The colonial gaze is everywhere
Words / MahMah Timoteo
The colonial gaze is everywhere. Even in our "safe spaces".
I wanted to feel wanted, loved and lusted for. I wanted someone to look at me, with the same passion, desire and hunger that Edward Cullen did for Bella Swan in Twilight. I wanted what all those thin white girls had in the movies. Privilege, power and agency. The privilege to have a lived experience that audience members like myself could never relate to, but were compelled to try and understand. The power to be central in the narrative. To take up space without resistance or objection. The agency to express themselves freely, physically, mentally and emotionally. I learnt by the age of 5 years old that I would not be afforded the that kind of privilege, power or agency. Because, well firstly. It's a fictional story, one that centres a toxic, unhealthy, abusive relationship. And secondly, Bella Swan represents a eurocentric standard of beauty and set of behaviours. She is white, thin, cis-gendered, able-bodied, shy, and submissive. They were not ‘extra-ordinary, but rather quite ‘ordinary’. An illustration of ‘the norm’, the central point of the ‘female existence’. A universal representation.
So can you imagine me, a queer, indigenous, teenage fatty, watching movies and TV series like Twilight, where heteronormative relationships were the only representations of love and happiness, and internalising the idea that the only type of women that were deserving of that kind of desire was thin, able-bodied, cis-gendered, and white. Long story short, I spent the majority of my childhood and young adult life popping weight loss pills, yo-yo dieting, torturing my body in the gym, being complimented for having an eating disorder and settling into heteronormative relationships. The types of relationships that made me feel like an abondonded dog at the pound and one day I was fortunate enough for a man to come and provide me with his company. It did not matter what type of man it was. As long it was a man. My self-esteem was so low and I thought of myself in such a shameful way that attention from men seemed to be the only way I was going to feel good enough. The entirity of my life, men seemed to be only option. This was reinforced through our poorly delerived sex education class. Two genders, two sets of genitals and penetrative intercourse was the only way to get it done. As you can imagine, this did not sit very well with the numerous crushes I had on girls at my school.
Don’t get me wrong, I liked men. They were cool. But the relationships I wanted wasn’t neccasaarliy with them. Men were pitched to me like a tool for survival. In order to have the house, the kids, the white picket fence and successful career, men were the best resourse on the market. The thing is, I didn’t want any of those things. I remember asking my mother if I could have a sleep over. She would always say ‘yes, but no boys’. Little did she know that she was falling into my little queer trap. ‘No boys, no problem’. I guess I lived two lives in that sense. I performed hetronormativity and I took pleasure in riding the rainbow behind closed doors. I guess in that sense, I never really has a ‘coming out’ moment. The people at my school knew I was queer, although at the time, I used the term Bisexual because I wasn’t really up with all the queer lingo at this point. I never really spoke about it at home because I didn’t see the point. Until one day I was watching television with my step father who was all forms of discrimantive. To be completely honesty, so were most old white men on the West Coast. The news station was reporting on the recent PRIDE events that were taking place in Aotearoa. “Look at all these faggots. Disgusting”, he says. I turn to him and with sadness in my voice say, “Please don’t speak like that. I am one of them”. Before I could even take my next breathe, my step father threw his fist into my face. Blood streamed from my nose and in that moment I knew that my home, with this man in it, was not a safe. The opportunity to attend the University of Canterbury as my escape attempt. It worked.
So after feeling confined to a colonial, heteronormative existence and removing the binary blinders, I relocated to Ōtautahi, the land of middle aged, racist, white men. But at least there was a population of over 300 people, until my previous location. I began the process of learning and unlearning. Being exposed to Kimberle Crenshaw's notion of "Intersectionality" was a very similar expereince to wearing a very tight, uncomfortable pair of jeans and then coming home to them off. Discovering intersectionality was freeing. Being able to acknowledge that some people were subject to multiple sources of oppression such as their race, class, gender identity, sexual orientation, religion, and other identity markers helped me to understand my own lived expereinces and the interacting forms of discrimantion that I would face on a daily basis. These intersecting identifties each informs the others, often creating a complex web of oppression. Understanding this concept helped me to understand that the way in which society was negativly treating me was not my fault but the fault of systems of white supremacy, patriachy and capitalism. So then I decided to start living my best fat, queer, indigenous life. I thought no longer catering to cis-heteronormative binaries; I would be free from the male gaze. More importantly, freedom from the colonial gaze. I suppose I put the queer community on a pedestal of progression, representing a rejection from patriarchy, white supremacy and capitalism. But I was wrong. Little did I know that in the very space I thought safe, not only did I remain a victim of the colonial gaze, but I would also be the perpetrator.
Hyper-feminising my aesthetic was a mechanism I used to redirect the masculinity associated with my fat indigenous body, to deflect the negative aspects associated with this vessel. "Dangerous", "Angry", "Lazy", "Glotonious", "a Burden". I kept my hair long, makeup precise, dresses short, and body hair groomed. All the things I thought would deem me more feminine, more desirable. The one thing I could never cover-up, no matter how many loose pieces of clothes I wore, no matter how many hours of cardio I did, no matter how many days I starved myself, I was still fat. And even in the LGBTQIA+ community, a space where "inclusivity" was celebrated and patriarchal notions of "normal" were contested, fat bodies were still not always shown respect, accessibility and kindness. Unfortunately, I believed that in order to gain all of these things, I would need someone to legitimise my worth, to validate me as a human being.
Coming to terms with the fact that my "type" when dating was white, thin, cisgender, able-bodied, femmes was incredibly difficult. It was hard because the justification behind it was entirely based off my want to be associated with someone that had privilege and power—something my fat, indigenous self could never have, not in this society anyway. My internalised racism and fatphobia had conditioned me to attribute "attractiveness", "success" and "influence" with straight-sized, white bodies. There was a part of me that was convinced that if people saw me with "my type", they would no longer consider the negative connotations that are placed on fat, brown bodies like mine. Maybe people would think I was worthy enough to be lusted for, to be loved. The truth is, I was relying, once again on the approval and validation of the coloniser.
“Unfortunately, I believed that in order to gain all of these things, I would need someone to legitimise my worth, to validate me as a human being. ”
The reality is, in order for safer spaces to exist, safer people need to be in them, facilitating them, guiding them. It is not enough to assume that the LGBTQIA+ community represents a shared sense of intersectionality. Why? Because we have all been raised to internalise white supremacy, patriarchy and capitalism. In order to unlearn those problematic ways of thinking, we must first acknowledge the colonial mode of thinking we are taking into spaces that many of us as having deemed "safe". This is not good enough. It saddens me that I won't be able to escape racism and fatphobia within spaces I was promised sanctuary. The colonial gaze is everywhere.
But we can’t just accept that right? We can’t just keep feeling unsafe, unwanted, and unworthy. One of the first things I needed to come to terms with was the fact that the world was never going to see me in a way I wanted it to. I accepted the fact that I wasn’t going to be everyones cup of tea due to their internalised racism and fatphobia. But I always can’t just accept that. I needed to address these issues in my classrom. Lectures were prepared addressing white supremacy, systemic racism and bodies in society. Making knowledge actionable and accessible was the focus. This was a small step in trying to influence folks to apply an analytical lens to the world and hopefully make them kinder humans. Then I came to terms with the fact that I was never really going to love myself. Not fully, like those body positivty adovates tell you you should. So I had a dicussion with my body. We settled on being ‘neautral’ or ‘just okay’ with each other. Because to love or even to like one another was too unrealistic. So i chose peace instead of war.
Another way I try to keep myself safe is by setting boundaries. We must remember that not everyone is deservant of out time, effort, energy and space. It is okay to say ‘no’. I have always struggled with this and I continue to do so. Especially when you have curated your idenity around being a provider, nurturer and carer. But in order to maintain agency over your life, boundries need to set, even if they are just soft. You also must start to become comfortable with recognizing that not all spaces are going to be good for you. Take the queer spaces in Ōtautahi for example. There are so many beautiful queer souls that reside here, but many of them are white. Many of them come from backgrounds that I can’t relate to. Many of them have power and privlege that makes me feel uncomfortable. With that, it was important for me to find queer BBIPOC to connect and engage with. Sometimes this not might always be easy where you live. Exploring intersectional spaces online was a way in which I was able to create meaningful relationships with people from all walks of life. However, social media can sometimes be a very scary, unsafe space. That is why it is so protecting yourself through security measuremnts is key. Begin to figure out what triggers you, what makes you uneasy and what makes you feel no so great about yourself. Try to stay away from those things. Also, diversifying the content you’re exposed can be so impactful to the way you see the world and more importantly, where you see yourself in this world. Your feed should be filled with fat folk, trans folk, queer folk, people with disabilties, BBIPOC, people with different lived expereinces then you. This will help you not be a piece of poo. I promise. Be kind, with action. Be gentle on yourself and those around and you. Understand we are all on different journeys and thats okay. Never let your defensiveness overide your willingless to learn and tell yourself everyday that you are deserving of love, respect, kindness, acknowledgment and celebration. Yes, the colonial gaze is everywhere. But so are a bunch of awesome intersection minds that are challanging this gaze every single day. Those are our people.
MahMah is an Anthropology PHD Candidate, a proud ‘hungry fat queer’ and a passionate advocate for decolonising minds. She is loudly challenging the way Instagram censors fat bodies and has the cutest dog named Paddington. You can follow her on Instagram @phatmahmah.