How TikTok Gave a Queer Millennial the Representation She Was Searching for
I never thought I would download TikTok. At 25 years of age, I thought I was far too old for an app dominated by Gen Z-ers and I was also trying to reduce my time on social media, so why would I download another app? But when the pandemic hit, the lure of cute animal videos and addictive dances was too strong to ignore.
I tentatively downloaded TikTok with the aim of watching some dog videos as a distraction from collective pandemic anxiety. I fully expected to delete the app after a week. I did not expect to find the queer representation and validation I had been yearning for my whole life.
When I started accepting my sexuality last year, I had seen very little queer representation. The only reference points I had were Carol & Susan on Friends and a few seasons of Orange is the New Black. As I was growing up, there wasn't much in the mainstream to go off. I watched Janis Ian in Mean Girls get outcast and bullied as she was presumed to be a lesbian and watched Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte in Sex & the City chase after men and ridicule and erase bisexuals and the trans community. I also didn’t seek representation outside of mainstream pop culture, out of my own shame and fears about my own sexuality.. I even stopped watching Orange is the New Black a few seasons in despite loving the show because I was forced to confront and come to terms with my own sexuality.
So, when I started accepting myself, I was desperate to watch and read anything queer. I watched the entirety of the L-Word, of course, and enjoyed the (narrow) lesbian representation whilst accepting much of it as problematic. I finished Orange is the New Black. I watched some awful movies like Blue is the Warmest Colour and some better ones like But I’m a Cheerleader, Disobedience and Portrait of a Lady on Fire.
I followed more queers on Instagram. I read articles and books and watched comedy sketches. I recognised my privileges, particularly in being white, cis, thin and able-bodied, as I was easily able to find representation of queer people on screen who looked like me (regardless of how ‘good’ that representation was). I trawled Instagram and found solace in some queer accounts sharing their stories and in meme accounts like @hotmessbian and @godimsuchadyke. But I still had so many questions.
Why did it take me so long to figure out I liked women? How do I determine which parts of my sexuality are mine and which parts are a product of social conditioning? Which label is right for me? Can I call myself a lesbian even though I’ve only been in relationships with men? Do I even need a label at all? The list goes on.
I hadn’t been on TikTok long before I curiously started searching and watching content under the #lesbian #lgbt hashtags. At first, it was hard to find anyone my age so I went back to looking at dogs doing at-home obstacle courses. Yet, slowly, as I started liking #lesbian and #lgbt videos, the algorithm started suggesting them on my ‘For You’ page (the landing page that suggests videos you might like). And, as more millennials joined TikTok over lockdown, my feed became saturated with queer creators.
TikTok, or at least the part of it I have stumbled upon, seems to be a space for education, support and validation for the LGBTQIA+ community. I found new queer films to watch that I had never heard of, including the incredible South Korean erotic thriller The Handmaiden. I observed people openly talking about how they too did ‘am I gay quizzes’ aged 12 or had ‘girl crushes’ but continued to convince themselves they were straight. I learnt that this was likely due to compulsory heterosexuality, which can complicate your understanding of your own sexuality. “Compulsory heterosexuality” is a term that was made popular by Adrienne Rich in her 1980 essay Compulsory Heterosexuality and Lesbian Existence. Put simply, it is the notion that heterosexuality is assumed as the ‘normal’ sexuality and that this is enforced by a patriarchal and heteronormative society. In the essay, Rich highlights how pop culture is a particularly powerful force for perpetuating these ideas by presenting narrow representations of sexuality, something that aligns with my own experience of consuming pop culture growing up.
Creator @nickiwildflower helped me feel validated that I had come out later in life after long term relationships with men by sharing her own experiences of coming out after being married to a man. I saw way more femme visibility than I had ever seen before (outside of the male gaze). I learnt more about LGBTQIA+ rights across the world. Everything began to make more sense, and I realised that I was not alone with the fears and questions that had previously riddled my mind. Most importantly, I now feel more comfortable in my sexuality than I have ever felt before. So, from the bottom of this queer millennial’s heart, thank you to my TikTok family!
