My queer awakening happened when I was in 8th grade, after watching Katy Perry’s sensationalized hit “I Kissed a Girl.” With its sensual, hyper-feminine Venusian aesthetics and suggestive bisexual lyrics, I was hooked. That song blasted through my ear buds everyday on my walk home from school.
Alongside my best friend Natalie*, we were enamored with Katy Perry’s debut single. Unable to articulate our gravitation towards one another, the song spoke for us. We were teenage girls solidified in our attraction to boys but clueless about our infatuation with other girls. I sang the lyrics whenever Natalie applied cherry ChapStick, my longing disguised in pop culture references.
In the world of “I Kissed a Girl,” lesbian love isn’t love but playful experimentation. It’s naughty, something “good girls don’t do.” Its titillating and forbidden, visually portrayed by the scene where Katy Perry is flanked by women wearing latex and fishnets. They apply mascara and touch each other in a cavern crawling with vines of roses. It evokes a sinful paradise, but for whom?
In a 2008 interview with The New Gay, Katy Perry discusses the inspiration for her song:
Love it, hate it, for me it was about us girls. When we’re young we’re very touchy-feely. We have slumber party sing-alongs, we make up dance routines in our pajamas. We’re a lot more intimate in a friendship than guys can be. It’s not perverse but just sweet, that’s what the song is about.
My first reaction is to be annoyed, but this statement is nuanced with layers. Perry’s comment about how young girls are socially-conditioned to be more intimate than boys is true, within the context of heteropatriarchy. Emotional and physical intimacy are expected between girls, while boys are denied any expression of this.
Natalie and I were so close that it was hard to distinguish if our relationship was purely platonic or a little gay (it was definitely very gay). We expressed love for one another emotionally and physically, and as long as it didn’t go “too far,” it was socially acceptable. But eventually, infused with courage from listening to “I Kissed A Girl,” Natalie and I shared our first kiss. We both knew it was coming and what was the harm? Wasn’t it purely experimental?
I remember feeling elated and excited by the unfolding of my baby queerness. I was naive in my understanding of it, equipped with no tools save the few pop culture references to girl-on-girl infatuation. Was it curiosity or was it attraction? What tools do young girls have to distinguish between the two? How can she navigate her sexuality when she can’t decide if she “wants to be her, or be in her?” as Ilana from Broad City eloquently says.
As if this isn’t already challenging, heteropatriarchy goes a step further to simultaneously deny love between queer woman but sensationalize their sexual relationship. Men think women kissing and fucking each other is hot, but only if they’re watching or participating. They make queerness about them, when in fact, it has nothing to do with them.
And yet, straight cis-gender men control the narrative of women loving women. Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl,” is produced by Dr. Luke, who’s most known for being a music industry giant but should be known as the rapist who sexually assaulted Kesha (and got away with it). I don’t know how to express my shame and confusion for identifying with a song that’s reach was made possible by a misogynist.
There are no words, no pathways to navigate the formation of queer identity outside of patriarchy.
As I tried to lay down stones for the foundation of my queer becoming, they were constantly uprooted by my experiences. Sexual abuse, poor representation, and internalized shame clouded the understanding of my true self. I swallowed my love for women, not out of choice but necessity.
I didn’t revisit my queerness until I was a sophomore in college. On the weekends, I worked at a French bakery and café where I meet a girl named Anastasia*. She was hired to be the new cashier, and I helped her learn the responsibilities of the job. While shy at first, my kindness opened her up. We became closer with every shift we worked together.
Our friendship was silly and suggestive, but neither of us had words for why. One of our managers asked us why we always touched one another, to which we responded that we’re just close friends. Without realizing it on a conscious level, we gravitated towards one another, unable to mask our affection.
One day after our shift, I was playing music on the kitchen radio from my iPhone when she noticed I had t.A.T.u in my library.
“You know t.A.T.u???” she exclaimed.
I saw something blossom in the way she looked at me, like this small detail validated something within her. She was from Russia, stuck in the United States because her mother traveled here with the intention of marrying an American man. When it didn’t happen, her decision complicated Anastasia’s ability to leave the U.S.
t.A.T.u was close to the home in her heart, attached to the past she longed to make her future. It was also an avenue where we both discovered parts of our queer sexualities.
Known for their hit song “All The Things She Said,” the band comprised of Lena Katina and Julia Volkova who played star-crossed lovers. Both of them are queer (thank god) but the music project was conceptualized by producer and manager Ivan Shapovalov, whose idea for duo was inspired by a Swedish lesbian film called Show Me Love (1998).
While seemingly more genuine and invested in the narrative of queer love than “I Kissed a Girl,” the visual aesthetics of t.A.T.u still perpetuate the hyper-sexual representation of lesbian love. The straight male perspective is revealed most clearly in the details of the music video for “All the Things She Said,” with up-the-skirt shots and wet white blouses.
And yet, it’s difficult for me to dismiss t.A.T.u’s representation of queerness through that music video. The concept of them being trapped behind a cage, where strangers and family members look upon them with shame and disappointment, is a potent reflection of heteronormative power. The girls’ insistence in expressing the truth of their feelings is evident in the lyrics:
When they stop and stare — don’t worry me ’Cause I’m feeling for her what she’s feeling for me I can try to pretend, I can try to forget But it’s driving me mad, going out of my head
Between the representation of intimacy between queer women in “I Kissed a Girl” and “All the Things She Said,” I notice a contradicting dichotomy within the depiction of queer love. One is innocent, playful, seemingly “harmless” to male power structures while the other is melancholy, forbidden, and dangerous to the survival of masculine patriarchy. But both narratives are formulated under the limitations of the straight male imagination.
I have experienced feeling constrained by the expectations and perceptions of men. While working at that French bakery with Anastasia, there was a manager who sexually harassed the woman who worked there. It ranged from unwanted suggestive comments, touching without consent, and asking them out on dates.
He was particularly obsessed with Anastasia and I’s relationship, to the point where he called her one day after work and told her to stay away from me.
“That girl,” he said, “likes other girls. I don’t want to see you go that way.”
He couldn’t even say it. As if acknowledging the truth of blossoming queer intimacy would shatter his world.
I couldn’t help but relate what was happening back to t.A.T.u, where shame and oppressive attitudes restricted the freedom of our feelings. The joyous and innocent experimentation of the “I Kissed a Girl” phase was long gone. I could no longer believe that queerness was an aspect of my life that didn’t matter. I had to acknowledge that it was integral to my identity.
Anastasia and I didn’t last long after that phone call. I was too distracted by the potential of exploring my bisexuality to give her the stability she needed to work through an old toxic relationship. We both crumbled under the pressure of our malicious manager, who was the reason I quit the French café. Since we no longer worked together, Anastasia and I didn’t see one another after that. Reconciliation was too complicated, everything had become muddled and confusing.
While there were many factors beyond our sexualities that lead to that conclusion, they were all filtered through queerness. My manager outed me, made me aware of my feelings before I was ready to acknowledge them. He took a rock to the walls I built for self-preservation, smashing them until the filaments sliced me. Awakening what refused to be rejected.
And yet, despite the pain of his intervention, I felt free. The kind of careless abandon where I didn’t think about the consequences of my feelings. Other people’s opinions couldn’t touch me.
Being with you has opened my eyes Could I ever believe such a perfect surprise?
“All the Things She Said” transformed my relationship to my queerness. I know it exists within heteropatriarchy; I can’t change that my sexuality has been shaped by its brutality and queerphobia. But I can control how I perceive it. And I choose not to live in shame or denial.
At the end of t.A.T.u’s iconic music video, the two girls are walking towards the sunny horizon, their bodies becoming blurred shapes in the distance. They leave the crowd facing towards the fence. The narrative flips; now they are the ones who are trapped, unable to move beyond a cage of ideology and fear. They are the ones drenched in shame, preferring to judge and dismiss rather than love and understand.
While I saw only a small amount of music videos that featured queer narratives and content, “I Kissed a Girl” and “All the Things She Said” were the two that struck me the most. They were also what was available at the time.
Thankfully, queers have a wider variety of representations to choose from today (although it still could be better). Queer musicians such as Kehlani, Christine and the Queens, Mykki Blanco, Hayley Kiyoko, and Janelle Monáe are creating music and video content that reveal the many nuances of the queer experience.
Despite my joy in seeing artists bring queer issues and experiences to the forefront, there is still the possibility that not all representation is good representation. Individuals within the queer community exist in the straight world and are still impacted by heteropatriarchy’s alienation and hyper-sexualization.
How does one differentiate between how they really feel or what they’ve been taught to value? Is it even possible to draw a boundary between queerness and heteronormativity, when the two are so deeply intertwined?
I don’t have answers, only vague hand signals to navigate the highways and detours of a bisexual existence. There are no preconceived plans for developing a queer identity, even if we have people who understand what it’s like to struggle in a society that wants to erase and exploit us.
Often times, we know who we are because we see what we are not.
And even when there are reflections of our true selves, whether it be in media or reality, there is still the necessity to delve deeper and investigate where that ends and we begin. If we allow other people’s experiences and expectations to dictate our path, we risk an existential crash and burn.
I am not the queer in Katy Perry’s or t.A.T.u’s music video. I’m my own conglomeration of experiences and introspections, reflections of society as well as my own interior world.
*names have been changed for privacy