we were going back. I was sick of that church.” (89) The church is only a temporary haven, and it is also an imperfect one already.

When, shortly after their decision to leave, the church is destroyed, the symbolism is even clearer: “The church was on fire!” (90) The image of a church on fire is heavily symbolic. In

Tribunella’s article he posits that the abandoned nature and then destruction of the church

“suggests something about the epochal decline of religion as an available and effective source of sanctuary or comfort in the modern age.” (Tribunella 91) This suggestion is certainly part of the symbolism involved. In the queer reading of the text, the lack of ability to find comfort in the church has another meaning as well. When they see the church on fire, Ponyboy’s reaction is telling: “I jerked loose and ran on. All I could think was: We started it. We started it. We started it!” (91) Ponyboy’s instinctual belief that the fire was their fault indicates the underlying feeling that they were doing something wrong. The symbolism of an abandoned church gives the

impression of isolation in faith, while the symbolism of a church on fire implies far more hostility.

As Ponyboy is in the middle of the fire in the church, he describes the experience: “The cinders and embers began falling on use, stinging and smarting like ants. Suddenly, in the red glow and the haze, I remembered wondering what it was like in a burning ember, and I thought:

Now I know, it’s a red hell. Why aren’t I scared?” (92) The reason for Ponyboy’s lack of fear goes back to Whissen’s suggestion about why teenagers are drawn to the book in the first place:

“Something inside them tells them to be prepared for the worst.” (Whissen 187) As an orphan, as a teen in poverty, as a queer teen, Ponyboy rightfully has an expectation that any safety he feels will be taken away. In the midst of the “red hell,” he is not afraid because he knows, ultimately, the space of safety will be destroyed.

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