Hunter Schaefer, the actress who plays Jules in the hit TV show Euphoria
As a writer myself, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the identities of my characters. What makes an identity? What defines their life story, who they are, and how they got there? It seems like a pretty simple question: you sit down and you make up this life, this person, and then you figure out the rest later, but really that’s not so — especially when it comes to trans characters.
There’s an issue plaguing modern fiction. There’s an issue plaguing television, film, and video games. This issue?
The commercialization of trans lives.
It’s not a small topic. It’s something that expands beyond our means, and beyond what I can write about in a short article — it’s the fantasy of having a trans person in the background of your story, a best friend who has an arching storyline of “Nobody sees me for who I am! Nobody supports me!” (see Max Sweeney in The L Word), or of “I don’t fit in! I must be trans!” (see Sheldon in Glee). Of course, there are success stories too, especially in more recent media: Jules in Euphoria was one of the first younger trans characters played by a trans actor who rose in popularity through the story, andthe many characters in POSE represent an important part of transgender history that is often overlooked.
The cast of POSE, the majority of whom are transgender women; sourced from https://www.emmys.com/news/features/license-thrill
But there’s a common thread there, too; the majority of the time, this is queer media marketed to queer audiences. Euphoria, for example, despite its boom in popularity, was widely accepted by and marketed towards the younger generation of queer people who could see themselves in the relationships between Jules and Rue, or trans people who could find solace in the acceptance and struggles Jules has throughout the series.
So few of these success stories of trans characters involve these characters as not a sob story sub-plot-line, but as a person, a human being who is not something new or unheard of, but is who they are without need for explanation. Still, even the poor representation of trans people in the media has led to rising rates of transgender acceptance and understanding. Is this the price to pay for any representation at all? I believe that’s not the case: as years go on, more and more trans people are shown in all forms of commercialization, from books to advertisements, and with that comes a rising amount of proper representation.
We, as viewers, have to hold creators accountable and have to point out the flaws when they are present as well as supporting the successes when they are publicized. According to GLAAD, 20% of Americans reported knowing someone who was trans, and that’s only by reports of people who are aware of the trans identities of their co-workers, friends, and family; in reality, that number continues to grow and is likely much higher from our day-to-day interactions with people who aren’t as open about their identities, but still exist.
On March 3rd, 2022, HBO Max released Our Flag Means Death, a romantic “swashbuckler” action-comedy written by David Jenkins. The series is based on real-life pirates — with some pretty major alterations — and revolves around the sometimes comedic, sometimes dramatic, and all the time queer relationship between Stede Bonnet (played by Rhys Darby), a wealthy noble turned pirate-wannabe, and Edward Teach (played by Taika Waititi), also known as Blackbeard. The series overtook Book of Boba Fett as the United States Most In-Demand Show after Book’s three-month spot at #1, and then continued to defeat Moon Knight for weeks after Our Flag’s final episode was released. It also received a 90% critic rating and a 95% audience rating on Rotten Tomatoes. Most importantly, it has been declared by thousands of fans to be one of the best LGBT shows to date.
Our Flag Means Death is a breath of fresh air in the romantic comedy genre. Most memorably, fans have noted that, unlike other shows, Our Flag prevents itself from falling prey to queerbaiting: it is obvious from the beginning which romantic relationships will be set up (specifically between Stede and Edward), and, by the end of the season, watchers are left knowing that the queerness they had picked up on is confirmed after a kiss between the two characters. In fact, the final point of the show is a confirmation of anti-queerbaiting itself: we see Stede Bonnet, after talking to his ex-wife about his feelings for Edward, board a small dinghy in search of his lover.
The choice of closing out the season with an event so obviously queer is not only revolutionary for popular television but also highly dangerous. Our Flag was recently renewed for a second season — after months of silence from HBO Max while also renewing much smaller, less popular shows, a choice that many claim to be intentional. The silence from HBO Max in regards to advertising during and prior to the show’s release also has been noted as possibly intentional. It is not unlikely that HBO Max purposefully remained silent on the renewal until Pride Month, during which an announcement of renewal would bring forth increased funds to HBO Max. The phenomenon of queer media (and general products) being promoted and funded during Pride Month more than any other time of year has been entitled “rainbow capitalism.” An article on the queer site LGBTQ and All describes the phenomenon quite well:
Rainbow capitalism, aka pink capitalism, is the action of companies claiming to support LGBTQ+ causes and communities, but are actually making merchandise for-profit and capitalize on the trend. In other words, it centers on corporate interests and profit. (“What is Rainbow Capitalism and why is it Harmful?”)
If you’re interested in reading more about this phenomenon, check out our article “Rainbow Capitalism and Pride Month,” posted on May 24th by Megan Serceki.
The show’s premise, as it were, goes much further than simply being queer.
As previously mentioned, Our Flag takes inspiration from the histories of real-life people and changes it to include characters of color, such as Taika Waititi’s Blackbeard, a Maori man, or Samson Kayo’s Oluwande, a black man. It also adds queer characters, with openly gay relationships such as that between Nathan Foad’s Lucius and Matthew Maher’s Black Pete and the growing relationship between Blackbeard and Stede, the main couple of the show. Even transgender characters, such as Vico Ortiz’s non-binary Jim Jimenez, take a starring role in the series.
Vico Ortiz is a non-binary Latine actor. Jim has been their first major role in television, and, to many fans, Jim has also served as the first major non-binary representation in television or film — especially as one of the main characters.
Not only that, but Ortiz’s role plays even more importance as Jim’s relationship with Oluwande progresses through the series. It is few and far between that shows adapt queer, trans relationships; much rarer is it for these relationships to be between people of color and for them to ignore all typical gender stereotypes. In one episode of the show, Jim is seen as the ‘big spoon’ in bed with Oluwande, holding him rather than him holding them — a reversal of what would be expected if Jim were to have their non-binary identity ignored or tossed aside for the gender roles of “man” and “woman.”
Ortiz embraces the effect the role has had on them and the show’s fans. In fact, Ortiz revealed in an interview with Out that one of the many influences the show has had on their journey with their transgender identity, top surgery,* saying: “I’ll thank you internet for giving me this beautiful gift… I can get that surgery and show my scars,” referring to showing their scars from top surgery on the character of Jim.
* the medical procedure to flatten the chest often done on AFAB transgender people to relieve dysphoria or provide a closer connection to their gender identity.
Despite popular belief, however, gender exploration throughout the past was not unheard of — especially during the time of Our Flag’s setting.
It would be foolish to apply 21st-century labels to people who lived in the 17th and 18th centuries, the golden age of piracy. Labels and their meanings change; we never see Jim in Our Flag call themself “non-binary” or any of our modern labels — their gender simply is. Much the same, pirates of the 1600s and 1700s often simply “were.” One well-known example, pirate Mary Read, lived as Mark Read repeatedly throughout their life (I use ‘their’ here as a way to respect what their identity may have been, not to say that they specifically used they/them pronouns themself). This journey did not begin in piracy; Mary, or Mark, actually began presenting as a man during two terms in the British military.
Although few pirates were noted as being non-male or “females presenting as male,” it is highly possible that many more followed both before and after Read; much history of the period has been lost. Still, Read’s experience is not singular.
In the late 1700s, Romaine-la-Prophétesse, a freed Black person, led a small role in the Haitian Revolution. Raised a male, Romaine grew, and, later in life, began to identify as a Prophétesse. Romaine is said to have claimed the “female spirit” and began to wear women’s clothes; however, he continued to use male pronouns in writing and would consider himself the “Godson of the Virgin Mary.” Much the same, Romaine had indicated in letters that he purposefully took the title of “Prophetess” for himself — it is unlikely that this was in error, as Romaine was literate and understood his own writings.
Throughout the mid to late 1800s, a man named Joseph Lobdell, born in New York, fled from state to state in an attempt to keep his identity as a man respected. He took on a wife, Marie Louise Perry, who helped him escape arrest on account of “impersonating a man.” In October of 1880, Joseph was admitted to a psychiatric hospital where he was considered a “case of sexual perversion.” Still, he maintained his identity as a man up through his death in an asylum in 1912. Joseph’s life, a dark reminder of how transgender people were treated throughout the 19th century, has been documented by his descendant Bambi Lobdell.
Lobdell was not alone. Roughly four-hundred people assigned female at birth are documented to have identified as men in order to fight in the Civil War, many maintaining that identity through death. Albert Cashier, one such example, joined the Union Army in 1862 and, after the war, continued to live as Albert. Much like Lobdell, Cashier was put into an asylum in 1913 due to an onset of dementia, where he was forced to wear a dress and be titled his birth name. Nevertheless, Cashier held many supporters in former soldiers and friends, and, upon his death in 1915, was buried with a tombstone engraved with Albert Cashier and his military service.
Much of this history goes unspoken. Our Flag Means Death does more than most to push for the representation that we as a community deserve — and it does so respectfully, encouraging watchers to engage with the history that it makes a comedy of.
