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Queer Praxis

Questions for LGBTQ Worldmaking

Edited By Dustin Bradley Goltz and Jason Zingsheim

Amidst rapid advances of mainstream gay and lesbian platforms, questions of essential sexual identities, queered rituals of family, queered notions of intimacy, queer considerations of time, and the possibility and value of queered systems of relation are largely absent. Resisting the public face of a normative and homogenous gay and lesbian community, and embracing a broadened conception of queerness, this book brings together 29 writers – a diverse community of scholars, lovers, and activists – to explore queer theory and embodied experiences within interpersonal relations and society at large. Enacting a critical intervention into the queer theoretical landscape, the book offers an alternative engagement where contributors centralize lived experience. Theoretical engagements are generated in relation and in dialogue with one another exploring collectivity, multiple points of entrance, and the living nature of critical theory. Readers gain familiarity with key concepts in queer thought, but also observe how these ideas can be navigated and negotiated in the social world. Queer Praxis serves as a model for queer relationality, enlisting transnational feminist, critical communication, and performance studies approaches to build dialogue across and through differing subjectivities.
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17. Queer Love: The Limits of Anger and Decorum




Enabling & Constraining Queer Belongings

Kimberlee: What are the conditions that impose the stakes of decorum? When do/can—decorum and anger—ever operate together? Are they always in opposition? Can decorum ever not be disciplinary, imposed? Can it be queered? What would that look like? How do we trust one another, how do we trust decorum not to deflate queer?

Raechel: I was disciplined about decorum long before I became queer. Growing up as a fat, working class child with a fat, working class single mother, I lived what I now read about in journal articles: I was an “unfit neoliberal citizen”; a welfare leech, an unruly and unfeminine body. My middle-class grandmother taught me how to constrain some of that excess: how to discern the difference between the small fork and the big fork at a fancy restaurant, how to speak French, and talk about Shakespeare. When I hit adolescence, I discovered a new trick for discipline and self-control through throwing up nearly everything I ate. I rejected my working class neighborhood, with their bars full of foul-mouthed third-shifters, and “white trash” lawn debris, for the more privileged realms of punk rock shows in the city. By the end of high school, I learned to behave in terms of class, but I embraced more palatable, commodified versions of deviance through a relatively depoliticized social...

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