We’re Queer and We’ve BEEN Here: Why Older and Elder Queer representation in Literature matters.
By John-Paul Kunrunmi
We know that queer people have always existed– archivists and historians have given us plenty of materials that say so, and for a long time, pop culture and entertainment have looked the other way. I’m glad that in the now, queer confidence has pushed for more representation in literature, but there’s still more to do. Older and elder queer representation is important too. Their stories deserve to be read, and not just as cautionary tales or wells of wisdom.
Tussling with Stereotypes
The invisibility of queer characters who are further on in their life journey reinforces the convention that queer stories are only worth our time and attention when they’re about young, sexy people who are fiddling with each other for the first time. Coming-of-age queer stories are great, but they’re not the only queer experiences that are representative of real life. Self-actualisation doesn’t just stop when you hit a certain age. We’ve seen, from films like Beginners (2010), that age isn’t a barrier to becoming yourself; representation really does matter. The older people get, the more likely they are to be forgotten about. They become reduced to being experienced in pinches of time that their younger family members can spare for them. The same small portion of time also goes into publishing queer literature centred around older and elderly lives. Admittedly, there has been an increase of stories surrounding these groups of people, and there are writers who have created beautiful stories to celebrate these queer lives.
Barrington “Barry” Walker in Bernardine Evaristo’s Mr Loverman has been married to his wife Carmel for years, but has been in love with Morris, his lover disguised as his best friend, since they were boys. Months before his 70th birthday, Barry finally decides that it’s time to leave Carmel and live the rest of his days with Morris, but he knows it’s not going to be easy.
When reading this book, I felt some contempt towards Barry because he had been cheating on Carmel for a while, but his childhood in Antigua colours his decisions differently. Barry made certain choices in order to do what was expected of him and to make sure he survived. Barry wrestles with ageing, and this propels him to want to be with Morris urgently. He wants to be happy, even though they have different ideas of what being together looks like. Bernardine doesn’t just focus on queerness, but on the different aspects of Barry’s life that intersect, such as his aforementioned age, traditional masculinity, and his culture. Bernardine explores all of these thoroughly, making an effort to ensure that Barry isn’t one-dimensional, as sometimes older characters can be. After reading Mr Loverman, it is my opinion that it would be lazy to just see Barry as a cautionary tale because there are hefty things that prevented him from coming out. Instead, both Barry and Morris serve as products of their environment and experiences. As people who have lived longer, both Barry and Morris have more to let go of and reconsider for them to live life the way they want to.
When discussing queer literature, I think it’s important to highlight the disparity between books about men loving men (mlm) and women loving women (wlw) and how wlw or sapphic stories are sadly neglected. It’s why when I picked up A Love Song for Ricki Wilde by Tia Williams, I was delighted to see that after Ms. Della lost her husband, she decided to date a woman.
“No label, I’m just curious.”
- Ms. Della
Although Ms. Della is not the main character of this book, she’s featured in many scenes, sitting down in her chair and giving Ricki advice. I enjoyed reading about her curiosity, and about how she falls in love with her girlfriend and discovers how that love feels for her in her body, in comparison to the love she received from her late husband. Ms. Della, to me, is a statement saying that it’s never too late to try something new, to love in a different way, and to learn new things about yourself. Often, Black elders are written as victims of a “worser” time and portrayed as being caged by their trauma (we learn a bit about Ms. Della’s past), but she actively tries to move past this and give herself a little bit more joy in spite of her husband's death by finally exploring herself.
Love Is Resistance
I don’t think I’ll ever stop talking about Love After Love by Ingrid Persaud. After Betty’s husband dies, she invites Mr. Chetan, a closeted middle-aged teacher, to live with her. They settle into a platonic relationship, with Mr. Chetan becoming a father figure to Betty’s son, Solo. As the novel progresses, Mr. Chetan finds courage and begins to come out of the closet. He goes through the motions of the “queer time” theory, a theory that suggests that queer individuals experience milestones in their life later on. Their adolescence carries on well into the years of adulthood. We read about Mr. Chetan having his heart broken for the first time as he approaches his fifties and learns (the difficult way) how convoluted healing can be. Then he falls in love with someone who loves him back. This book is so tender, and Ingrid takes so much care of her readers, even until the bitter and sad end. I think this book means so much to me because it makes space for “late bloomers” like Mr. Chetan, who finds love after love that should have supposedly passed him by. It takes readers through Mr. Chetan’s first steps towards self-actualisation, but also the inner turmoil of being gay in Trinidad.
There’s an obsession with being cemented in yourself by a certain age. It’s perceived as ridiculous to take risks later on in life because you’re expected to have it all figured out. Murky waters are only for those young enough with the strength to swim in them. Mr. Chetan dives in head first, bravely, in homophobic Trinidad. It sours his relationship with Solo and puts him at risk with the authorities, especially when he eventually moves in with his lover. I would love to think that there is someone out there in a similar position to Mr. Chetan, someone who has been forced to starve themself of love, but because of this book, has given it a chance.
Older and elder queer representation in Nigerian literature is scarce. Lá-kírí-boto by Ayọdélé Ọlọfintύàdé is a queer feminist-rage thriller that holds a special place in my heart. It’s about three young women in Nigeria who have to turn to their queer relative, Auntie Morieba, for help in order to escape the wrath of the men in their family. The title comes from the phrase “lákíríboto,” which in Yoruba roughly means a woman who cannot be mounted/controlled. As expected, this also includes queer women who do not rely on men. Auntie Morieba is a threat to her family, not just because she’s queer, but because she refuses to give way to the men who think that what dangles between their legs automatically gives them authority.
In the book, Auntie Morieba loves the women that she dates as loudly as she can, spoiling them, taking them back home, and just being with them, and when this is used against her to try to coerce her into stepping down, she doesn’t let it deter her. Ọlọfintύàdé’s work boasts about queer women behaving badly; ripping down the patriarchy and building support systems of their own. For queer women in Nigeria, this representation was needed and it not only showed an older queer woman thriving, but also finding love and pleasure in being herself.
That is the purpose of diverse representation: to give people the confidence to be all that they want to be.
Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.
There’s Always More to Do.
As the world tries to erase trans existence, efforts should be made to make literature more inclusive— not just to document trans lives so we cannot undermine or ignore the horrible things they have been through and are experiencing today, but to also capture their humanity and joy. Trans people are more than the pressure put on them by their oppressors. They, too, can have love stories, tales of revenge, and horror plot lines.
The Bugis society of Indonesia recognises five genders, which have been a concrete part of the culture for six centuries. They’re an ageing community full of generations of experiences. Sometimes it can be hard, as queer people, to imagine queer elders thriving because of the persecution they face. I think a lot more can be done to capture their lives, their hopes, and their dreams. If we can put them into books, that would be fantastic. Again, whilst there are books like Like Water Like Sea by Olumide Popoola, that have new adult trans rep, we need to see trans elders in all their glory, living fruitful and wonderful lives. They exist in the real world, so why not also in literature?
